The Portal and the Veil

by Ted Sanders

  She looked down, lifted Mr. Meister’s hand still resting on her knee, and gently placed it into his own lap. She patted it before letting it go. “There is nothing to say.” She exhaled loudly and looked over at Horace. She smiled thinly and gave him a tiny shrug, her eyes glistening.

  Horace was fighting his own tears. The first time he’d heard her tell this story, she’d only let loose the facts, not the feelings—maybe to protect him, he realized. But with Mr. Meister here, old wounds had opened. He marveled at how strong his mother was, how wise, how . . . brave.

  Mr. Meister removed his glasses and wiped them gingerly with a cloth snagged from a pocket. His eyes looked tiny without them. “You are correct that I do not know how it feels,” he said. “I will apologize if you wish. I will apologize for what we asked of you.”

  “Asked,” Horace’s mother repeated with a bitter little laugh, wiping her eyes. But then she shook her head. “No. If you had it to do over, you’d do it again. I’m not angry, I just . . . I won’t ask for an apology on those terms. And what happened to me then, what you did to me—it’s been a part of me for twenty-five years. I’m not looking to change who I am.”

  Mr. Meister slipped his glasses back on. “Nor am I. And we needed you, back then. You and Isabel both.”

  “I don’t want your apology, Henry. But I will remember that you offered.”

  Loki leapt up onto her lap. Horace’s mother bent and nuzzled the cat’s black flank. “Was that good?” she cooed to him. “Were you listening? I think that was good. I think that was important.” She looked over at Horace, heaved another sigh. “You okay?”

  He nodded.

  “I’m okay,” she said. “Everything is okay.”

  “I know.”

  “So,” she said, sitting up straight. “You want to tell me why you’re here now? Also important, no doubt.”

  “Yes,” said Horace. “Very important.”

  “Isabel is on the run again,” said Mr. Meister. “This time with something of truly great value.”

  “Well, I can’t find her. There’s no bond between us anymore.”

  Mr. Meister gave a little half shrug, as if that might only be half true. “Regardless, you may be able to help us locate her. Will you come with us?”

  Horace’s mother ran her fingers through her hair, as if she were making up her mind, but he could see she’d already decided. There was never a question, really. She would come with them, into the Warren. She would help them track down Isabel.

  She looked over at Horace, sighing. “You know, some kids just need their parents to make brownies for bake sales. Help them with their pinewood derby cars, take them to soccer practice, stuff like that.”

  Horace grinned. “And some parents just joined French club back when they were in high school. Sorry we’re not more boring.”

  “It’s not our fault. It’s in our blood.” She stood and stretched, dumping Loki onto the couch. “Okay, then. Better get my harp. Give me ten minutes—if I’m going to do this, I’d like to do it with pants on.”

  IF IT WAS bizarre seeing Mr. Meister in his home, Horace found it surprisingly unbizarre to see his mother in the Warren. Once they crossed Vithra’s Eye, she moved through the golden-gray forest of the Great Burrow as if she belonged there, her face lit with a comforting glow of memory, small sounds of recognition drifting from her lips. She pointed out Mrs. Hapsteade’s doba, another doba where she and Isabel used to work and play, and a curving, secluded alcove at the top of a rock spill that she did not identify but that inspired a warm ripple of girlish laughter.

  “Nothing’s changed,” she said dreamily. “Except it’s smaller than I remember.”

  Chloe, who had been waiting impatiently for them on the shores of Vithra’s Eye, looked up at the towering ceiling high above them. “You must remember it super huge, then.”

  At the back of the Burrow, they ran into a curious sight. The precarious edge of the Maw, and the Maw itself, seemed to no longer exist. Horace stopped, confused and disoriented, before he realized: Gabriel was here. The humour of Obro was up, just ahead of them, refusing to be seen from the outside.

  “What’s happening?” said Horace, alarmed. “Is something wrong?”

  “Hardly,” Chloe muttered. “This has been going on for a while. I chose not to participate.”

  From a ledge overhead, Arthur the raven squawked down at them. A second later, the humour vanished with a harsh shredding sound. Gabriel stood there holding his staff. Neptune and April stood a little ways off, staring like wide-eyed deer.

