Ellen Under The Stairs

by John Stockmyer

  Not as strange a thing to think as it might seem. For, to his amazement, he'd learned that the other world did have ... magic ... John-the-skeptic eventually having to admit there was no other word to describe the "miraculous" occurrences in that "other place." (Not story-book magic like building castles in the air or turning people into frogs. But magic, nonetheless.)

  Time to get out from under the stairs.

  John took a mind-clearing breath. Tasted dust from the dirty pine flooring of the confined storage space.

  With shaky muscles, John pushed himself up from the plank floor, only to hit his head on the underside of the steeply zigzagged stairs, negotiating the cramped space made difficult because John ... couldn't see. Why? Because the triangular door to the storage area under the stairs was closed?

  John stuck out an unsteady hand to find out. ... No. It was just that it was nighttime. The whole house dark.

  Straining his fatigued body this way and that, trying not to bruise little Platinia beside him, John was able to torture the generator out from under him.

  Panting in much needed oxygen, he pulled himself to his hands and knees, John barely able to trip the inner latch on the door and crawl out on the hall's wood floor before collapsing on his side to rest.

  Near him were the shadowy outlines of the stacked boxes he'd dragged out so he could enter the storage space for his trip.

  The flashlight he'd used in his preparations had to be close by.

  Rolling over painfully, twisting himself into position, sticking out his too-heavy arms, John reached under the stairs to get a grip on the static-electric generator; managed to wrestle it out and slide it to one side.

  Struggling up on all fours, weights seemingly strapped to every part of his body, he found the flashlight where he remembered putting it. Picked it up. Switched it on. Squatted back.

  The "ten pound" flashlight trembling in his hand, John switched it on to see black robed Platinia, still sprawled under there, her arms seemingly Velcroed to the floor. In obvious pain, she was sweating, her dark eyes open, blinking in the light.

  "Here," John said, managing to crawl to the triangular storage space again.

  Supporting himself on both elbows for a moment, he bent forward. Reached in. Caught Platinia's hand. Pulled her out.

  Wearied from that burst of activity, John sagged back to sit on the hall floor, then lean against the short wall opposite Platinia.

  They were home at last. At least, John was home.

  "We're at my house, Platinia," John said, waving the light about.

  Even talking was difficult in the world's fierce gravity!

  "You came here before. Some time ago."

  "I am ... weak," the girl said in her tiny voice.

  Weak and sweating.

  If John could crawl into the living room and get a lamp switched on, he felt he could get a grip on the situation. ... But he couldn't.

  "Band sickness. You've had it before." John thought he saw the girl nod, a hefty increase of weight more difficult to overcome for someone reared in light gravity. "You get used to it."

  Again, the slight nod of her head.

  John was already getting stronger.

  "The Mage ... Pfnaravin?" said the girl, Platinia at least feeling well enough to ask a question.

  "Don't worry. He won't follow us here. We beat him."

  "Beat ...?" Platinia gave a feeble gesture of puzzlement.

  "Escaped. By plugging the hallway with furniture and setting the tables and chairs on fire, I bought the time we needed." His memory getting better, John recalled playing fire-bug with his most modern cigarette lighter. "Coluth, Golden, and the others went out the roof," he explained, thinking she might be as disorientated in her thought processes as he; might need a memory jolt. "I got the static-electric generator out of the room's hiding place. Then cranked it up to get the both of us here before Pfnaravin's soldiers could catch us."

  "I cannot stay ... here." Said with rising panic.

  "You've got nothing to be afraid of. I know how to get back. I'll take you home. Don't worry. But we ought to wait until Pfnaravin stops hunting us."

  When was the question. Particularly since there seemed to be a time-warp between worlds, days - months - years spend there equaling not much time passing here, the reverse also seeming to be true.

  For now, John and Platinia had to get some sleep.

  Climbing the stairs was out. In their condition, the second floor bedrooms were beyond reach, John's plan of the moment to have Platinia sleep on the living room couch, John on the rug, John so tired a bed of bricks would feel soft.

