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The Land Beyond Summer
The Land Beyond Summer is posted for entertainment purposes only and no part of it may be crossposted to any other datafile base, conference, news group, email list, or website without written permission of Pulpless.Comtm.
Copyright © 1996 by Brad Linaweaver. All rights reserved.
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHORES
"How about those turtles?" asked Mr. Wynot. "They're really
in the soup, huh?"
Fay decided that pretty soon nothing would surprise her
anymore. At least this new character had a human appearance.
"You are most welcome here, Lord High Mayor of Summer," the
Tabrik greeted the newcomer.
"Thank you, Lord High Mayor of Spring," replied Mr. Wynot,
bowing low so that his helmet fell off, revealing a full head of
snow white hair.
"He always does that," said Jennifer, giggling.
"The spirit of Spring is lovely as always," said Mr. Wynot.
Having yet to recover his headgear, he had no problem bowing low
again, and pressing his lips to Jennifer's fingers.
Fay had never thought of curtsying before, and thought it
would be an embarrassing action to perform. But Jennifer made it
appear graceful and attractive. When the well aged hand of the
older man took hers, she surprised herself by doing as Jennifer
had done. Curtsying wasn't difficult. The interesting part of
it was that bending the knees and doing a partial squat could
look so good.
"Ah my dear," said Mr. Wynot, his white mustache trembling
ever so slightly, "you are warm to the touch. There's a subtle
little fire coursing through your skin."
"That must be my sunburn," answered Fay. "Or what's left of
it." Fay sorrowfully observed the fading pink on her arm that
she had hoped would be turning brown right about now. One thing
was certain: she wouldn't be getting a suntan in a world without
a sun! And yet Mr. Wynot had pleasantly brown skin making a nice
contrast against the whiteness of his hair and clothes. It
didn't appear to be his natural color, but Fay wasn't about to
follow this line of inquiry. Maybe you could get a tan from
magic, but even if true, Jennifer's pale white skin suggested not
everyone wanted one.
"Ah, methinks it's the fire of youth," said Wynot, inhaling
the perfume of her skin. She couldn't help noticing the large
veins in his hands, and the wrinkles around his wrists. This was
the first example of age she had seen here, although she assumed
from the way everyone spoke of her that Mrs. Norse wore the signs
of age as well. The difficulty in considering these matters was
the absence of any way to measure anything in this crazy place.
And Fay had not seen a single child.
As if privy to her young companion's thoughts, Jennifer
asked a question of her old acquaintance: "Isn't she a bit young
for you?"
Mr. Wynot literally beamed in response! "Those of us who
measure our years by the age of the Seasons find every mortal
breath as fresh as a daisy, be it newborn or grandmother."
Having unburdened himself of this Thought for the Day, he caught
the critical expressions of his companions. "But, of course, she
is but a child as you say," he added hurriedly, releasing her
hand.
With that highly refined obliviousness that is both the
charm and burden of youth, Fay insisted, "I'm not a child!"
"Age resents youth," said Kitnip. "This isn't a problem
unique to humans."
Fay was glad to have Kitnip on her side despite the cat's
being middle aged; she picked up Kitnip before asking permission
(when a cat says no, it means no) ... but Kitnip offered no
resistance. She purred instead, and Fay felt a whole lot better.
Meanwhile, Mr. Wynot had retrieved his pith helmet, and
contrived to make himself the center of attention again. "Yes,
it's true about youth and age. But do not forget that youth
resents age, too! Many a time I've failed to receive the
appreciation due me for many a mighty battle against the forces
of evil. Why, just the other day I was asked to recount the tale
of...."
"Oh," said the Tabrik leader.
"No," added Jennifer.
The proof of Mr. Wynot's greatness lay in his inability to
notice any hints, much less pay attention to them: "Why I fought
the original Malak, I did." Fay could tell from just glancing at
Jennifer and the Tabrik that there was nothing special about
Wynot's claim among this group. He continued: "Malak liked
turning his enemies into different sorts of things in those days.
He'd figured out that it wasn't very smart to change them into
mice or frogs or birds, or frankly any sort of creature that
could still get around and cause trouble. He finally settled on
the notion of transforming them into rocks. But I was not afraid
of him."
