Spring Showers Box-set

by Avell Kro

I have dug up the sky. I have hacked up the horizon.

  I have traversed the earth to its farthest extent.

  I have taken possession of the spirits of the great ones,

  Because I am the one who equips a myriad with my magic.

  Spell 10, Egyptian Book of the Dead

  6th May 2015

  I gasped, my eyes snapping wide, the blurry faces of my father and uncle watching as my body

  convulsed. The inferno was calling. I tried to resist but its strength overwhelmed me and it

  pulverised me again. An ear-bursting wail brought me back to the surface. Was that me

  screaming? I wanted to keep screaming, if only to drown out the incessant rain that was pounding

  against the window.

  The universe seared itself onto my irises and blistered my thoughts. Hours fused together. I was

  lost, my bones ached. Worst of all was the terror tearing at my heart, making a mockery of my

  sanity. Was my soul dying, my spirit’s essence being stripped away, to be replaced with something

  alien – something other?

  ‘I am Theo Clemensen, but I am nothing!’ I babbled, the words flying out of my mouth. ‘I am dust. I

  am the whole Earth. I’m blinded by everything I see. I hold the world in my palm, light, dark,

  creation, destruction.’ Father and Uncle Nikolaj held me down as I thrashed and roared at them. ‘I

  am the magic that binds all life together; I am the Gatekeeper of the Lífkelda – the life-spring of the

  great World Tree, Yggdrasil. I can burn the world to the ground!’

  ‘But you won’t,’ Father whispered, wiping the sweat from my forehead, ‘because you are a

  Clemensen, and we choose life.’

  And yet, I was dying.

  7th May 2015

  I woke up alone in my room. Just me and the rain. I laughed aloud, somewhat manic and thrilled

  that I’d woken up at all. So, my family’s idea of a twenty-first birthday surprise is that ‘coming of

  age’ kills us, was it?

  I hadn’t left my room since I’d died.

  Okay, so ‘died’ is a touch melodramatic, since my heart only stopped beating for a minute, but by

  the look on my father’s face, you’d think I’d already begun to haunt him. The secrets he had

  revealed while I’d been in bed recovering had taught me that really, something haunted me.

  Whatever slid inside me upon my death was strengthening its grasp with each passing moment.

  Everything felt numb to the touch as my brain rewired to accommodate my sudden, internal

  roommate.

  I’ll never be alone again. Not for a second. Somehow, the thought didn’t comfort me. But

  depression wasn’t my natural state. Compared to my father, I’m a bubbling ray of sunshine. He’d

  been different before my mother died, not so suspicious. But our secret is dangerous. Now I was

  that secret – that living cauldron of magic – I believed my mother paid for it with her life.

  The thought was too painful. I got up and walked to the bay window – my favourite brooding spot

  – which overlooked a wild meadow at the front of the house. Beyond grass be-speckled with yellow

  buttercups and blossoming wildflowers, and the giant ash tree where I’d gotten my first broken

  wrist, lived normal people, doing normal things. Such as going on dates. Getting girlfriends. Heck,

  getting laid. Jobs. Money. Cars. Fun. So close. A zillion miles away – and drowned in the torrential

  rain caused by my magic. My beloved view was drifting away from me, lost on a sea of water.

  A soft knock on the door. I turned as Uncle Nikolaj barged through, burdened with a tray of baked

  goods. ‘Good morning,’ he grinned, and I caught a waft of honey oatcakes as he approached. ‘You

  look like—’

  ‘Like I just died.’

  ‘Oh, it happens to all of us.’ He thrust the tray into my chest and tucked a long, blond strand behind

  his single, pointed ear. Uncle Nikolaj, I should explain, is half Elf. At around thirty, he’s not much

  older than me, but he’s been thirty for a – really – long time. I live with him and my father in the

  once medieval town of Hellingstead, in Somerset, but my father’s family hail from Norway

  originally.

  ‘You mean you were once the Gatekeeper too.’

  Nik gestured to the array of baked treats, the golden oatcakes his signature. ‘Yes, so I know you’re

  starving. Eat. Sugar is perfect fuel.’

