Rainbow's End - Wizard

by Mitchell, Corrie

  ‘Orin?’ Orson asked softly, and the boy turned towards them, unsurprised, as if expecting them. His hair was long for a boy: almost shoulder-length, and his eyes a deep blue: almost as dark as Ariana’s, Thomas thought.

  ‘Is your name Orin, young man?’ Orson asked, and the seated boy nodded. ‘We’ve come to help you,’ he said then, and the boy nodded again, as if it was what he expected, and wearily got to his feet.

  They came walking down the path, purposefully and swaggering, and the floating ducks and geese hurriedly swam away, sensing the menace in the air. Orson was alerted by Thomas, who put a hand on his shoulder. He made a small sound of disgust, when he saw the Night Walkers, and cast his eyes heavenward.

  ‘You’ve got to be joking,’ he said. ‘Twice in less than an hour?’

  The Night Walkers came to a halt some ten metres away. ‘We’ve come for your new friend, Orson,’ Rudi said.

  Orson gave a derisive snort. ‘Don’t test me Rudi,’ he said. ‘Not today. Some of your ilk have already tried.’ He pointed the staff in the direction they’d come from; where they’d left Floyd and friend.

  ‘They’re in hospital by now, I should think.’ There was some whispering among the boys in black, and when they stood around, obviously undecided and glaring at Orson and company, the Traveller asked, again of Rudi, in a cutting tone, ‘Since when are you back in charge, in any way? Where’s your red-haired friend? Bryan, isn’t it?’ He gave a noxious sniff.

  ‘Bryan Stone’s gone to Italy,’ Rudi said. ‘Kraylle sent me because it was urgent.’ He gestured at the puzzled, but unafraid boy standing between the Travellers. ‘He couldn’t wait for Stone to get back; he thought you might already be here… And he was right.’ The hatred in Rudi’s voice had two targets: Orson and Bryan Stone, and the Traveller gave a knowing cackle.

  ‘You don’t like this Bryan Stone very much, do you?’ he remarked. ‘Kraylle’s new lap-dog? Usurped crown-prince Rudi, has he?’

  Rudi’s yellow eyes turned murderous; his face an expression of hate. ‘I’m going to kill you, Orson,’ he said.

  ‘No, you’re not.’ Thomas surprised everyone by stepping forward. ‘Even if you could,’ he said, ‘and you can’t.’ Orson put out a hand to stop him, but the fire burnt like two green coals in the young Traveller’s very pale face and he shrugged off the older Traveller’s hand. And began walking towards the Night Walkers, with slow measured steps. And the ground began trembling, and the trembling became worse, the nearer he got to them, and finally became localized beneath their feet; bouncing and shaking and causing them to grab at and jostle each other, using all of their wits just to remain upright.

  Thomas halted before Rudi, glowering. He was incongruously steady on his feet, as if he were part of, and not standing on the bouncing earth. The leader of the Night Walkers was three or four years older than the young Traveller, and at least a head taller, but dropped his eyes before this green-eyed glare. When Thomas spoke, his voice was soft, but Orson heard him above even the bouncing of the earth, and the grunts and exclamations of the struggling-to-stay-upright band of boys.

  ‘Tell Bryan Stone,’ he said, ‘the boy he and his bunch of hooligans left for dead in an alley in London, is alive and very well; and that I challenge him to a re-match - or a show-down - in a month’s time. Thirty days from today. Tell him he may bring as many of you…’ and here Thomas crinkled his nose as if smelling something unpleasant, and looked Rudi up and down with unconcealed disgust, ‘…as he feels he will need, but he’s not to forget the boy he took off me. The boy called Eamon. I intend taking him back.’ The young Traveller leaned forward, brought his face closer to Rudi’s, and asked, softer still, ‘Do you want me to repeat that?’

  Rudi shook his head and took an involuntary step backwards, getting out of Thomas’ face; and from ten metres away, Orson and the boy called Orin, could see, and sense, his trepidation.

