Intangible

by C. A. Gray

  “Fides Dignus!” cried Kane.

  “That’s a nimbus,” Lily whispered to Cole.

  “That’s just… wrong,” Cole whispered back, looking nauseated. “It’s like a demented valentine…”

  “Master Kane!” cried Fides Dignus, and looked at the others in shock. “Isdemus sent me to find out what all the commotion was. What is going on here?”

  “Isdemus?” Peter repeated in disbelief. “You know Isdemus?”

  The little creature looked at Peter sharply and flew towards him, hovering just inches away from his face. His beady little eyes grew rounder and rounder.

  “Blimey, he’s the spitting image…” he said in amazement, and then turned to Kane suspiciously. “What is going on here? Who are these children?”

  “We’re not children, we’re fourteen,” Brock muttered irritably.

  “I’m twelve,” Cole put in.

  Lily sidled up next to Peter so that Fides Dignus couldn’t help but notice her. “We were all in a car accident. Kane’s car was in the road, and we hit the back of it. We would have died if Peter hadn’t stopped the car from crushing us. The next thing we knew, an army of specters showed up, with physical bodies, and attacked us. We had to run for it. We went through that tree,” she pointed at the photo on the wall, “and we showed up here.” She folded her arms over her chest. “That’s what happened.”

  The creature’s beady eyes bugged out. “The penumbra took physical form? In the outside world?” he repeated incredulously. Then his shock melted into suspicion as he fluttered around to face Kane and said accusingly, “Your car? Just where did you get one of those?”

  Kane muttered, “I was going to give it back…”

  The nimbus narrowed his eyes at Kane. “I think Isdemus will have a few things to say about all this,” he growled. Before Kane could retort, Fides Dignus added pointedly, gesturing at Lily, “I am going to report everything that this child has told me. Isdemus, I’m sure, will receive you in the Great Hall momentarily. Consider this his summons! I would not keep him waiting if I were you.” Then he disappeared with another crack.

  Kane scowled at where the nimbus had been and turned on his heel before the others could say anything more. “Fine. This way,” he muttered, and headed towards the hall.

  “I’m not going anywhere with that nutter!” Brock announced, folding his arms over his chest. “Didn’t you guys hear the nasty cupid thing imply that he tried to kill us?”

  “If he was trying to kill us, why did he save us afterwards, then?” Cole pointed out.

  While they argued, Peter got to his feet numbly and followed after Kane, because he didn’t know what else to do. Lily caught up with him.

  “I knew I wasn’t crazy,” she gloated. “I knew it!”

  He stopped walking and turned to face her with forced calm. “I’m sorry. Why are you not freaking out?” He gestured to their surroundings. Torches lined the immense hallway, which quickly led them to a spiral staircase that seemed to stretch infinitely above them. “I mean, I know you could see – them – before.” He choked on the word, thinking of his dad, angry at him for being right. “But this place! The accident, the portal, the – nasty glowing baby-man! Why are you okay with this?”

  “I’m freaking out!” Cole interjected, raising his hand.

  “This isn’t happening,” Brock muttered to himself again.

  “Brock’s in denial,” Cole translated, jabbing a thumb in his brother’s direction.

  “Well, at least you two are normal!” Peter exploded, turning his back on Lily.

  “I am normal!” she spluttered. “You take that back!”

  “Hey princess, you want to keep it down?” Kane called over his shoulder as he abruptly turned onto another hallway. “You’re gonna wake the dead.”

  “I am not your princess,” Lily fumed through gritted teeth.

  They all had to hurry to keep pace with Kane, in spite of his wounds. The hall in which they found themselves next had ceilings that looked about twelve feet high, and though the walls were made of stone, they were well insulated against the chill of an impending British winter, hung with thick tapestries and illuminated with torches. Their footsteps might have echoed in the expansive space, if not for the thick running carpet.

  “This place is sort of eerie,” Cole whispered to no one in particular. “Where’s the electricity?”

