Air Keep

by J. Scott Savage

  The boy stretched out his fingers eagerly, and Marcus nearly handed him all the coins. But something in the boy’s eyes made him hesitate.

  Someone pounded on the outside of the door. “Marcus,” a man’s voice called. “What are you doing? Come out of there at once.”

  “Give me your gift. You must spend it,” the boy hissed. He seemed too eager to take the money, almost greedy.

  “Get me away from here first,” Marcus said. “Then I’ll pay you.”

  The doorknob jiggled, and Marcus heard someone whisper something about a key.

  “Why would you want to leave?” asked the boy, his lower lip pushing out in a pout. “You can stay here forever. Never growing older. Never losing loved ones.” His eyes shined. “Never experiencing death.”

  A key rattled in the lock. The knob started to turn.

  “Give me your coin!” the boy cried, snatching at Marcus’s hand.

  “No!” Marcus screamed. He threw the coin to the ground and felt something pull in his stomach.

  Chapter 7

  The Was

  Cold air bit at Marcus’s exposed skin. His fingers were numb, and his face felt frost-bitten, as if he’d been in the pit the whole time instead of back in the monastery. He no longer knew what was real and what wasn’t. The only clue that something had changed was the fact that now he held only three coins.

  “What do you want?” he shouted at the four old men, all of them once again frozen in their icy tombs. He got no answer. No sign that anyone had heard him at all, even though he had a clear sense he was being watched by the four sets of eyes.

  He turned over the next coin in his hand. The letters W-A-S were engraved on the front. Was, he thought, careful not to say the word out loud. He wanted to fling the coins to the ground—tell whoever was playing this game that he refused to take part.

  But what if he did that, and the coins disappeared? How would he get out? The walls were far too steep to climb, even if he’d had two good legs and arms.

  “Is this some kind of test?” he asked. “If it is, I don’t understand what it means.” His muscles ached, and his teeth chattered.

  “F-fine,” he said, when it was clear he had no other choice. He closed his fingers around the coin along with the other two and said, “Was.”

  Water roared behind him, and before he could turn, a hand was pulling him into the mist.

  Marcus stood at one end of a hallway so long it appeared to go on forever. The floor was a bright red stone, the walls so yellow he couldn’t look at them for long without blinking. Every few yards, a door opened to the right or left. Between the doors were paintings set in elaborate gold frames. He started to crawl toward the first painting before realizing he was standing—without pain. Without even the aid of a staff.

  Marcus flexed his right leg. It was strong and straight—no longer withered. His left arm was normal too. How could that be? He looked for the boy he’d seen before—the one who had called himself a guide—but there didn’t appear to be anyone else in the hallway.

  “Hello?” His voice echoed in the long empty corridor.

  What was he supposed to do? He walked to the nearest picture frame and stared. It was a painting of himself lying on his back in the middle of the icy pit. He was looking at the coins in his hand. The image was realistic enough that it could have been a photograph if not for the brush strokes, their textures clear against the canvas. How could there be a painting of something that had taken place only minutes before? Who could have painted it? And why?

  The air had a faint musty smell to it, as though no one had been here for years. That couldn’t be true.

  Was this another illusion? A trick? He slapped himself across the face with the hand that, in the past, he could hardly move. He felt a tingle in his cheek and palm, but no pain.

  “It is a trick,” he said.

  The first door down the hall swung open, and a boy no older than seven or eight skipped out. “There is no pain in the Was,” he sang. “No pain. No pain. No pain.”

  The boy looked like the guide from Elder Ephraim’s room. He had the same shockingly blue eyes. Same blond hair. Only he was younger.

  “Are you the other one’s brother?” Marcus asked.

  The child only giggled and skipped around the hallway.

  The door the boy had come through hung partway open. Marcus peeked in, expecting something amazing, or frightening, or dangerous. What he saw instead was so unexpected, he could only gape.

  It was the exact same image as in the painting—himself, lying on the ground in the pit, studying his coins. He turned to the little boy, who was watching him with a slight smile.