  I bit into one and groaned as the sweet butter melted on my tongue. ‘Where’s Father?’ I asked.

  ‘In the library. He thought you needed space.’ Nikolaj flopped onto my bed and wagged his finger.

  ‘But your wise Uncle knows you need feeding. On that note, so do I.’ He closed his bright green eyes

  and frowned. I winced as static crackled against my hands as the tray vanished, reappearing on

  Nikolaj’s lap. By the time I reached the bed, he’d scoffed a flapjack.

  ‘Crumbs,’ I said, brushing down the duvet.

  We ate together for a few moments, and I thought about how casually he’d just defied physics. Nik, being a Clemensen, was also half warlock, like me, though my father and I are full-blooded. A

  warlock, if you don’t know, is a male witch. The Clemensens are one family belonging to a sect of

  humans with extra abilities, who can use magic or are affected by it. We refer to each other as

  Pneuma, but those amongst us who have corrupted their gifts we call varmint, like vermin. I guess

  every society has its criminals – those who don’t care who they hurt.

  The Clemensens are a powerful Pneuma clan, but I’m not talking about politics. Our ancestors

  drew strength from careful matches, breeding hard bodies able to manipulate a volatile cocktail of

  magic – a gauntlet passed to each generation. It wasn’t vanity that drove the improvements, it was

  necessity. The Clemensens’ survival meant everything. It still did.

  ‘Is this really a big deal?’ I said, breaking the silence. ‘I can’t believe that I can make any difference

  to the world.’ I pointed to the window. ‘I don’t feel like I’m causing that rain.’

  Nik sighed, chucking a half-eaten biscuit back onto the tray, and scooted round to face me.

  ‘The earth may need us, Theo, but its climate suffers every time the next Clemensen takes up the

  Gatekeeper mantle. Earthquakes, flash floods, volcanic eruptions. We don’t cause these disasters.

  The Gatekeeper does. You’re not one and the same, it highjacks your body and soul until you

  provide it with a new host.’

  I shivered.

  ‘But don’t feel bad, hey? When your father came of age at twenty-one, he caused an avalanche in

  his mountain village back in Norway. Espen likes to pretend he was on holiday in Scotland when he

  met your mother, but really, he was running away from his fate. It turned out your mother wanted

  to escape hers as well.’

  ‘So they settled in Somerset,’ I said. Nik nodded. ‘Did anyone die in that avalanche?’ I asked, as the

  rain hammered against the roof and windows. With all Hellingstead’s hills, valleys, and ancient

  drainage systems, the town was under siege because of me. I hope no one has been caught in a

  flash flood and drowned.

  ‘Espen never told me, but I heard rumours that a body was found.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said.

  He patted me so hard on the back I almost choked on the remains of my third oatcake. ‘Whatever

  happens, Theo, promise me you won’t run away.’

  I scoffed. ‘Unlikely. Father won’t even let me out of the house without a chaper
one.’

  ‘What? You mean you don’t like hitting the town with your stylish uncle?’ His face crumpled in

  mock shock, and I rewarded his teasing with a punch in the arm.

  ‘When have we ever “hit the town”? Besides, our little town is soaked through. I’m staying on the

  second floor until I have Noah on speed-dial.’

  ‘Noah, nice chap.’

  ‘Come off it, Uncle, you may be pre-war, but you’re not that old.’

  Nikolaj wiggled his eyebrows and pretended to count.

  ‘Stop it,’ I laughed, but again I remembered my ‘inheritance’ and the humour evaporated. ‘Why

  didn’t Father ever tell me? Why didn’t you tell me, Nik? Why keep my destiny a secret until it

  literally killed me?’ I struggled to keep the hostility from seeping into my words.

  Nikolaj shot a longing look at the door. My uncle shied away from confrontation at the best of times,

  so I held onto his wrist as a warning not to scarper, and he sighed.

  ‘Theo, it wasn’t my job. I advised Espen to tell you sooner, but he refused. He argued that it was

  safer this way, in case the Guardians of the Praetoriani got to you before your birthday.’