  Sunlight tinted the top of the buildings to the west with gold when the old man raised, and then hammered the tip of his staff into the giving soil at his feet. Seconds later some joggers saw a blinding flash - like the sun reflecting off a huge mirror, and heard a clap of thunder. When investigating, they found nothing but a five metre wide, sucked clean circle of earth midst a small copse of trees, and the smell of burned sulphur hanging in the air...

  *

  Article on page 3 of The New York News, 29th April.

  Two boys, sixteen and seventeen years old, were yesterday admitted to St. Mary’s hospital - both with severe burns to their right hands. It seems they were holding knifes at the time of sustaining said burns, and these (knifes) caught fire, the handles melting into the palms of their hands.

  According to the boys, they were “Just strolling around Central Park, minding our own business, when attacked by a crazy old man and a boy”. They drew their knives (the possession of which, illegal of course) in an attempt at self-defence, and the knifes then caught fire. Attempts to throw them away were not successful; it seems the boys were suddenly unable to open their hands.

  This strange phenomenon (apart from setting their hands on fire) they also ascribe to the old man. Oh, yes, the boy with him apparently made the earth beneath them “hump”, and this tossed them into the air…

  An intern at St. Mary’s, who prefers to remain anonymous, said the burns to the outside of their hands were superfluous - mostly 1st and 2nd degree. Their palms are another matter altogether: the handles of their knifes (cheap plastic), melted into their skins to the extent that they had to be surgically removed, and will leave ugly scars indeed.

  Captain Willis, police liaison, said both boys are well known to local officers, and both have criminal records. They cannot be named though, because of their ages. He did however; say that their allegations should not be taken seriously until the results of their drug-tests have come back.

  In the meantime, police ask that you be on the lookout for a deranged looking old man - around five feet tall and carrying a staff with a huge diamond set into its top; and a boy - around twelve years old with blonde hair and bottle-green eyes…

  Mike Kastleman.

  41

  The Gobi...

  ‘The first dinosaur eggs were found here,’ Orson said of the Gobi desert. ‘It receives less than 200mm of rain a year; the Himalayas stop the rain-clouds before they can get here. It gets as cold as minus 40˚ Celsius in winter, as hot as 50˚ in summer. It is 1 300 000 km² in size, and grows by another 3600km² every year. Part of it is in North and North-Western China, and part in Southern Mongolia. It used to be part of the Mongol Empire...’

  The two Travellers stood on a large flat rock, which was the best description for it; three or four kilometres in length and half as wide, turned an unyielding grey by many centuries of merciless sun. It was only eleven in the morning and already terribly hot, and the rock seemed to shimmer in the sun.

  Orson nodded, and Thomas took a few paces forward. Gripped the Red Crystal and concentrated. After a minute, tilted his head, and then stamped his foot. Pointed with the crystal, and then shouted; and then swayed, almost danced, commanding...

  And the rock cracked: hairlines at first... and the boy stamped his foot again... The crack became wider then, and wider... and suddenly - with a thunderclap sound, it ran from him: following the easiest route; zigzagging here, and running straight there, and zigzag again, and straight, and faster... And out of sight: to its end. And back again: splitting and cracking and lifting this time; crushing and crumbling and crackling, to the other end... And back again...

  And finally: a stretch of rocky wasteland some kilometres long and half as wide, consisting of millions - probably billions - of stones and smaller rocks, none larger than a football.

  And they Travelled...

  *

  The Pampas...

  ‘The Pampas’ said Orson, ‘are more than 750 000km² in size. They takes up almost all of five provinces of Argentina, most of Uruguay; and Rio Grande do Sol, the most southern Bra
zilian State.

  ‘They are inhabited by deer, armadillos, foxes, and of course - birds. Dozens of different species. They receive between a half and one-and-a-half metres of rain throughout the year. A lot of different grasses and shrubs; almost no trees...

  ‘They have a mild to temperate climate, and are probably the best place in the world for animal or crop farming...’

  Another nod, and Thomas stepped forward again; the Crystal and the glare again, and the swaying and the shout... And the grass and shrubs seemed to move - to sway. And then to heave. And then to sway and heave and jump - as if a million moles were burrowing in the soil beneath. It ran away to the horizon; far, far away... And then back... and in another direction... and another... And when it stopped, left a huge field with a freshly-ploughed look...

