But ... what about the rain he'd heard? It was then that he thought about that night a month ago when he'd been awakened by rain -- only to find it hadn't even showered.
Inside again, shivering, John paused in the front hall to .... listen. ..... And there it was again. Rain. A quiet, gentle rain. More of a springtime rain -- if that made any sense (and none of this made any sense.) Completely unlike the reality of a November day in Kansas City.
Back at his desk, he was still catching an occasional whisper of light rain -- from a cloudless sky.
John supposed he could be hearing something like the house's electricity, electricity coming in strange forms. Ball lightning, St. Elmo's fire, static electricity, and the most rare of phenomena, the famous "bolt from the blue." He thought of Ben Franklin and his lightning rod -- the first practical invention to result from pure science.
Toying absentmindedly with his red pen, it seemed to be reasonable that the rain noise had an "electric" explanation. Electricity did make sounds. He remembered hearing the hum of transformers when walking past their small, barbed wire enclosures.
Then, something else "clicked in." Didn't it make sense that an "unexplainable" noise like this was responsible for the house's reputation for being haunted? Of course! That fit! Throughout history, people had considered unusual phenomena to be the work of angels, devils, gods, poltergeists ... and in the 20th century, of UFOs.
John would have to talk with Paul about it. Perhaps discuss this "ghost" business with Fredericks in physics.
Except that the following day, last night's party as his motivation, John had replaced his temporary interest in electric-rain with the resolve to call the storage folks; three days later, spent a good part of the afternoon holding the door for the real men of the world: big, sweaty, good natured movers from "Easy Transport and Storage," until the flotsam and jetsam of his parents' lives was stacked around him. Time to plan. First, to place what furniture he would need in the living room. After that, provide the closets in the upstairs bedrooms with their share. (But not the low ceilinged basement beneath the house. Had a dirt floor ... might soak up rain, get everything wet.)
Leaving the only unused storage area he knew about, the empty location under the enclosed stairs.
He hadn't noticed that space before he bought the house; hadn't seen it for quite some time after moving in. But had finally spotted the triangular door at the side of the lower stairs, the door's top edge sloping down with the stairs, the lower edge flush with the hall floor. At the back where the stairs rose into the wall, were small hinges, painted over to make them invisible. A simple, paint-clogged latch fastened the door where the door sloped to a point at the front.
Of course. A door there made a lot of sense. Without a way of getting under the enclosed stairs, that area would be wasted space.
For now, that was where he could store large cardboard boxes, the ones containing table lamps.
John bent to open the triangular door, squeaking it out, the area beyond as black as the infamous hole of Calcutta.
Since he couldn't see anything in there, John went to the kitchen junk drawer to bring back the flashlight. Bending down, switched on the light, the batteries working (by some miracle.)
Even in the long sweep of the light, however, he could see little of what might be in there, the walls covered with flat black paint or, perhaps, with a century of soot.
No matter. All he had to do was drag the boxes over and slide them in.
Still squatted before the stair space, John noticed that Cream had crept up (on what Carl Sandburg might have called little fog feet), her long, white fur puffed about her, a ball of fluff punctuated by big, orange eyes, Cream crouched in her "attack" mode, looking expectantly into the triangular shaped hole, her nose sniffing the air.
Careful not to spook her, John put his right hand down to pet her, her fur crackling in the house's arid air. He had to get a humidifier installed. When you couldn't even pet your cat without being shocked, it was too damned dry!
Petting Cream for a moment, settling her down, John swept her up and carried her across the hall where he scooted her into his study.
Backing quickly, John closed the door before Cream could bolt through the crack like she sometimes did. He certainly didn't want her getting back in that area where she'd be difficult to "extract."
Fifteen minutes of sliding boxes, the stair-storage taking more junk than he'd anticipated, and he was finished.
It was then that John realized he was brushing at the back of his right hand. Because ... that hand ... tingled. Probably had spider webs on it. Just the back of his right hand. Not the left hand.
Looking down, he could see nothing on his hand. But still felt ... something. Like a breeze blowing on his hand, that hand warmer that the other one.
Twisting his wrist, John rubbed the top of his hand on his pants.
The sensation didn't go away.
He shook his hand.
Nothing ... but the feeling of ... spider webs ... warmth ....
John paused to consider the sensation. Then had a thought. Of course! That was the hand he'd used to pet Cream, the persistent tingling caused by the static electric buildup he'd gotten from petting the cat.
Finished with the boxes, John closed the door under the stairs. Snapped its double sided catch. (Never get locked in there with a way to open the door from the inside.)
After that, a quick rearrangement of the furniture, chairs straightened, the good sofa shoved against a side wall, and he had done the deed, allowing him to sit in the oak chair. Drained.
Strangely ... John sensed ... something he'd never felt before ... a perception of being spied on! Cautiously, he moved his head to the side, continued turning it, shifting his body in the chair so he could look behind him. And, of course, saw the fireplace wall.
Stupid!
