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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 EIGHTEEN
WHEN YOU CAN'T TELL THE PROBLEM FROM THE SOLUTION
Fay's words reverberated across the expanse of Malak's face,
starting with a twitching around the eyes, trembling down to the
corners of his mouth that were pulled down into a terrible frown,
and quivering through every inch of flesh until reaching the
wrinkles around his throat. In life, Grandfather had never liked
people to stray from roles that he had meticuloulsy written for
them. Most folks were true to form ... most of the time. The
rare exceptions were the only ones who won his grudging respect,
and undying enmity. But since becoming Malak, he had known he
could bank on the certainty of Fay's love for her parents.
He was discombobulated, reduced to saying, "You can't mean
that." Clive had raised an eyebrow in surprise and was about to
contradict his sister when he recognized the impact she was
having on the enemy. Through thin slit eyes, Kitnip peered at
the tormentor's shoes, as black as her fine fur, and let one ear
slowly flatten itself against her head. With a sideways glance,
Fay caught the reaction of both brother and cat. She had
confidence they would play along.
Sensing his uncertainty, she pressed her advantage: "I was
tired of Mom and Dad before you died. By the time you ruined my
summer, Mom was a coward, and Dad an idiot. I'd put up with them
until the day you did weird things to the wallpaper in the
nursery. Then Dad beat up Clive and Mom didn't do anything to
stop it..."
"Maybe she didn't hear," said Malak, trying to salvage the
situation.
"She heard! She's a coward and Dad became violent and I
don't care what happens to them anymore."
There was the sound of a great sigh out beyond the hills,
and several damaged leaves began to curl on their branches as if
caught in an invisible fire. The leaves fell off, turning to
stinking globs before they hit the ground. Beyond the steaming
little piles, the picnickers began to back away, and huddle
together in fear.
Terror was like a shot of good whiskey to Malak. His face
brightened and regained its composure. "Maybe I've been going
about this the wrong way," he said aloud, but he was speaking to
himself. "Maybe there's another trigger I can use."
Clive said two words to his sister, but they were all she
needed to hear: "Calm down." She nodded and started taking deep
breaths. The ball was in her court. The only way she could
score was to be relaxed. Indifference to her parents' fate had
bothered Malak; but the anger she was letting herself feel seemed
to feed him. Clive held up his hand and let her see that his
fingers were crossed. She smiled at him as the anger washed over
her, and left her body clean.
"I suppose they couldn't help themselves," said Fay. "I'm
sorry for them, but they're not my problem any longer."
Malak's sharp intake of breath sounded like a valve being
turned off. This would teach him to talk himself! How could a
stupid child be so in control of herself? "You don't know what
you're saying," he argued, desperation creeping back into his
voice. "Those are your parents," he said, gesturing at the
ground. "Think how they've suffered."
"They did it to themselves," said Fay, coldly.
"He helped," added Clive, pointing at Malak. "I saw the
tortures he inflicted on Dad in the field, and Mom surrounded by
little monsters. Those weren't Slaks I saw. They were real, I'm
sure of it." Yet even as he recounted this litany of suffering,
he remembered the pictures he had seen of Fay and himself. He
was yet to be placed in a box and swung out over empty space.
When Fay and he had brought each other up to date, she hadn't
mentioned being in a giant doll house. His experience by the sea
seemed more dreamlike in recollection than, say, his visit to
Mrs. Norse's house. In a world where anything could happen, how
did one separate symbol from reality? And was it even worth
trying?
"Hard lessons," said Malak. "They thought life was going to
be easy, an endless summer of love. Perfect examples of their
generation, they sought to be eternally young. You know what
that means? No experience takes hold and imparts wisdom. They
don't remember anything."
"Then what's your excuse for the way you are?" asked Kitnip.
"Be careful, feline. I remember everything."
"Then where's your wisdom?" asked the cat, holding on to the
point as she might trap a squirming rodent.
Displaying the same qualities that had led his earthbound
self into politics, Malak simply ignored the cat's annoying
suggestions and again addressed Fay, his focal point, his hope:
"Now look here, granddaughter, you've been through a lot to find
your parents. Maybe I was too hard on them. What do you say we
bring them out of their trances and you and your brother can have
them back just the way you've always wanted them?"
"I don't believe you," said Fay. "You intend to kill them."
"Not so!" he exclaimed.
"What about the knives?" asked Fay.
"There's no blood, no gaping wounds," he answered
reasonably. "The most advanced kind of magic doesn't require a
lot of mess. Sacrifices don't have to be bloody. They only need
to be thorough."
"How do we know they're Mom and Dad?" asked Clive. "Maybe
they're Slaks."
"Ridiculous!" Malak seemed genuinely hurt. "Your sister
has no doubt in that regard, do you, child?"
But Fay was paying little attention to him. She watched
Kitnip who, one moment had been perfectly still as if posing for
a statue, and the next was a black streak of motion darting
between the legs of Malak's minions. The cat had her little nose
pressed up against Dad's face and then, as a cumbersome hand
grabbed for her, lept over Dad's recumbent form and landed square
on Mom's stomach, where the cat proceeded to investigate familiar
human skin and clothes and hair.
"They're real," announced Kitnip.
"And to think you managed that without taking a bite out of
them," came a familiar voice.
"Wolf!" shouted Clive, happy and ready for trouble. A
silver-grey shape raced out of the woods, four paws barely
seeming to touch the ground, and licked the faces of Mom and Dad.
Kitnip joined in.
