by Craig Spence
“So this is how you work, is it?” she taunted.
“I-uh was blocking out a scene,” he explained, flustered and angry. “Sometimes you have to let yourself go.”
“Oh,” she said, unimpressed. “It looked like you might have been napping.”
“Well, that too,” he confessed. “But look!”
He held up his sketchbook. He’d drawn several scenes from the Battle of Hador. He hoped to develop an adventure comic strip out of them — maybe a video game someday.
“I see,” Millie said, coolly.
Josh snapped his sketchbook closed and sulked.
“I like your work, Josh,” Millie apologized. “Technically, you’re great, but . . . ”
She stopped herself too late.
“But!” he echoed, spitting the word out like a sour grape. “You think I’m wasting my time.”
“I never said that!”
“You don’t have to say itMil.”
“Oh, come on, Josh!” she huffed. “I’m not that obvious.”
He smirked, and Millie blushed.
“Okay! Okay!” she groaned, flopping into a deck chair next to his. “So I’d like to see you draw something other than murdering hulks, dragons, and Amazon women with big boobs. Is that such a crime?”
No, he thought. It probably wasn’t. But he’d never tell her that. Instead, he said, “You’ll see. Someday I’m going to have it made. I’ll have a plush office down in Yaletown, I’ll drive a BMW, and I’ll do nothing but daydream and draw all day.”
Millie laughed. “Wow!” she mocked. “You really are a superlative dreamer Josh.”
Only Millie Epp could get away with a comment like that. He had to laugh.
2
Clack-clack, clack-clack, clackity-clack. Josh swerved round an old lady crossing Broadway, crouched, then ollied over the curb, his board thwacking the pavement like a beaver’s tale.
Main dipped into Mount Pleasant just ahead, and that was where he seemed to be going. Any direction that took him away from 169 Tenth Avenue suited Josh just fine. If he hung around home there would be chores — vacuuming, laundry, dishes, mowing . . . yech!
Besides, Millie might drop by for an afternoon visit, and he needed a break. Josh smiled ruefully. She was the most persnickety, persistent, infuriating, wonderful friend a guy could wish for. He wasn’t sure why he liked her, but he did. What’s more, she seemed to put up with him. So the feeling was mutual.
Clack-clack, clack-clack.
The grade wasn’t steep enough to coast, but it was getting steeper and with each push he glided a little farther. Soon gravity would take hold and he’d cruise two blocks, to the intersection where Kingsway angled into Main at Seventh. He’d cut a sharp left there, heading for Quebec Street and away from the rumble and fumes of Main.
A lot of people avoided Main and Broadway; Josh loved the place. The confluence of trolley buses, cars and pedestrians brought in university students, panhandlers, lawyers, secretaries, crooks, punks, drunks . . . you name it. Every sort of human fish swam in the currents and back eddies of Main and Broadway. Sometimes Josh’s parents — Frank and Alison a.k.a. the Dempsters — fretted. They wondered if this was the right neighbourhood for a boy to grow up in. They always came to the same conclusion: Main and Broadway was “an education.”
Besides, where else could you find a wood-frame, heritage home, with a view of downtown Vancouver, and within walking distance of any place that mattered? Nowhere. So they stayed.
That didn’t mean the Dempsters approved of all the neighbourhood joints Josh might go. Café Java, for instance— that was a place they frowned on. Coffee stunts your growth, they said. It leaches vitamins out of your body. It’ll keep you awake at night. It didn’t matter that he only occasionally indulged in a latte, that his usual order was a soda and a chocolate chip cookie. They still disapproved. He could hear their final judgment, “Coffee bars aren’t meant for kids, Josh. They’re for grown ups.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
And if Café Java made his parents cringe, what would they have thought of The Guys and Dolls Billiard Hall, where Josh occasionally occupied a seat at the food concession. He liked watching the players crouch over the felt, and listening to the click of the balls or the thunk of a clean shot into the corner pocket. The Dempsters hadn’t even thought to declare The Guys and Dolls off limits, it was so far off the scale of conceivable places Josh might actually go.
