The ground rose up in thunderously groaning waves - numerous and higher and much longer in length than before, starting right against the mine and ending scant metres from the tree-line, causing the very jungle itself to shake and tremble and sway. A hellish cacophony of screaming and screeching erupted from it: monkeys and birds - the former fleeing deeper into its murky depths, the latter taking wing in droves and flocks of multi-coloured clouds.
When the waves moved, they were fast - very fast. Like playing cards or dominoes set in rows, each set to topple the next once the first had been nudged, so they ran. Just metres apart, they undulated through the already broken up earth, and then - powered by the incredible strength and fury of the young Traveller - erupted in flying clods and clouds of still-damp soil, flowing together until just one massively seething, undulating and rolling, speeding brown mass, hovered over by slowly-drifting dust.
They surged under the cement slab once more, and the already broken up chunks crumpled further and exploded with bangs in puffs of grey. Tons of earth heaved and then catapulted the huge yellow bulldozer somersaulting nearly a hundred metres into the air; on a parabolic course that had it slamming down on its roof with an ear-shattering “whump” and the snap and crackle of breaking things. It bounced once, high into the air again - leaving one of its ugly metal tracks behind, and dropped over the first precipice of many, into the huge hole, crashing on its side onto the first ten metre wide level below; then executed a half-turn and dropped down another six metres, landing right side up this time, and then another level, and another - rolling and somersaulting - all the time picking up speed until seconds later and in a last huge cloud of dust, crashing onto and settling in the big arena below; a large, crumpled, good for nothing lump of steel.
But it was not finished. The brown waves of soil went under the two workshops and picked them off their temporary foundations - pulling them apart like little matchstick houses, shattering and breaking window-panes and frames and doors and roofs, and taking their debris along like flotsam before a flood.
Next, the container-offices and more breaking glass - their rectangular shapes also carried off like toys, rolling and bobbing in a sea of brown and a pall of boiling dust.
The long dormitory-buildings followed, and here a continuous cacophony of shattering glass could be heard as they were heaved from their pole-perches and swept away, rolling and crumpling, their wooden frames breaking up until, finally, they were simply no more.
Last was the cook’s small house, and the kitchen and dining-room; even the vegetable garden.
And then the seething mass changed direction, and turned towards the open mine: sliding over its rim in a brown deluge of soil interspersed with human-made debris - steel, asbestos, concrete, glass, and more…
Still it was not over. Thomas paused and took a shuddering breath, and the ground slowly subsided as it waited for his next command, their next onslaught - a most agreeable and compliant partner and tool.
He swung around, facing the other way, and a still-kneeling Orson saw the boy’s eyes as mere slits - glittering green. His face was white as snow, and sweat was running down it in small rivers; his white T-shirt soaked. The old Travellers eyes went to his clenched hand - now pointing to the processing plant and the dumps - and his grey eyes bulged some more and went wide, stupefied by what he saw…
And the young Traveller gave another shout of rage, and another stamp of a foot that re-awoke the earth and had it tremble; another violently shoving motion with his free hand, and the crystal squeezed with uncommon young strength, and the destruction continued.
The undisturbed ground that lay at their backs, now rose up with more strength and higher if at all possible; became rippling waves that ploughed through and tossed huge clods and smaller stones high into the air, leaving behind another pall of dust while rushing with astonishing speed towards the southern end of the mine. It destroyed the entire road - from its exit-point out of the forest to where it dipped away into the massive hole of the mine; then continued on towards the extraction and separating plant - ripping huge motor-drums, conveyor belts, long stainless steel sorting tables, and other equipment worth millions of dollars from the cement seats they were bolted onto with ease, crumpling and ripping and tearing, carrying away each item in the brown sea.
And on… Towards the mounds of coal and the mountains of worked-out soil - sweeping under and bearing away their blacks and browns, their millions of tons. And changing direction again towards the mine - cascading and sliding over its edge, taking all of the collected debris with it.
Another shout rended the dust-laden air, and the ground shook anew as Thomas’ foot slammed into it once more; and with a commanding wave of both arms - crystal and “push”, the final act begun.
