by Craig Spence
“I’m not sure,” Josh quavered, uncomfortable under his comrade’s fierce gaze, “but I think he’s come for me.”
“And you wish to go with it?”
“N-no.”
“You’ve been enchanted, boy,” the hurler decided. “Get away from here while you’re still capable of sound judgment. Away!”
Then he turned his face to the enemy. “You’ll not have him!” he shouted.
The birdman made a show of yawning once again. “You might have put a bit more thought into your last words,” it mocked. “‘You’ll not have him’ is hardly a ringing epithet.”
“My meaning’s clear enough.”
“Aye,” the birdman loured, “and I suppose it doesn’t much matter how you phrase it. Are you ready to die?”
“No!” Josh hollered. “You cannot fight this thing.”
The slinger stood firm, though. He crouched on the balls of his feet, his sword held high. The birdman shuddered, then dove again. Gorp swung hard and missed, the fury of his stroke carrying him forward so that his flank was exposed. The birdman deftly plunged his sword into Gorp’s side, then veered away, easily avoiding Gorp’s parry.
“No!” Josh screamed, his cry echoing over the Valley of Hador. “No,” he sobbed.
And that’s how Josh awoke, shaken and grieving on the grassy berm that slopes into Rogers Park. Stunned, he could not move for several minutes. Gorp dead? Josh could not believe it. If only he could sleep again, and dream a different ending. He couldn’t, though. Ever since he’d started drawing Gorp and King Carak’s army, he’d been true to his vision, and he must draw this doleful scene, too. He had to get home.
It was then Josh realized something else had gone wrong, this time in his waking world. His backpack and skateboard were gone. “You lowdown, thieving rat,” he yelled at the surrounding buildings. “You dirty, rotten scumbag!”
They remained impassive, as if they’d heard it all before, and didn’t care to get involved. Dejected, Josh trudged up the embankment and headed home.
5
Endorathlil pawed through the contents of Josh’s backpack while Conky and Ian looked on. “Good,” she croaked. “Excellent!” She pulled out a blue jacket and sniffed at it, the way a bloodhound might sniff an article of clothing to get its scent; she rifled through the pages of Josh’s sketchbook, her hands shaking with excitement.
“And his address?” she demanded suddenly.
“He lives in one of those big old houses up on Tenth Avenue. He’s a rich kid,” Ian reported.
“Hah!” Endorathlil snorted, flipping to the front of the sketchbook. “Our candidate’s name is Josh Dempster,” she announced, pointing at a block of letters written inside. “As you’ve said, he lives on Tenth Avenue, and here’s his phone number, too.”
“Candidate?” Ian wondered.
Endorathlil fixed him with a hard, suspicious look. “You mind your own business, and do what you’re told,” she warned.
“Yeah!” Conky seconded, cuffing Ian on the back of the head.
Ian whirled and cocked his fist, forcing Conky to stumble backwards. “Don’t ever do that to me, McDougal,” he threatened.
Regaining his balance, Conky crouched and raised his fists, too.
“Stop it!” Endorathlil shrieked, glaring at each of them in turn. “You two can take your scrapping out into the alley when there’s time. Right now we have work to do.”
She assigned Ian the task of keeping an eye on Josh Dempster. “I want you to watch him like a hawk,” she said. “Learn whatever you can.”
“As for you, Conky, you need to treat your associates a little better, eh?” she winked, making Ian even more uneasy.
Shortly after, Endorathlil closed the shop and headed for her apartment upstairs. She tottered up the steps, hanging onto the rail with one hand, Josh’s backpack with the other, all the while cursing the fate that had brought her this boy so late in life. “Even if he is who I think he might be, what joy shall I take from it?” she muttered. “Look at me! I can hardly climb a flight of stairs.”
Climb she did, though, up the dim stairwell, which smelled of boiled cabbage, then along the musty hall. Unit 6 had been her home for thirty-five years, ever since she had opened Lil’s Magic Emporium and Second Hand, and longer than anyone else in the building could remember. The apartment was dingy and overrun with plants in various stages of decay. It was crowded with stuffy Victorian furniture, which provided any number of nests for her fat, black cat Lumpkin, who could usually be found napping on the back of the sofa, or sitting on the windowsill gazing down on Main Street.
