Rainbow's End - Wizard

by Mitchell, Corrie

  Orson leaned forward and took a spoon from the empty ice cream container at his feet. He sat back and glared at it, and its silver metal handle almost leisurely elongated, stretching like chewing gum being pulled, becoming thin and impossibly long, then twirled and bent into a corkscrew shape, finally tying itself into a clump of knots.

  ‘Imagine,’ he said, ‘that this spoon,’ he waved the now useless lump of twisted metal through the air, ‘is somebody’s mind - somebody’s will. You can bend it, manipulate it, impose your will on it; make it obey you, do what you want it to do. All this you can do by looking at it - by “Pushing” it. Your eyes,’ he said, pointing at his own, ‘are your tools. Do you understand?’

  Thomas frowned, thinking, and then nodded. ‘I can make somebody do something, just by looking at him… or at her? Just by willing it? Anything?’

  Orson shook his head. ‘Not just by looking at them, no. You have to look into their eyes. Not at their eyes, but into their eyes... Behind their eyes. You have to “Push!” them.’ His voice was forceful, and he punctuated his words with a violent shoving away motion of his hand. ‘And not just anything,’ he said. ‘You cannot make people, or will people, to do something that clashes with their principles, their moral code, if you like.’ He thought about an example. ‘You cannot, for instance, make somebody steal, or murder.’ The seasoned Traveller was quiet for a few seconds. ‘Unless what you will him to do is acceptable to you both… if you both lack the basic human principle, conscience…’ he finished, then asked again, ‘Do you understand?’

  Thomas nodded and they sat listening to the night for a long minute. Orson let the fireball die and a little later Thomas heard him mutter, ‘I hope that dog behaves himself. Tessie shouldn’t be having puppies at her age…’

  *****

  ‘Three jumps,’ the Traveller said to the goddess.

  His shorts were muddy brown Safari style with lots of pockets, which Ariana was sure she’d seen him wear thirty years ago, his shirt a purple eyesore with a loud green paisley pattern, his sandals the stylish leather Gucci’s.

  She stared at him, and her eyes said that surely he must be wrong. ‘Only three? Orson, are you sure? It was not just a fluke?’ Ariana’s voice tailed off and her Traveller snorted impatiently.

  ‘After three he was perfect,’ Orson paused, ‘and then he got better. He lands like a ballet master, Ariana. And that’s not all…’ He told her about the fireballs. ‘The first night he almost burned down the forest; the next he was playing Ping-Pong and making fire circles... Already bored.’ He shook his head, troubled. ‘It took Gwendolynne almost a month to teach me what took him less than ten minutes to master.’

  ‘And you are the best; the most powerful Traveller ever,’ said Ariana softly, but matter of fact.

  Orson nodded sagely, accepting accolades where it was due. And it was the truth, after all. He remained glumly silent for a minute, then asked, ‘Do you remember what she, what Gwendolynne said on the night of Thomas’ initiation? About him going to be strong?’

  Ariana nodded. ‘Joshi actually said it before she did; the night he and I discovered Thomas’ parentage, or rather, his grand-parentage.’ She smiled at Orson, and they sat listening to the water fall and the distant sound of children playing. The finch and his wife were out.

  ‘Tell me about the Tanner boys,’ said Ariana.

  Orson shrugged. ‘They go fishing almost every day. Young Gary seems to have pulled them into his circle of boys fairly quick. They share a room, Thomas says, and its view is of the lake in Alaska - the place we fetched them from. It’s of springtime, not winter. They say that’s the way their father liked it.’

  Ariana nodded. ‘And the girl? Heather…?’

  ‘She’s fine,’ Orson said. ‘Her and her dog.’ He scowled. ‘Do you know that she practically called me a dirty old man when we fetched her? Not in so many words, but still…’ He fell gloomily silent and Ariana looked away, smiling. He was changing, this Traveller of hers. A few weeks ago, he would have cackled happily about things that bothered him now; like a young girl calling him a “dirty old man”.

  They sat basking in the friendly sun, in amiable silence, both busy with their own thoughts. A few sun beetles started their particularly monotonous “whirrr” in the grass behind, and somewhere to the west, out of sight, one of the fish eagles called to its mate.

  ‘Maggie has to go back,’ Ariana said, her voice a sigh and sounding sad.