  They Travelled...

  *

  The Great Wall of China...

  ‘The story that it is visible from the moon is a myth,’ Orson said. ‘It would be the same as seeing a single human hair from 3 kilometres away...

  ‘It’s built of wood and stone and brick and earth,’ he said. ‘8 850Km long; 21 000km if you include all of its branches. 25 000 Watch towers; running all the way to Beijing.

  At Thomas’ questioning look: ‘Don’t do anything here, unless you want big trouble...’

  They Travelled...

  *

  The Sahara...

  ‘Sahara is Arabic for desert,’ Orson said. ‘It is the world’s hottest desert. Also its biggest: hot desert, that is.’ He rubbed at his wart. ‘There are two larger, but they are both Cold Deserts: The Antarctic and the Arctic. They are almost the same size; only a hundred thousand square kilometres difference between them...

  ‘The Sahara is almost 9 500 000km² in size: almost as large as the whole of the United States... or China. Its highest ever recorded temperature was 58˚ Celsius... Half of it receives less than an inch of rain a year, the other half around 4 inches: it has one of the harshest climates in the world...

  ‘Most of it is rock or packed soil, and some dunes of course. Some as high as 200 metres. It takes up most of Northern Africa, and if the Earth’s scientists can be believed, will be green again in 15 000 years. That’s if the Earth survives man’s onslaught for that long, which I somehow doubt...

  ‘Just goats and camels, and foxes and scorpions and snakes live here...’

  A nod and Thomas stepped forward. ‘Just not this one,’ Orson said of the dune they were standing on, receiving a haughty look from his pupil. And the sand ran: wave upon wave, large and small, with almost no sound; and after some minutes flowed together, sliding and smoothing and subsiding... Leaving behind a level field of sand, the size of a small city...

  They Travelled. Home.

  42

  His name was Harun and his uncle had chased him away from the smallholding he had been working on for sixteen hours a day, the past three years. Since the death of his mother and father and sister in a fire that also destroyed their shack and all of their belongings. He’d gotten a ride on a donkey cart going into town, and then walked to his uncle’s smallholding. Once there - without as much as a word of commiseration - he’d been put to work. And now, after three years, tired to death and emaciated, had been chased off, with nothing but the threadbare clothes on his back, and not as much as even a small crust of bread...

  He’d slept beneath the stars that night; something he was no stranger to in any way, and since the morning, had been sitting next to the road outside the small village, watching people pass and go about their daily tasks, hoping for an offer of work, or a crust of bread, anything...

  He’d suffered from hunger before, even hallucinated due to the weak - and dizziness it caused; and was therefore not overly surprised when he saw an ugly old man and a boy - three or four years older than himself - materialise on the dirt road about ten metres away, as if out of nowhere. He was surprised though, when the old man, after shaking himself and peering around as if he had an eye problem (which was very possible when taken into account that one of his eyes seemed half closed, due to a lazy eyelid, and both bulged when he focused on something); as he did now.

  He fixed Harun with a bulgy stare, and then he and the boy came closer, and stopped in front of the weakened boy. ‘Is your name Harun?’ the old man asked, in Urdu. His grey eyes were also gentle, and Harun nodded. They both bent to him then, one on each side, and took his skinny arms, lifting him to his feet as if he weighed nothing at all.

  They walked slowly back to the spot the two had appeared at, and Harun almost fell twice; from huger or utter exhaustion, or simple hopelessness at the cards dealt to him by life, he did not know - or much care. They came to a halt in the middle of the road, broad and swept and trampled clean by thousands of daily feet and donkey cart wheels. The old man carried a shiny wooden staff with what looked like a diamond at its top, and he lifted it into the air... And... ‘Stop, Orson.’ This from the boy.

