Rainbow's End - Wizard

by Mitchell, Corrie

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘The crystal is part of you now, Thomas. You cannot leave it, as and when you want to.’ Adding, ‘When the time comes, it will leave you.’

  ‘Then how will I give it back?’ Thomas was genuinely perplexed.

  ‘There are only two ways,’ Joshi said. ‘The first is when it is replaced by the next crystal; a stronger crystal. The other, well… one day - in a month from now, or even a year, you would be walking in the sun on this Earth you are returning to, and the crystal would just be gone from you… And when I look again, it will be laying in its velvet nest with its friends. It will have sensed that you don’t need it anymore; it would have forgotten you, so to speak.’ The Magari sat staring into the night, seeing things that Thomas knew he never would.

  When he turned to look into the boys green eyes, his own were sadly-soft. ‘But you, Thomas,’ he said, ‘you would not have that luxury. You would not forget. You are a Traveller, and unlike other children who forget this place, you would not. Never. You would always remember what you had… what could have been…’

  He slowly got to his feet and stood shimmering in the silvery moonlight; and looked at the still-seated Thomas with kind eyes. ‘What was it fairy-George said earlier?’ he asked, and then answered his own question: ‘Pride is a terrible thing?’ Adding, ‘Is it not one of your seven deadly sins?’

  Thomas got to his feet as well, and stood looking at the Magari. ‘What would you have me do, Joshi?’ he asked, miserably. ‘You know I cannot stay - not after what happened tonight.’

  Joshi’s eyes were filled with compassion. He took one of Thomas’ hands in both of his own and held it in a soft, but firm grip. ‘I will tell you two things, Thomas,’ he said. ‘One: it would be much, much better for you, if you stayed.’ He searched behind Thomas’ eyes for long seconds, and then - not finding what he had hoped for, placed a hand on the boy’s breastbone. ‘The second my queen has already told you,’ he said. ‘You have to follow your heart.’

  And without another word, he turned and walked into the stream. The rocks rose up to meet his sandaled feet and it started to rain…

  *

  The cave was silent and sleeping when Thomas went to his room. He sat on his bed for a long time, and let his eyes and mind wander; taking in as little as he can; storing as few memories as possible. A large glass jar filled with sparkling rubies, emeralds, sapphires and diamonds stood on his desk; the other gems tinting the colourless diamonds with shades of their own. Next to the first, a second jar stood brim-full with shiny golden nuggets. The former had been collected while spelunking with Gary a few weeks ago; the latter whilst diving in the Golden Pool.

  He took only an olive-green canvas backpack with a single change of clothes. A pair of denim pants, a T-shirt, polo-necked jersey and running shoes. Some underclothes and socks. Toothbrush, toothpaste, a comb… And his photo album.

  *

  The birds started up first; the warbling of francolin and the far-off panicky-sounding shriek of a peacock. Other assorted “cheeps” and the grey shadow of an owl winging home in the fading violet of predawn. The air turned a faint pinkly-orange, and when the sun peered over the high-up rim of the cliff, the Rainbow - in a dazzling amalgam of colours - shot silently into the air and curved over the waterfall.

  On the bank of the Rainbow Pool stood a boy with straw-coloured hair and very green eyes; and the red beam of the Rainbow bent towards the crystal in his hand. And Thomas Ross was gone.

  *****

  The cave was quiet and most everybody still asleep.

  Maggie had woken up when the feel of the first rays of the sun, less than an hour ago, had caused the large hole in the roof of the central cavern to slide noisily open. Annie had helped her, still half-asleep, to open first her own, and then Frieda’s door; and then closing it behind the little girl, without waiting to see into which of the two sleeping women’s beds she climbed.

  *

  Now was Annie’s favourite time of day: when everything seemed new and fresh, still wet and washed clean by the rain of just over an hour ago; a time when she felt, albeit guiltily-selfish - that Rainbow’s End was hers alone. She was following the same old morning routine she had for years uncounted - making her bed and just tidying in general: dusting here and there, and straightening or moving some of the dolls (she could have done it all with as little as a thought, but enjoyed doing it this way. With her hands). Some small birds were cavorting and singing in a tree outside the opened window, and Annie smiled at the first screeching call of a fish eagle.

