Rainbow's End - Wizard Read online

  Kraylle exploded then: erupted from his icy chair and reared up like the polar bear whose skin he wore. Two bright spots of red coloured his high, pale cheekbones and he roared, ‘Then go wait for it! Travel and wait for the moon, you imbeciles!’ He took a step down and the boys retreated before him; then he swept one arm in a huge arc - in an away-motion; and screamed again, ‘Out! All of you - out! Get! Out!!’

  Like a single body, the boys turned and fled, pushing and shoving at each other; one or two falling in their frenzied attempt to flee the room and its deranged occupant.

  There are no doors in Kraylle’s castle, and after fighting and pushing through the room’s high arch, the boys fled down one after the other long dark passage; their only light an occasional smoky oil lamp, the feeble glow turned everything a sickly, gloomy grey. The passages - the very walls, seemed to echo and reverberate with Kraylle’s screams: ‘And don’t come back without him!’

  There are no doors in Kraylle’s castle; the boys spilled straight out of its cavernous mouth and onto the barren plain outside. Into the half-dark and dreadful cold and desolation of Desolation….

  4

  They were both shivering cold and wet. The flashlight beam was playing up and down Tessie’s golden-haired body and Orson had just finished telling her that she was going grey and ugly when her ears pricked, and her head lifted, and she peered intently off into the darkness to their left. Tense seconds later, her ears twitched again and with a muted bark she scrambled to her feet, her body taut and her head tilted to one side - tuned into the night, listening for another sound.

  After watching her for a few undecided seconds, Orson got to his feet as well, albeit slower and not without a little trepidation. Lifting his eyes, he gave the dark overhead a long, careful look before returning his attention to the dog.

  ‘What is it girl? What do you see…or smell? Mmm…’ He put his hand on her neck, but felt no trembling, no fear. She wuffed again, and pointing the flashlight, the old man slowly started walking towards where she was looking. A few metres on, he started swinging the light in wide half-circles - from left to right and back again, and almost immediately saw something flash. He stopped, and then - not believing what he had just seen, very slowly reversed the strong white beam.

  He was wet and cold and he stood still for a very long minute, watching the snowflakes reflect dimly in a small window not ten metres away.

  ‘Bloody hells,’ he muttered, and lost it then. ‘Bloody hells!’ he screamed, and rounded on Tessie. The dog knew what was coming, and almost politely bored, backed off a few paces.

  ‘And you call yourself a dog?!’ he screamed. ‘A bloody mongrel is what you are! Good for nothing!’ The flashlight started swinging in haphazardly wide patterns, and bits and pieces of rock and boulder were revealed in its wildly jumping beam as an apoplectic Orson did a quick-shuffle and aimed a kick at Tessie. It never landed. It never came close.

  His leg was hampered by the heavy wet coat, and instead of connecting with the dog, his hiking-boot got entangled in its torn silk lining. Orson hopped around for a second or two, trying to free it, and then he - with a screech and in a tangle of otter-skin and cap flying, went arse over teakettle.

  He lay on his back for a long time, half-winded, and Tessie, sitting on her haunches a couple of metres away, watched him, her head again cocked to one side. His language told her he was all right.

  ‘Bloody dog. Stinking mongrel. Hours and hours in the bloody rain and snow, and a house not twenty metres away.’

  The flashlight - miraculously - had survived the fall and lay just an arms-length away. The Labrador was sitting in its wide white beam, and Orson glared at her with disgust.

  He mumbled, ‘Twenty metres…fifteen…’ He took a deep breath. ‘Horrible, ugly old mongrel.’

  Snowflakes were landing on his upturned face, and with another deep breath, gathering what little self-esteem he had left, Orson struggled first to his knees, and after retrieving the light, slowly and creakily to his feet. With dignity, he walked to where he had been sitting, and picking up his staff, gave Tessie a withering look and in a haughty voice commanded, ‘Come dog.’

  *

  Thomas was thirsty and it hurt to even breathe. He’d just woken up but thought he was dreaming.

  A Labrador was watching him from the other bed. She (he just knew it was a she) had floppy ears and big soft eyes, and when she saw him watching, gave a Labrador grin, and without raising her head from her paws, a soft “wuff” that sounded terribly much like a greeting.

