by Amy Wilson
“No,” I say. I pull the pillows over my head, but the words keep ringing in my ears: they were Grandfather’s words, a long time ago, when my parents were still here, and lessons were just lessons, and didn’t mean me.
Angel
I see it, that night. Over and over again, the way he fought the monster. In the moonlight, how his skin gleamed.
It’s a good vision; better than the usual by about a million percent. And when I sleep, the dreams aren’t the same. Yes, there are monsters. There’s screaming, fear. But also there’s Bavar.
So you know, a little bit of hope. In a hopeless place.
If only he could see it.
Up close, they’re so big. The smell, the unnatural heat in the air. That almost-human face, and the burning amber eyes that are as inhuman as you could get. I can’t believe I launched myself at it.
What would Bavar have done, if I wasn’t there? Crouched, hidden in the house? Would he have let them beat him in the end? Would he have let them escape? Is that what happened that night? I knew that house was connected with what happened to Mom and Dad. Same smells, same magic, same monsters. Now I’m wondering if his family had something to do with that night. Did someone slip up, let one of those creatures escape? Didn’t Bavar say something about a mistake? And somehow it chose our house, all the way over in the city. The thoughts trip me from sleep and won’t let me rest. Why us? Was it Dad’s research that led them to us somehow? It can’t all be a coincidence.
I remember the first time I saw Dad’s business card: Historian, Researcher into the Occult. I thought it was all legend and fable, that he traveled the world collecting stories. But it was more than that; he was finding actual monsters. Was he researching Bavar’s house? Did the monsters track him from there?
Did Dad lead them to our house?
“No,” I whisper, but his voice is silent in my mind and there’s a horrible falling feeling deep in my chest. I thought we were victims. Innocent. But if he somehow led them to us, then it was his fault, wasn’t it? His fault they’re gone now.
“No,” I say, louder. He’d never put us in danger. But also, he’d never leave a mystery alone. And if he saw that boiling sky and he knew what it meant, he wouldn’t be able to help himself. I tussle with it all until my head aches, and then Mika bats at the door with his paw, and I let him in, and then we sit together and watch the sky brighten.
“Another day,” I whisper, stroking him between his ears. He lifts his head, purring. “I guess you’ll be out hunting, or lazing around. No school for you today, lucky thing.”
Somehow I can’t imagine Bavar will be there either.
He looks terrible.
I don’t know what I’m doing in his bedroom. I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t be very happy about it if he were in his right mind.
Which he’s not. Which is very unnerving.
I came straight here after school, all keen for answers, and finally plucked up the courage to use that awful bell, which does ring like the world’s about to end. Eva smiled as she opened the door and said she’d been waiting for me. She shoved the cup in my hand and told me Bavar needed to drink it, whether he wanted to or not, and she was very sorry to put it all on me, but she’d been trying all day and now the situation was a bit critical. She brought me up the wide stairs, past all the curious faces in all the portraits to his room, which is about the size of a football field, and now here I am, and I don’t know what to do.
“Bavar?”
He stirs and pulls himself up. “Angel!”
His eyes glitter, his cheeks are flushed. Eva said it was the raksasa; apparently the poison in their claws isn’t a problem when you’re “seasoned,” but it can kill if you’ve never encountered it before, hence the green stuff. Bavar spies it and wrinkles his nose, trying to get away from me. I’m perching on the edge of the bed, which is a bit like a forest-world all of its own, with its green vine curtains and about a million blankets and bedspreads. Heavy rugs overlap on the carpet, and a low fire burns in the grate. No wonder he looks hot. I push a few of the blankets onto the floor.
“Eva says you have to drink this,” I say, holding the cup out.
“There’s a rift—did you know?” he asks, his eyes wide, like a kid who just saw snow for the first time. “My ancestors opened it, back in time.” He waves his hands in the air. “They were playing with magic—spells from far-off lands. Then . . . then the monsters came through the rift and we made a barrier, to stop them reaching the rest of the world, but still they come, and so we fight them, we send them back.”
“Oh.” My mind races. I guess it makes sense. As much as any of this makes sense. “But drink this . . .”
He pulls a face. “Nope. So anyway. The rift. Grandfather says it’s growing—all the time, growing. More ’n’ more monsters’ll come, in time. So I’m gonna close it.”
“Close the rift?”
“Yup. It’s here somewhere.” He gestures widely. “There’s a door, a hidden door. So I’m gonna find it and close the rift. No more rift, no more raksasa!” He grins.
It’s kind of wicked, that grin. Makes me smile.
“I’ll help you,” I say, wondering if there really is a door—a rift—that we could close.
He nods, and then turns pale. He really does look sick.
“You have to drink this first, though,” I say, using my best commanding voice. Mom had a good one of those. I always knew, when I heard it, there’d be no arguing with that.
“Why?” he complains, scowling at it.
“It’s . . . finding-hidden-door juice.”
His face brightens. “Just what we need!”
“Yes.”
“You have some too.”
Oh my goodness.
“OK.”
I take a mouthful. It’s about as vile as a thing can be, and it stays there, in my mouth, like a living animal. I take a breath through my nose and swallow.