  In a few minutes, she would go see Arnold, and together they would plan the day’s menu. Not that it helped much, she thought wryly. He would lean forward across the table they were sitting at, staring seriously at what she was writing, and with great studiousness nod his agreement at her suggestions. Then, at meal time produce something totally different to what they had agreed on - mostly to Annie’s chagrin and the children’s delight.

  And when chastised, the unrepentant chef would just - with a shrug of his shoulders and a twirl of his small moustache - mumble something about the “creative spirit overcoming him”, and, “if he didn’t give in to it, it would stop coming, wouldn’t it?”

  “And where would Rainbow’s End be then?” he would ask. “Left with a mediocre chef, making mediocre food - that’s where,” he would answer himself, in his atrocious French accent. He could (and would, if allowed), feed Rainbow’s End on ice-cream, desserts and milkshakes, Annie thought.

  A small knock had her straightening from tucking in the corner of a sheet, frowning. She thought the door open, and revealed an unhappy looking Orson in its frame, frowning as if the whole world rested on his shoulders.

  ‘Have you seen Thomas, Annie?’ he asked.

  *

  ‘I’ve knocked but he doesn’t open his door,’ Orson said.

  Annie was sitting on the edge of her bed, Orson perched on the small stool of her dressing table. The two easy chairs just metres away seemed unsuitable for the moment.

  ‘Why are you looking for him so early?’ she asked, and after a mumbled reply from Orson - ‘he’s what?’

  ‘He’s run off.’ The reply was still mumbled, almost inaudible.

  ‘What do you mean, “run off”, Orson? And why?’ Annie frowned. ‘And speak up, will you,’ she added. ‘I know you can. That croaky nonsense doesn’t wash with me - you know it doesn’t.’

  ‘He ran off because I shouted at him.’ Orson spoke up, louder than necessary.

  ‘Why?’ Annie asked, with narrowed eyes, her tone ominous, ‘Why did you shout at him, Orson?’

  ‘Because of Maggie’s grandmother.’ He lowered his grey eyes before her blue ones, unhappily.

  ‘Because he brought her back here?’ He nodded glumly and looked the other way. ‘But that was his choice,’ said Annie. ‘A Traveller is allowed his own discretion - you know that.’

  Orson nodded again, still unhappy. ‘That’s not all,’ he said, fidgeting, and not meeting Annie’s eyes; then, at Annie’s narrowed-eyed look, ‘I ridiculed him; humiliated him…’

  ‘Oh no, Orson.’ Annie stared at the Traveller, aghast. ‘Please say you didn’t - not Thomas.’ And after a long silence, ‘What have you done, Orson Frazier?’

  He lowered his eyes. ‘I wasn’t thinking,’ he said, trying to defend himself, if only half-heartedly. ‘I was not expecting him back until tomorrow at least, don’t you see?

  ‘He said that he might drop in and see Izzy, and maybe visit Pine Cottage… That’s Rosie’s old house…’ Orson added lamely. He exhaled in a long ragged sigh, grey eyes begging Annie to understand.

  ‘You had too much to drink,’ Annie interrupted, and at his silent, downcast look, ‘Let’s go try his room again.’

  *

  There was no reply, and Annie, thinking that he might still be asleep, tried again, knocking louder. Finally, she called out Thomas’ name and opened his door. The room inside was cold as an ice box and dark, t
he curtains drawn. There was no one inside, the unslept-in bed without as much as a wrinkle on its cover.

  Orson impatiently pushed past Annie, and she followed him in, then saw his shoulders slump.

  ‘He’s not here, Orson,’ she said, unnecessarily.

  ‘I can see that,’ Orson brusquely answered, and at a warning look from her, said, ‘I’m sorry, Anna…’ (He was the only person on Rainbow’s End who occasionally called her by her Christian name), ‘It’s just… I need to speak to him, see? I need to apologise - to tell him that I’m sorry. Before it’s too late.’ His voice tailed off, old suddenly, and tired.

  ‘He’s gone, Orson,’ Annie said, and this time the true inflection behind her words struck at the old Traveller’s heart.

  ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head and taking a step backwards, towards the still open door. ‘No,’ he said again, more forcefully, and then accused - ‘How can you say that, Annie?’ And less certain. ‘How can you know that?’

  Annie pointed at the gloomy-bare bedside table, and her voice was ineffably sad, when she said, ‘His album, Orson. He took his photo album.’ She went to the dark blue curtains printed with the heavenly bodies; sickle-shaped moons, stars, planets with rings around them, and comets, and meteorites… She pulled the hanging folds slowly apart and confirmed what she was afraid of.

  The light entering the window was a dull, heavy grey, and it snowed outside…

  From above the bed Thomas’ favourite wizard, his role-model, looked down at them. Annie heard his soft groan and watched Orson’s grey-looking face age before her eyes. Her gaze followed his to the poster of Merlin. Purple wart and droopy eyelid, fluffy-white hair and clutching his staff like an avenging sword - his expression resolute, his mien invincible; the face of Orson the Traveller stared down at them.

  28

  He Travelled for less than a minute, but the time-curve Thomas used, landed him behind Pine Cottage in the late afternoon. The sun’s position above the treetops to the west indicated at least another couple of hours of daylight. Winter had lost its hold and was officially over, but, as at Edith Carter’s house the previous day, the air still had a bite to it. Also, because Northumberland was further south and a bit warmer, more and bigger patches of green showed in the grass surrounding the house.

  The cottage had been given a fresh coat of paint recently, and its walls sparkled a clean white, its roof tiles cerise. The key to the back door was where it had always been, under the bristly Welcome mat below the bottom step, and the door opened soundlessly after Thomas unlocked it. Somebody had been in to clean, the last day or two, and the air inside was fresh, but warmer - cosier than out; welcoming and familiar. Strangely, a glass stood upside down on the yellow plastic drip tray, almost exactly where Thomas had left one when he left. It created the feel that he had never been gone at all.

  He put his canvas bag on the scarred old kitchen table, and then walked slowly into the rest of the house. The passage was dusky-dark: the curtains of the rooms leading from it had been pulled closed; but the pine floor shone softly yellow-brown in the light falling through the frosted pane of the front door. The grandfather clock was ticking again; a deep, rhythmic welcome.

  Grammy’s room was the way it always had been: neat and ordered and everything in its place; and Thomas blocked the last images he had of it. His own was just as he left it, and to his stunned surprise, on top of his bed, the backpack and sleeping bag he’d left in the forestry cabin.

  He pulled wide the curtains and his posters came to life; his desktop gleamed in the sunlight falling across the room. The lounge was also as he had left it, right down to the unlit logs in the cast-iron grate. He opened the curtains of both windows - north and west - and friendly light found the room, highlighting the round dining room table and the worn sofa.

  The small entrance hall was still crowded with the old clock and the telephone table, and Grammy’s coat hung on its hook.

  *****

  The sun was still strong, but sinking towards the far-off Magic forest and mountains when Orson got to Ariana’s Pool. She was sitting on the Talking Rock, and he thought that she came out of the water a lot more often, as he sat down next to her; silently except for a tired sigh. They did not speak for a long time: it was not necessary. The finch came swooping over their heads, trailing a long green stalk of grass. He landed on his newest half-finished nest, into which he busily started weaving it - clambering all over and hanging upside down. When he’d finished, he raucously invited praise, and Ariana silenced him with a glance. Orson saw Tessie sleeping in the shade of the tree.

  ‘Thomas is missing,’ he said then. ‘I’ve been looking for him all day.’ Forlornly.

  Ariana gave a small nod and when she looked at Orson, her eyes were an even deeper blue than normal. They were shadowed and sad, and she said softly, ‘I’ve been waiting for you all day.’ An unexpected little whirlwind dropped some red and gold-tinted maple leaves, from somewhere down the valley, on the pool’s surface, and they watched them slowly turn in circles and float peacefully downstream.

  ‘Thomas Travelled at first light this morning,’ Ariana said.

