Big John stood looking at the gaping Thomas, and when he said, ‘Big, huh?’ the boy could only nod - speechless. The big man gave an amused smile, and said, ‘Let’s explore.’
They slowly started walking down the first of the four rows, into a world Thomas felt sure, was what Father Christmas’ warehouse at the North Pole would look like if there was one (which he doubted).
*
The first row contained clothing, and Thomas had to make a conscious effort at keeping his falling-open mouth shut. Hundreds upon hundreds of shirts and shorts of every imaginable style and colour were piled into huge round wire baskets and stuffed into shelves and hanging from coat-hangers. PT shorts, Bermuda shorts, T-shirts, golf shirts, cotton, denim, wool, nylon, buttoned, zippered, pull-over…Name it, it was there. And semi-formal and formal wear: evening and day-suits and even a row of Tuxedos. And summer dresses and skirts and evening dresses and gowns; and long skirts and mini-skirts and midi-dresses…
And accessories: handbags and hair combs and brushes, jewellery and hats and makeup. Socks and stockings and handkerchiefs. And sandals and slip-slops, and boots and slip-on and lace-up, and walking and running shoes…
‘Most of it will never be used,’ said John, ‘but children love shopping. And they adore dressing up - especially the girls…’
*
The next row was furniture. Beds and bedroom-suites; dining room and lounge suites; fridges and freezers and microwave ovens. And toasters and mixers and mincers and blenders; and room-dividers and desks and small tables and throw-rugs and carpets and curtains and blinds.
And electronics: TVs, DVDs, Hi-Fis, CDs, computers, home theatre systems…
Name it…it was there.
When Thomas asked Big John what a child would use a blender - or for that matter, a mincer for, the big man shrugged his massive shoulders and said, ‘You could always change it into something else…’
*
The next row was books. And stationary. And sports equipment.
The choice of books was enormous. From Enid Blyton and Dr. Zeus to Shakespeare and Dickens; from Lewis Carroll and “Asterix and Obelix” to Edgar Rice-Burroughs and Ryder Haggard; C.S. Lewis, Asimov and Agatha Christie; Alexander Dumas and Hemmingway…
Name it…it was there.
And colouring books and crayons and pencils and stencils; and pens and paints and canvas and easels…And writing-pads and exam-pads and foolscap; and photo albums and staplers and paper-punches…
Name it…it was there.
And cricket sets and cricket whites. And tennis racquets and squash racquets and badminton racquets; and swimming suits and diving masks and flippers; and more running shoes and tennis shoes; and cricket shoes and rugby and soccer boots. And even some fishing rods and a bag with golf clubs…
Name it…it was there.
*
The last row was toys - shelves and shelves and more shelves of them. Every toy Thomas had ever seen or heard of was there. TV-games, video games and computer games; pocket games and board games. Bags of marbles and dolls…
Barbie dolls and Kewpie dolls, and floppy dolls and Cabbage Patch dolls. Crying dolls and talking dolls and singing dolls - even dolls that wet themselves. And their accessories: their houses and their furniture, their clothes and makeup, their cars and their boyfriends…
And balls. Balls, balls and more balls: golf balls, cricket balls, Ping-Pong balls, volley balls, water polo balls, soccer balls, American football and rugby balls. Thomas even saw a full sized pinball machine…
You name it…
‘What happens if someone orders something from Izzy and the shops don’t have it?’ Thomas asked.
Big John’s eyes twinkled. ‘Then we use a blender…or a mincer,’ he said.
*
They were interrupted by a boy who came bursting through the warehouse door. He had an impish face and a shock of coal-black hair, and stopped when he saw Big John and Thomas in front of him - about to leave the storehouse themselves.
‘Frieda said I would find you here,’ he panted.
‘Yes, Gary,’ asked Big John, and then remembered his manners.
‘Thomas,’ he said, ‘this is Gary. Gary,’ John put his hand on Thomas’ shoulder. ‘This is Thomas.’ Both boys nodded and Gary blushed with pleasure when John stepped forward, rested his other huge hand on the boy’s black hair. ‘Gary is the other children’s unofficial leader. Their spokesman, sort of…’ He ruffled the boy’s hair playfully. ‘Self-elected, of course.’ They laughed together, and then Big John asked: ‘Is something wrong, Gary?’