  ‘The little one?’ Orson asked and she nodded.

  ‘It is going to break Frieda’s heart,’ he said.

  The goddess gave another nod and her dark eyes were troubled. ‘I hate it when my people are unhappy, Orson.’ Her eyes found his. ‘You most of all. You have been unhappy for so long…’

  He looked away, embarrassed, and gave a small shrug. ‘It is better now,’ he said.

  ‘I know.’ Ariana squeezed his hand. A second later, she asked, ‘Do you think Thomas can Travel on his own, Orson?’

  ‘If he knows where to land, yes.’ Orson didn’t hesitate.

  ‘Scotland?’

  ‘Yes.’ He nodded.

  When he left a few minutes later, Ariana called after him, ‘Orson?’

  He turned back, waiting.

  ‘Ask Thomas to come and see me tomorrow morning, please.’

  He grunted.

  ‘And Orson?’ He waited. ‘I like your tan,’ said Ariana. ‘It suits you… with the hair.’ Her eyes went to his neatly cut grey hair. ‘It makes you look very…distinguished. Like a ship’s captain, or an admiral…someone who spends a lot of time in the sun.’

  He said nothing, but his tan turned a little darker, and when he walked off, there was a spring in his step.

  *****

  ‘You want me to do what?!’

  Outside, the wind had picked up speed again, moaning and sweeping the barren rock of Desolation clean. A few small bits of fabric and thread, left by the heap of blankets carried inside by the boys in black, resisted at first - clinging and hooking onto and into unseen grooves and minutely sharpened points worn into the stones surface; their grip tenuous at best and soon torn loose, gathered and carried away to wherever in the cosmos the howling winds went to.

  Elsewhere, the young men who called themselves the Night Walkers, huddled together in a small room in another wing of the castle, afraid to come face to face with Kraylle; waiting for Bryan Stone to call them, and to tell them everything was all right.

  ‘I want you to change some blankets into mattresses,’ said Bryan Stone to the giant demi-god. He pointed to some neatly folded blankets in the room’s four corners. ‘Good mattresses,’ he said, ‘not cheap foam rubbish.’

  Kraylle lifted a sardonic eyebrow. ‘And how do you want me to do that, pray tell.’ In a mocking tone.

  In the same way you changed a pile of dirty blankets on my room’s floor into a bed with a mattress, pillows, duvet and extra blankets - all new and clean.’ Bryan’s tone became almost pleading. ‘Please, Kraylle,’ he said. ‘I have a plan with all this… the new clothes and sleeping stuff.’ He waved an arm at the room’s arched entrance, the passage. ‘These boys: you call them your soldiers, but all they are, are hooligans really. What I want is to turn them into real soldiers.’ The boy’s voice was serious and Kraylle’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘Like sergeant major…’ he searched behind Bryan’s eyes, ‘Barry,’ he whispered, cruelly. ‘Barry is your real name, isn’t it Bryan Stone? And you want to be like your father: like father - like son?’ His voice mocked - ‘Sergeant Major Bryan Stone?’

  The boy shook his head vehemently. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not like him. Never like him.’ His blue eyes flashed and there was fervid passion in his voice. ‘I want to be like you… Or as near as it is possible to be.’

  Kraylle looked piercingly at the boy with the reddish glimmer in his hair and the pale-blue eyes. Time seemed to stop for a minute, and then, without another word - just a sweeping glance of his brooding black eyes, the b
lankets changed into four thick mattresses, still wrapped in plastic.

  They - hulking demi-god and boy - stepped into and across the passage, into another room. Another sweeping glance, and four more blankets became beds.

  ‘Anything else?’ the fur-wrapped giant asked his little general, sarcastically.

  ‘Yes sir, three more rooms,’ answered Bryan Stone. ‘And then a shower room.’

  ‘A shower room!’ the demi-god exclaimed exasperatedly. ‘And…?’

  ‘A stove… a microwave…’ Bryan’s voice tailed off - uncertain, and Kraylle’s black eyes lifted to the cold grey roof of his castle.

  ‘A proper bloody hotel this place is turning into,’ he said; and almost as an afterthought - ‘Ye gods.’

  24

  Orson shook his head slowly from side to side and took another step closer, causing the foot end of Thomas’ bed to press into the tops of his short legs. ‘That’s not what he looked like at all,’ he said, frowning at the poster of Merlin.

