“I am not afraid of this s'rum, coequal if 't be true t is all our fate. I has't already did face w'rse than death and I shall taketh t bravely. Farewell.”
“Yeah. See you.”
I jogged the rest of the way down to Mattie’s, with each footfall, little words rattled around my head and trailed behind.
All our fate
W’rse than death
Farewell
Mattie lived in the same teacher’s housing that I’d visited in years before to see Merlin and Long John. It was down a little dirt path and across a long, grass field: a little squat building, one wide house with ten front doors and ten little chimneys. Smoke was merrily billowing out of each of them, except for the one I knew was Long John’s.
I’d never actually seen where Mattie lived, but when she opened the door and showed me inside (“Welcome. You’re late.”), I was a little taken aback by what I saw. Like the other apartments I’d seen here, this one, too, was one large living space. In one corner, there was a little brass-framed bed, covered in thick, cozy floral quilts, a down comforter, and one pillow short of being a Pottery Barn ad. On the same wall was a white, delicate dresser, across from it, a little kitchenette area with old fashioned appliances. I’d walked into a space with a cozy, squishy-looking brown couch and two floral and faded armchairs—and this was all well and good, but in one of said floral armchairs sat none other than Pen the Penguin.
“Peter,” she squawked. I’d forgotten how high her voice was, like a shrill whistle. “Mattie here says you think I’m up to no good again, hm?”
“Wha—?” I looked behind Pen at Mattie who was shrugging her shoulders and making one of those I don’t know where she got that idea faces. “Look, Pen. We both thought it would be a good idea to talk to you. I didn’t know it would be so soon,” I added to Mattie who was still being entirely unhelpful, pulling out glasses and clanking around in the kitchen area. “But maybe you can tell us a little bit about what you’ve been up to lately.”
“And drink this,” Mattie added quickly, stepping into the space. She was holding out a glass of something bright blue and frothy.
“Why should I drink this? Is it poison?”
“Of course it’s not poison.”
“Oh well, okay.” And with that, the Penguin—who I’d forgotten was not the brightest Penguin—drank down the blue drink in two gulps. Not ten seconds later, she was telling us, in great detail, all about what she’d been up to lately: her roommates at the community home, what they ate, what they didn’t eat; where they shopped for mittens for one of the large mice living in the home; when they showered in the mornings. She went on and on like this for hours, bringing us up to speed, and nowhere, not once, did she mention anything about a portal. Finally, before the truth potion wore off, I decided just to ask her flat out:
“Pen, do you know who might have opened up a portal in Fiction to help Dr. Albrecht turn characters over here Real? Any, uh, bad birds you can think of?” I added, remembering Mattie’s hunch about a bird.
“I don’t much like that Brantalis,” she squawked. “He’s always saying ‘I am thinking this, I am thinking that…’ Annoying, is what I am thinking.”
“Is that… all?”
The penguin nodded, her head getting droopy. The potion was beginning to wear off and soon she’d need a nap.
“Okay, then. That’s it. Mattie, will you help me get Pen back to her group home near Sci Fi?” Mattie nodded, taking Pen’s glass and leaving it in the sink. Together we used a bit of magic to lift Pen, chair and all, out of the cozy little space and out into the cold morning. This time I found the spell even more taxing; it seemed the Real World had taken a toll on both our energies. Even so, we managed to walk her, bobbling along in front of us (a scene eerily similar to two years before) all the way to the little neighborhood street in the shadow of the tall, black buildings of Sci Fi.
A few blocks away off a quiet neighborhood street in Fantasy, Jenny was just waking up. She vaguely remembered Peter leaving earlier in the morning to meet Mattie, but she knew something had happened before then; something important.
Try as she might, she couldn’t remember what it was, so she got in the shower. She was reaching down to the shampoo bottle—a green curvy thing with a picture of a woman with long hair on the front—when she remembered. While she was asleep she’d been in that Nowhere place: not alive, not dead; not awake, and not asleep. And it was there, where time and space and separation ceased, that she remembered what was about to happen; what she’d actually been warning Peter about the whole time. She turned off the water and got out of the shower, threw on her clothes, and left the house immediately.
