Earthly Worlds

by Billy Wright

  “Who’s Pooh?” Stewart said.

  “The bear.”

  A manic laugh burst out of Stewart. “That bear’s name is Pooh?”

  “Best not to joke about that,” Bob said. “Gets testy, he does. He loves those books.”

  The Queen spoke: “His True Name is…” What came after was a sensory avalanche of power, loyalty, cunning, and tenacity that quelled any further laughter. Amid the humans’ stunned silence, she went on, “We will send our army with you to the very border of the Dark Realm.”

  “So how do we get there?” Liz said. “Walk all the way back to Earth, and then through the Borderlands to the Dark side?”

  “There is one direct path between the Dark and Light Realms,” the Queen said. “Through the mouth of Chukwa, the Cosmic Tortoise.”

  Cassie clapped her hand over her mouth. “You mean we have to go into its mouth? It’ll swallow us?”

  Hunter paled. “And then come out the other end?”

  Bob stepped up onto his chair and waved his cane. “Getting a bit ahead of ourselves, we are.” He pointed at Cassie and Hunter. “You, dearies, are far too pure of heart to enter the Dark Realm by any means. Ye’ll fall out of that realm just as surely as a dark elf would fall out of this one. We need your father because he’s the only one of us who can exist there.”

  Claude said, “What we will do is take you to the Tortoise with a force of our best troops to protect you.”

  “You have an army? I thought you were like pacifists or something,” Stewart said. “All about the nonviolence?”

  Claude said, “Hardly. Have you not seen what Jaclyn and Jazlyn can do? Unlike the forces of the Dark Lord, we fight only to protect those who cannot protect themselves. That is the noblest purpose of the warrior, is it not? To safeguard the weak?”

  “But if we’re in the Light Realm, why do we need protection?” Stewart said.

  “We still do not know how they got away with the Princess,” Claude said, sounding uncomfortable. “They may have ways that we do not know, especially now that they have her. They might be able to slip something in for a short time using her essence as a kind of Trojan horse.”

  “That’s a little scary,” Liz said matter-of-factly.

  Bob and Claude nodded vigorously.

  She fixed her gaze on Stewart. He already knew what she was going to say. “Baby, we have to do this,” she said. “We’ll be with you every step of the way. Up until we get to the turtle.”

  Hunter said, “A tortoise, Mom.”

  Liz rolled her eyes. “Fine. Tortoise. Why?”

  “Because tortoises live on land,” Hunter said, with a grin. “National Geographic.”

  Stewart took a deep breath and let it out slowly. All eyes were upon him. He rubbed his face, his eyes. “So where is the Princess being held? How do I find her?”

  Claude’s shoulders deflated as if in relief. He withdrew what looked like a gold pocket watch on a gleaming silver chain from his waistcoat pocket. He offered it to Stewart. As Stewart touched the chain, a tingle passed up his fingers. He opened it to see a dial like no clock he’d ever seen, showing the Sun and Moon, rather than hours. It currently appeared to read noon, its dial pointing straight up, with midnight at the bottom of the dial. In the center lay what looked like a compass needle that spun lazily.

  “The compass in the center,” Claude said, “will lead you to the Princess.” Then he fixed his gaze on Stewart. “The rest of the dial tells you how much time remains for you.”

  “Before I die?” Stewart said.

  “Before the last of your Light is leached away, and you become a creature of the Dark Lord, never to return.”

  “I won’t be able to come back?”

  “You won’t want to. Nor would your family recognize you if you tried.”

  Stewart chewed on that for a moment. “How much time will I have? Hours, days?”

  “That depends on you,” the Queen said. “How much Darkness will you allow into yourself? How much Dark magic will you use?”

  “How do I control that?”

  “With your actions, and to a lesser extent, your thoughts. Any acts of cruelty you commit or dark thoughts harbored for too long will shorten the time you have.”

  “I can hold those off.”

  “Perhaps,” the Queen said, “but you must be on your guard. The forces of Darkness are corrosive, and the human mind prone to clinging to dark thoughts and adverse events, rather than seeing wonders and beauty around them.”

