Alliance for Antrim

by Thomas Lombard

  Chapter 10

  Bartram

  Nevin made small talk with Anson during the short walk back to the apartment, but the time had come to send him on. He had to turn Anson over to someone better suited to help him; if not a friend or relative, then a doctor or some appropriate authority. Once inside, he asked Anson to take a seat on the couch.

  “This has certainly been an unusual day. . .for both of us, Anson, but, uh, I think we have to—”

  A timid knock at the door interrupted him.

  Upon opening the door Nevin faced another man, also less than five feet tall with the same well-proportioned features as Anson. This man was mostly bald and appeared to be about fifty years of age. Strangely, both Nevin and Anson found the face familiar. Before Nevin could raise a question, Anson went to the door and gasped, “Bartram?” The man nodded.

  Turning to Nevin, Anson said in a hushed tone, “This is Bartram. He is also a mage from Antrim.”

  “What? Now you’re really putting me on.”Nevin looked back and forth at Anson and the man standing at the door. Then he remembered how he knew this man. Leaning forward slightly and pointing a finger, “Your name is Bartram, isn’t it?” he said. “Don’t you work at the library?”

  The man barely nodded again.

  “Come in.”Nevin showed him in, feeling a little relief that Anson knew somebody around here.

  After Bartram entered the apartment, Nevin closed the door and continued his recollection. “You’ve worked at the library for a couple of years now. Bookman is your last name, Bartram Bookman. I remember now. I always thought you had a great name for a librarian. Is there a chance you know this man?” Nevin pointed at Anson. Without waiting for an answer, he continued, “I hope you can help me locate someone who knows him because he really needs some help.”

  Bartram shyly nodded his head in agreement, unclear what he was agreeing with.

  It was a bizarre sight with Nevin standing more than a head taller than the other men, each waiting for another to speak. Bartram nervously blinked and made quick, timid glances back and forth in obvious discomfort. Nevin broke the awkward silence. “Let’s sit down in the living room. Maybe somehow we can make some sense of all this.”

  Nevin and Anson settled on the ends of the couch, while Bartram sat, or rather half-way sat on the edge of an armchair, looking like he might get up and run out any second. Again, Nevin broke the awkward silence. “Bartram, you have met Anson before?”

  Bartram replied meekly, but with the same deferential respect that marked Anson’s speech, “Yes, Sir. It was some years ago.”

  Nevin was encouraged that the mystery surrounding Anson might soon clear up. “Do you know if he has any family here? Someone who can give him a place to stay?”

  Bartram grew more anxious and answered haltingly, “Well, Sir, I don’t know what he has told you or what I am free to say about him.”

  Anson interrupted, “Please, Bartram. Say what you will. I feel safe with Sir Nevin and I am uplifted to see you alive and safe as well.”

  Nevin visibly shook his head and frowned. “What do you mean, ‘alive and safe?’ How do you know each other?”

  Nevin was completely unprepared for Bartram’s answer. “I last saw Anson when he was nearing the end of his apprenticeship with Old Burack. He was not yet a mage, but it was clear that he had great promise and would distinguish himself.” Turning to Anson, Bartram added, “I assume you deciphered the deliverance spell from the old palimpsest?”

  Nevin was dumb struck. Is this some kind of folie a deux?After a pause, he attempted to speak but stammered, which was very unusual because Nevin was rarely disarmed in speech. “Uh. . .What?You mean. . .um. . .that Anson. . .really is a. . .wait a minute!Let’s get this straight.” Nevin had to settle himself. “Bartram, are you trying to say that Anson really is a mage, like a wizard or sorcerer or something? And that he got here by some magic spell? And now I’m supposed to believe that you’re also some kind of magician who comes from some place called Huxley, which I can’t even find in an atlas! Come on, fellas. What’s going on here?”

  Bartram replaced his anxiety with mild annoyance; he concluded he was not in personal jeopardy, but he was a bit irritated at Nevin’s attitude. “Mr. Reasoner, I assume you are not experienced with magery of the sort we have practiced, so it is easy to see your difficulty in believing our stories. However, you must surely see that your world has things that likewise seem incomprehensible to us. Radio and television, or the computer over there, and certainly your nefarious taser and electric chair—these things operate on invisible power sources which people from our land could not imagine possible. I have been at Hempstead for a while and have adjusted to the wonders of your land. But I can see that Anson has only recently been delivered and the differences in this place must be upsetting to him—much more upsetting than our differences are to you, Sir. I just hope that he was delivered alone and that there is no immediate threat to either of us.”

  Nevin screwed up his face in perplexity. Bartram continued. “You needn’t worry, Mr. Reasoner. I will ‘take him off your hands,’ as you might say. He can share my room until he decides how to make his own adjustment here.”

  “No, Bartram,” interjected Anson. The other two men look at him with surprise at his assertiveness. “I have already decided that I must return to Antrim. War has taken a terrible toll there. High magery is used by the Gilsum army; their attacks will be unstoppable.”