Parents worried too much, Josh figured.
Clack-clack, clack-clack.
Now gravity had him. The board accelerated down Main, moving fast enough to ripple his T-shirt and comb his sandy mop of hair out behind him. “Yee-haw!” Josh yodelled. Sometimes the best destination was nowhere, and the best activity was nothing-to-do. Parents had forgotten that . . . if they’d ever known it.
Lil’s Magic Emporium and Second Hand was a narrow shop in a squat, brick building on the corner of Seventh and Main. Rumour had it Lil was indeed a witch, whose twisted family tree was rooted in evil. Word was also out that she traded in stolen goods, if she could get away with it. In fact, Lil’s had become the headquarters of Conky McDougal and the Street Level Gang, an unsavoury crew, notorious throughout Mount Pleasant as bike thieves and petty thugs. Even Josh knew better than to become a frequent shopper at Lil’s.
Besides, her merchandise left something to be desired, unless you could find some earthly use for: sticks of crooked driftwood, advertised as magic wands; fat, dog-eared books with titles like The Dark Side: Magic Through the Ages; enchanted stones for laying out mystic circles; strands from a hangman’s noose; and so on. Normally Josh would have skated on by without so much as a glance at the dusty artifacts in her display window. But that day, something caught his eye.
Drawings!
He wrenched his skateboard into a wheel chattering stop, almost pitching headlong onto the pavement.
“I didn’t know she sold art,” he said.
On closer inspection, he revised his assessment. “Awful!” Josh muttered. In one a winged demon flapped through a bleak underworld. In another the same malignant being sat on a throne, surrounded by hordes of cowering goblins. But the drawings were crude.
“I could do better,” Josh thought.
And if he could do better, why shouldn’t Lil sell his work instead of the junk she had on display. She would make more money; he would get some exposure, and a share of the sales.
But Lil’s? Was that the kind of venue he wanted?
“Well,” Josh answered, “everybody’s got to start somewhere. Can’t hurt to have a look round.”
That said, he picked up his board, and entered Lil’s Magic Emporium. He found himself staring down a narrow canyon, piled high on either side with tottering heaps of junk. Lil’s “merchandise” had been tossed onto benches and tables with no semblance of order. Old vacuums had landed next to record players; blankets were draped over lawn mower handles; chairs were occupied by sewing machines. And in all those heaps, Josh didn’t see a single item that wasn’t broken, tattered, or soiled beyond redemption.
“Jeez!” he croaked, gagging on the mingled smells of dust, engine oil, and decay. “What a dump!”
He was about to turn and leave, when a scratchy, old voice startled him from behind. “Can I help you, young man?” Lil cawed.
Josh spun round. She had been watching him from her perch behind a display case at the front of the store. Lil was a wizened old crow, hunched with age. Her gray hair hung down in cords. Her crooked old nose almost touched her chin. She sized him up with greedy, dark eyes.
“N-no,” he said. “Wrong store. I’ll just be on my way.”
“You seemed interested in the drawings.” She jerked her head in the direction of the display window.
“Yes, uhm, very interesting, but I can’t afford one right now.”
“They’re not for sale, so you needn’t worry.” Lil chuckled. “They are the work of one of my students. I like to show off their accomplishments.�
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“Yes, very nice. The technique needs a little work, but . . . ”
Lil hooted. “You don’t imagine I’m a teacher of art, do you?” she wheezed, shaking her head. “No, no. Why would I waste my time dabbling with paints and brushes, when I can create absolutely splendid illusions with this?” She held up a gnarled stick he supposed was a wand. “The student I speak of was attempting to recreate his vision of the underworld, but you can’t set down a vision on paper, can you?”
“A good artist can,” Josh argued.
“And are you a good artist?”
He rummaged through his backpack and pulled out his sketchpad. Lil looked at the drawings, but seemed more interested in him. Her rheumy eyes kept straying from the pages to his face. Whenever he caught her staring, she offered a sweet, repulsive smile.
“They’re very good,” she allowed. “But what land is this, and who are these people?”
