Rainbow's End - Wizard Read online

  *****

  Orson landed in a small park. The grass was yellow and dead, and everywhere patches of snow. A bench stood almost at its centre, and on it sat a man. His head was tilted far back and his Adams apple bobbed up and down as he thirstily sucked at the sherry bottle he held clutched in one leather gloved hand.

  Orson loudly cleared his throat, and after another long swallow, the bench-sitter slowly lowered the bottle. He was middle-aged and swaddled in a heavy woollen coat, scarf and cap. His long nose was thin and red and purple-splotched with a multitude of broken veins. He gave a contented burp, and his eyes - tightly shut all the time - slowly opened. They were glassy and bloodshot, and took some seconds to focus, and then they closed again, abruptly and crinkly-tight. Their owner shook his head, repeatedly and violently, before reopening first one and then the other. The squat old man was still standing there, scowling. It made his impossibly ugly features uglier still, and the bench-sitter gave a mewling, strangled sound, before sticking out his free hand, first in a warding-off gesture, and then waving in a shooing, go-away manner. The apparition’s scowl turned even heavier, and bench-sitters eyes - horrified now - dropped to the bottle he still clutched. With a fearful moan and a violent gesture of rejection, he cast it from him, as if it were a snake.

  Orson lifted his staff, and with its lower tip, pointed at the few buildings across the road. ‘Is this Rockham?’ he asked, in a croaky voice.

  The question caused total collapse: bench-sitter wailed - a high-pitched, keening sound - and wrapped both arms around himself; he closed his treacherous eyes tight and dropped his head into his lap; then - still wailing - started swaying from side to side and to and fro, shivering and shaking like a wet dog. An irate Orson watched him for almost a minute, before calling the man - obviously simple-minded - a fool, then turned on his heels and marched off. The tails of his fur-coat dragged behind and furrowed the snow, exposing the yellow grass below.

  *

  …Mrs. Ridley found him there a short while later. Her husband had pulled his cap over his eyes, and held it there with both hands. He was swaying back and forth, and in a breathless voice, repeated the same words over and over: “Never again, I swear. Never again...” She had a hard time getting him to release the cap, and get up, and then he looked around, terrified-like. When she led him to her car, the vicious kick he aimed at the half-empty bottle laying on the grass would have broken several of his toes, had it connected.

  The next day, when a never-to-touch-a-drink-again Mr. Ridley had sufficiently recovered, he told a bemused Mrs. Ridley, that he thought the Moses of Old had appeared to him while he was having his customary drink on his customary bench.

  She asked why he thought it was Moses, and he replied, as if to a slow child: ‘Well, he was very old, wasn’t he? And wearing this coat and carrying his staff and all… He had a dog…’ Ridley frowned, and his eyes became big and staring, and haunted with recall. He added, in an awed whisper, ‘Gawd Hilda, he was ugly’…

  *

  A single lane tar road separated the park from the small line of shops, and Orson crossed it. A young man was locking one of the few shop doors; Orson stopped behind him and loudly cleared his throat. He turned to face Orson, and although of average height, still had to lower his eyes quite a bit to meet those of the old man. He had short reddish hair and freckles and a friendly smile; the smile wavered for just a second, and then he asked, ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Orson repeated the question he’d asked bench-sitter, ‘Is this Rockham?’

  The young man looked him up and down again. The unusual staff Orson carried had him look odd already: Long and shiny and smooth, and almost black with age, it had a plum-sized crystal - flashing with secrets and a life of its own - set into its top. Added to this, the old man was very short; his face was wrinkled and badly shaved, he wore a too long, obviously expensive fur coat, a tasselled woollen cap and a ferocious scowl, and spoke in a froggish voice. Peering from behind the voluminous fur coat, was a Labrador’s friendly face and eyes.

  The young man nodded, frowning, and was immediately asked: ‘Do you know a place called Broken Hill?’

  Another nod, and -

  ‘Do you have a car?’

  Bemused now, but still wordless, the young man nodded yet again, and glanced at a mud-splattered old Land Rover parked a short distance away.