The Tabrik leader intervened. "Our young visitor is
unversed in the nature of our struggles. You have not told her
how our powers are balanced, and that none of the incarnations of
Malak has yet succeeded in making any of us truly vulnerable."
The semi-transparent head fixed her with watery eyes beyond which
yawned the two black holes of the skull's sockets. Where before
she had been afraid at such a sight she was now calm. "As each
season was made to have its own special protectors and avatars,
so too was each an environment in which life could grow and
develop. Malak has twisted and destroyed much of this life
through Time; but he could not do this to every individual who
might be under the conscious protection of one of us."
"We couldn't protect everyone all the time," lamented
Jennifer.
"Not if we were going to maintain the integrity of the
Seasons, our primary task," said Mr. Wynot.
Fay didn't have to hear the rest to know what was coming.
Only worlds with Winter and Spring and Summer and Autumn were
linked to this place, as sort of reflections. All this reminded
her of a book she had read right before summer vacation. Clive
teased her about studying advanced subject matter when she wasn't
required. She could never convince him that she just liked to
read. Half the time Clive was given books as presents that he
would never open; and these inevtiably found their way into her
hands. Characteristically, Aunt Miner had never given a book to
Fay, not directly, but Fay was often the beneficiary of her odd
selections for Clive.
This particular book had been about ancient Greek thinkers,
people who were called philosophers. The father of philosophy
was a man named Plato and one of his central ideas was the
dumbest thesis Fay had ever encountered -- at least it had seemed
dumb until today.
Plato told a story about shadows and a cave. Men sat inside
the cave, facing a wall on which were cast shadows. They were
tied up so that they couldn't look anywhere else. All they ever
saw were these shadows. Behind them men carried a variety of
objects past giant burning torches, and it was by this means that
the shadows were cast. Not unnaturally, the men who only saw the
shadows concluded the shadows must be the reality.
Fay hadn't given this stuff much thought at the time but now
the strange picture came back into her head, and it was starting
to make some kind of sense. The world she lived in was a shadow
if it could be so profoundly affected by what transpired
somewhere else. Since coming here, she had only been in this one
country of Spring, but it had more of a quality of springness
about it than anything she had ever experienced on Spring break.
She didn't have to go to Mr. Wynot's Land of Summer to guess
how much more summery it was than the one she'd left on earth.
Likewise, the same had to be true of the other two seasons. She
hated to think just how cold Winter was here, the frigid home of
Malak ... of Grandfather.
The snapping of fingers brought her out of her reverie. It
was Mr. Wynot. He was laughing. "Well, my esteemed fellow
mayor, it appears I'm not the only bore in all of space and time.
You lost this darling's attention."
"Not at all," said Jennifer, wrapping her arms around Fay's
thin shoulders. "She was comprehending truth at a higher level,
weren't you dear?"
"What happens here affects my home," she said. Nodding
heads made her think of so many Halloween apples in a barrel of
water. "Mrs. Norse told Clive and me so in her letter ... before
it was ruined. But I don't understand what my parents have to do
with it."
"It always begins with personal problems. That's how Malak
works," said Mr. Wynot.
"The help they need is in themselves," said the Tabrik.
"And in the Tabriks' most popular export," said Mr. Wynot.
"The eggs of the Klave make all the difference. They'll fix up
the most damaged relationships. Out with the old and in with the
new."
"Stop it!" Fay screamed, pulling lose from Jennifer. "Stop
it, stop it, stop it!!! You're talking about my parents! Not
some toys ... or children!" She was so upset that the others
pulled back from her, genuinely surprised by her sudden wrath.
Fay wanted to stop herself but something in her made her go
on, getting more upset all the time. "People are divorced all
the time," she cried. "It's not the end of the world, if they're
not taken away! Half my friends' parents are divorced. More
than half, and they're happy. I mean, they're as happy as
anybody is." Her shouting was heard by some of the Tabriks
working nearest to them. One paused for a moment, two of the
turtle-like creatures hanging uncertainly from the end of his
pole, and starting to bump into each other as they slowly swung
back and forth.
