Earthly Worlds

by Billy Wright

  “I’ll help you,” Cassie said.

  “Sing to me, baby,” Mom breathed. “I always love to hear you sing...”

  Cassie asked Claude, “Will that help?”

  “For some, singing is its own kind of magic,” Claude said. “It might be that that is your talent.”

  “Okay,” Cassie said. “It’ll be the Cassie Jukebox.”

  Mom chuckled feebly, then winced. “Oh, don’t make me laugh.” A few quick breaths later, she said, “Sing your little heart out, baby.”

  Cassie took a deep breath, held Mom’s hand, and launched into “Somewhere over the Rainbow.” At first, her voice was soft and tentative, but by the second verse, it was full and confident and ringing through the night like bells. She knew a whole list of Disney songs from her favorite movies and heroines, “How Far I’ll Go,” “Let It Go,” “Try Everything,” and “Touch the Sky.” The voices of Moana, Elsa, Officer Judy Hopps, and Merida would soon come bubbling out into the night.

  And her singing drew sparks. Hunter could feel them coming. “Go, Cassie, go,” he whispered.

  Bob’s voice turned him back toward Dad. “Let us get back to our task at hand, lad.”

  Hunter settled himself again, closed his eyes, and reached for the sparks. Surprisingly, rather than a distraction, Cassie’s voice helped him focus, and the sparks behind his eyelids returned quickly. He gathered them to him again, hugging in more globes of warmth.

  Bob said, “Excellent, lad! Magic works best when it comes from yer intuition, the quiet voices deep down. That’s the well yer imagination is drawn from. So, when there’s something ye want to do and ye want magic to do it, trust yer intuition. Now, find yer father’s mind. It’s right here in front of ye, and it’s mighty turbulent. Just reach out with yer awareness. Feel how ye can sense things close around ye right now, like the air, the breeze, the grass, the rocks, both of us.”

  “Yes...” Hunter said, he could sense them. Bob’s presence was like a sizzling coal right beside him.

  “Now,” Bob said, “reach out and extend that awareness to your father. Find his mind.”

  Hunter only barely reached out and found himself diving into a thunderstorm, a fury of wind and lightning.

  Bob’s glowing shape plunged into the storm with him, clasping his hand.

  The power of the storm shocked him, frightened him. Was this what Dad was going through? Or was it like this all the time?

  No, came Bob’s thoughts, he’s trapped in this by the dark elf’s spell. We must find him and set him free.

  They dove through the swirling blackness until a tiny, flickering light appeared, like a candle in the tumult. Together they angled toward it, buffeting the howling winds and dark intentions.

  The candle swelled into a decrepit house, like a haunted mansion. Lanterns flickered in some of the windows, then faded out to emerge in others. The front of the house resembled Dad’s face with eyes wide and front door open.

  Hunter and Bob swooped through the entrance and lit upon the floor of the foyer, which rumbled and jumped underfoot.

  Bob’s thoughts came to him: The dark elf’s magic is in your father’s mind, little pieces of it hiding in cracks and crannies, like roaches in an old house. Every single one of those roaches needs to be squished.

  Hunter spotted something scuttling across the floor and through a nearby door. He chased it around the corner and found a beetle the size of his shoe. He leaped into the air and stomped upon it with both feet. It collapsed under him with a crunchy squish, then disappeared in a puff of smoke. I got one! he crowed.

  Excellent, lad. Now, let us get to work.

  ***

  High atop the cliff, Jorath El-Thrim writhed in pain, his massive, furry body riddled with flechette wounds. It had taken every last iota of strength he possessed to escape to the summit of the cliff.

  But he could not afford to fail.

  This was his last chance.

  His goblins had taken losses, but they had regrouped in the forest out of reach of the enemy scouts to await his command.

  The rising sun of dawn would dissipate the magic that held them all in the Light Realm. Jorath would slip back into the Dark Realm, where the Master would devour him for his failure.

  To conserve his power, he reverted to his normal shape. His bestial form shriveled away, leaving an array of flechettes scattered around him on the ground, but his wounds remained. He had enough power remaining to sustain his life, but not enough to launch another attack. He lay upon the rocky ground, gathered the dark motes of his magic, and willed his flesh to knit. It would be a slow process.