Never one to let an opportunity pass by, without at least
collecting a toll, Malak made a brave attempt to adjust to the
situation. "So there you are," he said. "You see that they're
real so lets bring them out of their trances."
"So you can collect their negative engery," said Fay.
"Hey, fair's fair! You get your parents back and I get what
I want. A win-win scenario. With all you've learned in such a
short time, Fay, I'm sure you and your brother can help them see
the error of their ways. Then I'll send everyone home, one big
happy...."
"No," said Fay. "You're trying to trick us. Grandfather
liked Mom and Dad being unhappy. Malak only cares about his war
against the Seasons. You are both people."
Malak smiled and made a series of flamboyant gestures in the
air, each completed by his pointing at various relatives -- his
bony finger extended toward the extended family, one member at a
time. "Testimonials," he said. "That's what I need." It was
like watching a stage magician who threatened live embalming for
the audience as his final act.
"Don't bother," said Clive.
"We don't trust you," said Fay.
"I don't trust them, either," Clive added for the benefit of
his relatives.
"The American family is in a bad way," mourned Malak. "Here
you trust a total stranger, this self-righteous woman you don't
even know, over your own flesh and blood."
"I've met her," said Clive. "Mrs. Norse is only righteous."
"Shut up!" shouted their host.
"All your problems begin in simple rudeness," came another
voice, a most welcome one. Malak spun around, dreading to face
the inevitable but drawn to his own personal abyss. Mrs. Norse
emerged from behind the four Jennifers who, at that precise
moment, let go of each other's hands and collapsed on the ground.
They had been very busy.
Malak's expression put Fay in mind of a ripe cantelope ready
to collapse in on itself. This was her first encounter with the
Lady of the Seasons and she had a most favorable first
impression. Where Malak's face was hard and full of judgement,
Mrs. Norse's face was a study in long suffering kindness mixed
with an unselfconscious superiority.
"You weren't invited," said Malak. Her presence drained off
his confidence as a syringe might suck up poison.
She spoke to him as firmly and calmly as if she were
admonishing a naughty child. "You have forgotten that part of
the divorce settlement was that I'd have custody of the Four
Seasons." Clive and Fay exchanged looks as if to say:
Naturally, Of Course, It Makes Perfect Sense.
"You can stop worrying about the fine points," he said.
"Soon there will only be one season."
"You haven't performed your Final Spell, dear, because these
young humans haven't behaved as you expected. The first thing we
should do is send your audience home."
"I don't care about them," said Malak grudgingly. "They
were a sop to an old man's vanity, but they aren't necessary."
Mrs. Norse turned her attention to the brood, still gathered
around the picnic tables. She gestured to one, then another,
then another. As she caught each one's attention, the individual
would step forward, slowly relax, and then vanish. Aunt Miner
came last. She took the longest to relax. Apparently the knack
of coming and going was tied to an ability for directing
conscious attention outward. Aunt Miner needed a distraction
from her favorite subject: Aunt Miner. Mrs. Norse provided this
by inclining her head toward the great statue. Aunt Miner
contemplated the massive bulk and long, straight sword
before vanishing home.
"Now to business," said Mrs. Norse.
"You can't stop The One True Season," said Malak.
"I have no intention of putting roadblocks in the way of
your Fifth Season," she replied.
"You're not so honest as all that," was Malak's considered
response. "To think this poor, sweet child was accusing me of
being tricky." He grinned evily at Fay.
"I don't like being called a child," said Fay.
Malak laughed a most ungrandfatherly laugh, and followed up
with: "Tell it to the courts, tell it to your public school ...
and God help the first adult who doesn't treat you as a child at
all times!"
"Yeah," said Clive. "I guess even bad guys get it right
some of the time."
"Evil always has part of the truth," said Mrs. Norse. "But
only part. The complete and perfect lie is never adequate in
itself to undo Good."
"They must not have many elections around here," Kitnip
whispered to Wolf.
"Enough of this!" said Malak. "The divorce agreement puts
limitations on you as it does on me. You can't stop the One True
Season."
"She can't, but I will!" announced Fay. "You have all this
stolen magic but you can't do your magic until Mom and Dad wake
up. If you could wake them up, you'd do it. You need me, or
Clive, and we won't wake them up."
Clive thought about Mexican standoffs as he watched two
stubborn people -- well, one stubborn person and a something
else -- refuse to give ground. Mrs. Norse kept out of it. The
Jennifers, recovered from their exertions, joined the spectators.
The football headed men and jack-'o-lantern people held to their
positions and waited for something to happen.
"I need you," said Malak at last, "one way or another. You
are of Gurney blood. I said that sacrifices need not be in
blood. Sometimes the substitute is better. I prepared your
parents for this day, and I'd hate for all that work to be
wasted. But you are here. And Clive is here. You want to rescue
your parents. Wake them and they will at least live. So will
you. Leave them as they are, and they will never wake. And as
for you..." He brandished the two silver daggers. "The last
time, these left no wounds. They are double-edged, you might
say. One side cuts the spirit. But for you, I offer the edge
that will release your soul."
Keeping the blade of the left-hand knife flat against his
forearm, he held the weapon as if it were a shield. With his
right hand, he was already making a great arc with the other
blade as he ran straight toward Fay. The moment Malak made his
intentions clear, Clive was running toward him, hoping to tackle
Fay's assailant, but one of the guards was on him before he had
gone more than a few feet.