Fay was crying. Emotion came off her in a great wave,
drenching her newfound friends in a kind of pain that was alien
to them. Yet how could they be expected to empathize with
someone whose life is so uncertain and happiness so fleeting as a
human being? They wore the human form but what did that really
mean? Did they get sick? Did they have to struggle for daily
existence? It was obvious they had conflict, if not with each
other, then with their true enemy. But did their little
arguments ever amount to serious bickering, much less an actual
break in friendship?
These questions raced through Fay's mind as tears trickled
down her face. These incredible beings couldn't know what Mom
and Dad had been through, or the night terrors of a little girl
praying to God that Mommy would stop crying, and Daddy stop
shouting; a little girl hoping that she wouldn't hear worse
things. Nightmare sounds. End of sanity sounds. The sounds
that finally came when Dad went for Clive.
Jennifer reached out and tentatively touched Fay on the
shoulder. Fay didn't pull away. Jennifer touched her fingers to
adolescent tears. She placed those fingers to her lips and
tasted the salt; and tasted something more.
"We're moving too fast," she said to all of them. "Mrs.
Norse had no choice but to bring these children here because of
the new Malak, and what he did to their parents. That doesn't
excuse our being impatient or rude."
"Or too damned mysterious," added the cat, whom Mr. Wynot,
for one, had forgotten was there.
Jennifer's mentioning of children in the plural brought Fay
back to earth, in a manner of speaking. "Clive!" she blurted
out. "Where is he? What's happened to him."
"He's probably with Mrs. Norse by now and safer than we
are," said Kitnip.
"Probably isn't good enough," she said through trembling
lips, but at least she'd stopped crying. "Is there a way to be
sure?"
"Sure," said Mr. Wynot. "You can see Clive anytime you
want."
"I can?"
"But first you'll have to go swimming," said Jennifer.
Kitnip was not at all pleased.
***
Kitnip was not at all pleased.
Clive stopped reading at that point, transfixed by the
illustration of the cat's face in extreme closeup. Kitnip might
be talking now, the same as Wolf, but in one respect the cat was
still perfectly normal: she hated water.
"You've stopped reading," said Mrs. Norse.
"Fay wants to contact me! What do I do?" Somehow the book
seemed inadequate all of a sudden. And as he held it tightly in
his hands, and realized it was just a book, after all, he started
to get mad.
He quickly learned that the single most annoying aspect
about Mrs. Norse was that she knew what you were thinking before
you did. Or else she was a very good guesser.
To prove the point, she said, "You think this is a trick,
don't you?"
He knew better than that. It was like spending days inside
a magic shop and then complaining when someone pulled a rabbit
out of a hat.
"Clive, you will be with your sister before long; and you
will see your mother and father as well. Before you can be of
any real use to them, however, you must be tranquil in your own
heart."
"How?" he asked. He looked at the book but the pages had
become mysterious again, in language he couldn't decipher.
"Are you hungry?"
He'd thought he'd been a short time before. A little bit of
food went a long way around here. The cookie he'd eaten was like
a full meal. He wasn't thirsty after the one drink either.
"No," he told her, "I'm fine."
"Me, too!" Wolf contributed. The dog would eat almost
anything put before him and then yelp for more. Giving him
speech was less of a miracle than satisfying his appetite.
"Are you tired?" asked Mrs. Norse of Clive, in the same even
tone of voice.
Now that was a different matter. No sooner had she said the
words than his eyes felt heavy and his head began to nod forward.
She must be some kind of hypnotist at least, all questions of
witchcraft aside.
"I hadn't felt tired until you said it ... I was a little
tired after I ate that stuff ... and saw Mom and Dad." He hated
the way his tongue was becoming heavy and he couldn't keep his
eyes open. He was sure he'd been fine until Mrs. Norse took him
in charge, but now he was becoming too drowsy to stay awake.
"There is no night here, and you need to take a nap," she
told him as from a distance, "and then you'll be ready to perform
a necessary task."
All he could think of was sleep. "I don't want to dream,"
he said, slurring his words.
"You are living the dream."
The sound of the purring cats grew louder. In fact, they
started purring in unison. In and out, in and out, it was like
listening to a motor revving up. As he listened, his eyes grew
heavier and he slumped in his chair.