  Bartram bit his lip at this revelation.

  Anson made a further appeal to his fellow mage. “I am not certain how to reverse the deliverance spell. With your help, I am sure we could succeed. We must get back.”

  “If you must return, I can aid you,” Bartram answered, to Anson’s visible relief. “But I will not return to Antrim. It does not surprise me that conditions there are dire as you say, but at my age I choose to stay here in this sanctuary, where there is both safety from persecution and an opportunity for higher learning that would never occur in Antrim. But I would still help you with the spell, Anson, although you will need a night’s rest before attempting it.

  Nevin listened, desperately trying to resist the implications of this conversation.

  “Mr. Reasoner,” Bartram spoke with more self-assurance, “Both Anson and I must depend on your silence to allow us to go on with the lives we have chosen. I know of your reputation as a scholar and I expect you must be deeply curious about our origins, but you are also known as an honorable man. If I agree to allay your curiosity about Anson and myself, you must swear on your honor to keep secret what I tell you.”

  Nevin had exhausted every possible explanation he could pose for this unbelievable situation, and nothing made sense. How could he believe that these two men were wizards who transported themselves from another place or time? His unwillingness to believe the appearance of the situation was evident in his response, “I don’t think anyone would believe me if I did say anything about your story.”

  Bartram did not conceal his annoyance. “I am disappointed but not surprised by your lack of belief. You think of yourself as a man of science. Therefore, for you, any assertion outside of common knowledge needs objective proof that can be replicated on demand. Am I correct, Mr. Reasoner?

  Nevin nodded hesitantly.

  “Scientific chauvinism narrows your perception of what can be believed, Mr. Reasoner, and your access to knowledge is far less than what it could be.” Bartram’s indignation was not subtle. “A person of your advanced learning must be aware of examples of ‘magic’ in your world unexplained by science, yet very real to those who see and experience them—the voodoo practitioners in Haiti, the shamans of New Guinea, the study of parapsychology at some of your esteemed universities. Even a spark of static electricity from a wool coat to a metal object seems like magic to many people of the world. However, Mr. Reasoner, I will offer you objective proof of our skills, if that is what you need.”

  Bartram put his hand to his forehead and
closed his eyes to focus his concentration. He mumbled some words, made a hand movement, and then mumbled a second set of words—all of which was unintelligible to Nevin. With a flourish Bartram dropped his hand, sat back in the armchair, and said, “I regret the demise of your fish and your house plants.”

  Nevin looked over at the aquarium located on a stand against an interior wall of the living room. All the fish appeared dead or dying, with most of them floating to the top. He went over to examine what had happened, and discovered right away that the inside thermometer indicated a reading much higher than room temperature. Looking back at the taciturn Bartram, Nevin also noticed that all the houseplants in the apartment appeared to have been shaken until most of the leaves dropped, leaving bare stems. The tall ficus in the corner was still quivering.

  “Will it be necessary to replicate what you have seen, Mr. Reasoner, so that you can have further objective proof?Perhaps we should defoliate the tree in the front yard?Or every tree on the block?” There was an unmistakable note of vindication in Bartram’s voice.

  Nevin fell back against the couch, even more amazed at this second display of spellcasting than at Anson’s earlier demonstration. On top of that, he was stung by Bartram’s criticism of having a narrow mind, something that he himself often said of overspecialized scientists who ignored knowledge from collateral fields.“All right, all right!” he said, holding up his hands with a sign of resignation. “I have no alternative explanation. I don’t know what to make of all this, but I will take you at your word.”

  Bartram raised his head in triumph and Anson beamed.

  “I’ll assume what you say is true,” Nevin conceded. “And I promise you, on my honor, that I have no desire to bring harm to either one of you. What can I do to help?” With this concession, they all seemed to relax.

  “Thank you, Mr. Reasoner.” Bartram showed the first hint of a smile. “I believe I can anticipate most of the questions which you and Anson have about my deliverance. It would be simplest to tell you the entire story from its beginning until I saw you in the library today. Before I do that, I am puzzled about Anson’s reference to ‘high magery,’ though I believe I know what is behind it. Anson, please tell me what has happened in Antrim?”

  Anson recounted all the events from the night before. Bartram listened intently to every detail while Nevin looked for any inconsistency that might betray the story these men claimed as truth. However, all accounts were flawlessly consistent.

  Bartram, sitting forward in the armchair, nodded his head slowly as he formulated a conclusion. “I am certain that you have guessed correctly about the use of ‘gas warfare,’ Anson. I also believe it was not ‘high magery’ but ‘low science’—if you will forgive the reproach, Mr. Reasoner.”

  Nevin was too confused to resent the jibe.

  “The explanation is really quite simple,” Bartram explained. “Someone from here, a colleague of yours, in fact, Mr. Reasoner, has brought the scientific knowledge of gas warfare from one land to the other.