Mattie and I left the little halfway house where Pen lived feeling more than a little uncomfortable. It was a community home for characters recently released from psychiatric wards and working on integrating back into Fiction. All well and good, but rather than just letting us drop Pen off, we had to go inside and fill out some paperwork and answer some questions. You know: Why is Pen unconscious? Why did you search her room? Why did you take her from the premises without telling anyone? Blah, blah, blah. It was also pretty disconcerting to see so many familiar faces in the home: The Joker and the Hatter, of course, but surprisingly, Mr. Arable, Dill Harris, and even Spot (who’d had a rough time with a Kibbles and Bits habit a year back, if you’ll remember.)
All of this and then, just as we were leaving, Mattie’s little cell phone started ringing.
“I didn’t know you had a cell phone,” I said, raising an eyebrow. Mattie was pretty notoriously bad with technology—as in, it usually didn’t work around her, because of her magic.
She just shrugged. “Guess just for the purposes of this scene?” And then said into the phone, “Hello?”
A few seconds into the call, I knew it wasn’t good. Her brow furrowed and her mouth was doing that fish thing, trying to form words that wouldn’t come. Finally she said, “And you’re sure about this? You don’t think with more time—?”
More talking on the other end, and then, “Yes, sure. Thank you for at least trying.” She hung up.
“Dr. Banner took a look at the substances you brought with you from the Real World. He said that they just seem to be samples from you, Terril, and Ivor: Peter Able’s Hair, Peter Able’s Skin, Ivor’s Nails. There’s nothing useful in there for him to create an antidote, and he’s worried that the longer Randy, Long John, Jerry, Alan, and Bob stay Real, the harder it might be to fix.”
“Does he say he knows how to fix it?”
Mattie shook her head. “He’s already tried most every Fictional antidote and combination that’s been written and is thinking we’ll need something from the Real World to help. ‘Something from the Real World that’s the exact opposite of Real,’ he’d said. But he doesn’t know what that would be; he’s not even sure it would involve science.”
“A bit of real world fantasy?” I offered, hopefully.
“Stronger than that, I think. And speaking of stronger than that, I could use a drink.”*
On this we quickly agreed.
*Depending on your age reading this, we have three options of how to interpret this: 1) a thickly-syrupped Fictional Frappe to lighten the mood, 2) a Soma to relax the mind, or 3) a Pangalactic Gargle Blaster – not for the faint of heart.
Even though it was going on noon, again, the streets were relatively empty. People were scared, it seemed, of being turned Real. Last year, it was being erased. I guess it’s always something in Fiction. We strolled down street after street in Sci Fi, looking for an open bar or even café, but many were dark and closed. Finally, we found one called Chatsubo and were just about to walk in, when there she was again.
Circe was walking down the same street, not just standing out for her lack of coat, billowing, sheath-like dress, and flowing hair (the woman looked like she constantly had a fan blowing on her), but because she was one of the only people out walking around. And she was walking with purpose. Down the
street against the wind and then she turned left into a little alleyway.
“Hey, Circe!” I called out. Without waiting, I started jogging up the street after her.
“Peter, what do you think you’re doing?” Mattie was running after me holding onto a stitch in her side.
“Just trust me on this,” I said. We’d reached the alleyway and stopped. She was gone. I walked down the narrow street, on each side were squat, rather dull, windowless concrete buildings, common on the outskirts of this part of the genre.
Then, at the end of the alley I saw a door on the right going into one of the grey buildings. It was barely ajar, and it could have been left like that for days or even weeks, but I had the distinct feeling that this was where Circe went. In honor of Randy, I dropped to the ground, rolled three times toward the door, and then shimmied my way toward it. Mattie stepped over me and opened the door. Sure enough, Circe’s voice was coming from inside. For a place that seemed so insulated from the outside, the building was quite spacious and empty. The walls were all concrete, as were the floors; it seemed to have been abandoned in the middle of construction. There were plain concrete stairs immediately to the right when we entered, and her voice, though bouncing around the space, was coming from up the stairs.