"You just take your nap, and then you can do a little chore
around the house," said Mrs. Norse. As if in a dream, she lifted
him as if he weighed no more than a few ounces. She carried him
into another room where she put him to bed and told him, "No
pictures for you now, nothing to interpret or worry over. Your
soul is tired."
The next thing he remembered was opening his eyes and
lifting his head from the large feather pillow on which it had
been resting. He was completely refreshed. He wondered how long
he had been asleep but there was no way to tell from the
unchanging light outside his window. He wondered if it were
always the same time of day around here; and if you could even
call it day.
Suddenly he realized that he needed to go to the bathroom.
Did a magical house in a magical land have something so mundane
as plumbing? His last request had been to contact his sister and
he was put to sleep for his troubles. It was probably asking too
much for there to be a telephone. But a bathroom was different!
As he jumped off the very comfortable bed, noticing that he still
wore his shoes, a dreadful thought struck him. Maybe magical
places had never needed to develop much in the way of technology.
What if Mrs. Norse had an outhouse instead?
Or even worse, it could be none of the denizens of this
place needed a bathroom at all. That would explain the lack of
catbox odors! Saving the Seasons and restoring his family and
finding Fay would simply have to wait until he'd settled this
more pressing matter.
At least there hadn't been any dreams, as she promised. The
living room was empty. He could hear voices from the back yard.
Before joining them, it wouldn't hurt to reconnoiter the terrain.
Maybe he'd find what he needed by going through the kitchen.
The kitchen was nothing like the rest of the house but was
the first really other-worldly attraction. Several blue globes,
of various sizes, hung in space over the floor. Otherwise it was
an empty room. He wondered where the food had come from, and the
plates and silverware. Quite obviously, she had to extract these
things from the globes ... or the globes made all the goodies
appear somehow.
Of a dead certainty was that he would not be going to the
bathroom in here, even if there was a globe that was meant for
it. He'd hate to get them mixed up.
His bladder was talking to him now. He had to do something
quickly. That's when he noticed the lavender colored door off in
a corner. He hadn't noticed it before. As he stepped through it
and found all the modern conveniences, he had a strange feeling
of deja` vu. The pink cover slip on the toilet reminded him of
one he'd seen the time he visited Aunt Miner, the sort of touch
he'd expect in an old lady's house ... but not in Mrs. Norse's!
When he finished and was washing his hands under an ornate
faucet, he seemed to remember that fixture had once belonged to
the grandparents on his father's side. His sudden suspicion that
what he saw before him might be taken from his own mind and made
real for his benefit did not cheer him even a little bit. He
felt a cold shiver instead.
Hurrying back through the kitchen without looking back, his
elbow bumped one of the spheres. It felt like a water balloon.
He didn't want it to burst.
What a relief to step outside! The cats were in a semi-
circle around Mrs. Norse. Wolf came running over and jumping on
him the way he used to do when he was a puppy. A wave of good
will flowed over Clive.
What he couldn't help noticing was a lawnmower, fire engine
red, just beyond the cats. The very green lawn stretched out
beyond this mower, stretched and stretched, and tilted upward
until it disappeared in the distance. He'd never been in a
backyard so large that you couldn't see the end of it.
Birds were singing way off somewhere, as if to celebrate the
eternal, perfect day, with blue sky and green grass dividing the
universe. "Now that you're rested, I hope you'll perform a small
task," said Mrs. Norse, sounding more musical than the birds.
"Ma'am, I don't mean to seem ungrateful, but you said you'd
put me in touch with my sister. That's what your strange book
promised."
"Yes, Clive, and you want answers to all your questions."
"I know it's not your fault we're here. Grandad, or what he
has become, is to blame."
"He does not share the blame alone, dear."
"I also know you have your own reasons for what you're
doing." He had made his comment somewhat testily but she nodded
as if there could be no doubt as to the truth of his observation.
"As do we all, dear."
This is what they called a Mexican standoff. In a situation
where one side held all the cards, and the other side didn't even
know the rules of the game, there was only one sane course of
action -- especially in an insane world. Clive surrendered to
the inevitable.
"You have something you wanted me to do," he said, eyeing
the lawn mower.
"Yes, I'd appreciate your mowing the lawn."
She sounded so reasonable. The only trouble was that the
grass was already cut.