  “What are you doing?” Horace said.

  “We’re helping Gabriel practice,” said April.

  Chloe grunted. “Is that what he’s calling it now?”

  “Some people like to practice before the danger comes,” said Neptune.

  “There are things I could have done better tonight,” Gabriel said. “Things I hope to do better in the future.”

  “Yeah, well, I guess you should always try to be better than yourself,” said Chloe.

  “Good advice for everyone,” Horace’s mother said, with a gently chiding glance Chloe’s way. She stepped forward to greet Gabriel and Neptune, introducing herself as Jessica. Gabriel only bowed and said, “It’s an honor to meet you, Mrs. Andrews. Thank you for coming.”

  Neptune said, “We haven’t met, but I’ve been known to hang around your house.”

  “Tourminda jokes,” said Horace’s mom. “Funny stuff.”

  Together, the five of them descended the Perilous Stairs. Horace’s mother looked at ease even here, though she said she’d never gone down the stairs before. When they entered Brian’s workshop below, the older Wardens were waiting. Mr. Meister looked as unflappable as always, even though Horace knew he had just returned through Sanguine Hall.

  Mrs. Hapsteade swept up to Horace’s mother, her stern face cracking, and drew her into a deep hug. They murmured inaudible greetings to each other. Mrs. Hapsteade gave Horace’s mother a lightning-swift kiss on the cheek.

  Horace’s mother reached into her bag and pulled out her harp. Folded up, it looked like a crude fish made from four curving arms of wood. “I guess we should get started. Where’s the portal?”

  On the drive in, Mr. Meister had explained to her what Isabel had done. Horace’s mother remembered the Laithe of Teneves, of course. She’d been asked to tune it years before—it, and the Fel’Daera too. She’d even met Sil’falo Teneves, the Maker of both instruments, who’d delivered the two precious Tan’layn to the Warren. Isabel had ended up tuning both instruments, but Horace’s mom had also plumbed the depths of both the box and the globe, and understood bits and pieces of how they functioned. She had seemed skeptical that she could do what Mr. Meister was asking of her, but her eagerness to try now lifted Horace’s spirits a little.

  The entire group retired to Tunraden’s empty chamber. Horace’s mother immediately approached the wall where Joshua had opened the portal earlier that evening. She held her hands out, groping like a mime, obviously sensing the residue.

  “This is incredible.”

  “It is,” said Mr. Meister.

  She turned to Horace. “When you look through the box here, what do you see?”

  “Just shapes, mostly. Moving fast toward me.”

  She nodded. “Opening a door with the Laithe isn’t like falkrete travel. It’s not instantaneous. It’s more like movement. I think you’re seeing the movement toward the destination Joshua chose.”

  “Let us try,” said Mr. Meister solemnly.

  “Right,” said Horace, taking the Fel’Daera into his hands. Everyone watched him closely—except for his mother, who deliberately looked away. This was a kindness, he realized. He had never before used the box in her presence, and while he wasn’t exactly embarrassed to do so now, still this part of his life had remained separate from her so far, belonging to Horace alone. It felt a little like being caught singing in the shower. But his mother, his good mother, was pretending not to liste
n. He oriented himself, grateful not to have her eyes on him. When he was ready, he opened the Fel’Daera.

  “Show me where,” he said, holding the box up and stepping forward.

  His mother held out a flat hand, her face unreadable. Horace moved toward it, peering through the blue glass. And when he got the alignment right, the residue of the portal burst into view just as before—hurtling shapes, a chaos of angles and curves rushing toward him.

  His mother gasped, clutching her head. “Whoa,” she said. “Whoa.”

  “What’s the matter?” Chloe asked.

  “Nothing. It’s fine. It just feels like . . . crossing the streams. Very intense.” She touched Horace lightly on the shoulder and asked him, very kindly, “Can I help now? Can I try?”