Fay threw her arms up to fend off the attack, but Malak's
speed and size overcame her easily. Wolf and Kitnip were running
toward the scene of danger, but too late. And to Clive's horror,
Mrs. Norse was making no move whatever; she regarded the scene
with a placidity that seemed criminal to him.
Malak kneeled before the young girl, knocked one of her
thin, defending arms away ... and drew the knife with a slashing
motion across her delicate, white throat. Clive gasped and
stared. There was no red stain spreading like an ink blot under
Fay's chin; no dripping crimson finality to mark the passing of
her young life. There was a blue glow around the knife and that
was all.
"Impossible," said Malak. "I didn't mean it," moaned a
voice much more like Grandfather's.
"The blade that cuts the spirit, my poor, deluded ex-
husband," said Mrs. Norse. "You know what that means."
"But how?" Malak's voice was a plea for sympathy but his
failure to spill Fay's blood did not win him much in the way of
commiseration. "This last sacrifice would create the new
Season."
"The Fifth Season already exists," said Mrs. Norse. "It has
always existed. You did not create. You discovered a wasteland
that you sought to spread across the Land of Life. I could never
send you there before now, but you have opened the door."
"The divorce agreement!" He was standing on his rights as
only the desperate can.
"Why does it no longer apply?" she asked. He was silent.
"As any good attorney knows, never ask a question unless you
already know the answer. You could practice magic until you were
blue in the face. You could make an army of Slaks and conjure
monsters and order foul murders and uncreations to your heart's
content. But direct violence by your own hand makes our
agreement null and void."
"I don't remember that in the contract," he said. "Maybe
you're making this up."
"Well!" she said, offended. "If you doubt me, you can take
up the matter with the Dragon. I'm sure he'll be impartial, if
he's ever stopped sneezing. Now, I will pronounce your original
name."
He didn't like that. His last words before he faded from
view were: "I want the ring back."
"Poor man," said Mrs. Norse, shaking her head. "So
forgetful. His previous incarnation stole the ring and turned it
into the gold supply this incarnation used to pay expenses."
Raising the subject of money seemed to lift a shroud of
gloom from all assembled. Everyone started gathering around and
Jennifer of Spring asked if this meant there would be a general
refund paid out of the magic surplus. Fay might have found this
an interesting subject except that she was too full of gratitude
for her life to be concerned about anything else for the moment.
And Clive was too thrilled that his sister was safe to care
either. Cradling Fay in his arms, Clive rocked her back and
forth and whispered how brave she'd been.
"... and so after the current emergency is over, I'd be glad
to consider returning the magic," Mrs. Norse finished with a sly
grin. Her audience was crestfallen. "Oh, I'm just joking," she
said, and everyone heaved a sigh of relief. "Everyone will have
their magic back and we'll live happily ever after."
This inspired cheers and hussahs. The Jennifers surrounded
Clive and Fay and threw flowers upon their heads. Jennifer of
Spring took Fay by the hand and led her to Mrs. Norse. "Thank
you for saving us," said Fay.
"Modesty becomes you, young one, but you deserve the
credit," spoke a wise heart. "Now, let's have breakfast."
Waving to several Tabriks, they came forward carrying trays
covered in the exquisite eggs produced by the Klave. These were
all brightly colored and looked like Easter eggs.
Suddenly, half a dozen Tabrik ships descended from the sky.
Fay regretted that there was no way she could tell which one was
the leader as hundreds of them filled the area. She wanted to
thank him personally. The grand arrival meant more and more
eggs. In a world without a sun, you tell if you're eating
breakfast by the eggs, thought Fay.
Mrs. Norse addressed the company in a voice that seemed loud
enough to be heard in all of the Four Seasons: "Thank you, dear
Jennifers, for having brought me hither. Thank you, Tabrik
friends, for providing the feast. Thank you, Lord Clive and Lady
Fay, for your assistance in the defeat of He Who was Malak."
"That was Fay's doing," said Clive.
"You say the right thing, young man, but the honors are for
both of you."
"Lord Clive," said Fay, uncertainly.
"Lady Fay," he answered happily. "I guess we'd have a
little trouble explaining this in Problems of Democracy at
school, wouldn't we?" They both laughed.
"That's a problem you'll never have to face, unless you want
to," said Mrs. Norse. "But first we must resolve the matter of
your parents." She walked over and put her hands on Fay's
shoulders. A friendly glance in Clive's direction was all he
needed to come over and join them. The three of them regarded
Mom and Dad, sprawled upon the ground in most undignified
postures and sleeping away eternity.
"Fay," said Mrs. Norse. "Tell me something. How should a
thirteen year old girl act and talk?"
"Uh..." came out of her in a perfect imitation of one of
William F. Buckley, Jr.'s verbal pauses. "I don't know."
"And Clive, how should a fifteen year old boy act and talk?"
"Any way they tell me not to," he said quickly.
Mrs. Norse smiled and patted them both on the head; but
instead of feeling patronized and insulted as when Grandfather
had performed the same action, they both felt the exact same
emotion of joy. Mrs. Norse had that kind of effect on human
beings.
"You are both more individualistic than average for your
kind," she told them. "This is something to be proud of. You
are both of above average intelligence for your species, although
Fay is higher than you, Clive."
"You're telling me!" he said.
"Clive's smart," said Fay. "And his grades are getting
better."
"Your loyalty is admiral," said Mrs. Norse. "The only test
with which I'm concerned, however, is one you both must take here
and now."