The Land Beyond Summer
The Land Beyond Summer is posted for entertainment purposes only and no part of it may be crossposted to any other datafile base, conference, news group, email list, or website without written permission of Pulpless.Comtm.
Copyright © 1996 by Brad Linaweaver. All rights reserved.
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHORES
"How about those turtles?" asked Mr. Wynot. "They're really
in the soup, huh?"
Fay decided that pretty soon nothing would surprise her
anymore. At least this new character had a human appearance.
"You are most welcome here, Lord High Mayor of Summer," the
Tabrik greeted the newcomer.
"Thank you, Lord High Mayor of Spring," replied Mr. Wynot,
bowing low so that his helmet fell off, revealing a full head of
snow white hair.
"He always does that," said Jennifer, giggling.
"The spirit of Spring is lovely as always," said Mr. Wynot.
Having yet to recover his headgear, he had no problem bowing low
again, and pressing his lips to Jennifer's fingers.
Fay had never thought of curtsying before, and thought it
would be an embarrassing action to perform. But Jennifer made it
appear graceful and attractive. When the well aged hand of the
older man took hers, she surprised herself by doing as Jennifer
had done. Curtsying wasn't difficult. The interesting part of
it was that bending the knees and doing a partial squat could
look so good.
"Ah my dear," said Mr. Wynot, his white mustache trembling
ever so slightly, "you are warm to the touch. There's a subtle
little fire coursing through your skin."
"That must be my sunburn," answered Fay. "Or what's left of
it." Fay sorrowfully observed the fading pink on her arm that
she had hoped would be turning brown right about now. One thing
was certain: she wouldn't be getting a suntan in a world without
a sun! And yet Mr. Wynot had pleasantly brown skin making a nice
contrast against the whiteness of his hair and clothes. It
didn't appear to be his natural color, but Fay wasn't about to
follow this line of inquiry. Maybe you could get a tan from
magic, but even if true, Jennifer's pale white skin suggested not
everyone wanted one.
"Ah, methinks it's the fire of youth," said Wynot, inhaling
the perfume of her skin. She couldn't help noticing the large
veins in his hands, and the wrinkles around his wrists. This was
the first example of age she had seen here, although she assumed
from the way everyone spoke of her that Mrs. Norse wore the signs
of age as well. The difficulty in considering these matters was
the absence of any way to measure anything in this crazy place.
And Fay had not seen a single child.
As if privy to her young companion's thoughts, Jennifer
asked a question of her old acquaintance: "Isn't she a bit young
for you?"
Mr. Wynot literally beamed in response! "Those of us who
measure our years by the age of the Seasons find every mortal
breath as fresh as a daisy, be it newborn or grandmother."
Having unburdened himself of this Thought for the Day, he caught
the critical expressions of his companions. "But, of course, she
is but a child as you say," he added hurriedly, releasing her
hand.
With that highly refined obliviousness that is both the
charm and burden of youth, Fay insisted, "I'm not a child!"
"Age resents youth," said Kitnip. "This isn't a problem
unique to humans."
Fay was glad to have Kitnip on her side despite the cat's
being middle aged; she picked up Kitnip before asking permission
(when a cat says no, it means no) ... but Kitnip offered no
resistance. She purred instead, and Fay felt a whole lot better.
Meanwhile, Mr. Wynot had retrieved his pith helmet, and
contrived to make himself the center of attention again. "Yes,
it's true about youth and age. But do not forget that youth
resents age, too! Many a time I've failed to receive the
appreciation due me for many a mighty battle against the forces
of evil. Why, just the other day I was asked to recount the tale
of...."
"Oh," said the Tabrik leader.
"No," added Jennifer.
The proof of Mr. Wynot's greatness lay in his inability to
notice any hints, much less pay attention to them: "Why I fought
the original Malak, I did." Fay could tell from just glancing at
Jennifer and the Tabrik that there was nothing special about
Wynot's claim among this group. He continued: "Malak liked
turning his enemies into different sorts of things in those days.
He'd figured out that it wasn't very smart to change them into
mice or frogs or birds, or frankly any sort of creature that
could still get around and cause trouble. He finally settled on
the notion of transforming them into rocks. But I was not afraid
of him."