  “Someone from here is over in Antrim practicing magic, er. . .science?”Nevin made a good faith effort to restrain his bias against this explanation.

  Bartram looked contemplative for a moment before continuing. “More importantly, this means there is little doubt that the fall of Antrim is imminent as Anson has predicted. Just as it is also certain that my story will weave into his. Let me begin. . .”

  For the next hour, Bartram recounted how he came to Hempstead from Antrim two years ago. Nevin’s skepticism continued to slowly wear down as the story unfolded, at least to the degree that he now accepted the possibility that this story could be true. The scientific-coated rigidity of his logic simply gave way, but not without difficulty. It was hard for Nevin to allow his emotional side to supersede his objectivity, but he was swayed as much by the intrigue of Bartram’s account as the man’s obvious sincerity in telling the tale.

  Bartram’s story began with the storming of his cottage in the southern part of Antrim by mercenaries. He had not been home at the time of the initial attack, but arrived later as a party of four men were looting and destroying his property. Bartram knew right away that these men were mercenaries after the bounty offered by the King of Gilsum for the murder of any mage. Staying hidden behind trees and shrubbery, Bartram was eventually discovered and set upon by the men. He cast death spells that took the lives of three of them, but the fourth man beat Bartram severely. In their struggle, Bartram succeeded in getting hold of the man’s dagger and used it to dispatch him. Before night had fallen after this ordeal, Bartram packed a few belongings and set out for Huxley, thirty leagues to the northwest. Life as a mage had become too perilous and he sought the most complete escape possible. He knew of the existence of a deliverance spell, though he had never heard the spell nor talked with anyone who had attempted it. It was believed that the spell was recorded in an old tablet somewhere in Antrim, and he had heard a rumor of an obscure palimpsest located in the village of Huxley.

  Bartram made the trip to Huxley without incident and eventually found the palimpsest conveniently available in the meditation hut. It took him a few days to solve all the overwritten passages and commit the entire spell to memory. He finally succeeded in casting the spell and disappeared from view. Apparently, Bartram was the mysterious stranger some local children had reported seeing. Like Anson, he was delivered to the janitor’s storeroom in the basement of the science building at Hempstead College. Unlike Anson’s experience, the room was occupied at the time of his appearance.

  John Stryker, a chemistry professor at the college, witnessed Bartram’s materialization in the storeroom. After overcoming his initial unwillingness to believe his eyes, Stryker subsequently provided sanctuary for Bartram while questioning him endlessly on magery and life in Antrim. Stryker took the pouch of medicinal herbs that Bartram carried, and out of curiosity tried to cultivate some of the seeds. One plant did manage to bloom: a variation of the common violet that produced very dark, nearly black flowers. Not only did the black blossoms attract attention from botanists at the College, the petals and leaves proved unusually effective at promoting the healing of ulcerated sores. An extract of the plant was somewhat successful as a chemical cautery for cancerous skin lesions.

  Nevin knew Professor Stryker as a burly, dogmatic man with excellent professional credentials who tried to dominate not only the chemistry department, but all the other science departments as well. Stryker had first sided against Nevin over the flap with the geology professor, but surprisingly retreated when popular sentiment went with Nevin. Stryker also created quite a stir with his unexpected “discovery” of a black violet, which he claimed to have produced through his own research on chemical fertilizers. Nevin had found it unusual at the time that research on fertilizers would produce an anomalous flower, but no one pursued the question. Stryker became a celebrity in both horticultural and pharmacological circles, although interest died down when his plant would not propagate. It seemed that the flowers would bloom, but wither before seeds could be produced. After accumulating a considerable sum of money and prestige from this discovery, Stryker was granted a long-term sabbatical leave from the College.

  Bartram went on to say that he got to know Stryker very well and described him as a frightening man, embittered by his limited status and inability to move on to a more prestigious university. Unfortunately, Bartram was dependent on Stryker for secrecy and protection. They made an agreement in which Stryker arranged for Bartram to get a position as library clerk using forged credentials. They even laughed at the manufactured name of Bartram “Bookman,” but the arrangement suited Bartram’s purposes perfectly. He was safe from the perils in Antrim, so long as he maintained the secret of his origin and a secluded personal life. He was more than willing to give up his life as a mage in exchange for the safety and stimulation of this newfound college environment.

  Stryker, however, had opposite designs. He became obsessed with the idea of his own deliveranc
e to Antrim and the role he could play in that society. He felt he could use his knowledge to achieve the status and authority denied to him. After a long and futile attempt to dissuade Stryker from his plan, Bartram finally gave in. He cast the spell that succeeded in delivering Stryker, who took with him a fully packed knapsack. Until now, Bartram was not certain that he made it to Antrim—and evidently to Gilsum as well. Stryker was undoubtedly the source of the high magery which preceded the Gilsum attack on Huxley.