She kissed Fay on the forehead and then did the same for
Clive. There was a music welling up from deep inside them. Fay
could feel the whole thread of her life running through her,
tying the child to the adult, and rejecting the tyranny of what
she was supposed to be at given times for given purposes; she
squeezed Clive's hand and could tell he was feeling the same
power surging through him. For Clive, the strongest aspect of
this emotion was a positive form of defiance, an unwillingness to
always say the same words and perform the same actions for no
other reason than to satisfy other people.
"I don't like the world we've just left," said Clive.
"People say I don't act my age," answered Fay. "I don't
understand what they mean. Sometimes they say I'm immature and
later they say I'm acting too old. I wish they'd make up their
minds!"
"You'll never act your age," said Mrs. Norse, "because you
don't act at all. You insist on being you. Strange, isn't it,
that your parents criticize you for that?"
"I don't like being their son," said Clive. He knew he'd
felt that way for some time before his father went crazy and beat
him. Yet he'd been unable to eliminate the nagging fear that if
he hadn't felt that way, his father wouldn't have sensed it; and
through this final disappointment broken the bonds of family.
"You have it backwards, Clive," said Mrs. Norse. "Do you
understand better?" she asked Fay.
Fay kneeled in front of the sleeping forms, first brushing
the hair away from her mother and then touching her father's
cheek. She was their daughter, all right ... but they were also
her parents. Hers. She let the word sink into her mind as a
bathysphere might sink deep, deeper, deepest, into the place
where cold secrets wait for one flicker of warmth to rouse
themselves and surge upward to be accepted, or to destroy.
"My parents," she said, standing up and facing Mrs. Norse.
"They're my parents."
"Yes, child." Mrs. Norse did something with her hands and
suddenly she was passing a finished cross-stitch of the Gurney
family to Fay. "If you belong to them, then they belong to you,"
she explained. "As an individual, you have the right to reject
anyone and walk off into eternal darkness. But you also have the
choice of making your family work as a family."
"That's not true," said Clive angrily, as Fay considered her
two problems snoring on the ground. "We have no power over them.
That's why I liked it at first when Malak replaced them with his
Slaks."
"It's not a question of power, but of love," said Mrs.
Norse, eyeing Fay as the youngest person there weighed the
heaviest burden. "If a family has love, then whatever member is
best qualified to make a correct decision is heeded. The reward
is survival, as a family. If it is the father some of the time,
or most of the time, or all of the time, then it is the father.
If it is the mother some of the time, or most of the time, or all
of the time, then it is the mother. If...."
"Yeah, I get the idea, but it doesn't work," said Clive.
"If it's the daughter or the son, they're never listened to."
Mrs. Norse was most insistent: "If love is present, then
they are heeded. The family without love deserves to be
destroyed. Some blame this reality on God. Some blame it on
Nature. But whatever word is used, this is the reality."
"Ours should be destroyed then!" said Clive. "We have a
terrible family. I hate us."
"No!" Fay spoke in voice as strong as Mrs. Norse. His
sister reached out and touched him by the arm, telling him in no
uncertain terms, "They're just weak, Clive. I don't want them
dead. Or us. I want them strong."
"Yay," said Kitnip, "put them out of the house if they make
a mess."
"Rub their noses in it first, and then throw them out,"
agreed Wolf.
Fay took Clive by the hand. She didn't say a word but
looked him in the eye. It was as if their shared pain ran back
and forth along their arms, and gradually Clive allowed a smile
to write itself across his troubled face.
"Let's wake them up," said Fay. "How do we do it?"
Mrs. Norse gave Clive and Fay one egg each. She motioned for
them to feed the parent of their respective sex, as though Fay
were resposible for Mom and Clive for Dad. The eggs broke open
easily and a rich foam poured out. Fay fed her mother, slowly,
and the middle aged woman opened tired eyes that held in them a
glint of hope. Clive just dumped Dad's food down him in one go,
and the man started up as if waking from a dream. He blinked at
the cool blue sky, and then saw the anxious faces of his
offspring.
"Who are you?" asked Dad.
"Who are you?" asked Mom. Then they looked at each other
with equal confusion.
"This is not true amnesia," said Mrs. Norse. "In time, they
will remember everything. But this way you will guide them as
they recover ... themselves."
"Are we going home?" asked Clive.
Mrs. Norse nodded her head slightly, first to Clive and then
to Fay. "That's up to you. But you may stay here in the Land of
Seasons if you prefer, as Lord and Lady of the realm." There was
an intense discussion of the pros and cons of the choice thus
presented. Sixty seconds later, if anyone had had a watch to
arrive at such a figure, Lord Clive and Lady Fay reached a
decision. They would stay. The Jennifers celebrated by dancing,
weaving their hands through the air as if making invisible
sculptures.
Mom and Dad sat down with the rest and ate some more eggs.
Fay liked the taste of them better than Clive, but Mrs. Norse
suggested that she might be able to rustle up something like salt
to improve the flavor. Later, Fay began the first lesson,
carefully telling Mom and Dad their Christian names and how
they'd been married.
"What's marriage?" asked Mom.
"It's a promise made in love," answered Fay, feeling older
and smarter with every mouthful of the Tabrik's food.
"What's love?" asked Dad.
"Another promise," said Clive, feeling stronger and happier
for dessert.
"And these are promises where you don't cross your fingers,"
added Mrs. Norse.
Then Mom and Dad were told what happened to people who broke
their promises. In a land of magic, the possibilities were
varied and quite interesting. Mom and Dad promised to behave
themselves.