  Orson pressed a stubby fingertip between the man’s eyes.

  2

  Darkness fell fast: Like a black canvas drawn across an already leaden sky. They were a couple of kilometres out of town; the tarred road was narrow with many twists and turns, and no other traffic. Tall pine trees grew on both sides, ghostly-grey on the fringes of the weak twin-beams lighting the road between.

  Orson was in the passenger seat, bundled in his thick fur coat. His eyes barely cleared the dashboard in front and his feet never touched the floor. The old Land Rover was very noisy and the wind gusting through the half-open window in the back made it worse. About three feet of the seven foot long staff stuck out of it, pointing skywards like an antennae.

  Tessie lay stretched out on the back-seat and she at least, was very comfortable. The young man - whose name was Lawrence - was the son of the local vet, and few pets in Rockham and its surrounds, had not yet experienced the comfort of the same well-worn and torn up back-seat. It was upholstered in imitation leather, split in many places and bulging foam, and the hair and smells of numerous dogs and cats and other assorted animals kept the Labrador’s sensitive nose busily snuffling and twitching.

  Orson turned in his seat and looked at the young man, whose face glowed greenish in the dim light of the instrument panel. He asked, in his growly voice, ‘Who was the drunk in the park?’

  Lawrence glanced down at the older man with a half-frown, then enlightenment struck, and his attention returned to the road ahead. He smiled, and his teeth looked very white in the dark.

  ‘Oh, that’s Mr. Ridley,’ he said. ‘Farmer Ridley. He’s also our mayor.’ He glanced at Orson and gave an amused little laugh. ‘He drinks there because he’s been banned from the local. And his missus doesn’t allow drink in the house…’

  Orson closed his eyes for a few seconds, mulling over Lawrence’s answer, before asking, ‘He’s allowed to drink in public?’

  Lawrence gave a little shrug. ‘He is the mayor,’ he said.

  Orson mulled some more, and then sagely nodded his head, impressed by his young driver’s logic. ‘Where does he live?’ he asked then, ‘and how does he get home?’

  ‘Oh, Mrs. Ridley fetches him come dark…or Sergeant Wilson takes him home,’ Lawrence replied, and added, ‘The manor house is only a couple of minutes out of town.’

  Orson was filled with admiration for the town’s mayor of a sudden. He was also sorry for the poor manner in which he had treated the man earlier. He was clearly a man with influence, a man of means…

  His rumination over life’s Ridleys was interrupted when Lawrence leaned slightly forward and pointed at the grey-black forest outside Orson’s window. ‘Broken Hill is over there,’ he said. ‘About a kilometre away.’

  ‘Well, you have to stop then, don’t you?’ came the reply. Matter of fact.

  Lawrence stared at the old man, sure that he’d heard wrong. He asked, worriedly, ‘Here?’

  ‘Yes!’ The reply was impatient and he slowly brought the vehicle to a halt, then set the hand brake. Turning off the noisy engine, he turned to Orson.

  ‘But there’s nothing here… And it’s pitch dark and cold. You’ll get lost... and you’ll die of exposure…’

  Orson didn’t answer; just sat staring out his window. It was very dark outside, the blackness almost palpably intimidating. He shuddered and muttered, ‘The things I do for that girl…’

  Without turning, he asked Lawrence, ‘Which is the nearest town?’

  Lawrence gave a relieved sigh, and answered, ‘Firham. It’s about five kilometres on.’ He reached for the vehicle’s dangling ke
ys. ‘I’ll take you there.’

  ‘No.’ Orson, still staring into the darkened forest, shook his head, then turned to Lawrence. ‘Is there an Inn in Firham?’ he asked. The young man nodded, and Orson sat quietly thinking for another minute. Then he reached over, and for the second time in less than an hour, pressed a finger-tip between Lawrence’s eyes.

  He felt - more than saw - him relax, and said, ‘You took a distinguished looking, middle-aged man to Firham. He was tall and handsome, and you dropped him in front of the Inn. That is all you will remember. Do you understand, Lawrence?’

  The dazed young man nodded; Orson grunted, and then said, ‘Now help me with my staff.’