The rippling waves turned yet again - and this time they moved along the rim of the mine, faster and faster, until eventually, the whole of its almost five kilometre circumference was one heaving mass. Large cracks appeared in the vertical walls of its more than forty levels, and they quickly widened and deepened, until the destroyed bulldozer could easily have fitted into any of them. The shaking earth and gravity did the rest. Huge blocks of yet unmined ground - all weighing many hundreds of tons, started leaning away from their core, and slowly - beginning at the topmost level - broke away and fell crashing onto levels below: their weight starting another domino-effect, which this time, turned into a landslide of massive proportions, lasting many minutes. When eventually it ended, the massively huge, man-made hole had been half filled and had forty-five degree angled sides - reminding of an inverted, inactive volcanic mountain. The earth-moving vehicles that had stood on the mines floor far below, were covered by the millions of tons of ground they had spent years carting to its top.
Then - with a last, almost loving gesture - his voice soothing, and the sweep of his arm mesmeric, Thomas smoothed the large field of earth and rock, now less than a hundred metres down.
He stood back and turned to his grandfather, who had, eventually, with the aid of his staff, struggled to his feet, and in an infinitely weary voice asked, ‘Some rain, Orson?’
The old Traveller’s look was no longer mocking, and he nodded, not trusting himself to speak as yet. Then - to show his still-superior powers, he squared his shoulders and pointed his staff at the clear blue sky, grumbling and muttering to himself all the while.
And clouds started drifting in, swiftly, from over the forest and the far-off mountains, from all directions: fluffy white ones at first that became progressively darker as they fused and meshed with one another, until - just minutes later - the sky overhead was pregnantly-heavy and purple-grey, and all-the-time lightning inside its underbelly.
Then, with arms wide-spread and a hoarse shout of his own, Orson pointed his staff skywards once more, and in a magnificent display of wizardry (no other word will do) commanded down a thousand bolts of lightning. They flickered and played along the sides and the bottom of the half-filled hole for a long time, all the time accompanied by the rumbling of thunder: burning and melting and turning its soil and rock first a dull - and then a cherry-red, transforming it to magma, its sand into glass; sealing it like a huge swimming pool. Then a hundred claps of thunder: crashing and roaring and reverberating through the air, a few bone-rattling gusts of wind, and the skies came bucketing down - literally.
Some hours later, the first motor-vehicle (alerted by the “pushed” guard), arrived back at the used-to-be-mine. Drunk and half-drunk workers spilled and fell from it, and stood gaping in disbelief. A large lake - still murky and almost perfectly round lay before them. Flocks of Macaw flew over, and a beautiful rainbow spanned the whole of it…
39
‘It was blood, I tell you. Earth’s blood, but blood nonetheless. Nobody will convince me otherwise - not even you.’ Orson bulged his eyes at Ariana. ‘He squeezed it from his Crystal until it dripped off its chain, and every time a drop of it fell on the ground, he seemed to get angrier and stronger…’
The Traveller fell gloomily silent in recall.
The sun was setting and they sat on the Talking Rock, the goddess and the Traveller, watching the day end. The sun sinking behind the mountains to the west, cast a last golden glow on the surface of Ariana’s pool, and lit the crack in the cliff-wall, turning to liquid gold the water tumbling through it. The finch had gone to bed, and in the tall grass somewhere, a cricket began tuning his instrument.
‘I didn’t think it possible, truth be told,’ Orson continued. ‘There’s nothing like it in my memory - and that means all Travellers’ memory, as you well know.’ He gave Ariana a challenging glare, just to be disconcerted by her smile.
‘Tell me everything,’ she said. ‘From the beginning.’ The last edge of sun slipped away, and all was suddenly shadow; stars began appearing in the darkening sky.
‘The first quake,’ Orson spoke hesitantly - as if searching for the right words, ‘broke up a huge slab of cement. There were three earth-moving vehicles standing on it: two lorries and a bulldozer. One of the lorries was tossed about twenty metres into the air. Like a toy.’ He shook his head, remembering.
