Into the Mist

by Patrick Carman

  "We should be going," said Armon after a short time. "We don't want to keep the old man waiting" too long." It was our first clue as to what we should expect: He would be old. This pleased me, for I had a certain sense that someone old would be gentle with age, would be kinder than someone young. Thomas put away his things and we walked on.

  Soon we came to the thing we'd seen from above, and looking straight ahead we saw that it wasn't a house at all. It was a vast wooden terrace, held above the ground on a complicated system of fallen trees. It was leaning wildly in different directions, as though it might fall over in ten ways all at once, and somehow this very fact made it stand up and seem indestructible. And what was more, the terrace went back into the standing trees behind it in a way that looked untamed. It rose and fell,

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  higher and lower in the trees, and there were rooms up there - small houses, if you will - wrapped around the larger trees at odd intervals along the way.

  "It's a little like the Wakefield House," I said. "Like it should fall to pieces, but it doesn't."

  "It looks familiar, don't you think?" said Thomas. I didn't think so - not really - but it did have a certain power over me, like it was drawing me to it. There wasn't very much time to wonder about the sprawling wooden structure before us, because right after Thomas asked his question, someone came out onto the high terrace and looked down at us.

  "I was beginning to wonder if you'd gotten lost." It was a man, leaning over the railing from above. His voice was gravelly but clear, and it was filled with a sense of loneliness being drawn away, like he'd been by himself a long while and suddenly everything about him had changed with our arrival. It wasn't the words he said, but the way he said them that betrayed his happiness at our arrival.

  "These boys have grown," said Armon. "They're not as easy to carry as they once were."

  What did he mean? Had he carried us before? The time to ask about such things seemed wrong, and I held my tongue.

  "Grindall will be looking for me," Armon

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  continued. "Better I return home and put aside any suspicions."

  "Stay for something to eat, then go," said the man on the terrace. Then, looking at us, he added, "Bring me the boys, won't you?"

  Off to one side there were stumps of trees that served as a stairway, rising higher as they went with nothing to hold on to. Armon was first to go and we followed, hopping through the air from one stump to another until we were even with the terrace above. When we reached the top I was concerned the structure wouldn't hold Armon's full weight, and to my further alarm he didn't step onto the terrace, he leaped onto it, as if he were actually trying to crash into it and knock it down. But the terrace didn't so much as sway under the monstrous pressure of our giant friend.

  "The Wakefield House hasn't fared as well," said Armon as Thomas and I stepped onto the long, open landing ourselves. "It's lucky there were no houses in its path."

  "How I would have loved to see it tumble over!" said the man with a longing sort of smile. He looked at Thomas and asked, "Did it fall over just when you two opened the iron door?"

  "Almost," answered Thomas. "It swayed a little at first -- so we could get out of the way - and then it fell over."

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  While Thomas talked, I observed the man on the terrace. He wasn't as old as I thought he would be -- maybe fifty. He had a physical strength about him that made me wonder if he could wrestle Armon to the ground. It wasn't that he was big -- rather he was solid, like a rock, like you could drop a house on him and he would walk away unbroken.

  "I planned it that way, so that once the deed was done, the Wakefield House would stand no more," said the man. "And it would only fall the one way, the way in which Miss Flannery was not to allow anything to be built."

  "Are you Sir Alistair Wakefield?" I asked, my voice shakier than I'd expected it to be.

  He looked upon my brother and me, nodding, smiling a happy smile. "I am he."

  Thomas started to open his mouth, undoubtedly to ask the first of many questions, but Sir Alistair Wakefield silenced him with a raised finger.

  "First we must eat and get Armon on his way," he said, and with that he turned from us and walked along the wooden terrace into the thick of the trees. Thomas and I followed with Armon close behind us, crouching under branches as we went.

  "You will enjoy this," said Armon, laughing just a little. "He has a way of welcoming visitors that you won't soon forget."

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  We went along, rising and falling on the wooden path beneath us, looking out over the rail to the ground below until we came to an egg-shaped platform with one large tree shooting up the middle. There at the base of the tree waited Sir Alistair Wakefield, and around him was a feast like nothing I'd imagined in my past at the House on the Hill. There were platters of cooked fish, breads with sweet spreads of honey and jam, pitchers of things to drink, and cheese with crusts of colors I'd never seen before.

  "It's all been sitting here a little longer than I'd planned," said Sir Alistair, sitting down among the bowls and plates. "But I think it will be all right."

  We sat together under the big tree -- eating and drinking -- and very quickly we came to call Sir Alistair Wakefield simply Alistair, for he insisted on ridding our first meeting of formality. Soon we began to ask him questions, and he, being a kind man and wanting to enlighten us, was happy to sit beneath the tree for hours and hours and tell us all we wanted to know.

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  ***

  CHAPTER 22

  THE STORY OF OUR BEGINNING

  Roland pulled his logbook out of his pocket and looked at it thoughtfully as midnight approached. We had brought more candles onto the deck of the Warwick Beacon and lit them, so that it felt like a small cathedral on the rolling sea. I couldn't remember the last time I'd sat silently listening for so long, the rising and falling of quiet water trying but failing to lull me to sleep.