“It’s the realm of King Carak in the Valley of Hador. This is Gorp the Hurler, that’s Hazard, and that’s Prince Boniface.”
“Never heard of any of them.”
“Well, no one has, really,” Josh explained. “But they will be famous some day.”
“You mean you’ve made this up?”
“Yes. It’s fantasy.”
Lil gazed upon him thoughtfully. “Did you ever think your imaginary realm might be real in some sense?” she asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Why, this make-believe of yours might be the shadows of a real kingdom that exists in another dimension. Perhaps you have a vague memory of such a place. Maybe your art is a way of seeking.”
Josh laughed nervously, and stuffed his sketchpad back in his pack.
“You came in here to ask me something, didn’t you?”
He edged toward the door.
“Something about the drawings, eh?”
“I’ve got to be going,” Josh said.
She fixed him with a paralyzing gaze. He had to break free. Straining against her, he twisted the doorknob and tumbled out into the street.
“We will meet again, my friend,” her voice trailed after him.
Josh banged the door shut. He sucked in a breath of fresh air. “Not if I can help it you crazy old bird!” he gasped, jumping onto his skateboard and pushing off.
Clack-clack, clack-clack. He was glad to put some distance between himself and Lil’s Emporium. If he had looked over his shoulder, though, he would have spotted a slight, ragged figure loping along behind him. It skimmed close to parked cars and vacant doorways, never more than an instant away from hiding. Its baggy army fatigues and gray T-shirt blended with the drab surroundings. A black baseball cap hooded its eyes.
3
Ian Lytle couldn’t believe his luck. The skater never looked back once.
“Goof,” he snorted.
A guy should always be on the lookout. Even in nice, upscale neighbourhoods like Kerrisdale and Shaughnessey there were creeps around.
He followed Josh to Rogers Park, waiting for an opening. His quarry crossed the field and climbed halfway up the slope toward Sixth Avenue, then sat down and pulled what looked like a notebook out of his pack. For half an hour or so he scribbled away, deep in thought. Ian watched and waited. “Come on,” he grumbled from his hideaway behind a cedar hedge next to the park attendant’s bungalow. “I ain’t got all day.” But the kid wasn’t in any hurry. He doodled, then thought, then doodled some more. At last he shoved his stuff into his pack. “Good,” Ian muttered. All he wanted was to follow the kid home and report back to Endorathlil. If the kid looked away for a second and left his pack unattended, Ian would go for it; if the mark didn’t get too careless, well, tough luck to the old hag. Just so long as he could get this job over with.
But still the kid didn’t leave. Instead, he lay back against the slope, hands locked under his head, watching the clouds drift by. “Rich kids!” Ian snorted. “They’ve got more time than sense.” He watched and waited. Then came his chance. First the kid’s eyes fluttered shut, then his limbs relaxed, and finally his head lolled to the side. He’d fallen asleep. “The old bat must have put a spell on the guy,” Ian chuckled. “How else could you explain that kind of luck?”
He waited a few minutes, then moved into the open, jogging across the field. His plan was simple: if the kid showed signs of waking, Ian would simply walk on by; if the kid really was asleep, well, his stuff was there for the taking.
Why Endorathlil wanted this guy’s stuff Ian couldn’t guess, but want it she did. She’d signalled him with a glance even before the kid left the shop. Then she’d barked out her instructions as soon as the skater had gone. “Follow him,” she’d commanded. “Steal his things.” Ian knew better than to buck an order from Endorathlil when she was in one of her moods — if she didn’t get you, Conky would.
As always, his heart thumped and his ears rang as he approached his quarry. The kid was sleeping soundly, twitching like a dreaming dog. Ian smiled, hoisting the backpack . . . the sound of a car cruising along Sixth Avenue caught his attention. He could see it out of the corner of his eye.
“Jeez!” Ian cursed. Cops.
Without a catch he transformed the act of lifting the backpack, into a show of putting it down, turning, and squatting on the grass next to his new pal. Ian pretended to be talking to his slumbering mate as the ghost car glided past. He mouthed words silently, shrugged and gestured, even tilted his head back and pantomimed laughter as the car turned down Ontario Street, then right onto Seventh and out of sight.