‘The second tremor was stronger.’ Orson glanced at Ariana, but she remained silent, wrapped by the early dark. ‘A lot stronger,’ he continued. ‘As if he’d just been testing his capabilities at first, and was now ready for greater things, so to speak. It tore through the remainder of that slab like a thousand jack-hammers, and tossed the second lorry at least twice as high as the first. The impact when it struck the earth was tremendous… totally wrecking it.’ Another silent shake of his head.
The tip of the huge old moon peered shyly over the edge of the cliff, and then, slowly, it drifted into full sight. It stopped in the middle of the star-speckled sky, and hung there; its twin drifted in the water below Orson and Ariana’s dangling feet. More crickets joined the first, and downstream somewhere, two frogs began talking.
And Orson went on…
‘I did the sums,’ he said. ‘Thomas moved more than half a billion cubic metres of rock and soil into that huge hole. He half-filled it in less than half an hour.’ The Traveller glanced at Ariana again, to make sure she properly grasped what he was saying, then ruminated for a minute. ‘I used lightning to melt and solidify its bottom and sides, then filled it with water,’ he said then, deprecatingly. ‘It took me hours, and a lot of strength.’ As if to prove his point, he gave a ragged, drawn-out sigh, and leaned back on straightened arms.
They sat in silence for some time then, both busy with their own thoughts.
‘Where is he now?’ Ariana asked, and Orson snorted.
‘Sleeping, of course,’ he said. ‘We’re not all gods, you know.’
She nodded, suitably chastised, and they were companionably quiet again, staring at the floating moon and stars.
‘He’s getting stronger all the time, Ariana.’ Orson said then, unable to keep the pride from his voice. ‘All the time…’
40
‘Hardly home and she sends us off again,’ Orson grumbled. ‘I’m going to wring that finches scrawny neck one of these days.’
The bird had woken them an hour ago: First Orson, who had been snoring in his recliner after a late night of catching up on the life and woes of Basil Fawlty and friends; and then Thomas, still sleeping soundly after his mammoth exertions the previous day. Marcus and Andy Tanner eventually woke him with their persistent knocking, to tell the sleepy young Traveller that a finch, which had just flown out of the cave, had been fluttering around and clinging to his door-frame, squawking and kicking up a terrible racket. It had seemed stubbornly determined to get into Thomas’ room, and no amount of shooing and chasing could get rid of it, until, just seconds before Thomas opened the door, with an accomplished air about it, the bird had flown off. The brothers looked awkwardly embarrassed, as if recognising a tall tale when they heard one - never mind told one themselves. They’d been relieved when Thomas assured them the finch was a messenger, and he never doubted their claim for a minute. This was Rainbow’s End, after all.
The Travellers stepped aside to allow a policeman and woman, dressed in short-sleeved black uniforms and shining boots, astride two gleaming chestnut horses, to pass them. The officers gave the strange-looking pair not as much as a second glance: this was after all, Central Park.
They continued on their way, and Orson waved his staff at their surrounds. ‘Five million shrubs and trees they planted here,’ he said. ‘Back in the mid eighteen-hundreds.’
‘I know,’ Thomas replied, without thinking, and earned himself an affronted look.
‘You carry on then, smarty-pants - tell me what you know of this place,’ Orson said with a snooty sniff.
Thomas looked the other way, hiding his grin, and recited, as if reading: ‘Central Park is eight hundred and fifty acres, or three hundred and twenty hectares in size. It was laid out in the mid eighteen-hundreds, and opened in 1876…’
‘They do things big, these Americans,’ Orson interjected, grudgingly, ‘even back then.’
Thomas nodded and continued, ‘The park houses a zoo, an art-museum, an open-air theatre, and ice-rink, three small lakes, fountains, athletic fields…’ A deep breath, ‘…footpaths, bicycle-paths, children’s playgrounds, picnic spots… And a police-station,’ he finished triumphantly.
Orson grunted, silently amazed at hearing the exact words in his head repeated to him - verbatim. He added, in a superior tone: ‘It was designed by Messrs. Olmstead and Vaux. They received a two-thousand dollar prize.’