It was dark enough that I needed to use a simple spell to light the small space around us, and it left me winded. I took a few steadying breaths and we made our way up the stairs.
“What’s the point of having a servant…
“I really don’t need to hear your backtalk…
“If I needed your input, Lester, I would…”
Her words became clearer the closer we got. And then, up the stairs and toward the back of the space in a dimly-lit and dusty corner, was Circe. She was sitting on top of a plastic box and oddly, she was talking to a bird perched on her finger. That blue bird.
“Circe?”
Almost imperceptibly, she startled, but then turned her head smoothly and confidently in our direction.
“Oh hello, Peter.” As though she’d been waiting for us.
“Hi. What are you doing?” I stepped further into the room, Mattie just a step behind me. She was cautious; she had always hated Circe.
“Oh, I’m just talking to Lester here. One of my little beasties, you know. He used to be the most obstinate lover, and now he’s proving the most obstinate little bird.”
As we moved further into the space, I noticed a low humming noise, like the whirring of a fan. Mattie had stopped walking altogether and was staring from Circe to the bird on her hand.
“Right, well. Whatever. Listen, Circe. I wanted to talk to you about something, and I think you know what it is.”
She just looked at me, her face a mask.
“That time when you said I’d need your help sometime soon? Well. I need it now.”
Oddly, she seemed to relax just a little bit, but again, it was so subtle I passed it off. She smiled at me, which on anyone else would have been lovely; it made her more terrifying.
“Oh yes, Peter. I thought you’d be coming along soon. Now I know that Jenny has already come back to you—yes, yes, I’ve heard about that. So it won’t be anything to do with that. But let’s see: your other little friends are still in bad shape, from what I hear. Still too Real in a world of Fiction. I’d be very surprised if you didn’t want help for your friends.”
I heard Mattie shift behind me; she seemed to be stepping away from the conversation and looking at the craftsmanship of the walls, of all things.
“Uh, yeah,” I said distractedly. “Yes. Dr. Banner just told us that in order to help Randy and the others, we’d need something that was the opposite of Real from the Real World. I didn’t get it, but then I realized: Real World Magic. That’s what it’s got to be.”
Circe’s lip curled. The little bird was still sitting on her finger, but he seemed scared; his head kept darting around here and there, but Circe either didn’t notice or ignored him. She was in her element: she was in control.
“Oh, you want some Real World Magic, do you, Peter? I knew this, of course, from the moment I’d known you’d need a favor: You’d need the Real World magic, and I’d need you to go Out There and get it for me. Funny how that circle works.
“Luckily, though, Peter, it would seem I no longer need your help in getting magic from the Real World. So, no, I don’t think I’ll be helping you and your friends. After all, I’m the one who did this to them.”
The bird on Mattie’s hand was frantic. It was chirping in earnest, flapping its wings. I realized then that he wasn’t just perched there, but bound by a delicate golden chain.
Too late, Circe turned her head to see what Lester was panicking about—Mattie walked back into the space and with a mere cock of her head, sent Circe flying through the air, back, back, back until she hit the concrete wall near the entrance. She slid down, crumpled.
“Mattie what—”
“The portal, Peter! Follow that noise, it’s around the corner!” Mattie was hunched over, hands on her knees and breathing heavily. I ran around the concrete corner and there, just as I’d always imagined, was a swirling hole of Nothing in the middle of the room. It was only about the size of a baseball, and like a baseball, seemed round—only with about five other dimensions too. It was hard to look at; my brain literally couldn’t see it properly. But my body felt tugged in its center toward the thing. On the ground below it were several little jars, much like the one Circe had given me to bring back: Real World Magic.
In the Nowhere place, there is no space, no time, and no separation from me to you. There you are everything and nothing, you are always and never, and everyone is one, Real or not. It was there that Jenny saw what would happen to Peter when he confronted Circe, and she’d tried to warn him; to beg him to leave things as they were, because they would only get worse.