  But then, a centipede the length of his arm scuttled over a boulder and chittered at him with sounds too high-pitched for any human to hear, announcing its presence. But it wasn’t just a centipede. It was a linguapede bearing a message from Ackthor, war chieftain of the goblins. It spoke in perfect mimicry of the goblin’s voice. “My lord, we have a wounded elf prisoner.”

  In that moment, hope bloomed anew.

  Jorath seized the linguapede, its chitinous length squirming in his grip. He focused his will upon imprinting a new message into the many segments of its tiny mind. It could hold only one message and one destination at a time.

  “Bring the prisoner to me immediately,” he said.

  Then he set the linguapede loose to return to Ackthor.

  The creature skittered away across the rocks.

  Then he waited, hoping they could reach him in time.

  His flesh had nearly healed when he heard the goblins’ approach. Jorath rolled to his feet to meet them. Four of them came mounted on their coyotes borrowed from the Penumbra, dragging a figure so tightly bound in dark ropes it looked like a cocoon.

  The gnarled little creature in the most elaborate armor raised his hand in a stiff-armed salute. “Hail, my lord!”

  “You have brought me a gift,” Jorath said.

  The captive’s head lolled, barely conscious, as the goblins had dragged him by the feet across hundreds of paces of rocky ground and treacherous cliff. At the sight of the bright elf, at once so familiar and so hated, Jorath’s fists clenched.

  He drew his dagger and severed the ropes tying the captive to the goblins’ saddles.

  The captive’s face was a beaten, bloody mess, one eye swollen shut, lips ravaged. His good eye focused on Jorath and bulged with surprise.

  “Your arrival is fortuitous, cousin,” Jorath said.

  The bright elf spat. “Traitor! Vile, corrupt—”

  Jorath silenced him by jamming a convenient stone into his mouth.

  “Your orders, my lord?” the lead goblin said.

  “Return to your people and await my signal,” Jorath said. “We will attack again shortly, and this time, it will not be a feint. You will do your utmost to destroy the humans first.”

  The goblin bowed. “With pleasure, my lord.”

  With that the goblins wheeled their rangy, canine mounts and sped away.

  Jorath knelt over the bright elf as the captive struggled feebly in his bonds, one eye wild with fear. “I would like to savor this, Cousin Arwyn, but alas there is no time.”

  He seized the bright elf’s skull in both hands.

  “No!” Arwyn choked.

  Jorath gathered his will, focused his strength, and cracked the bright elf’s spirit wide open. With a deep, sucking breath, he drew Arwyn’s burst of life force into himself, centuries of life and experiences. The inrush of it, so steeped in fear and pain, hit him with a blast of ecstasy so profound he almost collapsed.

  The lingering pain from his wounds evaporated, and fresh power rushed through him, pulsing through his flesh. Strength roiled through him in such magnitude he leaped up, seized the dead bright elf and flung the body out of sight into the night, laughing with glee. His teeth ached with it. His nails tingled. His toes curled.

  “And that, cousin, is why I serve the Dark.”

  Still tingling, he strode to the precipice and surveyed the brightly
lit camp far below.

  But a tiny pinprick stabbed his mind. He clapped a hand over one eye, trying to squeeze away the pain.

  His tendrils of corruption in the human’s mind! Someone was trying to sever them.

  There was no more time to waste.

  Chapter Thirty

  Inside the haunted house of his father’s mind, Hunter and Bob searched for bugs. Creeping mist clung to corners and shadows. Shadows flitted across windows. The endless rooms and corridors, smelling of dust and decay, were full of ghosts.

  The first time Hunter saw ghosts, he gasped and hid behind a dusty old wing-backed chair. In the spectral green light of a cold fireplace, a fat, burly man screamed and waved his fists at a boy about Hunter’s age. Hunter couldn’t make out words, only the tone and the rage. He could see right through them. The boy stood with his head hanging low, absorbing this haranguing.

  So rather than running, Hunter gathered his courage and yelled at them, You’re not real!