  *****

  He was sitting cross-legged in the middle of his bed, various items strewn all around. Mostly clothes, but also a few cans of tinned food and some dehydrated veggies; powdered mashed potatoes, eggs and milk; two small bags of cornflakes; knife, fork and spoon set; a small flashlight… Everything was there. Everything Grammy Rose and he had so carefully - mindful of the limited space - selected. Even his wallet - with a thousand pounds in cash in it, rolled into a thick pair of woollen socks.

  If not for the season’s passing, and the light switching on when he thought about doing it, Thomas could almost imagine that the past few months had never happened. He switched on his small portable radio with another look, and was just in time to catch the weather forecast for the next day. A small male voice was saying - “And here’s what the weather holds in store for tomorrow, the tenth of April…” Thomas stared at the small box with astonishment. He had been gone for almost three months.

  *

  Later… It was as easy starting a fireball on the Earth as on Rainbow’s End, and Thomas lit the fire with one. He’d been sitting in the half-dark of the lounge for a half an hour or more; the only light falling through the open door of his bedroom and into the passage; its dim gleam in turn filtered into the sitting room. Earlier - not feeling up to preparing a proper meal - he’d had some powdered eggs, and then come to the familiar old sofa, where he’d been sitting ever since, staring at nothing and thinking about nothing, his mind dismally blank.

  He heard a car stop outside and a door loudly slam, and seconds later, a knock on the front door; almost immediately after, the ring of a discovered doorbell. He got up slowly, not knowing who to expect, and not ready for whoever it might be. The door had a Yale lock; Thomas switched on the outside light, and with both hands, opened it.

  The man in the pool of the outside light had grey hair and a weathered face: golf and salmon fishing. He had his black cap tucked under his left arm, and squinted into the half-dark of the house, then uttered an astonished, ‘Thomas? Is it you, boy?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Thomas said, and followed with - ‘Good Evening, sir.’ It was Sergeant Wilson, Rockham’s police officer.

  He followed Thomas into the small lounge, all the while twisting and turning his hat in his large hands. ‘I thought I saw a light burning from the top of the road when I drove past…’

  *

  ‘And this adopted father of yours: Mr. Greenbaum?’ Thomas nodded and the sergeant took a gulp of his coffee. ‘Is he going to join you here?’ he asked, and before Thomas could reply, said, ‘I’ve met him, you know… What a nice man - told me to call him Izzy.’ Another gulp. ‘He was here to arrange a stone for Rose’s grave,’ he dropped his eyes self-consciously and cleared his throat before continuing, ‘and to arrange for the house to be painted and looked after.’

  ‘Who
does it?’ Thomas asked. ‘Who looks after the house?’

  ‘Marge does - from the village. Rosie’s old friend, the hairdresser. You remember her, don’t you?’ Thomas nodded.

  ‘I thought she’d forgotten a light on when she’d left this morning…’ Sergeant Wilson took another swallow of coffee, and then, unable to contain himself any longer, asked, ‘Where were you Thomas, when… after Rose passed away? The whole of Rockham and Firham were out looking for you - for days…’

  Thomas hated lying, but knew no other way out. He replied, vaguely, ‘I really can’t remember, sir. I remember walking into the woods… and after that not very much. Those first few days are like a blank…’

  Sergeant Wilson nodded his grey head sagely, knowingly. ‘Shock,’ he pronounced, like a doctor the mumps. ‘Some forestry people brought your rucksack and some other things into the police station a week or so after you’d gone missing… We feared the worst. And then we were notified that you’d been adopted by Mr. Greenbaum - Izzy; and that the house now belonged to you. I just brought the rucksack and everything and left it with Marge. I hope there’s nothing missing…?’ Sergeant Wilson ran out of breath.

  ‘Everything’s there, sir. Thank you,’ Thomas said.

  They talked for another hour before the old policeman, regretfully, replaced his empty mug on its oversized saucer, refusing another, which would have been his fourth. At the door he paused, and asked Thomas, ‘Would you like for me to come fetch you tomorrow? Take you to see where we’ve buried your gran? Rose…’ Awkward again.

  ‘I would like that very much, if it is not too much trouble sir,’ Thomas answered, and the policeman nodded, ignoring the last.