She could feel the coercion spell sitting in her, pulling her forward onto the path of the quest.
“How? Where?”
“I’ll give you a map,” he shouted back. “Derigere!”
There was something new in her mind. It pushed and jolted inside her head, like an extra egg in a tray.
Good-day, checking data… Good-day, Mistress Lucy, a voice inside her head said, in a clipped accent. For the remainder of this quest, I shall be your guide.
What? she thought. I’m going to spend this adventure speaking to someone in my head?
“Lucy!” shouted Bechet, “to get to my world you must use the door. Go now!”
She turned to the door. The shouts and scuffling sounds began to fade. There was only her and the door to the outside, the door to this new world she had to rescue.
All right, she thought, since I don’t get a choice, I shall start my quest as soon as I can.
Just one small point, clipped the voice.
Not right now, thought Lucy. When I need you, I’ll ask you.
Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the fight between the wizard and the shadow. Flashing magical lights sprang from both parties as they careened around the room like drunken ballroom dancers. Objects flew from the shelves of the room as the fantastical battle took its toll.
She paused at the door. Was she ready to leave everything behind? To begin a possibly dangerous journey to who knew where? Apparently, it was prophesied, so didn’t that mean it was going to happen anyway?
Even as she thought she knew the answer, there was no choice. The coercion spell pulled at her, tugging her from her very guts to do what had to be done.
Her fingers ran lightly over the knots in the wood of the door, swirling patterns of tree life, all leading ever on and on. It resolved her. She turned the handle and strode out through the door. There was a terrible cracking sound as if all the air in the world had just rushed past her in one go.
She fell panting to her knees. Her blouse swung open and her skirt hitched up almost to her hips. She looked at her hands and found they were covered with blood from two small gashes on her palms. Her left knee was scraped badly, and a little trickle of blood rolled down her inner thigh. She felt a great tightness in her groin as if she’d been hit, and her arms felt as if they’d been bent backwards. Her left eye was puffy as if she’d been hit, there, as well.
I feel like I’ve just been in a fight, she thought.
I believe a spell went off in the doorway as you, or should I say we, were leaving it, said the voice.
You’re still in my head, then?
Yes, Mistress.
Where am I? she asked, looking around.
It seemed like she was in the same alley she’d been sitting in with Bechet. The sun was almost in the exact position as when she’d taken tea with the wizard. A cold wind blew along the alley, and she pulled her skirt back down to keep out the probing gust. She never saw her underwear lying a few feet away in a discarded heap where they’d been ripped off and thrown.
Something’s wrong. This isn’t a new world. This is my world.
Ah yes, this is the small point I wanted to mention. The door in his study wasn’t the door he spoke about.
She turned to ask the wizard which door he was talking about but the study had gone. All that remained was a brick wall with the legend: Andy has a small cook sprayed on it. A poignant lesson in art and biology—if only the sprayer had had a spell checker.
I did try to warn you, said the voice.
You’re going to be a smart-arse, aren’t you? I need to get home and clean up before Mum sees me. I’ll just have to find the door on my own.
Chapter 3 The Wizened Legs of William Jacks
You were there when the mountains were made,
You were there when the seas were laid,
You were there for time was stayed,
You the Lord, my God, my father.
From “Poems of the Eternal”
By Yerux Xandu,
Year after Ice 17855
“How would I have named myself? I think I would have chosen this name; it seems to fit.”
General Thrax, Year After Ice 11956
Lucy spent the next two weeks trying to ignore the blue ache in her chest that was the compulsion spell. It throbbed as a second heart, a constant reminder that she had a job to do. It was there when she woke, when she ate and when she tried to sleep at night. It was there especially when she tried to sleep, a deep dull beat.
Yet, she steadfastly ignored it. Exam season was upon her, and she simply didn’t have time for quests, be they magical or mundane. There was also the problem of the voice. Nothing was more distracting than a voice in your head shouting out the answers to exam questions.
The summer sun streaked through the window as Lucy sat doing her biology examination. The room reeked of sweat and nervous exam fears. Wooden chairs creaked, as students tried to find a comfortable position. Pencils scratching across paper, sounded like feet walking on dried leaves in a forest. It was quiet and noisy at the same time. Lucy could hear her own blood pulse, like a train through her head.
I can see them! I can see them, cried the voice. All the answers are here in your head, all sat about like little jewels. Look! The answer to number three is phototropism. Oh, this is fun! Am I useful or what?
No, you are not being useful, she thought. I’m on question nine! You’re giving me the answers to ones I already have answered!
It wasn’t the thing’s fault, she supposed. It was probably bored in her head. She felt hot, sweaty and queasy all at the same time. The compulsion spell beat just out of time with her heart making a staccato rhythm in her head. She thought she must be coming down with a summer cold. She hated summer colds, especially in exam season—as if it wasn’t stressful enough.
So, I’m not being useful? But, I can see all the answers. I’m supposed to be useful to you, said the voice in a hurt tone.
Look, you crazy little thing, you were put in my head to help me save Bechet’s world. And I can’t start the quest until I find the door.