The boy, who was Thomas’ age, shook his head and grinned. He said, ‘Nothing wrong, no. We just need some money.’
John laughed again and asked, ‘Another ice-cream man, huh?’
The boy shook his head. ‘Ice-cream van,’ he replied. ‘And a hot-dog stand.’
*****
It was one of those cheap narrow fold-out mattresses, thin and folded into four squares; meant for one-day outings more than anything else. Frieda opened it on the large slab of rock fronting the cave’s entrance, and then stood looking at it for a long few seconds - concentrating hard. It changed into a thick, luxury, double-bed mattress.
She went back inside the cave and opened the dining room door, just in time to see Arnold spoon the last bit of custard-covered peach into Maggie’s waiting mouth. He made the spoon fly and swoop and glide, captivated and enchanted by the little girl’s giggles.
*****
Izzy was staying another night. The footstool had been converted again, but the sliding door was gone. So was the dog. Tessie had fled for the night, and the two old friends sat in quiet, companionable silence. And relatively fresh air… They had just finished a meal of mashed potatoes topped with two large tins of bully-beef and pepper sauce, and were watching an old episode of Mr. Bean - without the sound. Orson had opened a bottle of Chateaux La Fitte, and half of it was in his beer mug. The other half stood on the small table at his side - breathing…
Izzy wasn’t drinking. Orson and he had started talking about Thomas the night before, but not much had been said, and even less absorbed, before they had both fallen asleep. (Passed out sounds so undignified…). And when he saw Thomas that morning - before he could ask the boy about himself, had found himself relating his own life story. Clever boy, that Thomas. And a good listener…
He thought the television off and Orson glared at him and croaked, indignantly - ‘The best part’s just about to come up…’
Izzy interrupted him. ‘Who is he Orson? Where did you find this boy? This Thomas?’
The ugly little man drank some of his wine to keep it from spilling, then shrugged and told about Ariana’s summons, and what had happened in the woods between Fir-and Rockham after he got there. (The reader should keep in mind that while people at Rainbow’s End don’t lie, Orson is a past-master of exaggeration).
He told Izzy about how the mongrel excuse for a dog had almost gotten them killed, and about the snow that fell until it lay almost a metre thick; about finding the half dead boy only because he’d heard him cough in the pitch dark and about starting a fire - the warmth saving all of their lives… Told about their near-death episode with the Night Walkers, (and when Izzy said, “little bastards”, agreed); and about riding the Rainbow and Thomas staying awake; and Ariana - who humiliated an old man like him by landing him in the water yet again…
He saw Izzy’s raised eyebrows, and reminded him, that by rights, in Earth time, he, Orson, was almost forty years the elder. The two held another long companionable silence and then Orson started lamenting about his ruined coat and shoes and…
Izzy interrupted again. ‘He has good manners,’ he said. ‘And he is intelligent’ - remembering Thomas’ well-disguised sally of that morning. He told Orson about it.
‘I had a terrible hangover and he knew it. He asked me if I had been visiting with you, and all the time he wanted to kill himself laughing…’ Izzy smiled quietly to himself.
‘I know: I saw behind those green eyes of his.’
Orson grunted and gave, what passed with him as a smile, waiting for more.
‘Those eyes,’ Izzy continued, ‘I’ve never seen their like, Orson. They look right through you… and when you expect it least, into you. Deep into you.’ He paused, reflecting. ‘He’s honest, this boy. No nonsense. And I think he’s strong - very strong.’
Orson upended the half-empty bottle into his mug and it gurgled and glugged as it transferred its contents. He took a large swallow before setting down the mug, and then, still holding the empty bottle, rolled out of his recliner. He was still sober enough to land on his feet, and skirted the loose carpet on his way to the kitchen. The opened fridge exuded a large cloud of vapour and he took another bottle of La Fitte (£ 170 each) from it. With the expertise of a sommelier, he uncorked and placed it on the counter behind him to “breathe”, then began rummaging in the cupboard next to the fridge; after some muted swearing and a lot of clinking glass turned and squinted, with a supposedly surprised expression, at the label on the bottle he held. It was a bottle of Laphroig, 25 Year old Scotch.