  “So, assuming I somehow find the Princess’s prison, how do I make the key to open her cage?” Stewart asked.

  An image exploded in his mind like a concert loudspeaker bursting to life at full volume. He flinched and staggered, then an image coalesced about the mental noise. A jagged construct of wrought iron, a thing of spines, angles, and blackness, but unmistakably a key. This merest flick of the Queen’s mental power had almost brought him to his knees.

  Her voice followed the image. “My daughter has seen the Dark Lord’s key and sent me the image in a dream.”

  The image had burned into Stewart’s memory so deeply he would never forget it. His mind started churning on how to construct it.

  But the Queen said, “There is one complication. The Dark Lord’s prison is powerful in ways the human eye cannot see. Her cage not only imprisons her, it is bound to her. Your key must not only open her cage, but destroy it, or else she will remain bound to it.”

  “How do you expect me to do that? Make a key out of TNT?”

  “You must forge a key infused with love.”

  Stewart frowned, voice rising in frustration. “How do I do that?”

  “Love can shatter any bonds. You are the magic smith, Stewart. We have faith in you,” the Queen said. “It is settled. For tonight, take your rest, gather your strength. The Royal Guard will be prepared to depart with you tomorrow.”

  ***

  That night was the finest night of Stewart’s life, with the exception of his wedding night. The breeze through their chamber window was cool and fresh, the kind that encouraged snuggling deeply into downy bedclothes. The view from their room took their breath away. The sparkling expanse of the City and the Lake lay beneath them under the starry tapestry of night, with a magnificent, glorious moon so clear and big he felt he could reach up and touch its textures.

  The kids were asleep in their bunk beds, which seemed to have been extruded from the walls and floor just for them, and a luxurious four-poster awaited Stewart and Liz. But they stood outside leaning against the balcony, breathing in the sights. They didn’t need to say anything, content to enjoy each other’s warmth and company. Both were committed to their course. She never once stopped touching him, a hand on his arm, her head on his shoulder, as if conscious of the fact she was literally his anchor in this world, and that he could disappear at any moment.

  Strains of intricate music filtered up from somewhere below, a lullaby soothing as a mother’s kiss.

  Finally they went to bed, her leg draped over his, and Stewart dreamed.

  He was twelve years old in Lyndon B. Johnson Middle School.

  In a school year marked by rare, relative stability in his life, he’d joined the baseball team. They seldom won a game, but he loved it. Putting on the uniform made him feel like a major leaguer, one of the heroes of old, like Babe Ruth. On the team, he was somebody, he was valued, and his teammates didn’t care that he was a foster kid, because he could throw really hard, and with pinpoint accuracy. He could make a throw from center field all the way to home plate, and on two occasions threw a third-base runner out at the plate. He was also the team’s star batter. He had such a good eye that he could follow a pitch, see its rotation, gauge his swing, and gather his strength, as if time itself stopped, as if the ball were hanging in midair waiting for him to crush it over the center-field fence.

  It was the biggest game of his middle school career, the LBJ Middle School Jaguars in the conference playoffs versus the St. Mary’s
Knights, their arch-rivals. The Jaguars were down 5-3 in the bottom of the last inning, the sixth. Their star pitcher had taken a line drive to the bread basket and staggered off to the bench in tears, which had swung the momentum to let the Knights take the lead in the top of the inning.

  In the bottom of the sixth, runners poised on second and third, two outs, Stewart would be the winning run or they would go home in defeat. He stepped out of the on-deck circle, swinging his favorite bat, trembling with the pressure, supercharged by it. It was all up to him.

  The first two pitches were so far off the plate, he almost laughed. With as much pressure on him as on Stewart, already tired after pitching three innings, the pitcher was sweating bullets. The third pitch was intended to be a ball, but it just hung there like a sweet, juicy tomato. Stewart gathered every bit of his strength, wound up, and let swing.

  The bat kissed the ball with the sweet spot, so perfect and effortless that he knew instantly it was going over the fence. The bat snapped in two a few inches above the handle.