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 EIGHTEEN
WHEN YOU CAN'T TELL THE PROBLEM FROM THE SOLUTION
Fay's words reverberated across the expanse of Malak's face,
starting with a twitching around the eyes, trembling down to the
corners of his mouth that were pulled down into a terrible frown,
and quivering through every inch of flesh until reaching the
wrinkles around his throat. In life, Grandfather had never liked
people to stray from roles that he had meticuloulsy written for
them. Most folks were true to form ... most of the time. The
rare exceptions were the only ones who won his grudging respect,
and undying enmity. But since becoming Malak, he had known he
could bank on the certainty of Fay's love for her parents.
He was discombobulated, reduced to saying, "You can't mean
that." Clive had raised an eyebrow in surprise and was about to
contradict his sister when he recognized the impact she was
having on the enemy. Through thin slit eyes, Kitnip peered at
the tormentor's shoes, as black as her fine fur, and let one ear
slowly flatten itself against her head. With a sideways glance,
Fay caught the reaction of both brother and cat. She had
confidence they would play along.
Sensing his uncertainty, she pressed her advantage: "I was
tired of Mom and Dad before you died. By the time you ruined my
summer, Mom was a coward, and Dad an idiot. I'd put up with them
until the day you did weird things to the wallpaper in the
nursery. Then Dad beat up Clive and Mom didn't do anything to
stop it..."
"Maybe she didn't hear," said Malak, trying to salvage the
situation.
"She heard! She's a coward and Dad became violent and I
don't care what happens to them anymore."
There was the sound of a great sigh out beyond the hills,
and several damaged leaves began to curl on their branches as if
caught in an invisible fire. The leaves fell off, turning to
stinking globs before they hit the ground. Beyond the steaming
little piles, the picnickers began to back away, and huddle
together in fear.
Terror was like a shot of good whiskey to Malak. His face
brightened and regained its composure. "Maybe I've been going
about this the wrong way," he said aloud, but he was speaking to
himself. "Maybe there's another trigger I can use."
Clive said two words to his sister, but they were all she
needed to hear: "Calm down." She nodded and started taking deep
breaths. The ball was in her court. The only way she could
score was to be relaxed. Indifference to her parents' fate had
bothered Malak; but the anger she was letting herself feel seemed
to feed him. Clive held up his hand and let her see that his
fingers were crossed. She smiled at him as the anger washed over
her, and left her body clean.
"I suppose they couldn't help themselves," said Fay. "I'm
sorry for them, but they're not my problem any longer."
Malak's sharp intake of breath sounded like a valve being
turned off. This would teach him to talk himself! How could a
stupid child be so in control of herself? "You don't know what
you're saying," he argued, desperation creeping back into his
voice. "Those are your parents," he said, gesturing at the
ground. "Think how they've suffered."
"They did it to themselves," said Fay, coldly.
"He helped," added Clive, pointing at Malak. "I saw the
tortures he inflicted on Dad in the field, and Mom surrounded by
little monsters. Those weren't Slaks I saw. They were real, I'm
sure of it." Yet even as he recounted this litany of suffering,
he remembered the pictures he had seen of Fay and himself. He
was yet to be placed in a box and swung out over empty space.
When Fay and he had brought each other up to date, she hadn't
mentioned being in a giant doll house. His experience by the sea
seemed more dreamlike in recollection than, say, his visit to
Mrs. Norse's house. In a world where anything could happen, how
did one separate symbol from reality? And was it even worth
trying?
"Hard lessons," said Malak. "They thought life was going to
be easy, an endless summer of love. Perfect examples of their
generation, they sought to be eternally young. You know what
that means? No experience takes hold and imparts wisdom. They
don't remember anything."
"Then what's your excuse for the way you are?" asked Kitnip.
"Be careful, feline. I remember everything."
"Then where's your wisdom?" asked the cat, holding on to the
point as she might trap a squirming rodent.
Displaying the same qualities that had led his earthbound
self into politics, Malak simply ignored the cat's annoying
suggestions and again addressed Fay, his focal point, his hope:
"Now look here, granddaughter, you've been through a lot to find
your parents. Maybe I was too hard on them. What do you say we
bring them out of their trances and you and your brother can have
them back just the way you've always wanted them?"
"I don't believe you," said Fay. "You intend to kill them."
"Not so!" he exclaimed.
"What about the knives?" asked Fay.
"There's no blood, no gaping wounds," he answered
reasonably. "The most advanced kind of magic doesn't require a
lot of mess. Sacrifices don't have to be bloody. They only need
to be thorough."
"How do we know they're Mom and Dad?" asked Clive. "Maybe
they're Slaks."
"Ridiculous!" Malak seemed genuinely hurt. "Your sister
has no doubt in that regard, do you, child?"
But Fay was paying little attention to him. She watched
Kitnip who, one moment had been perfectly still as if posing for
a statue, and the next was a black streak of motion darting
between the legs of Malak's minions. The cat had her little nose
pressed up against Dad's face and then, as a cumbersome hand
grabbed for her, lept over Dad's recumbent form and landed square
on Mom's stomach, where the cat proceeded to investigate familiar
human skin and clothes and hair.
"They're real," announced Kitnip.
"And to think you managed that without taking a bite out of
them," came a familiar voice.
"Wolf!" shouted Clive, happy and ready for trouble. A
silver-grey shape raced out of the woods, four paws barely
seeming to touch the ground, and licked the faces of Mom and Dad.
Kitnip joined in.