  Kane’s clipped reply came from a good distance ahead. “The Watcher Castle predates the Dark Ages by several centuries,” he called. “We don’t use technology because we don’t need it.”

  They followed a corridor off the main hall, which led abruptly into a room large and stately enough to host dinners for heads of state. A cheerful fire crackled at the head of the most enormous table they had ever seen. Beside the hearth stood a very, very old man.

  “Are you Isdemus?” asked Peter, stepping into the room and hoping his voice sounded strong. The old man inclined his head once in acknowledgement.

  “Peter Stewart,” said Isdemus. “We meet at last!”

  Chapter 8

  Isdemus was quite thin, and he might have been tall or not: perhaps it was the exaggerated size of everything else in the room that made it difficult to tell. He held onto a walking stick with long-boned fingers, but he didn’t appear to need it. He wore a perplexingly opaque midnight blue dressing gown and matching cap that seemed to suck all the light from the cheerful fire behind him, like a black hole, Peter thought. And, like a black hole, he seemed to exert a sort of irresistible gravitational pull on the newcomers.

  Kane began, “I didn’t mean to bother you, sir –”

  “Silence!” Isdemus’s eyes flashed at him, and he held up a hand that glittered in the firelight with rings of opal and gold. “I’ll deal with you in the morning.”

  “Why am I in trouble?” Kane protested. Suddenly he seemed very much like a petulant child.

  “Do you really want me to answer that right now?” Isdemus growled.

  Kane glowered at him but did not respond. Peter looked from Kane to Isdemus, trying to determine the relationship between them.

  “Save your excuses,” said Isdemus, his voice quiet, but deadly. “I am not interested in hearing them tonight. Leave us!”

  Kane turned indignantly and made a show of stomping out of the Great Hall.

  Next Isdemus turned to his four guests, and his expression transformed before their eyes. “You must be hungry,” he said graciously. “Gladys is preparing a meal for you as we speak.” He nodded in the direction of a mousy little woman with her gray hair pulled back into a sloppy bun. None of them had noticed her until that moment. She bustled about the table without really doing much, but every few seconds she glanced furtively at Peter.

  “Once you have eaten, I will call a servant to show you three to your chambers for the night,” Isdemus continued, indicating Cole, Brock, and Lily with a nod of his head.

  “Wait a minute,” Cole protested, and looked at Brock for support. “Mum and Dad are gonna freak out. They expected us home hours ago!”

  “Already taken care of,” said Isdemus. “Members of the Watchers have been dispatched to your home and to Miss Portman’s foster family to alert them of the situation as we speak, and the Jeffersons’ driver arrived safely back at your home, although he was totally unable to give a proper account. A nimbus has also been sent to inform Bruce Stewart of the situation.”

  “In the last five minutes since we got here?” Brock said skeptically. “How do you even know who our parents are, or where they live? How do you even know who we are?”

  “I think that’s why they’re called Watchers,” Cole whispered.

  Peter could still sense Gladys’s eyes on him, but when he looked up to meet her gaze, she looked quickly away. Peter had the uncomfortable feeling that she lingered intentionally in order to sneak glances at him. He wished she would leave.

  “Now,” Isdemus gestured towards Gladys and several other servants, who scurried into the Great
Hall bearing enormous platters of cold cuts and loaves of bread. Once they had delivered the platters to the table along with stacks of plates and cutlery, the servants disappeared as quickly as they had come. Only Gladys stopped to cast another furtive glance in Peter’s direction.

  “Dinner is served,” said Isdemus, and as if they needed further encouragement, added, “Tuck in.”

  Brock tackled a tray of roast beef and brie, and Cole followed his brother’s lead. Lily looked ambivalent but grabbed a plate as well. Peter hung back. Cole glanced at him and said, “What’s the matter with you?”

  “I’m not hungry,” Peter said. As the others stuffed their faces, Peter turned to stare into the dancing flames inside the hearth, feeling slightly ill. An idea had occurred to him, and he wished it hadn’t, but he couldn’t seem to shake it.