The Tabrik leader intervened. "Our young visitor is
unversed in the nature of our struggles. You have not told her
how our powers are balanced, and that none of the incarnations of
Malak has yet succeeded in making any of us truly vulnerable."
The semi-transparent head fixed her with watery eyes beyond which
yawned the two black holes of the skull's sockets. Where before
she had been afraid at such a sight she was now calm. "As each
season was made to have its own special protectors and avatars,
so too was each an environment in which life could grow and
develop. Malak has twisted and destroyed much of this life
through Time; but he could not do this to every individual who
might be under the conscious protection of one of us."
"We couldn't protect everyone all the time," lamented
Jennifer.
"Not if we were going to maintain the integrity of the
Seasons, our primary task," said Mr. Wynot.
Fay didn't have to hear the rest to know what was coming.
Only worlds with Winter and Spring and Summer and Autumn were
linked to this place, as sort of reflections. All this reminded
her of a book she had read right before summer vacation. Clive
teased her about studying advanced subject matter when she wasn't
required. She could never convince him that she just liked to
read. Half the time Clive was given books as presents that he
would never open; and these inevtiably found their way into her
hands. Characteristically, Aunt Miner had never given a book to
Fay, not directly, but Fay was often the beneficiary of her odd
selections for Clive.
This particular book had been about ancient Greek thinkers,
people who were called philosophers. The father of philosophy
was a man named Plato and one of his central ideas was the
dumbest thesis Fay had ever encountered -- at least it had seemed
dumb until today.
Plato told a story about shadows and a cave. Men sat inside
the cave, facing a wall on which were cast shadows. They were
tied up so that they couldn't look anywhere else. All they ever
saw were these shadows. Behind them men carried a variety of
objects past giant burning torches, and it was by this means that
the shadows were cast. Not unnaturally, the men who only saw the
shadows concluded the shadows must be the reality.
Fay hadn't given this stuff much thought at the time but now
the strange picture came back into her head, and it was starting
to make some kind of sense. The world she lived in was a shadow
if it could be so profoundly affected by what transpired
somewhere else. Since coming here, she had only been in this one
country of Spring, but it had more of a quality of springness
about it than anything she had ever experienced on Spring break.
She didn't have to go to Mr. Wynot's Land of Summer to guess
how much more summery it was than the one she'd left on earth.
Likewise, the same had to be true of the other two seasons. She
hated to think just how cold Winter was here, the frigid home of
Malak ... of Grandfather.
The snapping of fingers brought her out of her reverie. It
was Mr. Wynot. He was laughing. "Well, my esteemed fellow
mayor, it appears I'm not the only bore in all of space and time.
You lost this darling's attention."
"Not at all," said Jennifer, wrapping her arms around Fay's
thin shoulders. "She was comprehending truth at a higher level,
weren't you dear?"
"What happens here affects my home," she said. Nodding
heads made her think of so many Halloween apples in a barrel of
water. "Mrs. Norse told Clive and me so in her letter ... before
it was ruined. But I don't understand what my parents have to do
with it."
"It always begins with personal problems. That's how Malak
works," said Mr. Wynot.
"The help they need is in themselves," said the Tabrik.
"And in the Tabriks' most popular export," said Mr. Wynot.
"The eggs of the Klave make all the difference. They'll fix up
the most damaged relationships. Out with the old and in with the
new."
"Stop it!" Fay screamed, pulling lose from Jennifer. "Stop
it, stop it, stop it!!! You're talking about my parents! Not
some toys ... or children!" She was so upset that the others
pulled back from her, genuinely surprised by her sudden wrath.
Fay wanted to stop herself but something in her made her go
on, getting more upset all the time. "People are divorced all
the time," she cried. "It's not the end of the world, if they're
not taken away! Half my friends' parents are divorced. More
than half, and they're happy. I mean, they're as happy as
anybody is." Her shouting was heard by some of the Tabriks
working nearest to them. One paused for a moment, two of the
turtle-like creatures hanging uncertainly from the end of his
pole, and starting to bump into each other as they slowly swung
back and forth.