  The gas lamp had been lit and stood on the table, bathing the small room in a cosy yellow glow and making shadows of everything. A fire had also been started, and in front of it - on the wooden chair that had earlier stood between the two beds, sat an old man - so short, the top of his head barely cleared the chair’s back-rest. He had his back turned to Thomas, and the lamp - and firelight - made a red and yellow halo of his bushy grey hair, which stood in all directions and needed a trim. A shiny black coat hung on a nail in the door; beneath it, a large dark circle had formed where water dripping from it had seeped into the unvarnished wood of the floor. An old wire hanger was hooked over the edge of the stone mantelpiece above the fire - to the left, and on it hung a turtle necked jersey, bright, electric-blue. On the mantle itself, lay an assortment of items: a flashlight, a scarf, gloves, a cap, and more. A pair of ankle high boots stood steaming in front of the softly crackling flames.

  Thomas’ cough hurt his throat and the little man turned his head.

  ‘Awake, are you?’ he asked, in a gravelly voice. He hopped off the chair, and went to the basin, filled the mug Thomas had left there earlier with water, and brought it to the boy. He held it while Thomas drank.

  ‘You’re sick, you know.’ He spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, as if discussing the weather; paused for effect, then: ‘I think you may have pneumonia.’ He seemed to savour the word and the boy thought he detected a wisp of envy in the old man’s voice.

  Orson stood back once Thomas had emptied the mug, and the boy was able to see him properly: he was very short. And he was old - at least a hundred, thought Thomas (who was no great expert on age). He wore tracksuit pants stuck into the tops of violently orange socks, and another jersey; its colour matched his socks and it sagged to almost mid-thigh.

  And he was ugly - no other word fitted better: “As sin”, Grammy would have said. Time had worn and etched his face with numerous lines and shadows, and no two of his features seemed to match. His stubborn jaw was slightly lopsided; his bottom lip full and the top one thin; his nose large and fleshy, coloured with a network of red and purple veins, and a prickly grey wart where it met his face. One eyebrow drooped - leaving him with a perpetually cynical look; his facial hair grew only in bits and patches or he was no good at shaving. His eyes were his best feature: a bit bulgy, but clear and grey and kind.

  ‘More?’ the old man asked, lifting the mug, and Thomas shook his head. He was still thirsty but swallowing was painful. And then he was gently pushed back and the old man said, “Sleep now, Thomas.” He gratefully closed his eyes and never once wondered how the man knew his name, for after all - he was dreaming.

  Thomas woke up often during the rest of the night - mostly because of feeling sick, and not just once because of the old man’s snoring. He was sitting sideways on the other bed, his back against the wall and his chin on his chest. His feet barely cleared the foam mattress, and his one hand lay resting on the Labradors fur - in sleep seeking the reassuring presence of a friend. His snoring was soft and rhythmic, but at times it almost disappeared, only to come back in a series of hiccups and smacking lips, and then rising to an awesome crescendo.

  The dog never seemed to sleep, for whenever Thomas opened his eyes, she lay watching him. The snoring seemed not to bother her, but on one or two occasions - when there was a lull in the sawing noise, Thomas saw her lift her head, and listen intently to the night outside.

  *

  The
pre-dawn light tinted the dirty windows yellow-brown. Orson got off the bed to put some logs on the still gleaming coals, blew on them softly and almost immediately small red and yellow flames started licking at the dry wood. A muted cough made him look over his shoulder, and he saw Thomas watching, hand in front of his mouth.

  ‘Good morning Thomas,’ he said, standing and dusting his hands on the backside of the dress-like jersey. He put on his least scary smile and waited for a response. It was but a hoarse hiss, and realising what had happened, took full advantage of it.

  ‘Voice gone, huh?’ he said, then turned and offered Thomas his best profile. ‘Or simply struck schtűmm by the magnificence presented you?’ He found his remark tremendously funny and snorted and giggled a bit, before stopping himself with a hiccup, then continued, ‘My name is Orson, and this,’ - he waved a hand at the dog - ‘this is Tessa, or Tessie, whichever you prefer.’