Lumpkin was at least as old as Endorathlil, reckoning in cat years. In his prime, he had been a terror; now he was cantankerous and lazy. But he was the only living being Endorathlil truly loved, and the only one she allowed to love her. When the door rattled open, he faithfully rolled off the sofa and minced over to his mistress, meowing plaintively.
“Oh get away,” the witch scolded. Even as she shooed him off, though, she bent painfully and stroked his thick, dusty fur. Lumpkin purred. “There’s a dear,” she crooned. Then remembering her business, she nudged him with her foot and shuffled on her way. “Now be gone,” she said. “I have work to do.” Endorathlil did not even stop to put the kettle on for tea. She hobbled down the drab hallway to the second of two doors.
“Hail Vortigen, King of Syde!” she uttered, turning the knob. Crossing the threshold she curtsied then touched her forehead with the index finger of her right hand. “This room and all who enter are consecrated to Your Highness,” she intoned, closing the door on Lumpkin, whose curiosity almost got him a tweaked nose.
Once inside her dim sanctuary Endorathlil grasped a rare piece of jewelry that hung at her bosom on a slender necklace. It was a tiny vial, which glowed softly with an inner radiance. The relic was the size of a small locket, but far more precious to Endorathlil than anything made of gold or gems. She had worn this talisman more than fifty years, and every second of every day she had feared losing it — as if it were destined to be lost. “There you are, my friend,” she mumbled, clutching at it. “There you are.”
Having performed her accustomed rites, Endorathlil groped for a pack of matches on a shelf near the door. Fumbling in the dark, she struck one then made her way to a lectern near the centre of the room. She lit five candles arranged on tall holders around this alter, then shook the match out. By the soft light she could make out the thick black drapes that covered the windows. The walls were painted black, too, and the floor, and the ceiling, so that every ray of light was absorbed. On its stand, floating in this eerie space, The Book of Syde lay opened before her. Endorathlil touched its vellum pages reverently. It had belonged to her grandfather Sirus Blackstone, then to her Uncle Andrew. Now it was hers by right and possession.
“Tell me Book,” she asked, “is this the one Vortigen seeks?”
She closed her eyes and conjured a vision of Josh so The Book would know who she was talking about.
“Innocence,” the pages whispered.
“Aye,” she agreed. “He is innocent.”
“Courageous.”
“Do you see courage in him?”
“I do,” The Book replied.
“Go on then.”
“Beauty.”
Endorathlil recalled the boy’s fine features and piercing blue eyes.
“Beauty of soul!” The Book admonished.
“With some you can tell by looking,” Endorathlil shot back. “He is special is he not?”
“What is known as Angelkind, yes,” The Book agreed.
“Then I should pursue the matter?”
“You should do what your heart tells you.”
“My heart tells me I am old beyond years.”
“She who finds Vortigen an heir shall not suffer the indignities of age.”
“Then I shall draw him to me and learn more,” Endorathlil decided.
“So be it.”
“So be it,” the witch echoed, backing awa
y from the lectern. “On the night of the full moon he shall be dedicated,” she promised, “and when the old moon has vanished, his fate shall be sealed. He shall sit with Lord Vortigen in Syde forever, as Ancient Law decrees.”
Her mind made up, Endorathlil set to work, spreading Josh’s things out on the carpet in front of the lectern. She went over them again carefully, the same way a detective might examine pieces of evidence. Satisfied she had absorbed all she could from the random collection, she turned up her palms and raised her face to the ceiling.
“Lord Vortigen!” she called. “These things have been close to the boy. His aura is still upon them. Accept this prayer as a token. Soon enough the boy shall stand before you in the Emerald Hall. He shall dwell on the Plain of Ormor, if you deem him fit. Come to my aid, Dread Lord. Come, help me hunt this proselyte in visions and dreams. Let us drive him to his destiny and fulfill the prophecy.”