  Bruce said Isdemus was his boss. Apparently, Isdemus was also Kane’s boss, which must make him the head of the Watchers. Does that mean...? Peter couldn’t finish the thought.

  “What exactly are you planning to tell our families?” asked Cole between bites. “I’m not sure they’ll understand.”

  “Do not worry,” said Isdemus with just a hint of a smile. “Believe it or not, the Watchers have quite a bit of experience communicating with the outside world.”

  “Will you tell them… you know… the truth?” asked Cole.

  “That depends on whether they’re ready for the truth,” Isdemus said mildly. “But I do not plan on lying to them, in any case.”

  When Cole, Brock, and Lily finished eating, a servant appeared in the door frame wearing red and gold livery. The costume looked like something from the middle ages, but he wore a Bearskin reminiscent of those worn by the Beefeaters of the Tower of London, as if he couldn’t quite decide to which period of history he belonged.

  Brock stared at him openly. Then he leaned over to Cole and whispered, “Did we fall down a rabbit hole and I just missed it?”

  “No, we went through a portal,” Cole whispered back matter-of-factly. Brock looked at his brother as if he had never seen him before.

  Meanwhile, the servant bowed to Isdemus.

  “Gerald, will you please show these three to their chambers for the evening?” said Isdemus, gesturing at Lily, Brock, and Cole.

  “Wait, wait, wait a second. Don’t we all have a right to know what’s going on?” Lily demanded.

  “Of course you do,” said Isdemus, “but I hope you can appreciate the necessity to prioritize, Miss Portman. For the three of you, now that your bellies are full, sleep is highest priority on the list, and answers can come later. For Peter, I suspect, they cannot wait.” He looked at Peter keenly.

  “They can’t wait for me either!” Lily exploded. “Do you honestly think any of us are going to sleep a wink without some explanations?”

  “That is a very valid point,” Isdemus acknowledged. Lily looked triumphant for a moment, until he added, “I would imagine you would find it difficult to sleep without some assistance, however exhausted you may be.”

  As if on cue, Gladys reentered the Great Hall, bearing a silver tray with a steaming silver teapot and several tiny china cups. She blew a stray wisp of gray hair out of her face, while very obviously trying not to look at Peter in such a way that made him even more uncomfortable than when she had been.

  “What’s that?” said Lily suspiciously.

  “Chamomile tea,” said Isdemus as Gladys furtively set four cups on the table and poured the steaming liquid into three of them. “Historically it has been used to calm anxious thoughts and mental chatter. It is mild, but quite effective, I assure you.”

  “I want to stay up,” said Lily mutinously. “Whatever you can say to Peter, you can say to me.”

  “You force me to be blunt,” Isdemus sighed. “What I mean to say is that, for tonight at least, Peter and I must speak alone.”

  Peter shivered.

  Cole and Brock exchanged a look, and Cole shrugged and took a cup. Brock eyed him as he slurped. When he didn’t fall over dead, Brock took one as well.

  “Miss Portman?” Isdemus prodded. “I would highly recommend that you accept my assistance, though I would understand, after the night you have had, if you do not yet trust me. It is up to you, of course.”

  Lily scowled at him, but said, “Well, if the food wasn’t poisoned…” and took the third cup. Before she had finished her first noisy slurp, Cole looked at her with a slightly punch-drunk smile.

  “This stuff is good!”

  “The herbs were freshly gathered this afternoon,” said Isdemus. “They were cultivated by one of our most talented plant specialists. I am sure the effects are superb.”

  “Plant… specialist?” said Brock, also sounding a little woozy.

  Gerald gestured to Lily, Cole, and Brock, suppressing a smile. “We’ll explain all about it tomorrow. Follow me.”

  Cole and Brock stood up obediently, but Lily frowned and glanced in Peter’s direction for confirmation. Peter shrugged at her, not knowing what else to do. Truthfully, he was too preoccupied to care whether the other three managed to stay up with him and talk to Isdemus that night or not. All that mattered was that he got some answers.

  Once they were alone, Isdemus turned to Peter, but said nothing. He seemed to be waiting for Peter to speak first.