Feeling a little frightened and a lot foolish, John gave himself a stern lecture about getting as spooky as old ladies who lived alone. First, hearing noises in the house, now feeling someone was peeking in at him. Through a solid, windowless wall, no less. Next, he'd be looking under the bed for monsters. In the closet for demons ....
Still ... as John stroked the back of his right hand -- that hand still not feeling right -- in spite of his best intentions, in spite of all reason, just to be sure, John looked behind him ... one more time.
* * * * *
Chapter 5
Golden was going through his stretching exercises in the decrepit anteroom off the king's banquet hall, finishing with a series of great, bounding leaps -- all the while paying careful attention to his body, alert for any sign of strain. Though he had a compact physique (like most Malachites) years of training had made his muscles long and flexible. This time he must be a finely tuned instrument, his performance as good as his name, the name he had chosen for himself. (How fortunate he was to have persuaded Tugur, the palace proctor, that a performer of Golden's talents must be in the palace for two weeks in preparation for this moment.)
Through the thick, blue velvet curtains at one end of the room he could hear an occasional note of music from the instrumentalists who played on harp, double flute, and tabor in the great room beyond, their melody entwined with the background hum of table talk. Around the entertainer were the instrument cases of the court musicians, his own harp placed upright in a moldering chair. Like the solo artist he was, Golden would be his own accompanist.
Warmed up, a light sweat coating his body, certain at last that his new jester's costume would permit strenuous movement, Golden walked to the curtains, pulling them apart enough to see without being seen.
The king was seated at the center of a raised table to the right of the large, rectangular room. Flanking him to either side were his advisors, dressed gaudily, medals on their chests, each man draped with a colored sash denoting governmental responsibilities. Some had gold and silver braid across the shoulders of their padded jerkins.
The king, dressed the most s
plendidly of all, was crowned with a filigree gold band, wide enough to hide his balding head, tufts of greying hair sticking out to either side. The other guests included bejeweled dignitaries, most of them important merchants of Xanthin (dressed less ostentatiously than the nobles, but in the best of cloth) and ladies in long, brightly colored, lace trimmed gowns -- all seated on both sides of parallel rows of wooden trestle boards, these lower tables at right angles to the king's table.
Armed guards in dress uniform stood stiffly around the walls. High above the guard's heads, near the lofty ceiling, were torches in their angled holders, the torches set as closely together as possible around the room's perimeter, the banquet hall brightly lighted by their dancing fire. The musicians were playing across the way, seated in a special enclosure against the wall.
When Golden had first been taken to this airless waiting room, he had done what he was doing now, peeked through these same curtains, curious to see where he might stage his presentation. Had been relieved to discover a perfect space between the king's table and the other trestle boards. When the time came, he would face the king; deliver every line to the room's most important personage (though in a voice that filled the hall.)
When he had first looked, the banquet was just beginning, the tables newly covered with crisp, white material (now stained with food) the cloth patterned with alternating squares of shiny-silver and flat-white. Long and fringed around the bottom, the tablecloth was made to be draped over the guests' legs, the fabric generous enough to catch any morsels that might fall into the diner's lap. Even at a glance and from a distance, Golden could tell that these drip-cloths were woven from the silk of Cinnabar! At that time, appetizers were being served: plates of nuts, honeyed fruits, small pastries, bits of salted fish to raise a thirst.
The third course was now in progress, livered servants busily carrying empty platters to the kitchen, others replacing them with fresh plates. Slaveys then brought bowls, some filled with gravy, others with steaming vegetables. Chickens and pheasants, baked whole, were arranged on oblong, silver trays. Smaller plates sported dainties: boiled, unborn rabbits alternated with stuffed door mice.
Five pigs, a cow and two sheep (the carcasses roasted entire except for the tails) had been carried in, hot juices trickling from them, two small kitchen dogs licking up the dripping trails of savory grease. The well cooked animal bodies were skewered lengthwise, each with two iron spits stuck completely through, men before and behind each animal (four men for the cow) holding the spits-ends where they emerged from the front and back of the carcasses. Paraded first to the head table (all food initially offered to the king) the roasted bodies were being taken between the other tables, guests turning to hack off handfuls of hot meat as the succulent flesh passed by, the diners juggling the scorching meat to their trenchers.
In spite of his nervousness, Golden's mouth watered as people fell to eating with a will, guests slicing up the tender meat with their belt knives, conveying bite sized pieces to their mouths on knife-point or with the thumb and forefinger of their free hand, delicately. (Everyone was on his good behavior, only the best of manners to be observed when dining with the king.)
Prowling the table's perimeters were several mastiffs, guests throwing meaty bones to them, the dogs' snarling to be heard above the music and the buzz of talk.
From his vantage point, Golden could also see what looked like baskets of fried frogs, the browned frogs sitting upright, as if about to jump into a pond.
All this bounty was washed down with tankards of warm beer, emptied steins passed down from guest to guest, finally to a servant at the table's end who plunged the porcelain schooners directly into half-casks of beer placed on small stands, the foaming mugs passed back again. People of more elegant tastes drank from ceramic glasses into which servants poured cooled wine from cloth-wrapped bottles.