  He watched the ball go with a sense of wonder as a sharp tingle shot through his limbs. He almost imagined that it left a trail of sparks behind it.

  His teammates were screaming at him to Run! Run!

  So he did, but leisurely. He kept his gaze on the ball. It was still on its upward arc when it crossed the left-field fence.

  Cheers roared.

  Two runners came home.

  He rounded third, but something was wrong. The opposing coach was screaming at the umpire about cheating. Stewart crossed home into a cheering pack of teammates, a forest of high-fives. But the opposing coach’s screaming churned up a sick feeling in his gut.

  The opposing coach came running out to the plate and snatched up the two pieces of the aluminum bat Stewart had used. “This is an illegal bat! No one hits a ball that hard! No way!”

  Stewart’s coach ran out of the dugout. “What are you talking about?”

  “I demand this bat be checked!” He slid his fingers up and down its length.

  Stewart stood agape as the opposing coach dumped a cylinder of cork out of the meat end of the broken bat.

  A hush fell over the throng. A protest went up from the spectators.

  All eyes fell upon him, the cheater. But he had no idea what corking a bat meant. All he knew was that it was his favorite bat.

  The umpire called him out and voided the runs he’d batted in.

  In the dream, the lights in the ball park went out, and he was standing alone at home plate. Everyone else went home, and he just stood in the blackness and shame until time itself stopped.

  He awoke in the dark of night, feeling a baseball in his hand for a brief moment, but then it was gone.

  In real life, the teacher who served as his baseball coach got fired, and probably no one blamed Stewart, but the shame of it clung to him like a stench he couldn’t wash off. He’d cost LBJ Middle School the only shot at a playoff berth they’d ever had.

  The ball he’d hit was never found.

  He never played baseball again.

  ***

  Unlike every morning that he could remember back home, Stewart awoke feeling completely refreshed, as if he’d had precisely the amount of sleep he needed, rather than constantly feeling at a deficit due to work schedule and family demands.

  Just as he opened his eyes and swung his legs to the floor, Cassie jumped down from her bunk bed, ran over, and threw her arms around him.

  He hugged her back. “What’s this for, honey?”

  “You’re going to save the Princess,” she said, cheek pressed against his T-shirt. “I know you will.”

  She hugged him for a long time. He shot a glance at the two dolls leaning against the bunk bed post, looking for all the world as if they were inanimate objects. He shuddered.

  A knock at the thick wooden door of their chamber announced the arrival of a cart laden with breakfast. Steaming, aromatic herbal tea, sugared pastries, fruit, and Stewart’s favorite, plain black coffee. Spirits were high, if a little nervous.

  As they were finishing their breakfast, another knock came at the door. It was Bob this time. “I come bearing gifts!”

  Behind him was another cart. He stepped inside, gestured to the cart, and it followed him inside of its own accord.

  Upon the cart were packs for each of them to carry on their journey, complete with food, water, and bedding. But then Bob’s expression turned grave. “Some protection ye all need, thought I. So, I petitioned Queen Titania and she fashioned ye a bit of armor. We hope ye won’t run into any trouble on the way to ol’ Chukwa’s gob, but better safe than sorry, aye?”

  Liz and Stewart nodded at each other.

  “Real armor?” Hunter breathed. “Lay it on me!”

  Stewart couldn’t help but smile. To the boy, this was still a grand adventure, perhaps a game. Stewart had no such illusions, but he couldn’t bear to destroy the children’s.

  Bob presented each of them with a shirt of the most brilliant mail Stewart had ever seen. The interlocking rings caught the light like...

  “Diamonds,” Bob said. “I’ll wager each of these mail coats is worth a king’s ransom back on Earth. Made this herself, she did. And I’ll raise ye a bet that nothing can penetrate it. Won’t save ye from crushing, but it’ll turn aside any arrow or blade. Put it on under your clothes so you don’t draw attention to yourself.”

  Inside the coat of interlocking rings was an undergarment of petal-soft silk that kept it from chafing. It fit like a T-shirt custom-made just for him, the sleeves reaching to just above his elbows.

  “Have ye any weapons?” Bob asked.