  Peter wanted to ask Isdemus about Bruce, but he was afraid of the answer. So instead, he said, “Kane made it sound like he’d been stalking me.”

  Isdemus frowned. “Yes. Unfortunately, I believe that’s true.”

  “Why? For how long?” Still not the question he really wanted to ask, but he was stalling.

  “Since you were eleven.”

  Peter momentarily forgot his question about Bruce and gawked at him. “You’re joking.”

  “That would not be very funny,” said Isdemus calmly. “My sense of humor may arguably be peculiar, but it is not quite that poor.”

  Peter drew in a deep, shaky breath. “Okay,” he said when he had digested this. “Why since I was eleven? I don’t remember doing anything particularly remarkable then.”

  “I did not mean to imply that the Watchers have only been watching you from eleven, and by the by, a better term would be protecting rather than watching, in spite of our name. You asked me how long Kane had been watching you. The Watchers have been protecting you to the best of our ability all your life, and have been watching for your birth for approximately 1500 years.” Then he added pleasantly, “Would you like some cocoa?”

  “Er – no, sir,” Peter managed to croak.

  “Really? It’s the best you’ve ever tasted, I guarantee it,” Isdemus said, and set about to make them both a cup anyhow.

  Peter watched him fuss with the china and teapot, which contained a liquid that looked like a melted chocolate bar, and felt like his brain was full of the low buzz of white noise. Finally, one question surfaced in his mind and he blurted it out before it could disappear again into the sea of confusion.

  “Why have you been watching me all my life?”

  Isdemus looked up. “Well, I suppose that’s as good a lead-in as any,” he said. He put the teapot down and said, “It might be easier if I show you, rather than tell you. Why don’t you come with me?”

  Isdemus brushed past him without looking back, assuming that Peter would follow. They turned down the main corridor by which Peter and the others had come, but quickly ducked down a different passage, hung with battle-axes and tapestries that looked centuries old. They descended a flight of stairs and then another when finally they found themselves in, of all things, an art gallery.

  “These are the Watchers of old,” said Isdemus, moving his arms about with a sweeping gesture. The paintings were massive, larger than life, and there were hundreds of them. “Our heritage. Those you see here are the oldest,” he indicated to those in front of them. “They were King Arthur’s Knights of the Round Table who survived the Battle of Salisbury Plain. After Camelot fell, they banded together to protect Arthur’s surv
iving infant son, William, forming the original Watchers. At the time, they called themselves The Order of the Paladin, a name that was later used by Charlemagne’s Twelve Peers in the fourteenth century. You may hear the word Paladin used as a name of one thing or another from time to time still. This, however,” he spun Peter around to face the wall behind him, “is what I wanted you to see.”

  Peter’s jaw dropped.

  The painting before him was of a young man, only a few years older than he was. He wore a simple blue, rather homely robe atop a brown tunic and breeches, and the outline of a scabbard and sword jutted out to his side. His eyes were blue-green with flecks of gold, and his hair was flaxen and wavy, with a sparse beard that had not properly filled out yet. He looked kind and intelligent, and there was a very simple gold crown on his forehead.

  “King Arthur,” said Isdemus.

  “He looks…” Peter swallowed, “just like me.”

  “Now do you understand?” Isdemus asked gently.

  Peter closed his eyes. He knew what Isdemus was implying. “The Legends,” he murmured.

  Isdemus nodded encouragingly. “Go on. What do you remember of the stories Bruce has told you?”

  Peter took a shaky breath to steady himself. “I remember… thousands of years ago, there was an evil king who called himself the Shadow Lord. He gained power on the Continent, and dominated the known world for generations. In the last days of the Roman Empire, the Shadow Lord heard the prophecy that another king would rise who would cast him out of the world of men with an enchanted sword.”

  “Excalibur,” Isdemus said, nodding.

  “That king turned out to be Arthur,” said Peter, glancing reluctantly at the painting. “Arthur did banish the Shadow Lord, but he died in the process, and Excalibur was lost. Nobody knows where it is now.”