“There. Now you,” I say, trying not to retch. “Drink it all, and we’ll find this door . . .”
He tips his head back and drinks, and he trusts me, which makes a little rush of something go through me, and I don’t know if I just did the right thing, but I know Eva was pretty desperate about him, and I’m pretty sure he wants to live, after all.
He gasps, falling back onto his pillows.
“Bavar?” I lean forward. “Are you OK?”
“That’s terrible,” he mutters.
“I know! I’m sorry; Eva said you needed it . . .”
“Probably.” He drags himself up, shuddering. “I don’t know why they have to make these things taste so disgusting, though. Why can’t they be like chocolate, or ice cream? Why do they always have to taste like toads?”
“You’ve had many of these things? You’ve eaten toads?”
“Had a few mishaps in the woods over the years.” He grimaces. “And no, I haven’t eaten toads. I reckon they’d taste like that, though”—he gestures at the cup—“pretty vile . . .”
He looks a little less sick, I realize. Already, he’s a better color. I’m so relieved, I almost don’t want to hassle him about the big stuff.
Almost.
Bavar
The buzzing has stopped, and it’s like color has come back into the world, only I hadn’t noticed it’d gone away in the first place. The walls aren’t talking to me anymore; my heart isn’t racing. I take a deep breath.
Angel’s in my room.
“Why are you here?”
“I came to check on you. Good job, by the way; you wouldn’t drink that stuff for Eva.”
“But I did for you . . .”
“I tricked you.” She grins. And then grimaces. “Had to have some myself first, though. Anyway”—she brushes it away with a careless hand—“now you’re better. And I want to know”—she leans in, her eyes glowing—“where’s that rift we’re going to be closing? You said something about a door?”
How does this keep happening when she’s around? How does she always
manage to get right to the heart of it, almost before I get there myself? And here I am, in bed of all places, and she’s sitting there happily, as if everything’s just brilliant and as it should be, talking of things she definitely shouldn’t even know about.
“Shall we ask your grandfather?” she chirps. “Where is he? I haven’t met him yet . . .”
Of course, she doesn’t realize that he’s not exactly human anymore. I smile.
“You want to see him?”
She nods and slides off the bed, making for the door. “Can we do it, Bavar?” She turns, her eyes bright. “Close the rift, make them go away forever?”
That look. That hope. My head’s still heavy, and I’m probably not quite myself yet, because I find myself nodding.
“We can try.”
Angel
Oh my goodness, his grandfather is a statue. He doesn’t even have a body. He’s a head, and a bit of chest, on a great big gleaming metal column thing.
“Are you trying to be funny?” I demand, as Bavar turns, holding a really horrible tablecloth in his hand, a grin on his face.
“Angel, Grandfather. Grandfather, Angel.” He gestures, with a bit of a bow.
“After all that, I thought we were getting somewhere, Bavar! I thought we were going to . . .”
“Angel,” the bronze head chimes. “So, this is the girl.” He stares at me. “You have caused quite the commotion here.”
I stagger back into the wooden table and perch on it, staring at the bust and then at Bavar. He’s just about bouncing with delight, which is such a novelty it almost makes me smile.
Almost.
Come on, Angel, I tell myself. What did you expect in a house where the portraits howl, and poisoned boys are revived by green sludge?
“Pleased to meet you,” I say. My voice is a bit high, but he doesn’t know what it normally sounds like.
Bavar does. He grins again, and I glare at him.
“So the two of you have been having adventures,” says Bavar’s grandfather. “I’m glad to see you are somewhat restored, Bavar. You know, your aunt was most animated about it.”
“She says he should fight,” I say.
“So he should—quite right.” The bronze nods.
“But he wants to close the rift.”
Bavar gapes at me, which is pretty enjoyable.
“Oh, does he?”
I fold my arms, and we both look at Bavar.
“Yes,” he says eventually, his shoulders hunched. “You said there was a way.”
“And Angel here is going to be helping you?”
Bavar spreads his hands. “Yes?”
“I see,” the bronze says. “Well, I suppose a person should have an accomplice. A brother in arms, if you will.”
“A sister in arms,” I correct him.
“A catalyst, Eva calls you,” he murmurs, his bronze eyes gleaming as he looks at me. “How did you fall into all this, my dear?”
“I don’t know,” I say, which is sort of half true. I don’t know. But I do know that if there’s a way of stopping anyone else from being attacked by those monsters, I want to find it. And if Dad was connected to it all, then so am I. And it’s not like anybody else is getting things done. Most of the world doesn’t even see what’s going on here.
“The way will be long and hard,” Grandfather intones. “And only the true shall ever find the real path . . .”
I catch Bavar rolling his eyes.
“I saw that, young man,” he huffs. “You must find the door. It’s been hidden. Find the door, and you will find the rift. And then the real work will begin.”
“The real work?”
“Closing the rift!”
Bavar flinches. “How do we do that?”
“You do that by first finding the door,” he says in a smooth voice. “That is the first step; without it you cannot go any further.”
“Where is it?” he asks.