  And they disappeared. Hunter moved on and continued his search.

  The rooms were full of shouting or crying. Hunter saw the little boy over and over at various ages, sometimes running from monsters, sometimes fighting them, other times standing there while they sneered and belittled him. Hunter heard a baby crying once and ran through a door to see what was the matter. He found the little boy, maybe a year old, standing in a crib in soiled pajamas, surrounded by monstrous specters like tentacled, horned, screaming things, raging at each other, raging at the baby.

  Then a beetle the size of a shoebox leaped out from under the crib and charged toward Hunter’s feet. It tried to feint and dodge past him to escape out the door, but he caught it with his foot and kicked it onto its back. It lay on its back, spindly legs waving, until he stomped it.

  The ghosts in the room disappeared.

  The hunt continued.

  At one point, a deep, subsonic rumble tore through the house, rattling the cobwebbed chandeliers and cracked windows. The floor heaved, and Hunter paused to steady himself. With the great rumble came a sudden rise in the ghost screams, as if they’d been given a fresh jolt of energy.

  A different kind of noise snagged his attention, drawing him up a rickety staircase into a gallery of statues. Orange moonlight streamed through the panes of tall windows, casting crooked lattices on the floor. In the gallery, something big was moving in the darkness behind the statue of a man in a baseball uniform, ready to swing his bat.

  Another ghost over there? Hunter seemed to find bugs wherever he found ghosts, so he readied himself for another squishing.

  The ghostly cries and shrieks that had filled the house when he and Bob first arrived had diminished. Somehow, he could sense Bob zipping through the house leaving a trail of dramatic expostulations, his cane transformed into a sword, pinning bugs to walls, floors, and ceilings.

  The noise here was like a deep, heavy scratching on wood.

  He crept toward it, darting from statue to statue. The statues were all of men in heroic poses. Firefighters, athletes, astronauts, even characters from movies and books. The scratching grew louder and louder.

  When he peeked around the last statue, however, he found not a ghost but a rhinoceros beetle the size of a horse. And not just a regular-looking one, but a demon one, covered in nasty spikes and blood-red whorls across its thick carapace. The scratching sound came from the beetle chewing on a pile of human bones.

  The beetle saw him.

  It rotated its ponderous bulk toward him, its ruby-red eyes glinting, its four-foot black horn glistening.

  ***

  Jorath felt his hooks in the human’s mind being destroyed one by one, but with his fresh infusion of power from the bright elf’s life force, he would be stronger than before. Alas, he had no time to pause and reinforce the spell. The moment required more direct means. If he could kill Stewart’s family before he awakened, the battle would be over.

  He knew better this time than to give the bright elves a big, slow target to shoot at. They were dangerous with their flechette guns. Even now, he could sense their magical wards blooming below, spheres of defense that would weaken him if he got too close. The bright elves were well versed in magical defenses, but not with attack. He should know.

  The goblins would make a suitable distraction and allow him to turn the tables in a way the enemy would not expect.

  He sent a silent mental signal to Ackthor. Commence your attack. Now.

  ***

  The enormous rhinoceros beetle tossed its horn threateningly, the sight of it freezing Hunter in place.

  This beetle could crush him with its weight, impale him on that enormous horn, chew him to bits with its huge mandibles—which real rhinoceros beetles did not have.

  He could run, but there was no one else who could save Dad from his own nightmares.

  So Hunter stood his ground and pulled his hunting knife.

  The monster beetle charged, horn aimed for Hunter’s heart.

  He leaped out of the way—as he’d been taught in taekwondo to avoid an attack—wishing he had a bigger weapon, a big, flaming sword maybe.

  Rolling to his feet, he felt the knife grow heavier, the grip changing from hard ironwood to silk cords and ray skin.

  The hilt of a sword, a katana.

  He stared at it for a moment in surprise. Then the blade burst into flame.

  The beetle skidded to a halt, spun, and charged again.