  Horace nodded, holding still. His mother moved to the pedestal where Tunraden usually sat and unfolded her harp. The fish shape became a kind of bowl. From each of the four curving arms, shimmering sails made from ribbons of rainbowed light rose toward the center. The Medium. She began to pluck at these strings delicately, with the same sure fingers that had cut Horace’s hair and pulled splinters from his palm. The strings vibrated and fluttered through brilliant cascades of color.

  “That’s a harp?” April asked. “It looks so different from Miradel.”

  “Every harp is different,” growled Mr. Meister. “But none should be named.”

  Horace’s mother shot him an irritated glance. “Mine is more harplike than most, April,” she said, eight fingers poised like spider legs on the strings. “But I can still . . .” She pushed one pinky and pulled with the pinch of two other fingers.

  Inside the box—the tumble of shapes reversing itself, drifting away now. Horace swayed, barely holding the box in place. “It’s going backward. But I still can’t see anything. What am I doing wrong?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “And that’s a good thing. If the problem were inside the Fel’Daera, I couldn’t help you. I can only do so much with the Medium inside a working Tan’ji. The portal is the problem.” She looked up at Mr. Meister. “You said Joshua is the Keeper of the Laithe. I met him tonight, and I can believe it, but . . . did he go through the Find?” Before the old man could reply, she shook her head and answered her own question. “No, he couldn’t have. Isabel brought him to it. She’s teaching him.”

  Horace’s mother fussed with the strings again. “Joshua opened a portal—very messily—and when the Loomdaughter went through, it got even messier.” A glint of yellow streaked across one of the sails of her harp. Inside the box, the receding tunnel of shapes spun briefly.

  “Why messier?” Horace asked.

  “Falo was smart when she created the Laithe—and the Fel’Daera, for that matter. She knew that Tanu might travel through them, dragging the Medium along. That can cause interference. Tangles.”

  Immediately Horace thought of the night in the Riven’s nest when he had sent Chloe’s dragonfly through the box. Chloe seemed to be thinking the same thing, because she watched him like a cat, twirling the Alvalaithen idly by the tail. “I tangled you,” she mouthed at him. Inexplicably, Horace found himself blushing.

  “Ordinarily,” Horace’s mother continued, “the Laithe and the box can handle Tanu. Clean opening, clean exit. But I would imagine if a Keeper is inexperienced, or compromised in some way, the passage of a Tanu could leave a terrible mess behind. That might be what I’m sensing.”

  Mr. Meister was nodding enthusiastically at every word. “This is marvelous news, then. You can help us. You can clean the residue and allow Horace to see.”

  “Probably. Maybe. I’m seeing patterns I don’t recognize, and I’ve tuned nearly every kind of instrument there is. Well, except a Loomdaughter.” She looked at Mr. Meister. “Which one is she?”

  “The eighth,” Mr. Meister replied.

  Now her eyebrows jumped. “Yikes.”

  “Yikes, indeed.”

  Loomdaughters, Horace knew, were so called because they were replicas of the Starlit Loom, the very first Tan’ji. Only nine Loomdaughters were made, each more powerful than the last—though none as powerful as the Starlit Loom itself. Every Tanu that had ever been made was created either with the Starlit Loom or one of the Loomdaughters. Most of the nine Loomdaughters had been destroyed, and Tunraden, the eighth, was the most valuable of those that remained.

  “That explains this mess,” Horace’s mother said, bending over her harp. “But this is good. I can help.” She pushed and pulled at the strings, using all ten fingers now, and then said casually, “I never tuned a Loomdaughter, but Falo did let me hold the Starlit Loom one time.”

  Horace’s mouth fell open. The Starlit Loom. With it, Falo had made the Fel’Daera, and the Laithe. And long before that, some unknown earlier Keeper of the Loom had made the Alvalaithen—and another, of course, had created Tunraden.

  To his surprise, Mr. Meister seemed equally shocked by this news. He actually sputtered before saying, “Falo showed it to you? Let you hold it?”

  “Yes. It was very small. A little bit smaller than the Fel’Daera, I think.”

  Another surprise. Tunraden was the size of a sink.