Orson eyes were hooded and Izzy’s bulged; said the squat little man to the lanky one: ‘You’re sure you won’t… Not even a splash?’
Izzy began shaking his head vehemently, but it slowed - like a clock winding down. He swallowed dryly and his big Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. Only a hundred of the twenty-five year old bottles were ever bottled…; his voice was hoarse and he whispered, ‘Well… just a little one, maybe?’
Orson broke the bottle’s seal, and Izzy turned pale as the golden liquid splashed over the sides of the cut-glass tumbler into which it was poured. He returned to the waiting Izzy and that personage briefly closed his eyes at the perceived sacrilege, when more of the precious liquid sloshed over the glasses brim while Orson navigated his way around the carpet. The drink was pushed into his hands and the bottle unceremoniously plonked down on the small table at his side; then Orson returned to the kitchen for his own bottle, which he placed more gently on its own little table before crawling back into the familiar comfort of his chair.
He picked up his beer mug and sat silently gazing into the depths of its purple-red contents. When he spoke again, it was very soft, and Izzy strained forward to hear him.
‘I think he is the one, Izzy,’ Orson said, then, ‘I hope he is. I truly hope he is…’
*****
They were lying on the mattress and watching the stars and Frieda had just finished telling Maggie about her mother’s death. The girl lay with her head in the hollow of the woman’s shoulder, her small fingers unconsciously plucking at and unravelling one of the many small braids that Annie had earlier made of the younger woman’s blonde tresses.
Her fingers went still and Maggie asked, ‘I’ll never see her again?’ Her small voice sounded smaller still, and she smelled of peaches and little girl, and Frieda gave her a long hug before answering.
‘I don’t know, Maggie,’ she said. ‘Nobody knows for sure…’ They lay looking at the glittering sky for a long minute before Frieda spoke again. ‘Some people believe that when a person dies, he or she becomes a star, and in that way, stay with us forever.’
Maggie lifted her head and looked down at Frieda, searchingly. Her eyes seemed very big in her small face, and she asked, with the innocence only a small child has, ‘Do you believe that Frieda?’
‘I do,’ Frieda lied, and Maggie asked, ‘Can I choose one?’
‘Of course you can,’ the woman said.
‘Any one?’
‘Just any one you want - or like.’ There was a catch in her voice and a frog in her throat and Frieda said, ‘Who knows, you may be right…’
Above them, the Milky Way and a million other stars flickered and twinkled and shone in the indigo sky, and Maggie lay looking at them for a long, long time.
Then she turned and hid her face in Frieda’s neck, and hugged her with all her little strength; and Frieda held her tight while she cried.
11
He was a third as big as centuries ago, but still three feet tall and big for a dwarf. He still wore a white robe with a belt of braided golden thread, and still talked and sang to the plants and trees and rocks; they still leaned to one side and pulled their roots deeper, or rolled out of the way to make his passage easier.
Even so, it took him more than an hour to pass through first the Petrified - and then the Magic Forest; and he had to brush away and shout “Bad Fairy!” to at least three of the little sprites, who tried distracting him into mischief, or worse.
But at last, he was at the forest’s edge, and with love in his ancient eyes, stood looking at the silver-green and darkly-golden meadows of Rainbow’s End, stretching away into the night. The grass and sleeping flowers waved gently in the slightest of breezes, the moon painted all an ethereal, ghostly glow.
He greeted them in the language of life, which was also that of the Magari: he sighed and breathed and whispered, and their stalks and stems seemed to bend a bit more - a bit deeper.