Still Ian didn’t make his move, thinking they might double back.
While he waited, he watched the kid. He didn’t want to steal from him, didn’t want to steal from anybody, really. But you did what you had to. In the best of all possible worlds, he’d have a well-to-do mum and dad; his sister Adele wouldn’t have to grow up in a neighbourhood like this; he wouldn’t have to be in cahoots with the likes of Conky McDougal. But the best-of-all-possible-worlds was not an option for Ian Lytle. This world was his reality, and in this world the rules were simple: take what you can, when you can, and don’t piss off Conky or Endorathlil.
Certain the cops had gone, Ian stood up calmly, lifted the backpack, and slung it over his shoulder. He grabbed the skateboard, too, then walked away. Mission accomplished. “Sweet dreams, sucker.”
4
Gorp the Hurler had killed so many orcs his arms were tired. But the Valley of Hador still crawled with them.
“They must be breeding like maggots!” Gorp bellowed, loading another stone into his sling.
That’s what made orcs such formidable enemies — not their skill in battle, but their ability to swarm. Poorly armed and worse trained, their strategy was to send wave after wave into the fray, until the enemy was exhausted with killing.
Thunk! Gorp nailed one on the side of the head, cracking its skull like a walnut. The orcs nearby squealed and fought amongst themselves to get away before the sling regained its lethal momentum. “Come on! Who’s next?” Gorp bellowed.
Then something unexpected happened. The orcs that had been fleeing wheeled suddenly, like a flock of starlings. They collided with another mob and a wild melee erupted, orcs slashing and hacking at each other furiously.
Josh followed the terrified glance of one of them into the sky and gasped.
“Gorp! Watch out!” he yelled, pointing.
What had frightened the orcs was a gigantic creature — half bird, half man — that hovered above the Valley of Hador like a hawk over a freshly mown field. The valley throbbed to the beat of its huge, leather wings.
“What in God’s name is that?” the hurler shouted, turning to face this new enemy. “Who and what are you?” he challenged.
The creature grinned. “Who I am, you shall never know,” it said. “What I am, you are about to learn.”
“Well, well,” Gorp mocked. “Whoever you are, you’re a mighty wielder of words.”
Amused, the birdman raised its eyebro
ws and smiled malignantly. “I like a man who knows how to die,” it said disdainfully. “It makes these little skirmishes somewhat entertaining.”
That said, it drew a broadsword from the scabbard strapped to its back and dove.
Gorp redoubled the speed of his whirling sling. All his training and experience told him to stand his ground, wait until the last possible moment, and then fire.
No human could have dodged the jagged stone Gorp hurled at his winged assailant. But the birdman did not even bother to raise his shield, shattering the stone instead with a lightening stroke of his sword, then delivering a savage backhand stroke as he swooped past.
“Ow!” Gorp thundered, a red gash opening on his shoulder. He staggered backward, almost toppling. Instinctively, he regained his footing, drew his own sword, and spun round to confront his assailant, who would surely close for the kill.
“I trust you will remember me if you survive the joust,” the birdman mocked, waiting for Gorp to recover. “The scar will help, should memory fail.”
“Have at me, ya great reptilian bag of arrogance!” Gorp frothed. “Have at me, you ugly, flapping bat!”
The creature laughed, booming gales of laughter that shook the entire field, as if the very belly of the earth were quaking. “I do not want to kill you,” it guffawed, “but if you insist . . . ”
“Then why are you here, if not to fight alongside the filthy spawn who would pollute the land of good King Carak with stinking tyranny? Have at me! I’d rather die fighting against the likes of you, than live under your evil rule.”
“How noble,” the birdman yawned. “Too bad the victor gets to write the official history.”
“Gorp! No!” Josh yelled.
“You should listen to him,” the creature suggested. “He knows why I am here.”
The slinger turned his sweaty, blood smeared brow toward Josh. “What do you know of this creature?” he demanded.