  They both got out of the vehicle, and Lawrence walked around to Orson’s side. He pulled the long staff out of the half-open back window and handed it to the old man, then opened the door and allowed the Labrador to jump out. When he wound up the window, Orson saw, in the dim roof light, the worry on his young face. He put a hand on his shoulder and softly said, ‘It will be all right Lawrence.’ He reached deep into one coat pocket then, and produced a small leather-bag.

  ‘Here,’ he said, ‘this is for you and Julie.’ He gave the bag to Lawrence, and the young man was surprised at its weight. ‘From the tall and handsome gentleman,’ Orson said, and his smile had him look not so ugly of a sudden.

  ‘How…?’ Lawrence frowned, and his voice tailed off.

  ‘...do I know about Julie?’ Orson finished his question for him and Lawrence nodded.

  Another smile and Orson said softly. ‘Oh, I know lots of things, Lawrence. Sometimes more than I want to.’ He started turning away, then stopped, and almost as an afterthought asked, ‘You smoke, don’t you?’

  An embarrassed Lawrence nodded, and Orson turned back to him.

  Another fingertip between the eyes and Orson said, ‘Not any more, you don’t. You can’t stand the smell…or taste. Now go. Go visit your sweet.’

  *

  ……Which Lawrence did, and had a hard time explaining something he couldn’t remember much of himself. But he had the leather bag, and when he and Julie, his fiancée, upended it on a coffee-table and saw its contents, and Lawrence told her what it was for, she gasped and screamed and jumped into her young man’s arms, kissing his bemused face and smearing it with happy tears.

  There were ten coins, and Doctor Durne - Lawrence’s father - identified them as Golden Sovereigns (just thicker and about twice their normal size). He guessed their value at around three thousand pounds. Each…

  Lawrence never smoked again……

  3

  There were no stars, and the night black as pitch. They had just emerged from the forest, and Orson was fed up; and cranky; and tired. He was also muttering and cursing non-stop. He’d lost count of the number of gopher holes and field mice nests he’d stepped into, and only his sturdy hiking boots and the support of the wooden staff had saved him from falling and perhaps seriously injuring himself. He’d also heard the tearing sound of his fur coat’s silk lining on several of the occasions he had to jerk its trailing end free from snagging roots and the broken-off stubs of lower branches. It had sent him into semi hysterics, of which the rising pitch and originality astounded even Tessie, whom for years had been subjected to (and sometimes subject of) his black moods and acidic tongue.

  They were making their way along the edge of Broken Hill, and even with the help of the strong flashlight, their progress through the rock-strewn field was tortuously slow. The temperature had dropped even further, and despite several sets of thermal underwear, two polo necked jerseys, a thick woollen cap and his coat, Orson was cold. His feet were frozen and he couldn’t feel his toes. A minute later, an icy feather touched his cheek and when he turned his face to the black overhead, another settled on his nose. It was snowing again. Shivering, he drew the thick woollen cap further down his ears and looked at the dog. ‘If we don’t find him soon Tessie,’ he said, in a voice fraught with worry, ‘we might not find him at all…’

  The Labrador gave a soft whine and continued on her sniffing, searching way - already working as fast as she could. Then, just a few metres further on, she gave an exited yelp and turned almost at right angles. She had found the scent she was looking for and they now had Thomas’ trail, made during daylight, to follow; their pace was immediately almost doubled. Tessie had her nose glued to the ground and Orson, stubbing the toe of one expensive hiking boot on a smaller rock, began swearing again and hobbling off in her wake.

  Ten minutes later, it was gone. The snow had been increasing in intensity - every couple of minutes a bit heavier, and now, suddenly, the dog was running to the left and the right, and forwards and back, sniffling and snuffling and searching, but in vain. The scent was gone. The rocks around them were wet with sleet and snow; they reflected shiny grey and brown in the beam of the flashlight. All traces of Thomas had been washed away.