Ah! You wish for me to find the door?
She, mentally, nodded at the voice.
That might take a while.
Fine by me.
I’ll be off then.
You do that.
Silence.
Lucy sighed in relief.
That ought to keep it busy for a while, she thought. Long enough for me to finish the exam at least. And maybe then I can start this stupid quest and get it over with so I can get back to my real life.
The quicker she started it the faster she could end it. She went back to her exam, feeling hot and slightly feverish in the stuffy room.
~
That was the last Lucy heard from the voice for the rest of the week until Saturday morning when the voice spoke again.
Please, Mistress, I have accomplished my task. I have found what you requested.
What? Oh, you’re back are you? What task—what are you talking about?
You requested I locate the door the wizard Bechet spoke of. Well, I believe I have done just that.
What? Oh not now, Lucy thought back. I’m busy, go away.
She was busy. Her mother was driving her towards her grandfather’s house. As a dutiful granddaughter she turned up once a month to visit her invalid grandfather. She did this whether she had plans, or not—whether she should be studying for the English exam tomorrow or not.
Lucy’s mother pulled the car up outside number twenty-seven, a small and squat two-bedroom, semi-detached building.
“Here we are, Lucybelle.”
That name again, thought Lucy, she’s using that name again—the special name. She doesn’t get to use that name. It was Dad’s.
“Okay, honey, you’ve got the keys to the front door? Good. In you go. I’ll pick you up in an hour, okay?”
Lucy was confused. “An hour? Aren’t you coming in too?”
“No. Tell m
y dad, I’m sorry, but I have to go and pick up his prescription for this month.”
“You’re leaving me alone to look after Grandpa Will?”
“How old are you, Lucy?” said her mother sharply.
“Thirteen,” she was going to be fourteen in a month.
“Thirteen is easily old enough to be on your own at your Grandfather’s, even if he is bed-bound.”
“What do I do if something goes wrong?” asked Lucy.
She knew perfectly well, but she didn’t want to be stuck on her own at Grandpa Will’s.
“What if there’s a fire?”
“You’ll be on the ground floor, so jump out of the window,” said her mother.
“And Grandpa? He is bed-bound.”
“Good point. Douse him in water before you jump out the window,” said her mother.
The tyres crunched as the car pulled away and Lucy was left outside her grandfather’s house totally alone except for the voice.
Mistress, I think you should know what I have discovered.
Shut up… She paused for a moment. What is your name?
Name? I don’t have a name at the moment, Mistress Lucy. I was created in your head and have had no need for a name until now.
Well, you should have a name, if only so I can call you when I need you. Besides, everyone ought to have a name. Would you like me to choose one for you?
No, Mistress, said the voice, I have just consulted your memories, and I believe I have found a name I would like to use. Conscience, Mistress.
Conscience isn’t a name; it’s a word for the voice in your head that tells you what’s right and what’s wrong. A name should be something like Anna, or Keira, or Rebecca. Actually, you sound more like a boy than a girl, so it should be Rodney, or Derek, or something like that, not Conscience.
It’s my name so my decision, said the voice in a peevish tone. Besides, I am the voice in your head.
Fine, Conscience, she thought, defeated. Would you go away for a moment? I’m going to see my grandfather, and he’s not very well.
I am afraid I am unable to go away, said Conscience.
Why? You went away just a moment ago.
No. I didn’t go away. I was merely occupied by your memories. And I cannot do that again as I have extracted all the information I can from your spaghetti-like memory. You do have a very small brain.
It can’t be that small, she thought, disgruntled. I can talk can’t I?
Lots of people talk who don’t have a brain, snapped Conscience. Shall we go inside? I see from your skin reactions you are cold.
She shivered and turned the key in her grandfather’s front door.
The hall was dark and musty, smelling like disinfectant and toffee sweets at the same time. Obviously, Grandpa Will hadn’t had the hire nurse around to open the windows to let the fresh air and sunlight in. A faint death aroma wafted on the air coming from the makeshift bedroom, like a miasma of almonds and antiseptic.
She pushed on the door to the converted living room.
Inside lay Grandpa Will in his bed. He hadn’t moved since the accident left him with a broken leg. The leg had healed, but it healed badly making it difficult for him to walk. However, the real problem was that Grandpa Will no longer wanted to walk. He hadn’t left his bed in four months. He’d always been a stubborn man, and now he had decided that it was his time to die.
In some ways, Lucy believed, he already had died. The ladder, collapsing beneath him as he cleared the gutters of dead leaves, had broken him inside and out. She remembered him before the fall; he’d been gruff, but kind—stubborn, but still her favourite. Now he was irritable, melancholy and annoyed at everything.
The door screeched on its hinges, like a tortured mouse.
“Who’s there, damn you?” said a voice from the pile of linen festering on the bed. “Who? Speak up, can’t you?”
“It’s Lucy,” she said, entering the stale bedroom, “Mum said she was going to get your medicine from the doctor’s surgery.”
The room was musty, and the sunlight beat down hard on the thick red drapes that adorned the window. It lent the room an eerie carmine tinge.