  The sun coming through Thomas’ large window did not fall directly on the large picture, but it made the dark blue-blacks and greys shimmer with life.

  ‘Hamish knew him personally,’ and in answer to Thomas’ questioning look - ‘He was the fourth Traveller. He went back… oh, about forty years ago. Anyway…’

  Thomas frowned, confused, and Orson asked ‘What?’

  ‘Hamish?’ Thomas’ voice hesitated and Orson, eyebrows raised, nodded. ‘What about him?’ he asked.

  ‘He was the fourth Traveller?’

  ‘I said so, didn’t I?’ Orson frowned in turn, wondering where this was leading.

  Thomas made some quick calculations, then continued, ‘So he was the Traveller about ten centuries ago?’

  ‘Twelve,’ Orson replied. ‘From 886 to 920. In Earth time of course.’

  Thomas nodded in turn. ‘But how could you have spoken to him just forty-odd years ago if he was the Traveller some twelve-hundred years ago, and “went back”, as you said?’

  Orson’s eyebrow subsided. ‘Ahhh…,’ he said. ‘You thought…’ He smiled, ‘A lot of Travellers become “Wise Ones”, or “Dwarves”, as they’ve been calling themselves lately, first, Thomas. Then, after a few centuries; sometimes more than a few, as in Hamish’s case, they decide they would rather go back. They get tired. Even Chester has considered it a few times.’

  ‘You mean they want to die?’ Thomas asked, disbelief in his young voice.

  Orson nodded. ‘If you’ve lived for a thousand years or more, maybe you’d feel the same.’ He cackled, added, ‘After all, the liver can only take so much.’

  ‘Anyway…’ He waved one hand at Merlin and said, ‘He had a big dent on the left side of his head - he fell on it when he was a baby. Supposedly, that was what “opened” him. And he was short.’ Orson drew himself up to his full, inconsiderable height, pushing out his chest and squaring his shoulders. ‘And very thin: consumptive, Hamish said…’ Another second later, ‘Oh yes, he had bad teeth and his breath stank something awful.’

  He turned around and stood facing the view of the valley, his hands in his pants pockets and rocking back and forth on the heels of his sandals. ‘When did you change the view?’ he asked. He saw Thomas frown. ‘John told me,’ he said. ‘Rockham, wasn’t it?’ Thomas nodded. ‘Well, this is better.’ Orson went to the poster of Everest and stood looking at it for a long minute, then moved on to the one with the Pyramids of Giza. After a few more seconds of contemplation, he said, ‘You have an outstanding memory Thomas.’ He leaned closer, squinted. ‘I couldn’t have done it better, and I’ve been there dozens of times.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Orson’s eyelid lifted a fraction but he said nothing, just grunted.

  ‘Ariana would like to see you,’ he said. ‘I think it has something to do with the little one.’

  ‘Maggie?’ Thomas asked.

  ‘Mmmh’ Orson grunted again, his attention on the poster of the snow-capped, early spring mountains of Alaska.

  *

  They sat on the wide windowsill, both sipping contentedly from the cans of their soft drinks. Icy dewdrops stippled and ran down the metal sides. The sun was lethargic; the breeze soft and pleasing.

  ‘Orson?’

  ‘Mmmh?’ He wiped some drops from his mouth with the back of his hand and his patchy stubble made a scratchy sound.

  ‘Tell me about Gwendolynne,’ said Thomas.

  Orson frowned - surprised, then asked, ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘She taught you, right? She was your… Sponsor?’ The last was said hesitantly and Orson nodded. ‘And you are the strongest Traveller ever?’ Orson nodded again - not shy. ‘That means she must have been pretty strong herself, doesn’t it?’ Thomas asked.

  The old Traveller brooded for a minute, then said, ‘Gwendolynne was very strong. If she had stayed, she would have been incredibly strong - a lot stronger than me. Nobody knows where she came from, but the little memory Ariana could find, seems to point in the direction of an ancestry adept in Shamanism, Mysticism.’

  ‘What’s...Shamanism?’ Thomas pronounced the word slowly, unsure about getting it right.