  Looking over at the girl, John realized that another odd thing had happened. Reaching the tower room, getting out the generator, he'd turned to see Platinia walking toward him. Solemn looking as usual. Black hair. Darkly pretty face. At that moment, feeling a sudden passion for her! Before realizing it, had her in his arms!

  As they'd kissed, John had the overpowering sensation that he loved her like he'd never loved anyone; that he could never leave her; that he had to bring her to his world.

  Bizarre ... since looking at Platinia now, John felt no ... love ... for her. Concern, yes. But not love ..........

  An inconsistency in his emotions to be considered later.

  For now, John was too tired to think about anything -- sleep the first step toward the solution of all future problems. Sleep ... and more sleep.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 3

  Muttering to herself, Zwicia hunched over the unstable bench as she continued to stroke her Weird-Crystal with her eagle-claw hands. The Crystal's iron chain off her wattled neck, she'd placed the flat Disk on the rough table. Looking down, she saw only herself -- Zwicia, the Weird of Bice -- rotted to an old woman with ice-clear eyes, age reducing her to a wrinkled face and frizzy, iron grey hair.

  At first stopped by the reflection of the crone, she began again to stroke the Crystal near its rim, fingering the smooth glass where it curved down slightly to fit into its circular, iron collar.

  Caressing the Disk slowly, she could feel Crystal power build: a dry sensation crawling up her fingers, spreading to the backs of her hands and arms.

  As the Crystal's force built, her likeness fading in the glass, the disk's surface changed from deep magenta -- to mauve -- to violet. As she rubbed faster, to bleach to a purple amethyst, then to heliotrope, to pale lavender, and light hyacinth. Finally to become clear, madder grey, the surface of the glass shimmering like liquid, the Crystal glowing with an inner light.

  Fear swelled her throat! She must be on guard for Crystal-traps!

  In spite of the danger, the fading outline of her face had showed a thin lipped smile. Others were afraid of her and of her Crystal -- as well they might be. Her clever avoidance of Crystal-traps gave her a power, reserved to her alone.

  She had a different strength than Mages owned, her power coming from the knowledge that others needed her while she did not need them.

  And yet that was untrue. While these others could not take her Crystal from her -- would refuse even to glance within the Disk's flickering depths for fear of endangering themselves -- they could make her suffer.

  Zwicia's old body could still feel pain.

  Though the flow of the Crystal mesmerized her, Zwicia forced herself to be aware of her surroundings.

  She was not in her little, castle room, but in another cubical. A cramped chamber with an iron-bound, oak door. A dark room. A damp room. A locked room.

  Her bed had been moved in. There was a bowl of water and a floor-hole for her elimination. She had food, though its taste was tainted.

  A single fire-torch provided the room's faint light.

  The air smelled ... stale. Lifeless. Because there was no window.

  Block walls of sweaty stone surrounded her, so cold they sent chills through Zwicia's bones.

  Dragging a hand away from Crystal stroking, she clutched her robe about her.

  Unlike John-Lyon, P
fnaravin, had put Zwicia into this ... cage. ....

  Dungeon.

  That was the word for such a cellar room. Dungeon.

  Why?

  Zwicia did not know. Or, if she did, had forgotten. Though she denied it even to herself, her mind was sometimes Crystal-struck: as dazzled as light on shattered mirrors.

  Perhaps the Crystal would reveal the answer.

  Her Crystal showing ... pictures of the past. The present. The future.

  At her recollection that the Weird-Disk could reveal the future, she felt a chill like the passing of the shadow of a carrion bird circling high above. It was a remembrance of something someone said to her. Something important.

  In her confusion, Zwicia stopped caressing the Weird-Disk, the glass darkening, the feel of Crystal-power lessening.

  She shook her head in an attempt to roll the loose marbles of her mind into the proper holes, her hair flopping, the wattles on her neck jiggling. Thoughtlessly, she picked at the purple fringe along the sleeve of her long robe.