His grandfather shrugs, a shiver of bronze movement. “No idea. In the house somewhere. Never seen it.”
Bavar sighs. “Did you never look?”
“I always meant to,” he says, his voice softer. “I thought there would be more time.”
“Well, it can’t be that hard to find!” I venture. “I mean, you say it’s in the house, so it’s right here somewhere.”
They share a look of amusement.
“Have you seen the size of this house?” Bavar demands. “And besides, it plays tricks. We could be searching forever.”
“Oh,” I say. “I guess we’d better start then. Maybe you should put some clothes on first?”
The bronze bust lets out a squawk of laughter, and Bavar looks down at himself. He is wearing various layers of robe, to be fair, but it’s not exactly what I call dressed for an adventure. He huffs and throws the tablecloth back over his grandfather, who mutters darkly before going quiet.
“When shall we start?” I ask in a hushed voice as we head out of the library.
“You’re serious?” He turns to me. “You’re really doing this?”
“We’re doing it, aren’t we?”
“But why?” he demands suddenly, stopping short and turning on me. His voice is an animal growl, and the narrow landing over the stairs darkens in an instant, cobwebs swinging over our heads. The back of my neck prickles and I can’t help stepping back into the wall, away from him. “Why are you doing it?”
“Because you weren’t about to,” I say, trying to find my voice, my heart, as he stares down at me.
“Why does it matter to you so much?”
“Why wouldn’t it?” I ask. “How could I see you—see all this—and just walk away?”
“I don’t know,” he breathes. Shadows cling to his face as he folds himself back into the corner, and for a second I can feel it, thick as the magic around him, all the loneliness, the hurt he carries.
“I’m not going to,” I say, stepping forward, making my voice strong. “So you have that. Even if you don’t believe in anything else. I’m not going anywhere while all this is going on. We can do this, Bavar. I know we can.”
He shakes his head as we walk down the stairs, and I steady him when he stumbles.
“Tomorrow,” I say. “We’ll do it tomorrow, when you’re better. And wearing actual clothes . . .”
“You said something last night,” he says, peering at me. He’s flushed, and I realize he doesn’t remember what I told him, after he fought the raksasa, about my parents. I can’t bring myself to add to his misery right now.
“A lot happened last night.”
Eva meets us as we get to the bottom of the stairs, looking us up and down. “Bavar, how are you feeling?”
“I’m fine,” he says, brushing her away.
“It was nice of Angel to come by,” she says. “You need a friend, Bavar.” She turns to me. “Will you be back?”
“I could pop in after school tomorrow,” I say. “We can finish that homework . . .”
“OK,” Bavar mumbles.
“Will you be at school?”
“Probably,” he says.
“Maybe it would do you good,” I say. And I do mean it. But also, I don’t want him lingering around here all day, getting bored, thinking about secret doorways and rifts. He might do it without me. And obviously that would probably be a really good idea, because he’s the one who has the magic, but I think I need it as much as he does. Maybe even more.
“I’ll be there,” he says, staring at me as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
It’s kind of creepy, walking down the path to the gate. The sky is quiet now; the air freezing. When I look back, the house is ablaze against the murk of dusk, lights shining from every window. You’d never know what went on here last night. You’d never even suspect. And it’s funny. I came looking for answers, and I even got some, but that’s not the thing that stays in my mind, as I go through the gate and down the hill. The raksasa are important, and finding the rift is important, what happened to Mom and Dad . .
. that never leaves me. But right now, the thing that stays closest is the way he trusted me, when he was lying there all poisoned.
That, and the way his ancestors shouted my name. Never going to forget a whole house of portraits calling out at you like that, are you?
Bavar
That hope she has, it shines so bright. She smiles, and it feels like the only thing that’s real. She sees me. So she’s different. And despite all the seeing, and the horror of it all, she’s still here. She’s more determined than ever. That means something. But what? She said something important, while we sat out here and the creature’s body loomed over everything. Something that explained the darkness in her eyes, the way she’s drawn to it all like a magnet.
Why can’t I remember?
She gives a little wave as the gates swing open for her, and I catch that gleam in her eye, and so I know. We’re doing this. We’re looking for the rift, so that we can close it. I always thought I was the only one linked to it all, and now she’s here, for whatever reason, and she’s on a mission. She said she wasn’t going anywhere while all this is going on, and so it almost felt true when Eva said she was a friend. But when the mission is done, she’ll go back to her own house, and this place will feel bigger, darker than ever.
And I’ll be alone again.
Eva is waiting for me when I close the front door. She’s standing by the stairs, looking like she wants to talk, but my head is full of too many things, and none of them makes sense, so I dodge her, escaping into the drawing room and finding myself before the mirror. Warped old glass in a pitted, age-darkened silver frame, stretching from the heavy stone mantelpiece nearly to the ceiling.
But that’s not what catches my eye.
There, in the mirror. For an instant, the nearly-me, the could-be-me, straight and tall and just like any old boy with gnarly hair. But even as I look, he is surrounded by the shadows of everything I have tried so hard not to be: the monsters of my parents, and of every ancestor before them, gathered thickly around me, their faces glowing with pride as they reach out to me.