  ‘So, you’re saying before, like two days ago, I was too young to be told? That patronising—’

  Uncle Nik jabbed my arm. ‘Theo! Your father is a little…’

  I jumped on his hesitation. ‘Paranoid, superior, hypocritical?’

  ‘Protective. Can you blame him after what happened to your mother?’

  I glared at him. ‘Oh yeah, and what would that be? He hardly told me anything about the night she

  died.’

  ‘The details will do you no good. Suffice to say, Espen has cause to mistrust the Praetoriani.’

  ‘I blamed him for not bringing Mum back for years,’ I confessed. ‘I always wanted Father’s powers,

  so I could do it myself.’ My jaw tensed at the irony. Most boys idolise their father I guess, but mine

  could fizz in and out of rooms and summon the sun from the clouds. When I was a toddler and tried

  to run away from him, the grass would wrap around my ankles and bind me in place, preventing

  me from slipping into one of our many ornamental ponds. There was nothing he couldn’t do.

  Except bring my mother back.

  I’d dwelt in a family halved for eleven years, doubting this claim, as he toppled from the pedestal I

  had placed him on. I was sure if he’d tried hard enough, if he hadn’t been so paranoid about the

  Guardians watching our every move, Isobel Clemensen could return. Why, I’d asked him, couldn’t

  we resurrect her and run away back to our stronghold in Norway? Why, when he was so powerful,

  wouldn’t he tell those stupid Guardians to sod off?

  ‘Now you understand how dangerous that would be…’ Nikolaj said, breaking my reverie.

  I shrugged. ‘I was a boy. I wanted his power. I didn’t understand the price.’ The price that, on my

  birthday, the Gatekeeper beast had left Father and slithered into me, granting my secret desire and

  taking away the freedom to chart my own destiny in one fell swoop.

  Be careful what you wish for I guess.

  My hand hovered over the library’s doorknob, the lion-knocker protruding from the polished

  wood with a gaping jaw.

  ‘Theodore.’ Father threw his voice like a ventriloquist, deceptively close, from inside the library.

  I swear Hellingstead Hall is rigged with an automated alarm system, wired into his brain. Surely

  no one could be all-knowing, not even a Clemensen warlock.

  After Nikolaj’s visit, I’d ventured from my sanctuary – my chambers, comprising a bedroom, a

  bathroom, and a reading room that overlooked the rear gardens, occupied the upper west-wing of

  the house – into Father’s domain.

  I stepped inside, an immense conclave of texts greeting me with their inky hymns from bookcases

  that soared into the rafters, three floors high. Pockets of Tiffany reading lamps – a relic of a

  mother’s touch – bathed the library with a light as soft as candle flame.

  Defying Father’s knowledge of my whereabouts, I shrank back, masking my face and coppery-

  golden hair in the groove of darkness to the side of the door. It was a pointless exercise. We both

  knew each other’s location.

  ‘Please, Father, drop the “Theodore”. It’s Theo,’ I said.

  Bookshelves intersected the tapestried carpet dividing the library in half, carving out a private

  study in the left corner of the library, in front of the floor-to-ceiling mul ion windows at the back. I

  stalked along the carpet, curving past the fireplace between the windows, and approached his

  monstrous mahogany desk. The matching chair could have been mistaken for a throne, wider and

  taller than him – and he was all legs, arms, and hewn muscle. It looked ridiculous.

  ‘What’s so terrible about the name your mother gave you?’ he huffed, adjusting his cloak over his

  shoulders.

  He’d conditioned me into automatic obedience, so I stood at attention in front of his desk.

  Annoyed with myself, I slouched my broad shoulders, trying to act as disaffected as possible. ‘You

  have no consideration for my street cred.’

  He thumped his fist against the wood, a rustle of paper shifting under the force of the blow. I

  flinched. His trademark smirk dented his cheek. ‘What does a Clemensen care about “street credit?’

  I rol ed my eyes into the back of my skull. ‘Credibility, Father, not “credit”. Have you never read that

  quote amongst your thousand books? No man is an island. Some of us need a social life.’