Never one to let an opportunity pass by, without at least
collecting a toll, Malak made a brave attempt to adjust to the
situation. "So there you are," he said. "You see that they're
real so lets bring them out of their trances."
"So you can collect their negative engery," said Fay.
"Hey, fair's fair! You get your parents back and I get what
I want. A win-win scenario. With all you've learned in such a
short time, Fay, I'm sure you and your brother can help them see
the error of their ways. Then I'll send everyone home, one big
happy...."
"No," said Fay. "You're trying to trick us. Grandfather
liked Mom and Dad being unhappy. Malak only cares about his war
against the Seasons. You are both people."
Malak smiled and made a series of flamboyant gestures in the
air, each completed by his pointing at various relatives -- his
bony finger extended toward the extended family, one member at a
time. "Testimonials," he said. "That's what I need." It was
like watching a stage magician who threatened live embalming for
the audience as his final act.
"Don't bother," said Clive.
"We don't trust you," said Fay.
"I don't trust them, either," Clive added for the benefit of
his relatives.
"The American family is in a bad way," mourned Malak. "Here
you trust a total stranger, this self-righteous woman you don't
even know, over your own flesh and blood."
"I've met her," said Clive. "Mrs. Norse is only righteous."
"Shut up!" shouted their host.
"All your problems begin in simple rudeness," came another
voice, a most welcome one. Malak spun around, dreading to face
the inevitable but drawn to his own personal abyss. Mrs. Norse
emerged from behind the four Jennifers who, at that precise
moment, let go of each other's hands and collapsed on the ground.
They had been very busy.
Malak's expression put Fay in mind of a ripe cantelope ready
to collapse in on itself. This was her first encounter with the
Lady of the Seasons and she had a most favorable first
impression. Where Malak's face was hard and full of judgement,
Mrs. Norse's face was a study in long suffering kindness mixed
with an unselfconscious superiority.
"You weren't invited," said Malak. Her presence drained off
his confidence as a syringe might suck up poison.
She spoke to him as firmly and calmly as if she were
admonishing a naughty child. "You have forgotten that part of
the divorce settlement was that I'd have custody of the Four
Seasons." Clive and Fay exchanged looks as if to say:
Naturally, Of Course, It Makes Perfect Sense.
"You can stop worrying about the fine points," he said.
"Soon there will only be one season."
"You haven't performed your Final Spell, dear, because these
young humans haven't behaved as you expected. The first thing we
should do is send your audience home."
"I don't care about them," said Malak grudgingly. "They
were a sop to an old man's vanity, but they aren't necessary."
Mrs. Norse turned her attention to the brood, still gathered
around the picnic tables. She gestured to one, then another,
then another. As she caught each one's attention, the individual
would step forward, slowly relax, and then vanish. Aunt Miner
came last. She took the longest to relax. Apparently the knack
of coming and going was tied to an ability for directing
conscious attention outward. Aunt Miner needed a distraction
from her favorite subject: Aunt Miner. Mrs. Norse provided this
by inclining her head toward the great statue. Aunt Miner
contemplated the massive bulk and long, straight sword
before vanishing home.
"Now to business," said Mrs. Norse.
"You can't stop The One True Season," said Malak.
"I have no intention of putting roadblocks in the way of
your Fifth Season," she replied.
"You're not so honest as all that," was Malak's considered
response. "To think this poor, sweet child was accusing me of
being tricky." He grinned evily at Fay.
"I don't like being called a child," said Fay.
Malak laughed a most ungrandfatherly laugh, and followed up
with: "Tell it to the courts, tell it to your public school ...
and God help the first adult who doesn't treat you as a child at
all times!"
"Yeah," said Clive. "I guess even bad guys get it right
some of the time."
"Evil always has part of the truth," said Mrs. Norse. "But
only part. The complete and perfect lie is never adequate in
itself to undo Good."
"They must not have many elections around here," Kitnip
whispered to Wolf.
"Enough of this!" said Malak. "The divorce agreement puts
limitations on you as it does on me. You can't stop the One True
Season."
"She can't, but I will!" announced Fay. "You have all this
stolen magic but you can't do your magic until Mom and Dad wake
up. If you could wake them up, you'd do it. You need me, or
Clive, and we won't wake them up."
Clive thought about Mexican standoffs as he watched two
stubborn people -- well, one stubborn person and a something
else -- refuse to give ground. Mrs. Norse kept out of it. The
Jennifers, recovered from their exertions, joined the spectators.
The football headed men and jack-'o-lantern people held to their
positions and waited for something to happen.
"I need you," said Malak at last, "one way or another. You
are of Gurney blood. I said that sacrifices need not be in
blood. Sometimes the substitute is better. I prepared your
parents for this day, and I'd hate for all that work to be
wasted. But you are here. And Clive is here. You want to rescue
your parents. Wake them and they will at least live. So will
you. Leave them as they are, and they will never wake. And as
for you..." He brandished the two silver daggers. "The last
time, these left no wounds. They are double-edged, you might
say. One side cuts the spirit. But for you, I offer the edge
that will release your soul."
Keeping the blade of the left-hand knife flat against his
forearm, he held the weapon as if it were a shield. With his
right hand, he was already making a great arc with the other
blade as he ran straight toward Fay. The moment Malak made his
intentions clear, Clive was running toward him, hoping to tackle
Fay's assailant, but one of the guards was on him before he had
gone more than a few feet.