  “You can go in if you like,” the boy said.

  “No.” Marcus shook his head. He wasn’t going back to the pit. Instead he started down the hallway. There were plenty of other doors. He stopped at the next one and opened it. He saw himself again, this time sitting in his wheelchair. Father Shaun stood in front of him.

  “He’s funny,” the boy said, peering through the doorway beside Marcus and pointing at the monk.

  Marcus glanced at the little boy. “Father Shaun?”

  The child clapped his hands over his mouth and nodded. “That’s not who he really is.”

  Marcus stared at the monk. “Of course it is. Who else would he be?”

  The blond boy only giggled and began skipping in a circle. “Ice worm, mud worm, piece of pie.”

  Marcus had heard those words somewhere before. He spun around. “Where did you learn that?”

  The boy ignored him, hopping across the hall on his hands and feet like a frog. “Ice worm, mud worm, piece of cake.”

  Marcus looked back through the door again. Looking at himself and Father Shaun was like opening a window to a moment in the past. Everything was accurate, down to the smallest detail—Father Shaun, the book on the ground, the monk weeding in the flower bed—as if he could snap his fingers and everyone would start moving. He could nearly smell the flowers growing in the garden and the arid scent of the Arizona desert beyond.

  What would the Marcus inside the door do if he turned around and saw his double watching him?

  Marcus turned to look at the hopping boy. He wasn’t very old, but he seemed to understand what was happening, which was more than Marcus did. “Are you my guide?”

  “I guess so,” the boy said.

  Marcus pointed through the door. “Is that . . . are they . . . real?”

  “To you.”

  Maybe if Marcus went through the door, he could warn himself not to go into Elder Ephraim’s room—to go straight to the motorcycle. Then he’d never get sucked into the mirror and be in this . . . whatever it was he was in.

  “Hey!” he shouted. Nothing happened.

  “They can’t hear you,” the child said, making faces at himself in the shiny red floor.

  “You said I can go in, right?” Marcus asked.

  The boy nodded, then went back to making faces.

  Marcus swallowed. What would the monk do if he saw two Marcuses? “Can I get out if I go in?”

  The boy nodded again.

  Marcus tried to think it all through. If he went in and warned himself, he wouldn’t go through the mirror, which would mean that he wouldn’t be here to come out of the door again. Only if he wasn’t here, how could he warn himself? The whole thing was too confusing. He could spend all day worrying about the consequences, or he could just do it.

  He took a deep breath, checked on the boy, who didn’t appear to be paying any attention to him, and stepped through the door.

  He was back in his wheelchair again.

  “You dropped this?” Father Shaun picked up the book and handed it to Marcus with an uneasy frown.

  “Um, thanks,” Marcus said, taking the volume and turning it over so the cover was facing down.

  What was happening? He tried to turn and look behind him, but his body didn’t seem to be under his control.

  “How are your studies prog
ressing?” the monk asked.

  He tried to say, “I’m not going back to the school.” Instead he said, “Good,” and patted his stack of papers. “Just working on my, uh . . . algebra. Then some U.S. history. Gotta love the Industrial Revolution.” The words forced themselves out of his mouth as though he had no control over his body, as if he had to repeat exactly what had happened the first time.

  Father Shaun tugged at the sleeve of his raso. “I have some news that should make your studies go even better,” he said.

  Marcus wanted to scream, No, you don’t! You have terrible news. But his mouth wouldn’t move.

  Their conversation continued exactly the way it had before, and Marcus began to fear that he’d walked into a trap. Would he be stuck here forever, looking through his own eyes, but unable to act?

  The little boy walked around from behind Father Shaun, as though he’d been hiding there all along. “It’s more fun if you watch from outside yourself.”

  The monk smiled sadly. “We will miss you. But we have no choice. The state says this is not the proper place for a young boy. The monastery is not an orphanage.”

  “Not a monk. Not a monk. Not a monk.” The little boy stuck his fingers in his ears, made a face at Father Shaun, and laughed. “Come play,” he said to Marcus, reaching out a hand.