‘I know,’ Thomas repeated, and laughed delightedly at his grandfather’s fresh glare.
It was Orson’s turn to look away - to hide his own grin. ‘Let’s go up here,’ he said, seconds later, when they reached a smaller path branching from the one they have been following. He led the way, and Thomas followed, knowing he was right; it felt right - their quarry was in this direction.
It was fourish on a Monday afternoon, towards the end of April and a wonderful spring-day in New York. The two Travellers had arrived half an hour ago; astounding two Japanese students having a picnic, who’d sat gaping at them in open-mouthed amazement as they nonchalantly walked out of the clump of trees they’d landed amongst, brushing leaves and twigs from their clothes. Orson greeted them in their own language - which, to Thomas’ delighted surprise, he understood - and they (the students) abruptly closed their mouths when the old man warned them about flies. They’d been aimlessly wandering since then, and when Thomas asked Orson how they would find what or whom they were looking for, he’d replied, simply, ‘We’ll know.’
The two youths needed their hair cut and washed; their clothing too. They’d waited for the old man and the boy to be well down the path, before stepping from behind some trees and blocking their escape. The one was tall and thin, the other small and thin; they both had a ferrety look about them.
‘Give, old man.’ The once bright-red, ironed-on heart on the smaller ones T-shirt, depicting the “love” in “I love New York”, was faded a sickly pink; patches had been peeled and picked from it - probably with the same grimy fingernails on the just-as-dirty hand held out to Orson.
The Traveller glared at him. ‘Give what?’ he asked.
‘Check out the eyes,’ Floyd,’ the tall one said, and Orson’s look swivelled in his direction.
‘What about my eyes?’ He sounded genuinely worried.
‘They’re falling out man,’ Floyd answered, and both young punks cracked up at this: the taller one holding his sides and leaning forward from the waist, hooting with laughter and repeating his friend Floyd’s remark, over and over.
The Travellers stood watching the clowns with long-suffering patience, and at last, after a minute or so, the small one - Floyd - pulled himself together sufficiently to repeat his earlier demand.
‘Now give me the stick, old man,’ he said, stepping closer and holding out his hand. His eyes went to the crystal seated at its top. ‘What is that thing, anyway,’ he asked. ‘What’s
it worth?’
Orson stood straighter and pushed out his insignificant chest. ‘It’s a staff,’ he said, huffily, ‘not a stick. And the “thing” you’re referring to is a crystal.’ He sniffed and his nose quivered. ‘It’s priceless,’ he said, as if to a fool. ‘It’s the only one in the Universe.’
His last remark caused some more hilarity, and then Floyd repeated, ‘Give it then.’
Orson shrugged and opened his fingers. ‘Take it,’ he said.
Floyd’s surprise was huge. He grabbed the long black staff, intending a quick get-away, but instead was stopped before starting. The staff clung to the old man’s palm as if glued there, as immovable as any one of the numerous lamp-posts interspersed along the park’s many paths. With a last, violent attempt to dislodge it, he let go of the “stick”, and stepped back. His face was flushed and ugly, and after a quick dip into one of his greasy-jean’s pockets, and the press of a button, young Floyd stood holding a flick-knife. Its blade was wicked-looking and shining-sharp.
As if he’d been waiting for exactly this, the taller adolescent produced his own, identical knife. ‘We going to stick them, Floyd?’ he asked, and the eagerness in his voice was pathetic.
‘Yeah.’ There was a taunting look in Floyd’s eyes. ‘You take the baby,’ he said, and without further ado, they rushed in; silent and with knives flashing in the patchy sunlight filtering through the canopy of the trees.
And then they were screaming and falling and rolling on the path, which had humped under and tossed them into the air; ineffectually beating at their aflame hands which they were suddenly unable to open, violently but vainly attempting to cast white-hot melting knifes from them.
*
They found him a quarter of an hour later, both Orson and Thomas, without a word between them. Like homing-pigeons, they were drawn to the solitary figure occupying one of several benches next to one of the park’s three lakes; staring blankly at a duck with ducklings, swimming placidly on the other side of the metal fence.
Rainbow's End - Wizard Page 36