  Orson nodded and repeated after him: ‘Shamanism. I have a book on it you can read if you want. I’ve had it for as long as I can remember, just never got round to it.’ Then - ‘I never was one for reading much,’ he muttered, apologetically. He was silent then for a few seconds, mulling over Thomas’ question some more. ‘Shamanism - Shamans, are people with higher developed senses, I suppose. People with a higher level of awareness… that have access to the memories... and abilities of previous generations, forebears.’

  Thomas thought about what Orson had said for a while, and then asked, ‘Like the memories and abilities you and Izzy gave me?’

  Orson grimaced. ‘In a way, Thomas,’ he said. ‘A very small way. But we only gave you memories. The abilities - your powers - they come from somewhere else. Some of it - some small part, from your grandmother and her forebears. Gypsy’s have ties to Shamanism… Some say its origins lay with them. And to some of them, it is very much a part of life; if not a way of life.’ He grinned. ‘Like the one who caused Chester to land up here.’ Then, serious once more, he leaned forward so his face was close to Thomas’, his grey eyes serious. ‘You cannot compare your powers to those of Shamans, Thomas.’ he said.

  ‘You,’ he placed a hand on Thomas’ sandy hair. ‘You are a thousand times more powerful, and in a few years from now, your powers will be vast: wonderful or terrible - depending from which side they are looked at.’

  *****

  Something woke Thomas. A feeling: a change in the room’s atmosphere. Whatever it was, he was suddenly very wide awake. The night air coming through his open windows smelled of grass and flowers, and was pleasantly fresh, allowing him to sleep under a soft cotton sheet only. It slid off his chest as he scooted back and lifted himself on his elbows. The huge white cheese of a moon, cast a golden swathe across the shining top of his desk. It also cast an ethereal glow around the small man sitting cross-legged on top of it, hair and beard a ghostly halo. Thomas - surprised at being unsurprised - slid the pillow lying next to him on top of the one at his back, and moving further back, half-lay-half-sat against them and the beds headboard. He kept quiet, knowing words from him were not necessary. They looked at each other for a long silent minute, and then came the familiar sing-song voice.

  ‘I am the Keeper of the Keys,’ Joshi said, fingering the large key dangling from its chain around his neck. Impossible as it would seem - in the half-dark and from a distance of five or six metres - Thomas could see the Magari’s facial expression (serious), and, he imagined, his wise brown eyes.

  ‘But I am also Rainbow’s End’s historian, its scribe, its archivist - whichever you deem most suitable. I am also Ariana’s and her Traveller’s advisor. I say this humbly, especially in Ariana’s case. She is infinitely wiser than I could ever be, but sometimes two heads are better than one.’


  He fell quiet, as if waiting, and Thomas, puzzled, asked, ‘Why have you come here, Joshi? To my room, I mean.’

  ‘To answer that which you do not know, Thomas. What else?’ The wizened old face in the moonlight bore genuine surprise at the boy’s question. ‘Remember - I am one of your teachers. Your training will take many, many years. And then some more… And one day, when you are either dead or a Wise One yourself, you will still not know everything there is to know about Rainbow’s End. I have existed here for thousands of years, and I still don’t. Neither does Ariana - goddess or not.’ He fell silent then, and after a while Thomas asked - ‘Anything? I can ask anything?’

  Joshi nodded sagely, and the halo surrounding his head shimmered. ‘Anything it is in my power to answer,’ he said.

  Thomas thought about the Magari’s answer for a second, and then asked, ‘The little people, Joshi. Where do they come from?’

  ‘No one knows.’ Joshi shrugged. ‘They are as old as the Magic Forest itself. They have always been here. As far back as memory reaches. They don’t talk - except to each other, and as you saw, they’re extremely shy. We’ve had a curse or a virus, or something, on Rainbow’s End - for more than a thousand cycles. Long before Ariana came. We called it the “Barren Curse”. She has told you about it?’ Thomas nodded, and then Joshi too. ‘It caused the extinction of the Magari, and also decimated the ranks of the Little People,’ he said. ‘But thankfully, they seemed to have come through it.’

  ‘The curse is gone?’ Thomas asked, and the last of the Magari nodded. ‘You are the living proof of it,’ he said. ‘Your mother was conceived here.’

  Thomas took some time mulling over this last statement, and then asked another question - one which the hairy dwarf’s previous reply had given rise to. ‘Tell me about the Magic Forest, Joshi?’