6
Millie hadn’t seen Josh for a couple of days. Maybe he was mad because of what she’d said about his sketches. But, darn it, he shouldn’t be so touchy. Besides, he should be putting his talent to better use, Millie sniffed, deciding shewouldn’t be the first to call since she hadn’t done anything wrong.
A dozen times Millie had made up her mind not to call, a dozen times she had immediately begun to think her resolve was stubborn and foolish. “Friends don’t act snobby to each other,” she fretted. “Pick up the phone. Stop being so stupid.” Then she would decide to call, after all . . . if he didn’t call her within the next ten minutes.
She’d just flip-flopped again, when the phone rang.
“Hi-yuh,” he said.
“Jeez, Josh, I was just going to call you,” Millie squeaked.
“Beat ya.”
“I thought you might be mad at me because of what I said about your drawings.”
“Naw,” he laughed. “I’ve just been a little preoccupied.”
“Preoccupied?”
“Yeah. Busy.”
“I know what the word means,” she sniped. “I was wondering what you’re so preoccupied with?”
“Come on over and see,” he said mysteriously. “I think you’re in for a surprise.”
The Epps, mother and daughter, lived in a co-op apartment just five houses down from the Dempsters. They occupied a two-bedroom suite on the third floor, overlooking the building’s courtyard, with its spindly vine maple and cold stone benches. Millie hurried through this cloister, skipping down the co-op’s front steps.
She was just about to turn and head up Tenth when something caught her eye . . . a movement in the entrance of the church across the street. She peered into the shadows and made out a ragged figure sitting on the top steps, his cap in front of him. He stared straight at her. The boy looked familiar. She was sure she’d seen him in the neighbourhood, but couldn’t say when or where. Their eyes locked for a moment, then he looked down, ashamed, she thought. If she hadn’t been in a hurry, Millie might have given the matter a little more thought — it seemed such a strange place to panhandle. But she didn’t have time.
“Forget it,” she said, turning and hurrying on her way. She had enough to think about already, beginning with Josh Dempster. No denying theirs was an unusual friendship. They were the source of gossip at Mount Pleasant Elementary, and the objects of more than a little teasing. At first Mrs. Epp and the Dempsters had been concerned. They’d even met to “talk things over.” In time, though, they grew accustomed to Josh and Millie being friends — in fact, they had become friends too, and continued to pay each other visits much to Josh and Millie’s chagrin.
She rapped smartly on the Dempster’s front door. Mr. D greeted her with a grin. “We’ve missed you around here,” he chuckled. “I haven’t been lectured in days.”
“Josh!” he called upstairs. “Millie’s here.”
“Hi Mil,” Josh hollered down. “Come on up.”
She already had her foot on the bottom step when, inexplicably, she glanced at Mr. Dempster, catching him off guard. For a startled instant he stared back and what she saw in his expression made her uneasy. Millie could have sworn Mr. Dempster was afraid.
“Millie?” he began awkwardly.
“Yes, Mr. D?”
“You’re Josh’s best friend . . . ”
She waited.
“You’re a very intelligent young lady . . . ”
The seconds dragged on.
“Mil, what the heck are you doing?” Josh shouted.
“I’m sorry,” Mr. Dempster apologized, his voice cracking. “You go on up.”
“What’s the matter, Mr. D?” she asked, holding his gaze, feeling suddenly older than her twelve years.
“Nothing,” he answered, with a wane smile. “I’m just happy Josh has a friend like you, that’s all.”
Millie frowned clumping up to the attic. Mr. D’s behaviour puzzled her, but she didn’t want to think about it, and she certainly didn’t want to talk about it with Josh. She hoped he had something really interesting to show her.
His room was in the attic, across an oak-floored landing from his mother’s office. The ceiling sloped in from the walls at about chest level, forming a peak that ran down the centre. Josh’s desk and computer lined one wall, his bed and bureau the other. At the far end a French door let out onto a tiny balcony, notched into the roof of the front porch. It overlooked Tenth Avenue, affording a splendid view of Vancouver.
The door was ajar. Millie thrust her head in. “Hi Josh,” she started to say, but the greeting lapsed into awed silence. “Oh my God!” she gasped, stepping in then turning slowly through 360 degrees.