Fay was crying. Emotion came off her in a great wave,
drenching her newfound friends in a kind of pain that was alien
to them. Yet how could they be expected to empathize with
someone whose life is so uncertain and happiness so fleeting as a
human being? They wore the human form but what did that really
mean? Did they get sick? Did they have to struggle for daily
existence? It was obvious they had conflict, if not with each
other, then with their true enemy. But did their little
arguments ever amount to serious bickering, much less an actual
break in friendship?
These questions raced through Fay's mind as tears trickled
down her face. These incredible beings couldn't know what Mom
and Dad had been through, or the night terrors of a little girl
praying to God that Mommy would stop crying, and Daddy stop
shouting; a little girl hoping that she wouldn't hear worse
things. Nightmare sounds. End of sanity sounds. The sounds
that finally came when Dad went for Clive.
Jennifer reached out and tentatively touched Fay on the
shoulder. Fay didn't pull away. Jennifer touched her fingers to
adolescent tears. She placed those fingers to her lips and
tasted the salt; and tasted something more.
"We're moving too fast," she said to all of them. "Mrs.
Norse had no choice but to bring these children here because of
the new Malak, and what he did to their parents. That doesn't
excuse our being impatient or rude."
"Or too damned mysterious," added the cat, whom Mr. Wynot,
for one, had forgotten was there.
Jennifer's mentioning of children in the plural brought Fay
back to earth, in a manner of speaking. "Clive!" she blurted
out. "Where is he? What's happened to him."
"He's probably with Mrs. Norse by now and safer than we
are," said Kitnip.
"Probably isn't good enough," she said through trembling
lips, but at least she'd stopped crying. "Is there a way to be
sure?"
"Sure," said Mr. Wynot. "You can see Clive anytime you
want."
"I can?"
"But first you'll have to go swimming," said Jennifer.
Kitnip was not at all pleased.
***
Kitnip was not at all pleased.
Clive stopped reading at that point, transfixed by the
illustration of the cat's face in extreme closeup. Kitnip might
be talking now, the same as Wolf, but in one respect the cat was
still perfectly normal: she hated water.
"You've stopped reading," said Mrs. Norse.
"Fay wants to contact me! What do I do?" Somehow the book
seemed inadequate all of a sudden. And as he held it tightly in
his hands, and realized it was just a book, after all, he started
to get mad.
He quickly learned that the single most annoying aspect
about Mrs. Norse was that she knew what you were thinking before
you did. Or else she was a very good guesser.
To prove the point, she said, "You think this is a trick,
don't you?"
He knew better than that. It was like spending days inside
a magic shop and then complaining when someone pulled a rabbit
out of a hat.
"Clive, you will be with your sister before long; and you
will see your mother and father as well. Before you can be of
any real use to them, however, you must be tranquil in your own
heart."
"How?" he asked. He looked at the book but the pages had
become mysterious again, in language he couldn't decipher.
"Are you hungry?"
He'd thought he'd been a short time before. A little bit of
food went a long way around here. The cookie he'd eaten was like
a full meal. He wasn't thirsty after the one drink either.
"No," he told her, "I'm fine."
"Me, too!" Wolf contributed. The dog would eat almost
anything put before him and then yelp for more. Giving him
speech was less of a miracle than satisfying his appetite.
"Are you tired?" asked Mrs. Norse of Clive, in the same even
tone of voice.
Now that was a different matter. No sooner had she said the
words than his eyes felt heavy and his head began to nod forward.
She must be some kind of hypnotist at least, all questions of
witchcraft aside.
"I hadn't felt tired until you said it ... I was a little
tired after I ate that stuff ... and saw Mom and Dad." He hated
the way his tongue was becoming heavy and he couldn't keep his
eyes open. He was sure he'd been fine until Mrs. Norse took him
in charge, but now he was becoming too drowsy to stay awake.
"There is no night here, and you need to take a nap," she
told him as from a distance, "and then you'll be ready to perform
a necessary task."
All he could think of was sleep. "I don't want to dream,"
he said, slurring his words.
"You are living the dream."
The sound of the purring cats grew louder. In fact, they
started purring in unison. In and out, in and out, it was like
listening to a motor revving up. As he listened, his eyes grew
heavier and he slumped in his chair.