And then he cupped his hands in front of his mouth, and the sound he made was long and shrill. It was the sound of a mare in oestrus, but also of life and time itself. It encompassed a multitude of its noises and sounds - some slumbering only in memory. The call of the Golden Eagle; the grunt of a tortoise; the warbling of a Sandgrouse; the challenge of a Mustang… He went still, and the whole world, even the crickets around him, followed suit, waiting…
Then - suddenly, after what seemed like only seconds, the air was filled with a rhythmic beat that seemed to shake the earth beneath his feet: it came rapidly closer, and then, like a great grey ghost materialising out of the dark, a huge horse appeared, and almost on its haunches, slid to a stop in front of him.
It was Rainbow’s End’s reigning stallion; he snorted and tossed his head up and down and to the sides, and stood prancing in place - waiting for the dwarf’s command. The children called him Pegasus - after a flying horse that had lived on the Earth before the human race had slain or banished all of its gods and demi-gods. (No matter that only a very few of them were evil. What mattered, was that they were different).
The small man called him by a different name - like nothing the human ear has ever heard. It was another sigh, but at the same time a song and a caress, and the great steed folded his front legs under his massive chest, allowing the dwarf to swing one of his legs over its thickly muscled neck. It stood back up, and when his passenger started singing again, took off. The dwarf clung to his flying mane with both hands, and the song he sang was not just for the horse, but for the moon and the trees and the grass and the flowers flashing by, as they thundered and tore across the length of Rainbow’s End.
They travelled fast and the trees and rocks made way as best they could. The several small streams they passed through, turned the stallions flying hoofs to flashing wet chunks of onyx, and when they raced through Orson’s bit of forest, the two old Travellers stirred and moaned and grunted in their wine and whiskey induced slumber.
It seemed like only a few short minutes before they reached their destination, and the horse went down on its knees again, allowing his rider to dismount.
He thanked the stallion in its own language and asked it to wait, and the huge animal, not tired in the least, walked to the single willow tree growing nearby; with as little noise as possible folded its legs and lay down, doing its best not to disturb the yellow-coloured dog already sleeping there.
*
The protruding flat rock was already occupied. By a young woman. She stood and turned to the dwarf, and gave him a very beautiful and welcoming smile and said, ‘I bid you welcome Joshi, Last Master of the Magari, and Keeper of the Keys.’
He was very old and very wise and had known her for centuries, and he saw, and felt her loneliness. The hairy dwarf bowed to her and said, ‘I greet you Ariana, my friend… and my queen.’
She gestured at the lip of the rock and they both sat
down.
They had not seen each other for many months, (although - in terms of gods and dwarfs, that meant nothing), and spoke of what had happened during them far into the night. About the place and its people and the animals and the plants; and the crystals and the keys, and Orson and Kraylle. And at last - about Thomas.
‘I think we have found him, Joshi,’ said Ariana.
The small man closed his eyes, and for a long time, was quiet. When at last he spoke, his voice was soft, and beautiful as a song.
‘I knew something had changed. I have felt it this past five or six days. Weak at first - but getting stronger all the time.’ He paused, thinking, and then asked, ‘Was he sick, this boy?’
Ariana nodded and then, so did Joshi. ‘It explains why,’ he said. ‘His life-force - his Ri, was much depleted when he got here…his signal very weak.’ He looked at Ariana and his wise old eyes searched behind her own.
‘You can feel him too, can’t you? His will. His aura…?’
The young woman nodded and he smiled. ‘He is going to be strong,’ he said, simply.
The occasion was too important for the frog and cricket concert, and the goddess and the Magari sat contentedly listening and looking at the night for some time before Ariana spoke again.
‘His grandmother was Gypsy Rose,’ she said.
The dwarf stayed silent, and for a while, Ariana thought he hadn’t heard. But then he looked at her again and asked the same question as she had of Annie that morning.
‘You are sure?’ he asked. ‘The grandson of Gypsy Rose? Our Gypsy Rose?’
Ariana nodded. ‘That’s what Annie says. She’s looked at Thomas’ photo-album, and she’s very sure.’ Ariana related what Annie had told her that morning, and when she finished, sat watching the dwarf for some time. His eyes were closed and she asked very softly. ‘What do you remember of Gypsy Rose, Joshi? Do you remember her at all?’
Rainbow's End - Wizard Page 11