“Wha’d’ya think?” Josh beamed.
“Josh! This is . . . it’s . . . incredible!”
Every surface was papered over with drawings. They shingled the walls, hung row by row from the sloped ceiling, covered the back of his door and the side of his bureau. Josh had even taped sheets of paper over the upper panes of his window. The room had been transformed into an art jungle.
“My God!” she repeated, beginning to understand what Mr. Dempster had been trying to say downstairs. “What is all this?”
“My latest strip,” he whooped. “Birdman. I had a dream about him in Rogers Park the other day. I haven’t been able to put my pen down since.”
Millie leaned closer to one of the drawings. A fantastic creature hovered over what appeared to be an immense, granite walled valley. Its wings were contraptions of leather, stretched over a framework of slender bones. Green scales clad its muscular body. Its head, arms and legs were protected by metal plate. The birdman stared directly at her from the page, its baleful eyes glowing from within the cowl of its helmet. It had a human face, but one that reminded Millie of an eagle — fierce, remorseless.
Josh had sketched the birdman in furious strokes. It hopped, flapped or strode through drawing after drawing. There it was, circling over its strangely beautiful valley, or again, peering over the parapet of a magnificent castle, or swooping into battle. Josh had drawn maps, armies, cities, jousts . . . a whole world for his imaginary creature to command — and there was little doubt that it did command.
“This is unbelievable,” Millie muttered.
“Thought you might be impressed.”
She didn’t know if “impressed” was the right word, but for once in her life Millie Epp held her tongue and forced a bright smile. “It’s . . . it’s incredible!” she exclaimed. “Man, you must have finger cramps in a big way after all this.”
Josh looked pale. It also looked like he’d slept in his rumpled clothes.
“I can’t stop,” he said simply. “I’m like the girl in the little red dancing shoes. I lie down to sleep and the visions keep me awake. I go down to eat and I end up doodling on the table with my fork. I go for a walk and there’s a horde of demons driving me back to work.”
Millie whistled. “Sounds like inspiration to me! I-N-S-P-I-R-A-T-I-O-N.”
“Yes!” Josh cried. “It is! It’s driving me crazy,
Mil, and my parents are worried sick, but I don’t want it to go away. Do you know what I mean?”
“I can imagine, I guess,” she answered, “but it’s never happened to me.”
Millie couldn’t imagine it, though. There had to be 300 drawings pinned and taped to his walls. Two days, forty-eight hours, that would be roughly six drawings an hour — one every ten minutes — if you didn’t allow a second for eating, sleeping or even going to the bathroom. Yet the drawings were intricate and richly detailed, as if the artist had laboured hours over each one. No, she couldn’t imagine that kind of frenzy.
Sensing her bafflement, Josh sighed, jerking himself out of his chair and pacing anxiously. “Mil,” he began. “I can’t figure it out either. It’s like I have to hang on to my pen or it will get away from me. I don’t know how to describe it, but there’s a force pushing the nib over the paper,”
“There’s a word for that,” she frowned. “Auto-something-or-other.”
“You think it’s crazy, don’t you?”
Millie bit her lip.
“It’s okay, Mil. It is crazy. Mum and Dad think I’m insane, and they might be right.”
He told her about how he’d dreamed of the birdman in Rogers Park, how it had swooped down and murdered Gorp the Hurler. “I hated him then, Mil, because Gorp was my friend,” he recalled. “But he keeps coming back. I draw, and draw, and draw, and every time I draw him, I hate him a little less. I feel like a traitor, but I also feel like maybe I have been on the wrong side all along.”
“Traitor to who, Josh?” Millie wanted to know.
He thought the question over. “To myself, mostly,” Josh said at last. “In the end, isn’t that always the person you betray?”
“I suppose so,” she said, doubtfully.
“Never mind,” he laughed. “It’s all psycho-babble.”
“Hey!” Millie chided. “Lighten up. This is what you want to do, isn’t it?”
A breeze blew in at the balcony door, ruffling the drawings like feathers.
He nodded.
“Then why so glum! Let’s go down to Café Java and have a latte — and to heck with what your Mom says about coffee stunting your growth.”