  *

  They came walking out of the village, and even Harun - without knowing what this was all about, nor the faintest clue of what was happening - felt their malice... their arrogance... They were just boys; a dozen of them, and dressed all in black. One of them, smaller than the rest, was held by two others; by a sleeve and the scruff of his overlarge jersey. Their leader walked a couple of steps ahead; wearing combat boots and swaggering...

  *

  ‘So this is him,’ Bryan said, over his shoulder, at his followers, ‘The old goat you are all so scared of.’ He halted just metres away, and stood looking at the Travellers; hands on his hips and smirking.

  ‘An old goat and a weakling...’ Turned his attention to Thomas and said, ‘You should be dead, by rights, but maybe it’s good that you are not.’ Then back to Orson. ‘I... we,’ waving a hand towards his back, his soldiers, ‘get to kill two flies with one swat this way.’

  Orson’s face had turned puce, and Thomas could see a terrible rage brewing there, about to erupt. He put a calming hand on his grandfather’s arm, said, firmly, ‘Let me handle this, Orson.’ Looked into the older Traveller’s grey eyes and added, ‘I need to. Please.’

  A bulgy glare at Bryan Stone, and a questioning one at Thomas. ‘You’re sure?’ Seeking assurance from the younger Traveller, and receiving it - a nod - then stepping back, and keeping Harun in the crook of one arm.

  Bryan Stone’s eyebrows lifted in surprise, and he stood nonplussed for a moment. Then, enraged by this... demeaning gesture, rushed in.

  *

  Thomas saw him coming as if in slow motion; from a mile away, it might as well have been... and screamed and stamped his foot, and pointed his arm with the Red Crystal at Bryan Stone and his charging cohorts.

  A rumble then, like far-off thunder, and suddenly the earth of the dirt road leading into the village came alive: It heaved and humped and jumped, tossing the Night Walkers into the air like rag dolls, to fall and crash in a pile of milling arms and kicking legs...; heaved again and split, and opened up a huge crack, and then a chasm, two metres wide and three deep, gaping in the road between the two groups. Its sides tapered and then fell away, and the black-clad figures - now covered in the brown of floating dust - slid and rolled, clawing and scratching at the angry earth, trying to find some kind of anchor, some stability in or on the heaving soil, but in vain. One by one they lost their fight and tumbled to the bottom of the three metre deep split, to land - with screams and shouts - on top of their friends already there.

  Bryan Stone was able to vault the split; and incongruously, Eamon, together with Gerick and one other, were able to stop - just in time and teetering on the hole’s edge. From inside the pit, almost three metres down, came wails and screams of pain, and curses of rage and fear...

  And Bryan charged - again, wildly swinging his cosh and with an animal-screech of his own, rage and outrage in his eyes, and in his heart - desperation... Desperation and the terrible knowledge that he’d been bested... Not just him, but eleven of his soldiers as well; by
a boy two or more years his junior; a boy who by rights should be dead, but wasn’t...

  The earth reached up, and grabbed at his pumping legs, and he stumbled first and then - like wading into mud - sank into it up to his waist, into a hole of his own. It closed off tight, and he was suddenly just a torso: just an upper body ineffectually swinging a lead-laden sap and screaming rage to the heavens above.

  Everything went still then; a pall of dust hung over the road, the sun beat down on the scene and groans and moans seemed to come from somewhere far away.

  And Thomas went to Bryan; knelt beside and spoke to him, ‘I will not stoop to your level, Bryan Stone,’ he said. ‘Nobody here will die today.’ He leaned forward from the waist up, adding, softer: ‘But heed me well; if I ever see you again, I will kill you.’

  Very green eyes clashed with strange blue, and the blue went somewhere else first.

  The young Traveller stood, and part of the split closed, and he said to Gerick, ‘Let him go.’

  The boys released Eamon, who didn’t hesitate but came running, and embraced Thomas’ waist, as if he would never let go.

  They walked some metres off then, the Travellers and Eamon, but not before Orson had peered into the split in the ground holding the rest of the black-clad gang, and said to Rudi, ‘Goodbye you little mongrel,’ and - ‘give my regards to your boss.’ Cackled and sniffed and snorted.

  And they Travelled...