  "And here we come to the whole of the matter," said Roland, "the unraveling of the past. This part of my story is best told as a tale within a tale, unhindered by the fullness of a hundred questions from two brothers on that cool, crisp day on Sir Alistair Wakefield's terrace."

  "A tale within a tale," said Yipes. "That sounds good to me."

  Roland glanced once more at the logbook in his hand and seemed to grip it more firmly. There was a hesitant look about him for an instant, and then he held the logbook out to me over the pale light of candles, as if he wanted me to take it from him. Yipes lunged for it, wanting to see the ever-secret logbook for himself and overcome with a desire to have it. But I was quick when I needed to be, and I

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  snatched the secret treasure from Roland's fingers and clutched it to my chest. I expected Yipes might wrestle me onto the deck for it, and I envisioned the two of us rolling around under the sails, battling over the prized logbook we'd never been allowed to see inside of. But Yipes only sat wide-eyed, staring at me, his breathing a little heavier than it had been.

  "You may open it," said Roland, a twitch of excitement in his sandpapery old voice.

  Feeling a little sorry for Yipes but still uncertain whether he might try to take it from me, I held the logbook out in the open air above the candles, gripping it tightly. Yipes moved close to me where he could see, and we both read the words on the cover.

  Into the Mist

  The words were burned into the old leather, but they were black and clear as day. Into the Mist.

  "Why, it's Thomas's journal!" exclaimed Yipes. "You've had it all this time and have never shown it to us?"

  Yipes was reaching for it, trying to pry it open or out of my hands, so I clutched it once more to my chest. This was a treasure beyond all imagination, a connection to Thomas Warvold that would help me understand him, that would draw me nearer to him. Part of me was angry Roland hadn't given it to me sooner, knowing what he knew about my link to his brother Thomas. I didn't want to look just yet; I wanted to savor e
ach page, to

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  slowly touch each of the paintings Thomas Warvold had made.

  "You'll find I've scratched a few notes in there along the margins, but not many," said Roland. "Mostly I just look at the pictures. But I've looked at them long enough.

  "If you want to know what Alistair told us that day on Mount Laythen," he said, "all the facts are written down in the back of that book. Since the book is now in your possession, maybe you could read it to us and give an old man a moment to gather his thoughts of what remains. "

  I lifted Into the Mist from my chest and quietly turned to the back, flipping rapidly and glancing away as my finger fanned the edge of each painted page. Yipes leaned in close and kept putting his hand out in the fanning pages, trying to stop them from turning so fast, but each time he did, I moved the journal away where his short arms couldn't reach. I wanted an hour or a day with each page; I wanted to imprint each image in my mind, to savor the book. I arrived at the very last few pages and, from the corner of my eye, could see that there were only words and tiny sketches, as if Thomas had taken a moment here and there in the telling to scribble in the margins. I cleared my throat and held my hands a little closer to the candlelight. Then I read what was written in the back of the book, and it began with a single name on a line all its own.

  Grindall

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  Grindall.

  To know your past you must hear this name, for it is he who set you on the way to yesterday, into the secret realm of Mount Lay-then. He ruled Castalia, the land your father lived in. His descendants rule it still.

  Grindall was a cruel man. Through cunning and deceit he attained supremacy over the race of giants and used them to force his will on the people of Castalia. He used trickery to achieve his throne, and violence to keep his power. He did not love the people he reigned over, and this turned his heart small and black over time.

  But your father was not the kind of man who scared easily, and he was compelled to lead a secret rebellion intent on removing Grindall and the giants from power. There were three years of quiet planning in dark corners of dark rooms, gathering weapons and plotting every detail. It was during these three years that the two of you were born.

  When you, Thomas, were three, and you, Roland, were two, revolution came to Castalia. Your father led every detail of the uprising. He was at once a man of great courage and astounding intellect, a leader of the kind from which legends are made. But there are times in which a legend is made not on the battlefield, but in the desperate hour of defeat. And so it was with your father.

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  He failed in his attempt to seize the throne, though he very nearly succeeded. There came a moment in the conflict in which your mother and the two of you, though hidden well, were discovered by the enemy and taken to the Dark Tower. It was said that you -- his only children -- would be spared if only your father would lay down his sword and end the uprising.

  And it was here -- in the hour of defeat -- that your father changed the course of history. I am very sorry to say that your father and mother were not spared, but were made to climb to the very top of the Dark Tower and walk a narrow plank until, together, they slipped and fell into the open air. All of Castalia stood below and watched them descend, but all turned away as they reached the bottom. All but one.

  You sit now in the presence of that one, the giant Armon, for he is the one giant who has always secretly been the enemy of Grindall. In the end it is he who has made all the difference.