"You just take your nap, and then you can do a little chore
around the house," said Mrs. Norse. As if in a dream, she lifted
him as if he weighed no more than a few ounces. She carried him
into another room where she put him to bed and told him, "No
pictures for you now, nothing to interpret or worry over. Your
soul is tired."
The next thing he remembered was opening his eyes and
lifting his head from the large feather pillow on which it had
been resting. He was completely refreshed. He wondered how long
he had been asleep but there was no way to tell from the
unchanging light outside his window. He wondered if it were
always the same time of day around here; and if you could even
call it day.
Suddenly he realized that he needed to go to the bathroom.
Did a magical house in a magical land have something so mundane
as plumbing? His last request had been to contact his sister and
he was put to sleep for his troubles. It was probably asking too
much for there to be a telephone. But a bathroom was different!
As he jumped off the very comfortable bed, noticing that he still
wore his shoes, a dreadful thought struck him. Maybe magical
places had never needed to develop much in the way of technology.
What if Mrs. Norse had an outhouse instead?
Or even worse, it could be none of the denizens of this
place needed a bathroom at all. That would explain the lack of
catbox odors! Saving the Seasons and restoring his family and
finding Fay would simply have to wait until he'd settled this
more pressing matter.
At least there hadn't been any dreams, as she promised. The
living room was empty. He could hear voices from the back yard.
Before joining them, it wouldn't hurt to reconnoiter the terrain.
Maybe he'd find what he needed by going through the kitchen.
The kitchen was nothing like the rest of the house but was
the first really other-worldly attraction. Several blue globes,
of various sizes, hung in space over the floor. Otherwise it was
an empty room. He wondered where the food had come from, and the
plates and silverware. Quite obviously, she had to extract these
things from the globes ... or the globes made all the goodies
appear somehow.
Of a dead certainty was that he would not be going to the
bathroom in here, even if there was a globe that was meant for
it. He'd hate to get them mixed up.
His bladder was talking to him now. He had to do something
quickly. That's when he noticed the lavender colored door off in
a corner. He hadn't noticed it before. As he stepped through it
and found all the modern conveniences, he had a strange feeling
of deja` vu. The pink cover slip on the toilet reminded him of
one he'd seen the time he visited Aunt Miner, the sort of touch
he'd expect in an old lady's house ... but not in Mrs. Norse's!
When he finished and was washing his hands under an ornate
faucet, he seemed to remember that fixture had once belonged to
the grandparents on his father's side. His sudden suspicion that
what he saw before him might be taken from his own mind and made
real for his benefit did not cheer him even a little bit. He
felt a cold shiver instead.
Hurrying back through the kitchen without looking back, his
elbow bumped one of the spheres. It felt like a water balloon.
He didn't want it to burst.
What a relief to step outside! The cats were in a semi-
circle around Mrs. Norse. Wolf came running over and jumping on
him the way he used to do when he was a puppy. A wave of good
will flowed over Clive.
What he couldn't help noticing was a lawnmower, fire engine
red, just beyond the cats. The very green lawn stretched out
beyond this mower, stretched and stretched, and tilted upward
until it disappeared in the distance. He'd never been in a
backyard so large that you couldn't see the end of it.
Birds were singing way off somewhere, as if to celebrate the
eternal, perfect day, with blue sky and green grass dividing the
universe. "Now that you're rested, I hope you'll perform a small
task," said Mrs. Norse, sounding more musical than the birds.
"Ma'am, I don't mean to seem ungrateful, but you said you'd
put me in touch with my sister. That's what your strange book
promised."
"Yes, Clive, and you want answers to all your questions."
"I know it's not your fault we're here. Grandad, or what he
has become, is to blame."
"He does not share the blame alone, dear."
"I also know you have your own reasons for what you're
doing." He had made his comment somewhat testily but she nodded
as if there could be no doubt as to the truth of his observation.
"As do we all, dear."
This is what they called a Mexican standoff. In a situation
where one side held all the cards, and the other side didn't even
know the rules of the game, there was only one sane course of
action -- especially in an insane world. Clive surrendered to
the inevitable.
"You have something you wanted me to do," he said, eyeing
the lawn mower.
"Yes, I'd appreciate your mowing the lawn."
She sounded so reasonable. The only trouble was that the
grass was already cut.
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