The whole of the room was filled with books and figurines. The books were Grandpa Will’s. He had always been a great reader and passed this trait on to her mother and, eventually, to Lucy. The figurines had belonged to her grandmother. Grandma Ethel had been a collector of figurines, any figurines, from mythical creatures in brass to china dolls. Lucy didn’t like the dolls; they all seemed rather cheap to her. She did, however, like the mythical creatures; the dragons and fauns were her favourites.
Lucy squeezed past the foot of the bed, into a narrow gangway, to reach the window and pull the curtains open. The light streaked in and shone on the pile of linen sheets that were her grandfather, William Jacks. She sat down in a chair at the side of the bed and prepared herself for the onslaught she knew was coming.
“Well, what is it you want…errrrr, Lucy?” asked the dark mass on the bed.
“I’ve come to see how you are,” she replied, and then hesitantly, “How are you?”
“In pain,” he said, stiffly. “Where’s your mother?”
“She’s gone to the doctors to get your medicine, I told you that.”
“What?”
Is he deaf?
No, Conscience, he’s not deaf. He’s doing it to annoy me. He likes annoying people. It seems to be the only pleasure he has left.
“I’m going to make some tea. Would you like one too?” she said getting up from her seat and heading towards the kitchen.
Yes, please, I’ve never had tea before, said Conscience, brightly.
“No,” growled her grandfather. “And, put my song on.”
“All right,” she huffed.
The record was on the sideboard gathering dust where she’d left it last month. She blew the grime from the scratched disc and placed it on the player.
The sound was grainy as the needle hit the record’s dusty grooves. Then, like a burst of light in a rainstorm, the haunting clarinet solo started. Next the slow shuffle, as the rest of the band caught up. This was “Summertime,” Grandpa Will’s favourite piece of music. Lucy retreated to the safety of the kitchen. She had never liked jazz. Too many notes and not in enough order, if she was any judge.
Tea, tea, tea, chanted Conscience in her head.
All right, I’m making the tea. Hey, how exactly are you going to taste this tea?
Ummm, I’ll hijack your senses again.
She really didn’t want her senses hijacked, but she supposed there was no real choice.
Milk, no sugar, all right for you? she asked
I think, having consulted your memories of taste, that I would like no milk and three sugars.
That’s not how I drink my tea!
Who’s the guest here?
Who’s got control of the limbs? she said.
I guess you win, grumbled Conscience. Milk, no sugar, will do fine.
Lucy poured the tea.
I was right, he said, a few moments later.
Right about what? she asked.
I don’t like my tea with milk and without sugar.
Conscience paused for a moment and then went on, tell me, what happened to your grandfather? I know from your memories that he was a kind man. He didn’t seem that way just now when we were there.
Can’t you just look in my memories again? Lucy asked.
I could, but it might be more psychologically healthy if you tell me. You know, to get it off your chest, as it were.
Since when do you care about my psychological health?
I am living in your head.
Oh, very well. You are right. Yes, he was a kind man. He was my favourite of all my relations, he and Grandma Ethel. Then nine months ago Grandma Ethel died. I think it nearly broke Grandpa Will. He was a mess after that. Then, about five months ago, just when he was beginning to get his feet again, he fell from a ladder. He was clearing the leaves out
of his gutter, and the ladder slipped. The fall broke his leg. He’s only been out of his bed for hospital appointments since then.
There, does that make you feel better?
No, not really, because now he’s become old. He’s crotchety and angry, and he blames people for things they haven’t done. He shouts at me! And he smells because he won’t get up to wash. It feels like he’s just given up.
The person lying in that bed is not my Grandpa. Sure, it may look like him and sound like him, but my Grandpa died when he fell off that ladder. What’s left is just a husk—a thing, but not my grandfather.
She was fired up now like a lion on the prowl waiting for something to bite into.
Do you feel better now? asked Conscience, meekly.
Yes, a little. Thank you, Conscience, she thought whilst taking some calming breaths.
Lucy turned the brass handle on the door and went back into the room.
Grandpa Will lay sleeping in a nest of duvet on his bed. The record continued to spin; only a clicking pop let the waiting world know that it had finished.
She seated herself in the armchair and picked up a book from the dressing table. It was old with a deep blue cover. The pages were the light brown of autumn leaves. The gold lettering down the spine read, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. Lucy had seen the Judy Garland film and decided that the book was probably worth a try too. She opened it to the first page and began to read.
Mistress?
What is it now, Conscience?
I think I should tell you where the door you asked me to find is. The door, from a careful study of your memories, would appear to be the face you saw in your bathroom window.
The face? she asked, she hadn’t thought about the face in ages.
Of course, the face in the window. It said it was the door, but the door to where?
I thought Bechet made that clear? It’s the door to the other world. The door to the world where he comes from.
And where is that exactly?
Through the face? he asked.
You don’t know?
Not really, no. I know which direction to take once we get there, but I don’t know exactly where there is. My suggestion is to pack for a journey and expect to be away for a long time.
Ravens and Writing Desks: A Metaphysical Fantasy Page 3