  He continued as if I hadn’t replied, ‘The ancient clans of the North rule this hemisphere.’ Blah. ‘The

  hoi polloi of the supernatural world look to us for guidance.’ Blah. ‘Your name is entirely

  appropriate.’ Blah.

  ‘Only this hemisphere?’ I snorted. ‘And I think the proper term for them is the Pneuma, Dad.’

  He hated it when I called him Dad. He prickled. I returned a pointed look. At last, his frown

  smoothed out. ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.

  Just when I was on the verge of bashing him on the head with the heftiest book in the library, he went all soft and gooey and caring, and I was back in nappies, staring up at him with awestruck,

  googly eyes, craving his attention. I sighed and slid into the rickety old chair behind my knees. It

  was a joke compared to Father’s throne, but I guess he liked the not-so-subtle power play on the

  rare occasions we had visitors, and the even rarer occasions they were permitted into his study.

  ‘How do I feel? Like the plague has tag-teamed with influenza and mugged me.’ As I sat teetering

  on the wobbly legs, I realised how clammy my skin was, how many strands of curly, buttery hair

  stuck to the back of my neck. ‘I’m death warmed up.’

  Father cringed.

  ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.’ I couldn’t imagine what it was like for him waiting for me to

  come back to life, limp and cold in his arms. For a moment, he was alone in the world, separated

  from his wife and son. Oh, great. He hadn’t even said anything and he’d made me feel guilty again.

  I swallowed hard, and feigning melancholy, moaned in a way only a son can to his father, dragging

  up classics from my teenage years such as ‘I’m so bored’ and ‘I have no life’ ending with a record

  that had gone platinum in my own head: ‘I need to get out of here, Father.’

  A steady eyebrow rose. ‘Have you forgotten the storm clouds overhead? Where do you
propose to

  go?’

  Why did he always use reason? It was so damn effective. ‘There’s no point being as powerful as

  the Norse gods when you won’t even let me outside!’

  ‘Don’t raise your voice.’

  ‘Why not? Are the Guardians about to descend upon us like a nest of bats?’ I pointed theatrically

  up into the rafters. I recoiled as Father’s pen snapped in his bear-like hands, spilling ink over the

  papers on his desk, and on his nail-bitten fingers. It was those kinds of reactions that made me so

  suspicious. Why did the mere mention of them make him so angry?

  A tide of unspoken words and confessions contorted his stern features. They smoothed out, a

  raging torrent slowly becoming a millpond. He cleaned himself with a napkin and acted as if

  nothing had happened. ‘Outside, hey? We have a perfectly good barn in the garden.’

  I face-planted the desk, fingers twisting around my hair. ‘I’m kidding, Theodore… Theo. Go if you

  must. I hear the Red Hawk has an open mic night tomorrow. Why don’t you go along?’

  I searched his sky-blue eyes. They had glittered once, a thousand iridescent shades, as Uncle

  Nikolaj’s had during his stint as the bearer of the world’s magic. I was stardust then, yet to be born.

  Now it was my turn to be the Gatekeeper of the Lífkelda, my eyes shimmered opal, as if I’d bought

  some of that stardust with me. ‘Really? Alone?’

  He nodded. ‘You’re of age, why not?’

  As tempting as it was to tie Father to his throne and examine him for the plague-flu combo, I

  dashed out with the swiftness of Hermod, the Norse messenger god. Permission for fun? I wasn’t

  about to hang around and let him retract a gem like that.

  As the library door swung shut, I felt uneasy; our conversation had unravel ed like a rug across a

  floor, and I’d walked blithely in the direction Father pointed me. My elation turned to confusion in

  the short journey back to my room. Who’d told him about the open-mic night? Father stepped foot

  outside Hellingstead Hall about as often as he let people in – that is, he didn’t. Was it possible my

  brief death prompted him to put neuroticism to one side? Unlikely. I expected him to be more

  protective than ever.

  I considered interrogating Uncle Nikolaj but then thought better of it. Nikolaj could send a hound