  Hunter dodged and swung the sword with both hands. The fiery blade severed two of the monster’s thick, powerful legs as it thundered past. The limbs fell and dissolved into smoke. The rest of the creature stumbled and struggled to right itself, the stumps of its legs glowing with embers. In that moment of hesitation, Hunter raised the sword above his head and brought it down onto the creature’s horn. The horn fell away, and the beetle jerked away with a furious hiss. He struck again, this time squarely between the beetle’s gleaming ruby eyes.

  His flaming sword sliced through the beetle and into the floor.

  The beetle’s remaining legs collapsed under it, and the whole monster burst into a swirling cloud of acrid smoke.

  Suddenly sunlight streamed through the windows of the house, dispelling the creeping mist lurking in all the corners.

  Hunter thrust his sword high in triumph. Yes!

  ***

  Stewart’s eyes popped open and he gasped, flinging himself bolt upright. There was so much light, blinding him from a sky full of little suns, he shielded his eyes against it.

  Two little yelps from behind him brought him around to see Hunter and Bob, both wearing expressions of joy and triumph.

  “Dad?” Hunter said hopefully.

  “Am I awake?” Stewart croaked.

  Sounds of battle rose in the distance. Weapons clashing. Cries of warning, anger, and alarm.

  “Dad, are you okay?” Hunter said.

  Stewart said, “I think so. I—”

  He was cut off by Hunter throwing his arms around his neck. “Mom’s hurt, and Cassie’s singing to her.”

  “What’s going on? I went to sleep, and everything was fine. But then the dreams came and wouldn’t let go. I tried everything to wake up, and now—”

  A horn in the distance sounded like a hurried alarm. The roar of a bear echoed from the forest, a roar of rage. He surely wouldn’t want to be on Pooh’s bad side.

  Stewart stood, lifting Hunter in his arms.

  “Me and Bob, we woke you up,” Hunter said. “There was a spell on you.”

  A faint memory flickered of Hunter wielding a flaming sword.

  “Thanks—” But then he saw Liz, and all the blood, and heard Cassie singing, and a bolt of dread shot through him like the night Cassie had been born, a long-ago night of blood and fear still fresh in his memory.

  He jumped to her side. Her eyes fluttered, unseeing.

  He asked Claude, “Is she going to be all right? What happened?”

  Cassie stopped singing—what a pretty voice she had—
and said, “A monster came after us while you were asleep, Daddy. Mommy fought it off, but she got hurt really bad, and it got some poison in her, and we’re trying to get it out so we can heal her.”

  The determination on her face, so grown up, so in control of her fear, nearly broke his heart. He hugged her close and kissed her head. “I’m back now.”

  “Good, but I have to keep singing. It’s helping get the poison out.”

  Stewart let her go, and she crouched to take Liz’s hand again. She opened her mouth and launched into a fresh rendition of “Let It Go,” a song that always choked him up.

  He traded glances with Claude and the bright elf who was tending to her.

  Claude’s expression was grim, tense. “There is something lodged within her now that’s blocking our magic. It is of the Dark. Cassie’s beautiful singing is keeping your wife stable.”

  “Will she be okay?” Stewart said.

  “I cannot say,” Claude said. The worry on his face was plain. “We can cling to her, for now, but she’s lost a lot of blood.”

  “Can I help somehow?” Stewart asked.

  “You can protect us from whatever attack comes,” the bright elf said. “My brethren just sounded an alarm horn. The battle has turned for the worse.”

  Stewart retrieved his battle-axe from the wreckage of their hut, twirled it in his grip a couple of times. The diamond doublet under his shirt was still intact.

  Hunter sidled up beside him. “There’s goblins out there, Dad. And the dark elf is here somewhere.”

  Pooh’s roars were coming closer.

  How could they ever reach the Great Tortoise’s mouth if they were pursued at every step?

  “Bob!” Stewart called.

  There came a small whooshing noise. “You called?” Bob said from the level of Stewart’s knee.

  Stewart said, “You told me that we’ve been walking on the Great Tortoise for days. If he’s here, if we’re on him, how do we get to him?”

  “As I told you, he’ll appear when he sees fit. The Cosmic Tortoise cares little for such things as humans and leprechauns and elves. We are but dust drifting over his eternal shell, fleeting and inconsequential.”