  He glared at her, balefully. ‘She’s supposed to be a Labrador, but after last night I have my doubts.’ A small mirror was one of the items on the mantelpiece, and he stepped in close, brought his face still closer, and began studying himself. He took a long time at it, pulling faces at himself, and muttering and giggling in turn, until the dog gave a single bark. He gave her a dirty look and then seemed to remember himself and his one-sided conversation with Thomas. ‘Anyway,’ he said, stretching himself to his full, insignificant height, ‘we are the good guys.’ He found this funny again, and snorted and giggled some more; then lifted the jersey and took a large yellow handkerchief out of his tracksuit pocket. He blew his nose with a resounding crash and after carefully examining the result, replaced the handkerchief.

  ‘Sorry,’ he excused himself, and then: ‘We’ve been sent to fetch you. Rescue you, if you will.’

  Thomas had a hundred questions, but still no sound, and Orson - watching the boy’s mouth soundlessly open and close - said, ‘Don’t try to talk, Thomas. You’ll just make your throat hurt worse.’ He gave his people-friendly smile again. ‘And don’t worry - where we’re going, you’ll soon get well.’ He went to one of the grimy windows then, and stood staring out of it, muttering, ‘If only the sun would shine…’

  Orson bounded back to the fire suddenly - which was burning nicely again - and sat on the floor in front of it, where, grunting, he pulled on his boots and laced and tied them. Then up and to the door; on tip-toes to take down his coat and shrug into it. Then - wrestling with the heavy door and a - ‘Scuse me, nature calls,’ rushed outside. Tessie followed, but at a more dignified pace.

  The door was left open and frigid air quickly invaded the small room, causing small flecks of ash to whirl around. Thomas heard Orson cursing the dog and the dog barking in return, and then it was quiet. He felt very much alone again; and sick and scared and very, very confused. He burrowed deeper into the warmth of the sleeping-bag and closed his eyes and sleep took him away again.

  *

  The world was white. Snow covered the rocky landscape of the day before in fleecy white; the larger rocks and boulders still grey and brown, but fluffy-crowned. The forest also was white; the crowns and branches of the trees weighed down with snow, and on the ground - darkened by the trees and sky - great shadowy patches of it.

  Orson came from behind the wide old tree-trunk and pulled the dragging coat tighter about himself. He shivered and cursed the weather, and left icy breath hanging in his wake.

  Tessie was running from tree to tree and sniffing their bases, watering some and others not. Her feet and nose were wet and she licked and snuffled and bit at small piles of snow. It was something she rarely saw, or experienced, except on Orson’s television.

  Orson watched her for a minute, and then slowly swung his gaze from east to west. The day, still young, was already overcast; the sky dull and grey, but showing a few small patches of open sky, just above the tree-line.

  He froze then, and the cold slithering down his spine had nothing to do with the temperature. The moon was just a sliver, barely visible in one of the patches a couple of kilometres away. It was enough though: more than enough…

  He shouted at Tessie, and the urgency in his voice quickly brought her to his side. He pointed and she saw the moon. The hair on her neck bristled with life of its own.

  *

  Thomas woke - after just a few minutes. He felt miserable and was thirsty again, and wanted to throw up. The swinging door slamming into the foot-end of the other bed had him instantly alert and sitting up, and he watched Orson and Tessie rush into the cabin. The old man’s face was red and he was panting, his voice rasping and hoarse.

  ‘Get up Thomas!’ With quick short steps, he came to the boy’s side, and picked up his boots then pushed them at him. ‘Put them on - quickly.’ The tension in his voice brooked no argument and after unzipping the sleeping-bag, Thomas clumsily, and with numb fingers, pulled on the boots and began tying them.

  Orson was frantically scrambling around the small room - grabbing his staff from the corner in which it stood, then bounding to the mantelpiece and grabbing his cap and gloves, and stuffing them down one deep coat-pocket; then went to the open door and took a long look outside. Seeing nothing yet, he turned back to Thomas. The boy was fumbling at his laces with clumsy fingers, and Orson - with an exasperated curse - went to him and grabbed the boot.