  With the death of your father, the rebellion was put down. Grindall had learned an important lesson: There would be others who might try to rise up against him, but they could be stopped before their time, if only he knew who they were. From then on, every Castalian boy and girl was brought before Grindall in the Dark Tower at the age of five and again at the age of seven. Grindall eyed them carefully, gave them sweets, asked them questions. He was looking for certain traits -- boys or girls who had it in them

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  to become leaders of some distant rebellion, if they were unusually smart, he kept them, if they were rude and boisterous, he kept them. If the other children seemed to follow them about, he kept them. These children were never returned, and they became known as the lost children, gone forever.

  But even Grindall had his limitations for doing evil, and it fell to Armon to get rid of the lost children. It was Armon's responsibility -- his sworn duty to Grindall -- to do away with all of them. Grindall chose them, but he sent them immediately to the underground realm of Armon, in the dark beating heart of the tower.

  You were the first, the two of you. The first lost children. And you were by far the youngest -- at only two and three -- to ever have such a heartbreaking name. Before any of the other lost children knew their fate, you were already gone! Seeing your father and mother destroyed by Grindall had made Armon think dangerous thoughts. How could he get rid of two boys, and yet not do away with them ? There was one place that struck him -- one place where two small children might not be found.

  By cover of night, Armon took you out past the great lake, to a secret place known only to a few. He took you up Mount Lay-then -- by the way of yesterday -- to the very place you find yourselves in now.

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  "How many lost children are there?" asked Yipes. "How many have there been?" He was very curious about children being taken from their parents and hidden away.

  Roland didn't seem to know or didn't want to tell. He only said there were many, and that as far as he was aware, all of them had been saved by Armon.

  "How long did this go on?" I asked, adding the years up in my mind and coming to a bigger number than I thought possible.

  "Through all of the last five reigns of the line of Grindall, to the very days leading up to your own encounter with the last of them."

  "Victor Grindall," whispered Yipes. "The worst of them all."

  "Not true," said Roland. "All the others were as bad or worse. Victor Grindall was a madman, and that set him apart from his ancestors, but those that came before him were as cruel as he was. They wanted only to have power, as much as could be had, and it was the power itself that eventually did them in."

  I thought about this idea for a moment in the quiet of the night, listening to the ancient wooden boards of the Warwick Beacon creaking on the soft waves. A quest for power ends in despair. There is no other way.

  "Shall I go on?" said Roland. "And tell you about our time with Sir Alistair Wakefield? There are things we learned there that I think you'll find interesting."

  Yipes and I both nodded vigorously, and I clutched the

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  precious logbook to my chest. I felt I hadn't really paid for it with something of my own, and there was only one thing I possessed that seemed a worthy gift in return.

  "Roland," I said, pulling something from my own pocket, something I'd carried with me all the way back in the days of walled cities and visits to Bridewell. "I want you to have this."

  I held my mother's spyglass out over the candles. She had etched and painted it so perfectly, with all the colors and paisley patterns I loved to look at, but I knew then that it hadn't always looked that way.

  "This is the spyglass you retrieved from the Wakefield House, isn't it?" I asked.

  Roland looked longingly at it, as though he were back in the twisting halls with his older brother, trying to find his way out. "It is the very same one."

  "Did Thomas Warvold give it to my mother?" I asked.

  "He did," Roland answered, taking it carefully from my hand. "And now it comes full circle, back into my possession. It's no small thing, you giving me this."

  I had the feeling then that he'd always wanted it back but hadn't been able to ask me for it. It was hard to let it go, because it was something that took me dancing into the past whenever I held it or looked through it. I always expected to see something exciting when I put it to my eye, and this was a feeling I'd come to long for.

 
Roland put the spyglass in his pocket, and in a way it

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  was gone forever. He would let me use it, but it would never be truly mine again. Looking at the logbook in my hand, I knew Roland felt just as I did. We'd both lost something, and had both gained something.

  "Off we go then," said Roland, suddenly full of vigor. "I don't mind telling you, my memories of our time with Sir Alistair Wakefield are among my favorites. And we must finish within the hour if you two are to get any sleep at all tonight."

  He began again, taking us back to a time and a place of deep magic I hadn't anticipated.

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  ***

  CHAPTER 23

  The Past and the Future

  At some point between all the questions and the eating of too much good food, I became exhausted in that special way in which a great task is complete and rest comes naturally. All my senses started to shut down at once as late afternoon crept over the terrace. It felt as if the tremendous strain of the previous days had caught up to me all at once.

  I slept for a few hours, then woke briefly as night was coming on, and I saw Thomas lying next to me. Armon was gone.

  "He'll be back soon enough," said Alistair, who sat close by rocking in an old chair he'd brought out from somewhere. "Go back to sleep. You need rest more than anything."

  And so it was that we slept through the night, awakening in the morning to the sharp smells of ripe berries and the wonderful aroma of fresh baked bread floating over the terrace. For some reason my mind drifted away from the lost children and the story we'd been told of our past. The idea of my parents falling to their deaths hung over me, but I must say it was like a distant haze, as though time