Perhaps 70 people dined in all, just the right sized house for Golden's charm. Too few listeners and the audience lacked response, each spectator self-conscious at standing out among his scattered fellows. Too many -- as when he sang out of doors for the coppers of village rustics -- and there was no chance for intimacy with the listeners. (Though un-jaded country folk were always the most appreciative.)
For this affair, Golden knew he would receive considerably more than coppers. Silvers for certain and, if he pleased the king as he hoped, golds -- though he cared not what fee he got for this performance.
Presently, dessert would be served: hot, berry pies, wine-honey tarts, and milk cakes. Again, at the thought of this sweetness, Golden felt the saliva run beneath his tongue. He was hungry -- always hungry, the rich, roast smells wafting toward him torturing his appetite.
Golden had been told that when the guests could stuff themselves no longer, a blast from the herald's tromba would announce him.
He would enter, then, and must be good. ... No! Excellent! For it was solely in the hope of performing before the king that he had worked so hard to build his fame in the countryside and in lesser towns. For years. Starting as a ragged child, dancing and begging for coppers along the streets of every town in every band from Malachite to Cinnabar, this night had been his goal, his opportunity to please the king so that the king would hire Golden as court performer. Engaged to entertain for how long? Long enough to discover where this thieving Yarro was concealing the green crystal of Pfnaravin! Long enough to steal the crystal back! (Stealing? It should be called rescuing to take something from a thief!)
Squinting through the curtains, Golden's only disappointment was in seeing no place to stretch his rope, rope walking certain to impress. Though It would not be appropriate to demonstrate his skill at throwing knives, of course, this art appreciated more by people of the lower classes than by people rich enough to imagine themselves as an assassin's target!
As for Golden's stomach, he was used to being hungry. (First as a child, then as a member of a profession that never allowed its followers to eat their fill.) He would make his meal from banquet leavings.
For now, Golden was content to let these others gorge themselves. Let them drink deep, as well, a quantity of wine putting people in the proper, mellow mood for entertainment. Some juggling to amaze them. Tricks with coins. A humorous story from his many travels. Tumbling. And finally, songs -- sad songs to make them weep; merry songs, simple enough so all could join in on the chorus. Then would come patriotic songs to flatter the authority of the king and fire the blood. And finally, love songs, soft and sweet, to send the audience, amorously, to bed. Golden knew how to please. An orphaned bastard learned that art if he would live!
Soon, he would have a name. For though the world might think him low born, as were all minstrels, he knew better. Knew it because of ... memories ... memories his dearest possessions. Of his childhood, spinning back to him in dreams. Telling him he was of a very different breed from Golden, court magician. Court buffoon.
Telling him .....
It was the possession of the crystal that would make these dreams into reality, finding the crystal dependent on being hired to serve the king. No wonder he felt edgy!
Golden's stomach knotting at the thought of how much relied on this presentation, he took deep breaths to loosen his belly and to still the rapid beating of his heart.
How would the green Crystal of Pfnaravin help him? He wasn't sure. He only knew that, clever as he was, if he had it within his possession, he could find a way to use its power to destroy his uncle who sat on the throne that was rightfully Golden's! Lithoid, usurper king of Malachite! Lithoid, who had traitorously betrayed his brother -- Golden's father -- Lithoid who had lured the good king of Malachite to his death at the beginning of the Great-Mage War! It was Lithoid, in league with the Black Mage, who had betrayed his brother and become king. Everyone knew it, though none, fearing for their lives, were brave enough to speak of this in Malachite. (It must also be said that the world contained other young men of Golden's age who, in their cups, claimed to be the lost heir of Malachite.)
But ... only Golden ... had the dreams. Dreams of being roused in the middle of the night, to be dragged away by tall men in rich dress. Of being hunted.
He was sure he remembered a grim, old man saying they must escape by land; that all outbound ships were being searched; that the king's troops would be looking for a boy at sea, all boy children found on ships to be drowned. He was sure he had heard someone say that -- a voice -- in his head, coming back to him at night.
As from a height, Golden again saw the land of invisible giants. Most vividly, remembered grown men shaking, creeping forward over rocky ground, the first man in line struck down by an unseen boulder thrown by a colossus, the man reduced, in an instant, to a thin, red paste! Golden remembered the next leader circling that blood soaked spot, the file of men twisting behind him like a serpent, the boy, held tightly by the hand, dragged along at the line's end. Until another elder was struck down ahead. And another. Then another, each man's doom coming quickly, silently, the line shortening, only a few going before the boy, now.
Until one man remained, the eldest, clutching the child's hand in old man's fingers, until the child's flesh was bruised.
How this last man had survived the giants' boulders, Golden didn't know. Only that the elder had lived to take the boy out of the invisible monsters' land, onto the safe planes of Stil-de-grain.
That little boy was Golden as a child.
For he was of the blood. He was Cleadon, son of King Cleadon, Golden smuggled out of his own country by his murdered father's men. He could remember, as yesterday, the old survivor schooling Golden never to utter Golden's birth name to anyone!
Under The Stairs Page 5