Fay threw her arms up to fend off the attack, but Malak's
speed and size overcame her easily. Wolf and Kitnip were running
toward the scene of danger, but too late. And to Clive's horror,
Mrs. Norse was making no move whatever; she regarded the scene
with a placidity that seemed criminal to him.
Malak kneeled before the young girl, knocked one of her
thin, defending arms away ... and drew the knife with a slashing
motion across her delicate, white throat. Clive gasped and
stared. There was no red stain spreading like an ink blot under
Fay's chin; no dripping crimson finality to mark the passing of
her young life. There was a blue glow around the knife and that
was all.
"Impossible," said Malak. "I didn't mean it," moaned a
voice much more like Grandfather's.
"The blade that cuts the spirit, my poor, deluded ex-
husband," said Mrs. Norse. "You know what that means."
"But how?" Malak's voice was a plea for sympathy but his
failure to spill Fay's blood did not win him much in the way of
commiseration. "This last sacrifice would create the new
Season."
"The Fifth Season already exists," said Mrs. Norse. "It has
always existed. You did not create. You discovered a wasteland
that you sought to spread across the Land of Life. I could never
send you there before now, but you have opened the door."
"The divorce agreement!" He was standing on his rights as
only the desperate can.
"Why does it no longer apply?" she asked. He was silent.
"As any good attorney knows, never ask a question unless you
already know the answer. You could practice magic until you were
blue in the face. You could make an army of Slaks and conjure
monsters and order foul murders and uncreations to your heart's
content. But direct violence by your own hand makes our
agreement null and void."
"I don't remember that in the contract," he said. "Maybe
you're making this up."
"Well!" she said, offended. "If you doubt me, you can take
up the matter with the Dragon. I'm sure he'll be impartial, if
he's ever stopped sneezing. Now, I will pronounce your original
name."
He didn't like that. His last words before he faded from
view were: "I want the ring back."
"Poor man," said Mrs. Norse, shaking her head. "So
forgetful. His previous incarnation stole the ring and turned it
into the gold supply this incarnation used to pay expenses."
Raising the subject of money seemed to lift a shroud of
gloom from all assembled. Everyone started gathering around and
Jennifer of Spring asked if this meant there would be a general
refund paid out of the magic surplus. Fay might have found this
an interesting subject except that she was too full of gratitude
for her life to be concerned about anything else for the moment.
And Clive was too thrilled that his sister was safe to care
either. Cradling Fay in his arms, Clive rocked her back and
forth and whispered how brave she'd been.
"... and so after the current emergency is over, I'd be glad
to consider returning the magic," Mrs. Norse finished with a sly
grin. Her audience was crestfallen. "Oh, I'm just joking," she
said, and everyone heaved a sigh of relief. "Everyone will have
their magic back and we'll live happily ever after."
This inspired cheers and hussahs. The Jennifers surrounded
Clive and Fay and threw flowers upon their heads. Jennifer of
Spring took Fay by the hand and led her to Mrs. Norse. "Thank
you for saving us," said Fay.
"Modesty becomes you, young one, but you deserve the
credit," spoke a wise heart. "Now, let's have breakfast."
Waving to several Tabriks, they came forward carrying trays
covered in the exquisite eggs produced by the Klave. These were
all brightly colored and looked like Easter eggs.
Suddenly, half a dozen Tabrik ships descended from the sky.
Fay regretted that there was no way she could tell which one was
the leader as hundreds of them filled the area. She wanted to
thank him personally. The grand arrival meant more and more
eggs. In a world without a sun, you tell if you're eating
breakfast by the eggs, thought Fay.
Mrs. Norse addressed the company in a voice that seemed loud
enough to be heard in all of the Four Seasons: "Thank you, dear
Jennifers, for having brought me hither. Thank you, Tabrik
friends, for providing the feast. Thank you, Lord Clive and Lady
Fay, for your assistance in the defeat of He Who was Malak."
"That was Fay's doing," said Clive.
"You say the right thing, young man, but the honors are for
both of you."
"Lord Clive," said Fay, uncertainly.
"Lady Fay," he answered happily. "I guess we'd have a
little trouble explaining this in Problems of Democracy at
school, wouldn't we?" They both laughed.
"That's a problem you'll never have to face, unless you want
to," said Mrs. Norse. "But first we must resolve the matter of
your parents." She walked over and put her hands on Fay's
shoulders. A friendly glance in Clive's direction was all he
needed to come over and join them. The three of them regarded
Mom and Dad, sprawled upon the ground in most undignified
postures and sleeping away eternity.
"Fay," said Mrs. Norse. "Tell me something. How should a
thirteen year old girl act and talk?"
"Uh..." came out of her in a perfect imitation of one of
William F. Buckley, Jr.'s verbal pauses. "I don't know."
"And Clive, how should a fifteen year old boy act and talk?"
"Any way they tell me not to," he said quickly.
Mrs. Norse smiled and patted them both on the head; but
instead of feeling patronized and insulted as when Grandfather
had performed the same action, they both felt the exact same
emotion of joy. Mrs. Norse had that kind of effect on human
beings.
"You are both more individualistic than average for your
kind," she told them. "This is something to be proud of. You
are both of above average intelligence for your species, although
Fay is higher than you, Clive."
"You're telling me!" he said.
"Clive's smart," said Fay. "And his grades are getting
better."
"Your loyalty is admiral," said Mrs. Norse. "The only test
with which I'm concerned, however, is one you both must take here
and now."