  For some time, she had served the Mage, John-Lyon, few knowing, as her Crystal had revealed to her, that the young Wizard was from another world. In the Crystal's liquid mirror, she had seen him emerge in the tower room. The youth with the strange green eyes.

  In the long ago -- which had been the future, then.

  But he had gone back to that other place.

  In John-Lyon's stead was another Mage, Pfnaravin, also a man of power, an old man.

  John-Lyon once had the golden Crystal of Stil-de-grain, which made him Mage. But he had the Crystal no longer. Puzzled, Zwicia wondered how she knew that. .... She just did.

  The Mage, Pfnaravin, had the green Crystal of Malachite. It, too, had been lost: hidden in the palace of King Yarro, in the king's capital of Xanthin. But Pfnaravin had found his Mage-Gem, making him again a man of power!

  Zwicia did not know how she knew these things. Perhaps, in the past, the Crystal had showed them to her.

  But now, there was something she must do. If she could only remember what it was.

  She was rocking now, rhythmically. Swaying over her Crystal. Humming to it in her old cracked voice. Crooning to her Weird-Gem.

  She had seen men come in the flyers. Great birds settling near the world's rim. She had seen men in ... heavy robes of magic. Seen them high above. Witnessed them build, over the sky, a large, iron bowl.

  She had observed the men-in-robes in the bowels of the earth, using machines to heat the innards of the world even father down. Seen the men as they stood on ledges of deep caves. Directing down the fire from their machines to heat the center of the world.

  The Crystal had showed to her these same men as they affixed a great Crystal in the top of a central, hollow mountain. Positioned it there like a round jewel in the mounting of a ring, the Crystal like an eye, shining clear on the front side, black on the back.

  The crystal that was the eye of the world.

  She had seen the men set the great eye-Crystal into a slow rotation, the Gem's bright side throwing glittering light to the dome overhead, the dome shining back to light the world until it was full-light. She had seen the dark half of the Crystal revolving from the mountain that held it; spin slowly skyward, as it turned, shutting off the Crystal's light so that the dome gradually turned dark -- making it the night.

  What she had seen was Eyeland. The center of the world. The Crystal eye, when rotated down, absorbing light from the world's hot center. Afterward, spinning slowly up, to shine that light on the dome so the radiance would reflect back as a new day.

  Where had these builders of the planet gone? The men in the very long ago in their great iron sky-birds?

  She did not know.

  Suddenly, Zwicia was afraid! What was she doing here in this terrible room? Where was the girl, Platinia? Where was the Mage, John-Lyon?

  The girl, so small and silent, didn't frighten her. Even the young Mage with his terrible green eyes, did not terrify her heart. But the new/old Mage, Pfnaravin ..... did!

  There was something she must do. Something she must do for the Mage, Pfnaravin. Something she had been warned to do!

  Stroking. Rubbing fast, the Crystal turned clear again.

  The glow. Always the glow that showed ... the future!

  Zwicia was afraid of the future. Fearful to see in it ... her death!

  Drawn to look closer at this future, she saw that the Mage, John-Lyon, was standing in the circular room.

  Where had he been?

  Zwicia knew. He had been to the other world. Now, he was back.

  The Mage seemed ... to be in a Crystal trance ..... No. He was moving, looking all about. Smiling.

  Was this the future?

  Yes. The ghostly light still glowed around the border of the disk. This was the future that Zwicia saw.

  There was movement in that shadowy tower.

  Massaging the Crystal faster, leaning even farther forward, she saw one person.

  Two people. The Mage and the girl Platinia.

  Three people, the third person turned away.

  Who the third person was, Zwicia didn't know. Someone tall. Taller than the girl. But shorter than the Mage.

  Was this truly the future? If so, in what length of time? Did this third person mean that Pfnaravin had gone to the other world. That the Mages had returned together?

  The portent of these pictures was a mystery.

  Though they meant little to her, she must tell ... Pfnaravin!

  That was what she was to remember. The Mage Pfnaravin had locked her in this room. Would keep her here until she had seen the future.

  That was what the Mage demanded of her. He had ordered her to see the future and to reveal what would happen so he could plan for it.

