Bedtime Story

by Robert J. Wiersema

  “Are you gonna be all all right for a second by yourself, sport?” I asked David, leaning low to his ear. “I just need to run upstairs real quick.”

  It felt awful to leave him, even just to go up to my apartment to grab my laptop.

  Back in the house, I read through all of the e-mails I had sent over the past few weeks, mining them for anything of value now that I had a better idea of what was going on.

  I tried Dale again—still no answer. He was probably showing clients around a house and had his phone turned off.

  I typed “Belden, Oregon” into Google. The first result was the website of an Oregon historical society, which made passing reference to Belden in a list of Oregon ghost towns.

  Ghost town?

  The next page had a few more details.

  “The town of Belden, on the North Coast between Seaside and Cannon Beach, was once a thriving community, based on the profitable lumber industry, and included its own mill and deep water harbour with housing and services for those employed by both. This attempt to carve out a niche in the shadow of Astoria, only a few miles north and already established as a major shipping and lumber centre, was doomed to failure. Following the closure of the mill in 1911, most residents left town …”

  I backed up and added “map” to the words “Belden, Oregon” in the search box, but it brought up no results.

  So, after leaving England in disgrace, Lazarus Took and his wife settled on the Oregon Coast in a town that didn’t appear on any maps. A town that had all but died forty years before.

  Perfect for someone on the run.

  I was relieved that the town was on the North Coast—very close. Just an hour or so away from Portland. And even if I couldn’t find it on a map, Cat Took would be able to give me directions.

  I tried Dale again. No luck.

  I was at a loss: I had been counting on him.

  That left me with only one option.

  “Hey, Davy,” I said, “Do you wanna go for a ride in the van?”

  David dropped to the floor as the gas exploded, pressing himself flat and clutching the canister to his chest as a ball of fire roiled above him.

  The gas is lighter than the air … Matt began to explain, but stopped. The fire might have been hovering above him, but the flames were consuming all the oxygen in the room.

  David gasped for breath.

  Crawl, Matt cried.

  His elbows and knees scraped over the rough stone as he dragged himself across the room. The moat of flames ringing the symbol of the Sunstone had reignited, creating a wall of flame between him and the door.

  Go! Matt screamed. Roll!

  David swung around, covered his face with his free hand, and rolled through the flames. He felt an instant of pain as he crossed the burning moat, a jagged rush of heat on his back and side like someone slapping a sunburn. When he was through he kept rolling, sure that his clothes were on fire. Stop, drop and roll, he thought. Stop, drop and roll.

  Several feet away, the door to the chamber was swinging shut.

  Run!

  David got to his feet and ran, as low as he could, for the doorway, driven by the sight of the antechamber disappearing as the door slowly closed. He tried to focus on moving his legs, tried to ignore the pain as his hair burned, as the fire caught his clothes, twisting them into ropes of flame.

  He fell to the hard ground of the antechamber just as the door slammed shut behind him, and kept rolling and writhing, slapping at his smouldering scalp. The flames died, but the burning kept digging deeper and deeper into his back.

  He drew cooler air into his lungs in great gulps, savouring the swampy, subterranean stink of it. He was alive!

  You’ve got to run, David, Matt urged him. You’ve got to get to the water. You’re cooking—

  He took the stairs two at a time, half closing his eyes against the burning in his chest. He ran, half blind up the stairway, and he didn’t stop at the entry chamber. He burst through the door in the side of the hill, dropping the canister to the ground as he shouldered past Captain Bream and down the short slope to the river. Once he was in the water to his knees, he let himself collapse, let the water close over him like the safe chill of the grave.

  David sat silently beside me at Nora and Sarah’s kitchen table as I told them of my plan to go down to Oregon and beg Cat Took for a chance to borrow the book.

  Nora nodded attentively as I spoke, but Sarah was distracted by David.

  Her expressions as we had come into the store had said it all: surprise when she saw me, brief curiosity when she saw I wasn’t alone, a brightening smile when she realized who David must be, and then a falling look of such sadness, such sympathy, that I wanted to say something to console her.

  She had looked at me and nodded. “I’ll put the sign up.”

  We found Nora sitting at the kitchen table, doing a puzzle in the morning paper.

  She stood up slowly and before I could say anything, she took David’s hand. “You must be David,” she said, looking into his eyes. “Your father has told us so much about you.”

  For a moment it looked like his eyes met hers, but that was probably wishful thinking on my part.

  “Where are you, David?” she asked in a low voice. “I can almost see you in there. Almost. So close, but worlds away.”

  Under Sarah’s tender care David ate two oatmeal cookies while I talked to Nora. She broke each cookie in half, and placed each half in his hand separately, holding the glass of milk for him to drink.

  When I finished outlining the broad strokes of my plan to go to Oregon, Nora was silent for several seconds.

  “Of course you’ll be careful,” she said.

  I nodded. “I’m just going to talk to the granddaughter. She doesn’t know what the book can do.”

  “That’s a silly thing to assume, Chris. And dangerous.”

  Sarah looked up at her mother’s tone.