  A smallish rock, knee-high and the size of a chair loomed on the perimeter of the flashlight’s beam, and for once not caring about his precious coat, Orson slowly sat down on its shiny wet surface; tired and despondent and very worried about the life of the young boy somewhere out there in the dark surrounding them. The Labrador, after a few long minutes of staring into the night, came back and joined the old man, lying down in the white at his feet; her head resting on her paws and her big brown eyes forlorn…

  *

  Orson played the beam down her sleek, golden-haired body. Her pelt was soaked and shiny-wet and he said, ‘You’re wet right through Tessa,’ before turning the light on himself. His coat was shedding tiny streams of water and looked exactly like what it was - Otter-skin: wet Otter-skin. The water would soon start seeping through, and then, well… Cold and wet and without shelter…

  He lamented then, his voice bitter and filled with “I told you so”, “It’s going to be cold, Ariana”, I said, but nooo. He stretched the negative and then changed to a high falsetto, supposedly mimicking Ariana’s voice. “You have plenty of warm clothes, Orson.”

  “It’s going to rain Ariana”, I said.

  And the falsetto: “Wear your coat, Orson.”

  “I’ll get lost, Ariana.”

  Falsetto: “Tessie will see you don’t, Orson.”

  The dog cocked one floppy ear at him and then Orson was shouting at her - ‘And now what, dog?! Look at the… the…crap you and Madame Ariana have dropped us in! “Find the boy?!”’ He spluttered, ‘We can’t even find ourselves!’ An icy sliver of water rolled into the layered jersey’s high neck, and with a shiver he deflated; was suddenly, morosely quiet.

  For a long time they stayed like that: one thoroughly soaked and the other getting there; both staring gloomily off into the darkness. The snow became heavier still, and it became colder still...

  *****

  Far, far away… Kraylle’s Castle; Desolation

  Barren... And bleak... Flat and empty and starkly grey. Unforgiving... Heart-breaking... Desolate. Call it what you will. It was a rock. Just a rock; floating in its own little part of space. Aeons of exposure had swept its surface clean, and now, whenever the terrible winds and storms of rain and sleet and snow howled and crashed in from its black, black sea, and screamed across its granite-hard plains, they found not as much as a single grain of sand to take with them.

  Its light came from its three moons. It had no sun. No day and no heat. Only dark, and only cold: Bone-breaking, marrow-freezing, unspeakable cold…

  His house was made of stone. It stood in the centre of the plain and many centuries of screaming, scourging winds, had tempered it to the consistency of steel. It was huge: it had no doors or windows, except one large cavernous hole, and the ball of one of its ever-present, low-hanging moons, bathed its ghostly dark walls a surreal, ghostly grey.

  He named it Kraylle’s Castle, and the rock, Desolation…

  He was over seven feet tall with massive arms and shoulders, and immensely strong. His head was totally bald, his face handsome and thin and very w
hite; a hawkish nose and thin bloodless lips, and black eyes as infinitely cold as the ice around him. His heavy white robes were for comfort: the cold did not bother him. It never had, in all of his centuries. His name was Kraylle…

  *

  The throne was made of ice. He was leaning forward in it, his large hands and long fingers like talons around its freezing white armrests.

  ‘What do you mean “can’t”, Rudi?’ Kraylle’s voice was soft, but - like the hiss of a deadly snake, it warned of menace and malice and fury, and terrible, terrible danger.

  There were ten young men - some of them just boys - standing in front of the throne. They were all dressed in black, they were pale from lack of sunshine, they were cold and they were all scared. One stood half a step in front of the others. Older and taller than the rest, he was in his mid-teens and very obviously the leader of the pack. The thick silver chain hanging around his neck set him further apart, as did the crystal attached to it. It was multi-faceted: some deep and darkly black, others streaked with seams in a hundred shades of grey. The boy took another step forward and hated the frightened tremble of his own voice.

  ‘There’s no moon Kraylle. No moon over Northern England and Scotland.’

  ‘Say what?’ The sitting figure leaned further forward, his voice softer still - more ominous.

  The boy swallowed hard, and keeping his eyes fixed on Kraylle’s fur lined seal-skin boots, repeated what he knew the menacing figure had heard the first time.