  Particularly, he wished to know when John-Lyon would come back.

  Suffering the always painful wrench of breaking free of the Crystal's grasp, crying out in pain, Zwicia stopped rubbing the disk, the Crystal's picture fading, the glass disk darkening as the power waned ... until it had returned to magenta.

  Zwicia sat on the rough bench, trembling, sweat plastering her thin hair to her old skull. Without the Crystal's light, her eyes were dim, a halo dancing around the flickering light of the torch across the room. She was cold. She was ....

  Pfnaravin was a man of power. He would hurt her if she failed to do his bidding!

  Hurt her?

  What hurt could he do her? She was old. She was weak. If he hurt her very much, she would die.

  Knowing that he held little power over her, she could do as she liked. What she liked now -- to hide a secret from Pfnaravin. The secret of when John-Lyon would return.

  Zwicia was old. Zwicia was confused. But Zwicia, Weird of Bice, would do as Zwicia wished.

  Which was to look into her Crystal every day. To stroke it until it's mesmeric images came, these pictures the joy of Zwicia's near-dead soul!

  * * * * *

  Chapter 4

  It was a struggle to get to his feet from the pallet of chair cushions he'd arranged for himself in front of the fire place. Besides feeling heavy because of Band Sickness, John was sore. Sore, as in blue and purple bruises from landing on the old Van de Graaff.

  Platinia was still asleep on the divan. Sometime in the night, John remembered dragging himself up to get an Afghan off the short couch in his den, bringing it back to spread it over the sleeping girl. She had looked small and pathetic huddled on the couch, a divan that, judging by her size, had been made for giants. Then again, there was hardly any other way Platinia could look than small and pathetic.

  Without waking the exhausted girl, John made it to the front door, then outside to his Mazda RX-7, driving to the chilly end of the lane to get the morning paper.

  Thank God John's old house was so isolated, set as it was in a patch of woods leading to 72nd. No neighbors to see him dressed as he was in his white -- but badly soiled -- robe of Stil-de-grain cotton.

  Stepping inside the house, strippi
ng off the paper's small rubber band, John unfolded the Star. Looked at the day and date printed at the top of page one.

  Monday.

  The Monday after the Friday night John had made his second foray into the other world.

  As before, time spent there didn't register as time spent here. Just another mystery in the strange business of trans-world travel.

  Shaking his heavy head at how dull he felt, he dragged himself across the hall, instinctively going wide of the space beneath the stairs to enter the living room, finding that the girl hadn't moved on the old davenport.

  As usual, entering his own parlor gave John a twinge of grief, the room improved with the better pieces of his deceased parent's furniture.

  Circling the coffee table to reach the phone stand at the far end of the green divan, John eased his too-heavy body on the couch below the sleeping girl.

  Picking up the receiver, dredging up the number, he dialed.

  "Hill Top College."

  "Betty," John whispered, not wanting to wake Platinia. "This is John Lyon. I'm not feeling well. Slept through the alarm, in fact. Will you have my classes posted?"

  "Certainly," Betty said. "You sound bad. Laryngitis?"

  "Maybe," John lied, laryngitis as good an excuse as any for whispering into the phone. "I think it's only a passing bug. I'm sure I'll be there tomorrow."

  "Don't come in too soon," she warned.

  "Thanks."

  "Don't worry. I'll get your classes posted."

  "Thanks again."

  Hanging up, John rested for a moment, sitting on the couch at the feet of the sleeping girl; panting back his strength.

  Floundering up, trudging into the hall again, he began the climb to second, pausing every few steps to catch his breath.

  Reaching the top floor, he managed to strip and have a quick bath.

  Toweling off, John seemed less ponderous, Band Sickness wearing off as he knew it would.

  John brushed his teeth and put on deodorant, neither of which he'd done in the "other reality." Why? Stopping to think about it, he could not recall smelling either bad breath or B.O. in the Bandworld. Probably because bacteria caused both odors. Just another "disease" the other world's light magic killed.