  “Magic runs deep, Chris. It runs in the blood. You’re assuming that this woman doesn’t have anything to do with that part of her grandparents’ life, based on a couple of e-mails.”

  Nothing in Cat’s e-mails had indicated that she had the slightest first-hand knowledge of magic. “I’ll be careful,” I said nonetheless.

  “What will you do if the book’s not there?” Nora asked. “What if this editor just shows her the book, then takes it back to New York with him?”

  “I thought of that,” I said slowly. “I’m not sure there’s anything I can do to prevent that.”

  “You could call her,” Sarah said.

  “And tell her what?”

  She shrugged. “The truth. Part of it. You could tell her that you found a copy of her grandfather’s last book, and that it had been stolen from you in New York. You could tell her that you know that Tony Markus is coming to see her, but that you need to talk to her about the book and that you’re on your way and maybe she could hang onto it.”

  I was speechless.

  “Honesty can work too.”

  Her mother smiled.

  She turned back toward David. “So you’re going on a little trip with your dad.”

  Her words brought me up short. My confusion must have been evident in my face.

  “He’s got to go with you, Chris,” she said carefully. “With time running out, David needs to be where the book is.”

  “Try to stay calm,” the magus said comfortingly. “It’ll be over soon.”

  David, his face buried in a heavy blanket thrown over the soft grass, screamed as the old man tore another strip of cloth out of his back.

  “That’s almost the last of it,” the magus said, dropping another chunk of charred fabric onto the ground.

  Captain Bream and Loren had waded in almost to their waists to reach him in the river. He would have been perfectly happy to just lie in the water and let it float him away.

  “The cloth burned into your flesh,” the magus had said, once they had him ashore. “I’ll have to get it all cleaned out before
I can treat the burn. I’m sorry,” he added. “This will hurt. You’ll want to brace yourself.”

  David could feel the pinch as the magus took hold of the fabric and the flesh. Then the sudden tug, the sensation of tearing, of his own skin being flayed from him—

  Then everything went black.

  PART FIVE

  I

  DESPITE THE LATE MORNING HEAT, the sun high over the trail, David huddled under his blanket, clinging gingerly to the reins. He was thankful that his horse seemed to know its place, matching its gait to that of Captain Bream’s mount a short distance ahead.

  He was dimly aware of the magus coming alongside him, looking at him with concern. “How are your burns?” the old man asked.

  “Better,” David said, the first words he had spoken that day. The magus’s salves and herbs had quenched the pain in his back, numbing it and calming it. His only awareness of the burn was a stiffness when he shifted and turned, a binding around his sides like his clothes were too tight.

  That, and the cool of the air on his head, burned and hairless.

  The magus nodded. “It takes the body a long time to recover from injuries like those you suffered, even with the help of a healer greater than I. And your burns were severe …”

  David let the old man talk, let him think that he understood. The truth was, his burns weren’t bothering him much at all. It was the cold that he was struggling with, the chill that had set in his bones in the Rainbow Canyon and had been worsening ever since.

  It can’t be much longer now, Matt said.

  That’s what I thought yesterday, David thought bitterly. All of that, and it’s another stupid map. Another ride. Every time I think I’m getting close, it turns out to be another dead end.

  When Captain Bream had opened the canister at the fireside the night before, gently tipping a rolled scroll into his hand, David almost wept.

  “So you figured out the map?” David asked, attempting to shift the old man’s attention.

  The magus continued staring at him. “We think so,” he said, and David was keenly aware of just how carefully he was choosing his words. “According to the legend, we’re to go to Lake Abislot.”

  “Is that far?”

  “Probably three days’ ride. We’ll follow the river south for another few hours, then cross at Osham’s Bridge. The lake is to the west.” He looked at the sky, as if orienting himself.

  “So three days.”

  “And we’ll see what we find.” There was something odd about the magus’s voice.

  “No.” The old man seemed to be trying to convince himself. “The legend was very clear. Lake Abislot.”

  “Loren?”

  The magus sighed. “The map itself isn’t especially clear. The river is clearly marked, as is the crossing, and the lake itself. But there are other forms and shapes, mountains and rivers, that are out of place.” He dismissed his concerns with a wave of his hand. “Nonetheless, we know our destination. That much is clear.”

  “Three days,” David muttered.

  Once I had made the decision to bring David with me, it hadn’t taken long to pack, leave a vaguely worded note for Jacqui, and get out of the house. The fates were with us: we drove right onto the ferry without having to line up.

  I made a couple of phone calls from the main deck of the Spirit of Vancouver Island, balancing my notebook on my knee as I dialled.

  The first was to Carol Corvin.

  I cleared my throat as the phone rang, and someone picked up and said hello.

  “Carol Corvin, please.”

  “Speaking,” she said.

  “I’m sorry.” Suddenly flummoxed. “I was expecting to get a receptionist.”

  “No, this is my home number.”

  I had thought she’d be someone matronly, someone who sounded like old money. This voice was down-to-earth, cheerful.

  “And you are?” she prompted.

  “It’s Chris Knox calling. From Victoria.”