  He saw the questions in the boy’s eyes, and took pity on him. ‘They are coming, Thomas,’ he said. His fingers were quick and deft, and after finishing one, he impatiently pushed aside the boy’s fumbling fingers and began tying the other boot.

  ‘Remember I told you we were the good guys?’ Orson asked. Thomas nodded mutely, and Orson went on. ‘Well, the bad guys are here.’ He glanced at the open door. ‘They are out there, and they can be here any minute, okay?’ Thomas nodded again and the old man, finished with both laces, grabbed his shoulders and looked into his eyes.

  ‘In the next few minutes I need you to trust me, Thomas,’ he said. ‘I need you to do exactly as I say. All right?’

  Thomas tried talking, and Orson, getting to his feet, said, ‘There’s no time now, but I’ll explain everything to you later. I promise.’ He went to the door and scrutinised the snowy landscape, then returned and pulled Thomas to his feet. ‘We have to leave,’ he urged. ‘Now.’ Thomas went to his backpack and was about to lift it when Orson said, ‘Leave it. Leave everything.’ The boy straightened and Orson saw rebellion in his eyes and the stubborn set of his shoulders. He begged then: ‘Please Thomas, it will just slow us down. Whatever you have in your bag can be replaced where we are going. You have my word.’ The stubbornness remained, and Orson went right up to him, then said, with all the conviction he was able to muster: ‘Thomas, out there...’ he waved one arm towards the door, ‘...out there are people who want you; who want you badly. Badly enough to kill the both of us, rather than lose you to me.’ His grey eyes were grave and deadly serious, and he softly touched Thomas’ arm. ‘And if they get you, Thomas,’ he added, ‘these people...’ a shuddering breath, then - ‘they will take you straight to hell.’

  The boy stared at Orson for some seconds which felt like hours, and nodded then, nodded his assent. But when pulled towards the door, he jerked loose and hurried to his backpack again. With feverish fingers, and an anxious Orson looking on, he undid its buckles and straps, and delved into its insides. He pulled out a book. It was small - the size of a paperback; but thick and leather-bound and he clasped it to his chest like something infinitely precious.

  ‘Now can we go?’ Orson asked.

  *

  They stood in the shallow snow at the bottom of the cabin’s single step and Thomas watched the old man search the white field in front of them.

  Once, millions of years ago, it had been a large sandstone hill. But something - probably an earthquake - had broken it up; then time - that most patient of all commodities, had used the elements to wear it down. All that remained now was a sheet of bedrock: two kilometres long and a quarter wide, strewn with thousands o
f smaller rocks and boulders - some the size of a pea and some as big as a car. Forest surrounded it on all sides; the trees, like sleeping sentinels splashed in dusky shades of silver-green and gold, hibernating until the heat of a returning summer woke them once more.

  Orson grunted, and taking Thomas’ arm, started off in a shuffling half-run to an elevated part of the rocky flatland, a couple of hundred metres away.

  They had to pick their way through the snow-covered field of rocks; it took time and their progress was slow. Tessie ran ahead; she knew the urgency and turned around every few metres, with anxious little barks, hurrying them up.

  The rise was hardly a rise at all - just a couple of feet higher than the surrounding area, but different in that there were fewer loose rocks lying around. They were covered by snow, of course, but the humps they made all seemed small, none bigger than an orange. It was here Orson stopped and let go of Thomas’ arm (he’d been pulling at the boy and supporting most of his weight the last fifty metres or so). He was exhausted, but nevertheless immediately began kicking away at and lifting and hurling away the stones that were visible; Tessie helped - picking up smaller rocks in her mouth and depositing them ten or so metres away before coming back for more.

  Thomas stood bent over, gasping and retching in turn, and feeling for all the world as if he were dying. He began coughing in earnest; the hurt of it ripped and tore at his throat and lungs, and had him fall to his knees and rest his burning forehead in the chilly snow.

  *

  The clearing-away was finished at last, and Thomas had sat down in the shallow snow, his knees drawn to his chest and his head resting against them. He still wore the clothes he had put on the previous day (with the exception of Grammy’s coat), but he was shivering and shaking with cold, his backside and legs were wet with melting snow.