When she was rewritten, her memories of the Nowhere place faded, like waking from a dream. She knew something was there, but it wasn’t until she slept deeply and soundly again, a state just a little bit closer to Nowhere than waking, that she remembered. And so she ran, hair still wet and cold in the wind, down the streets of Fiction. Ignoring the searing pain in her side, she kept running through Sci Fi, past Chatsubo where patrons were being loud and the sound of a chair toppling over chased her heels. She kept running down the street, and down the little alleyway to her left, and she did not stop running until she reached the building at the end, because maybe somehow she could stop what she’d already seen. Maybe this time she’d get there to help. Maybe. As she knew it would be, the door was closed and locked tight. Beyond it, all was quiet.
Back in the main space, the only sound was the small, scared chirping of a bird. Mattie was no longer stooping over, but stood still, ready, in the middle of the room. I stood next to her and pulled my wand out from my pocket.
“Circe?” I called down to the far end of the space. It was dark down there; I couldn’t see a thing.
I’d just begun to move toward the darkness when I saw her appear: it was as though she was walking through black fog; something darker than darkness. She was smiling and from the corner of her lip sprang a little stream of blood.
“Tsk, tsk, Mattie. Attacking somebody without warning? I’m surprised at you. And look at how tired you are. My, the Real World has taken a toll on you two.” She continued to walk closer and only stopped a few feet away from us. We stood staring at each other. I was terrified and I didn’t want this fight; I knew we’d lose.
“You’re the one who’s been on the other side of the portal,” I said simply. She just smiled at me. “And you’re the one who turned Alan and Bob, aren’t you?” Still, she smiled. “Why?!” I screamed. I thought I heard something from outside, an echo of something heavy, but I couldn’t be distracted.
“Why? Why, because I needed to, Peter. I was always curious about Real World magic, and after you brought some back for me, I knew I wanted more. And I knew I couldn’t rely on someone to go through
Narnia to bring it to me.”
“So that’s when you created the portal?” Mattie asked, shakily. She, too, seemed to be stalling this fight. We weren’t fit for this.
“No, you idiot. How would I create a portal? I’m not a scientist. Dr. Albrecht had created the portal here years ago, the other end out in the Real World. When she entered the Real World, she found it immediately, bought the vacant lot, and built her garden shed around it.”
Ah, the shed.
“That’s what she said, anyway. We’ve been communicating for months. I believe the first one said: ‘Please help from the Real World.’ Something silly like that. Lester found it blowing around in Sci Fi and tried to put it in his little nest in my tower.” She looked down at the trembling bird. “But the idiot didn’t even realize what he had. Something from the Real World. He showed me where he found the note, and from there it didn’t take long to find the portal, of course. Since then, we’ve sent several notes back and forth to each other— who are you? What do you want? She did a bit of light reading on me, she said, and thought I might be just the ruthless sort of character to help her. And as it turned out, she could help me too.
“After I knew how powerful Real World magic was, I knew I wanted it, and I knew I couldn’t afford to have someone traffic it through Narnia. I began sending Lester along with a bottle of Fictional magic and he’d come back and it would be Real. In exchange for use of the portal, she requested I teach a couple of your friends a lesson; if I didn’t, she’d close the portal. Then no more Real World magic for me. It really wasn’t complicated.” Circe shrugged and smiled again.
What is it with bad guys and this need to clear their conscience?
“So you just basically turned a couple of Fictional characters real for no reason, other than you wanted to up your magic?” I don’t know why it surprised me, really. Circe had proven the year before what she would do for the sake of magic.
“Peter, I don’t want to hurt Fiction any more than you do, but if I had to turn a couple of characters for the sake of ‘upping my magic,’ yes of course I would. Real World magic is powerful, Peter. So powerful, I imagine you were right: I probably could have saved your little friends. But I don’t want to, Peter. You see, I need this portal to stay open, and whether it’s Destiny on the other end or someone else, it will. Now you know about the portal.” At this she shrugged her shoulders and smiled apologetically. “And I’m afraid I just can’t have that.” She moved forward.
The Actual Account of Peter Able Page 19