She kissed Fay on the forehead and then did the same for
Clive. There was a music welling up from deep inside them. Fay
could feel the whole thread of her life running through her,
tying the child to the adult, and rejecting the tyranny of what
she was supposed to be at given times for given purposes; she
squeezed Clive's hand and could tell he was feeling the same
power surging through him. For Clive, the strongest aspect of
this emotion was a positive form of defiance, an unwillingness to
always say the same words and perform the same actions for no
other reason than to satisfy other people.
"I don't like the world we've just left," said Clive.
"People say I don't act my age," answered Fay. "I don't
understand what they mean. Sometimes they say I'm immature and
later they say I'm acting too old. I wish they'd make up their
minds!"
"You'll never act your age," said Mrs. Norse, "because you
don't act at all. You insist on being you. Strange, isn't it,
that your parents criticize you for that?"
"I don't like being their son," said Clive. He knew he'd
felt that way for some time before his father went crazy and beat
him. Yet he'd been unable to eliminate the nagging fear that if
he hadn't felt that way, his father wouldn't have sensed it; and
through this final disappointment broken the bonds of family.
"You have it backwards, Clive," said Mrs. Norse. "Do you
understand better?" she asked Fay.
Fay kneeled in front of the sleeping forms, first brushing
the hair away from her mother and then touching her father's
cheek. She was their daughter, all right ... but they were also
her parents. Hers. She let the word sink into her mind as a
bathysphere might sink deep, deeper, deepest, into the place
where cold secrets wait for one flicker of warmth to rouse
themselves and surge upward to be accepted, or to destroy.
"My parents," she said, standing up and facing Mrs. Norse.
"They're my parents."
"Yes, child." Mrs. Norse did something with her hands and
suddenly she was passing a finished cross-stitch of the Gurney
family to Fay. "If you belong to them, then they belong to you,"
she explained. "As an individual, you have the right to reject
anyone and walk off into eternal darkness. But you also have the
choice of making your family work as a family."
"That's not true," said Clive angrily, as Fay considered her
two problems snoring on the ground. "We have no power over them.
That's why I liked it at first when Malak replaced them with his
Slaks."
"It's not a question of power, but of love," said Mrs.
Norse, eyeing Fay as the youngest person there weighed the
heaviest burden. "If a family has love, then whatever member is
best qualified to make a correct decision is heeded. The reward
is survival, as a family. If it is the father some of the time,
or most of the time, or all of the time, then it is the father.
If it is the mother some of the time, or most of the time, or all
of the time, then it is the mother. If...."
"Yeah, I get the idea, but it doesn't work," said Clive.
"If it's the daughter or the son, they're never listened to."
Mrs. Norse was most insistent: "If love is present, then
they are heeded. The family without love deserves to be
destroyed. Some blame this reality on God. Some blame it on
Nature. But whatever word is used, this is the reality."
"Ours should be destroyed then!" said Clive. "We have a
terrible family. I hate us."
"No!" Fay spoke in voice as strong as Mrs. Norse. His
sister reached out and touched him by the arm, telling him in no
uncertain terms, "They're just weak, Clive. I don't want them
dead. Or us. I want them strong."
"Yay," said Kitnip, "put them out of the house if they make
a mess."
"Rub their noses in it first, and then throw them out,"
agreed Wolf.
Fay took Clive by the hand. She didn't say a word but
looked him in the eye. It was as if their shared pain ran back
and forth along their arms, and gradually Clive allowed a smile
to write itself across his troubled face.
"Let's wake them up," said Fay. "How do we do it?"
Mrs. Norse gave Clive and Fay one egg each. She motioned for
them to feed the parent of their respective sex, as though Fay
were resposible for Mom and Clive for Dad. The eggs broke open
easily and a rich foam poured out. Fay fed her mother, slowly,
and the middle aged woman opened tired eyes that held in them a
glint of hope. Clive just dumped Dad's food down him in one go,
and the man started up as if waking from a dream. He blinked at
the cool blue sky, and then saw the anxious faces of his
offspring.
"Who are you?" asked Dad.
"Who are you?" asked Mom. Then they looked at each other
with equal confusion.
"This is not true amnesia," said Mrs. Norse. "In time, they
will remember everything. But this way you will guide them as
they recover ... themselves."
"Are we going home?" asked Clive.
Mrs. Norse nodded her head slightly, first to Clive and then
to Fay. "That's up to you. But you may stay here in the Land of
Seasons if you prefer, as Lord and Lady of the realm." There was
an intense discussion of the pros and cons of the choice thus
presented. Sixty seconds later, if anyone had had a watch to
arrive at such a figure, Lord Clive and Lady Fay reached a
decision. They would stay. The Jennifers celebrated by dancing,
weaving their hands through the air as if making invisible
sculptures.
Mom and Dad sat down with the rest and ate some more eggs.
Fay liked the taste of them better than Clive, but Mrs. Norse
suggested that she might be able to rustle up something like salt
to improve the flavor. Later, Fay began the first lesson,
carefully telling Mom and Dad their Christian names and how
they'd been married.
"What's marriage?" asked Mom.
"It's a promise made in love," answered Fay, feeling older
and smarter with every mouthful of the Tabrik's food.
"What's love?" asked Dad.
"Another promise," said Clive, feeling stronger and happier
for dessert.
"And these are promises where you don't cross your fingers,"
added Mrs. Norse.
Then Mom and Dad were told what happened to people who broke
their promises. In a land of magic, the possibilities were
varied and quite interesting. Mom and Dad promised to behave
themselves.
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