  A family of three were walking by us on the outside ferry deck, the pigtailed little girl picking her nose. When she saw David, staring sightlessly out of the seat next to the window, she tugged wordlessly on her mother’s arm. They slowed as the mother looked at David, then at me, giving me a wrinkled look of sympathy as they passed.

  “The reporter.”

  “Yes. About the interview.”

  “I’m afraid time’s a little tight right now.”

  “Actually, I was wondering about tomorrow. I’m going to be passing through Seattle, so I thought we might meet for coffee, if that works.”

  “How about in the afternoon? Say, around two?”

  I hadn’t realized just much tension I’d been feeling until she said yes and I felt it release, all at once. “I think that’ll work.”

  I had expected her to suggest a coffee shop or a restaurant, but instead she gave me her home address.

  “That way you’ll be able to meet Matthew as well.”

  I looked over at David. “That sounds good.”

  The next call was to the Hyatt in Bellevue, where we had stayed before.

  Traffic was light on the highway toward the border, so I didn’t have too long to fret. Having heard about custody cases I worried that we might have a problem at Customs and Immigration, but the guard seemed satisfied when I told him that David’s mother was in Seattle on business and we were meeting her down there for a family weekend. He didn’t ask to see the supporting letter from David’s mom, the one that I had faked her signature on.

  He even told us to have fun.

  Just before eight I pulled off at a rest area and dug into my laptop bag for the photocopied pages of To the Four Directions. I turned on the dome light and in that busy parking lot, crowded with campers and trucks, I started to read.

  It took most of two pages before David’s hands stilled, before his eyes came to rest. I read a bit further, just to be sure, but I forced myself to cut it off between paragraphs, to conserve the remaining words.

  “I think that’s enough for tonight,” I whispered, tucking the book back into my bag.

  David, of course, didn’t say anything.

  This had better be worth it, Tony Markus thought to himself as he signed the charge slip at the front desk of the Hotel Vintage Park in downtown Portland. He was hard-pressed, however, to think of anything that might make up for the hellish travel day he had just had.

  He was dialling for room service practically before the bellman had left his room. A rare steak and a couple of servings of frites was exactly what he needed. Screw the salad—he was away from home; it didn’t count.

  Leaning back on the bed, he kicked off his shoes and dialled the number programmed into his cell.

  “Cat, it’s Tony Markus.”

  “I take it this means you survived your flight?” It always sounded like she was flirting with him. Something about her voice.

  “Just barely,” he said, making it sound like a big joke.

  “So where’s the company putting you up?”

  “The Hotel Vintage Park. Right downtown.” He had led her to believe, in his last four phone calls, that D&K was sending him out to the coast with the sole purpose of meeting with her.

  “That’s all right.”

  He looked around the room for the first time: it was, in fact, more than all right.

  “I was wondering when we might be able to meet,” he said. Might as well cut right to the chase. “If you give me directions, I can—”

  “Actually,” she said, “it turns out I have to be in Portland tomorrow for an appointment. Maybe we could meet there instead. Dinner, maybe? I think the restaurant in your hotel is supposed to be quite good.”

  “That’s what I’ve heard,” he lied. All he knew about the hotel’s restaurant was that he had stood in front of it while the valet took his bags out of the trunk.

  He hung up the phone after they had agreed to meet there at five-thirty. He lay back in the bed, taking pleasure in stretching his to
es, in doing slow loops with his head, loosening up his neck.

  He was interrupted by a knock on the door and a voice saying, “Room Service.” He practically bounced off the bed.

  Things were starting to look up.

  David lost track of how many days they had been riding. It didn’t matter: the landscape changed around him again, but all he did was follow the horse in front of him, keep his eyes low, his mouth shut, mile after mile.

  Then, abruptly, the forest around the trail broke apart to reveal the shore of a huge lake. His horse waded in, bending his head to drink. Far to his left, the blue water seemed to meet the green of densely forested hills almost at the horizon; down the shore to his right, he could see the narrow mouth of a river, and more trees, more hills. Directly across from him, a small island, little more than a gently rounded hill, seemed to float on the surface of the still blue water.

  “Lake Abislot,” the magus said, as if it could possibly be anything else.

  David huddled in his blanket, shivering despite the heat of the afternoon. His head throbbed with a dull power that made his jaw ache, and he felt utterly spent.

  Do you think you’re sick? Matt had asked early that morning as they were riding away from the night’s camp.

  I think I’m dying, he had replied, finally putting into words what he had been feeling since before he had brought back the second canister.

  Is it your burns? Matt asked, his voice sharp with concern. You should have the magus look at them.

  It’s not the burns, he said flatly.

  But if they’re infected—

  It’s not the burns, he snapped. It’s all this. He looked around at the guardsmen on horseback, the forest, the imaginary world in which he was trapped. It’s being here. It’s killing me.

  He had expected Matt to contradict him, to argue with his conclusion.

  But he hadn’t.

  And Matt hadn’t spoken since.

  The magus dismounted with a flurry of robes and stepped to the water’s edge. “Well,” he said slowly. “It seems we have quite a task ahead of us.”

  One of the guardsmen moved into the shallows and reached for the reins of David’s horse.