  “It would be smaller, yes,” said Mr. Meister, as if he had never seen the Starlit Loom himself, but only studied it. “The Loomdaughters are crude replicas, similar in shape to the Loom but much greater in size. I am stunned that Falo actually let you touch it.”

  “I guess I was in the middle of some . . . teenage throes, so maybe she felt sorry for me. But the point is, I saw the Loom, and I think that can help me now. Most Tanu are like pipes, or drains. But looms are like fountains.” She looked over at Horace. “Try again?”

  Horace, listening and caught up in the notion that his own mother had actually held the Starlit Loom, had let the box fall to his side. He closed the lid, reset himself, and tried again, finding the invisible plane where the portal lay.

  “Okay, let’s see,” his mother said. Her fingers began to dance. The strings of her harp quivered and shone. A muted rainbow of shadows flickered along the walls of the chamber. Suddenly, with a single thrust of his wings, Arthur leapt from April’s shoulder and onto the pedestal, leaning toward the harp. April reached out for him, clearly embarrassed, but Horace’s mother didn’t so much as flinch. The bird stared at the strings and started to rock side to side, a little dance of encouragement. After a moment, April’s eyes went cloudy.

  “Wow,” she breathed, clearly seeing the strings through the raven’s eyes.

  “What’s he doing?” Horace whispered.

  “Nothing. Just watching. He likes it. But the colors . . .” She shook her head in amazement.

  Horace’s mother twisted her hands, pressing the tips of all ten fingers together across five different strings. She pushed and pulled. Abruptly, four ribbons of golden light flared from the center of the harp out to the arms, where they vanished with a flash.

  “Oh!” Jessica gasped, as the harp wobbled.

  Inside the box—no more movement; a motionless tangle of silhouettes. “It stopped,” Horace said. “But I still can’t see anything. It’s like a kaleidoscope.”

  “Here,” said his mother. She caressed several strings, actually seeming to draw them from the center like thread from a spool. Green, purple, silver, mauve. And then, suddenly—

  Trees. A forest. A shimmering ribbon through the leaves—a stream.

  “I see it!” Horace cried. He was so excited that the box slipped out of alignment, and he lost it. He found the residue again and stared, reporting what the others could not see. “There’s a stream. A forest by a stream, or more like a river. I don’t see anybody, though.”

  “Remarkable,” said Mr. Meister. “Well done, Jessica. Thank you.”

  Horace’s mother looked flushed and bright-eyed. Young. “I missed this,” she said breathlessly, and laughed. “I hate to say it, but I did.”

  “But now what?” said Chloe. “They went to the woods by a river. What woods?”

  “Mr. Meist
er, you said Joshua might be more likely to open the portal to a place he’d been before,” Horace said. “I suppose this could be the riverbank where we fought the Riven the other day.”

  “We were at Skokie Lagoons the day before that,” April said. “We spent the night in the woods by a river. And the next day, we were actually on the river for hours. Lots of woods. Do you see cars or bridges?”

  “No, and I can’t turn and look around,” Horace said, frustrated. “I’m locked into this one view, like a telescope pressed against a window. I can see where they went, but I have no idea where the where is.”

  “I believe I can help,” Mr. Meister said.

  The old man reached into two of his many pockets, one with each hand. He dug deep with the left and he pulled out a familiar object—the compass that usually sat on his desk, its needle forever pointed at Mr. Meister. With two fingers of his right hand, he delicately plucked out a small metal object, a three-dimensional, six-pointed star—a jack.

  “Jacks,” April said. “I used to play jacks with my brother.”

  “As did I with mine,” Mr. Meister said kindly. Horace wasn’t sure he’d heard right. Mr. Meister had a brother?

  Chloe’s startled face scrunched quickly into mischief. She said, “I always assumed you would have eaten any siblings in the womb.”

  “Delightful, but no. We did not share that particular residence. Now observe, please.” Mr. Meister held the compass low for all to see, and slowly traced a path around it with the jack. The red needle of the compass, long and thin, swiveled smoothly to point straight at the jack, wherever it went. The needle moved with no lag or wobble whatsoever, as if it were connected to the jack with an invisible rod. It was so simple, yet utterly—Horace had to admit—magical.