  “My children are not going to fight!” Liz said sternly.

  “Ye might think different with another host of goblins in front of ye,” Bob said.

  “Don’t worry,” Hunter said. “I’ve got Dad’s knife.” He grinned at his mother, who gave him serious stink-eye.

  “My lady,” Bob said. “Something for ye.” He pulled out a slender sword about the length of her arm, a rapier with a beautiful basket hilt to protect her hand. “Ye might wish to protect the little ones.”

  She took it dubiously.

  “And you, good sir,” Bob said to Stewart. “Ye’ve the look of this sort of fellow.” He handed Stewart a battle-axe.

  The haft was the length of Stewart’s arm, the blade single-bitted with a curved spike opposite the blade. Carved runes covered the blade, catching the light in their crevices.

  “This took a turn for the Lord of the Rings,” Liz said.

  “We hope it won’t come to it, obviously,” Bob said.

  “We’re not bringing swords to a gunfight, are we?” Stewart said. “The goblins we faced had some nasty little crossbows.”

  “The Royal Guard has ye covered there. But our guns operate on magic, not gunpowder. Ye don’t have those skills yet.”

  Another figure appeared in the door, Claude with arms outstretched. He grinned, “Ah, good, you’re still here. I was afraid I’d missed you.” He approached Stewart. “I’ve two things for you, from the Queen.” He handed Stewart a crystal vial full of amber liquid. “This you will need to purify the metal you use for the key. A special oil for you to use in the tempering process. The Dark Realm is a place of metal and corruption, corrosion. Anything you will find to forge your key will already be tainted by the Dark Lord’s influence, so it will not suit your purpose. Purify the metal with this.”

  Stewart took it and stuffed it in his pocket. “Thank you.”

  “And one more thing. Took me some doing to find it.” Claude tossed something to Stewart, who caught it reflexively.

  “A baseball?” Stewart said.

  “That is the baseball,” Claude said earnestly.

  “You mean the one I—”

  “The one you hit over the fence.”

  Stewart flushed with anger, then stomped it back down. “But what good is that? It’s just a stupid baseball.”

  “That was a day that time
itself stopped for you. You did that, with magic you didn’t even understand. But your victory was stolen from you, and you’ve been carrying that baseball around in your mind for almost twenty years. You’ve infused it with the power to give time a bit of a breather, you might say. But once only.”

  Stewart shrugged and tucked the baseball and vial of oil into a shoulder pouch he found among the packs.

  The sound of a trumpet burst through the window from far below.

  “Speaking of time,” Bob said, “’Tis time to go.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  They set off from the City without fanfare, but carrying a feeling of foreboding. They had only just arrived and had been sent away on a dangerous mission. Columns of bright elves, the Queen’s Royal Guard, rode both before and behind, riding scarlet unicorns.

  Stewart had never imagined unicorns as looking fearsome, but these did, with blood-red coats that shimmered into deep violet, gleaming black eyes, manes, and horns that looked like polished obsidian. Like the other unicorns Stewart had seen, these were considerably smaller than horses, somewhere between the size of a donkey and a Shetland pony.

  As they were all mounting their steeds back in the City, Hunter asked, “Hey, Claude, how come the unicorns are red? I thought all unicorns were white.”

  “Most unicorns are white, my boy,” Claude said, “but these are unicorns of war. White unicorns respond to the innocent and pure of heart. Red unicorns respond to the brave and the stout of heart.”

  Hunter said, “Can I ride one?”

  Claude said, “If you are brave and stout of heart, one may well come to you. Otherwise, best to leave them alone.”

  The crimson unicorns were clad in light barding of lacquered metal scales laced into a felt undercoat. The unicorns were small, but they fit the size of their riders perfectly.

  The bright elves stood to about the height of Stewart’s stomach. Their features were sharp, their ears pointed, their eyes glittering with intelligence and solemn duty. Any one of them would lay down their immortal lives at their Queen’s behest. Some of them wore coats of armor similar in construction to the unicorns’. The armor’s design made them resemble miniature samurai, an effect heightened by their curved swords and skirted helmets.