  Suddenly, Marcus was standing beside Father Shaun, watching a copy of himself struggle with the news he’d just received. “How did you do that?” he asked at the same time the Marcus in the wheelchair asked, “How did they even find out I was here?”

  “Being in the Was is boring,” the guide said. “But when you watch it, you can do anything you want.” He ran around the back of the chair and pretended to mess up the other Marcus’s hair.

  Marcus watched himself slam his fist on his lap and wince in pain. “If Elder Ephraim were alive, he would never allow this. I won’t go,” his duplicate said.

  “Can’t they see us?” Marcus asked. “Or hear us?”

  The little boy shook his head as Father Shaun spoke. “Can’t see, can’t hear,” the boy chanted.

  The other Marcus dropped his book. “They’re coming today?”

  The last time he’d been here, Marcus had seen Father Shaun look away from the magic diagram. He’d assumed the monk was either embarrassed or offended. But this time, watching more closely, he noticed a mischievous grin on the father’s face. Why would the monk smile about a book of magic spells?

  The monk’s smile disappeared as quickly as it had come. “Principal Teagarden said to expect him and a few of the boys from your school by lunchtime.”

  Marcus watched himself beg and the monk turn him down.

  “You said Father Shaun isn’t really a monk,” he said to the guide, who was dancing among the flowers. “Who is he?”

  “Another one. The one who took your things.” The child knelt to smell a blossom.

  “Father Shaun took my things?” That didn’t make any sense. Why would the monk want Marcus’s belongings? “How could he do that?”

  But the boy seemed to have lost interest in the conversation. He stood up and wriggled his toes in the dirt. “Are you ready to go?”

  The Marcus in the wheelchair turned and rolled toward the monastery. At the same time, the courtyard and garden began to grow dark.

  “What’s happening?” Marcus spun around. The color was fading out of everything as though the sun had disappeared from the sky. But he could still see it overhead, a sphere as gray as everything else.

  “It’s time to go,” the boy said.

  For the first time Marcus noticed the doorway—a rectangle of light in a world quickly turning black.

  “I don’t understand,” Marcus said. Everything was disappearing. The flowers, the monastery, even the ground under his feet appeared to be losing substance. It was like he was floating in the middle of a black, empty space. A hand grabbed him and yanked him through the door.

  Chapter 8

  Good Advice

  Kyja! Kyja, control yourself.” Master Therapass placed his wrinkled hands on Kyja’s shoulders, and she realized she’d been banging her fists on the aptura discerna, willing it to show her Marcus.

  “You said he was all right. You said he was safe.” Kyja gripped the edge of the table to keep her hands from shaking. “Where is he?” she demanded, her heart pounding.

  “Just because you cannot see Marcus does not mean he’s in danger.”

  “Sure,” Riph Raph said. “Maybe Turnip Head just knocked over his wheelchair, spread his things around on the floor and, um, took a nap . . . where you can’t find him.”

  Master Therapass and Kyja glared at Riph Raph, and the skyte tucked his head under one wing. “I’ll just let the two of you work this out.”

  Kyja took several deep breaths, trying to get herself under control. “What does it mean that I can’t see him? He’s not . . .”

  “Dead?” The wizard shook his head, his long gray beard waggling. “No. If something had happened to the boy, you would see him anyway. This is odd. Most odd.” He drummed his fingers on the table, and a series of scrolls and books marched in front of him, opening to certain sections or uncurling to reveal a few lines of text. The wizard looked at each one, then shook his head. The document moved on, and another took its place.

  “You said the aptura discerna shows what’s inside me, what I care about most,” Kyja said. “What I care about is knowing that Marcus is safe. So why is the window showing me his things, but not him? Did I do something wrong?”

  Master Therapass took off his glasses and looked down at her with his gentle brown eyes. “No, child. The all-seeing eye is not a wishing well. I have studied it for years and yet I still know but a small part of its power. There are many things I don’t completely understand. Why it shows us some things and not others. Why it only works when our minds are calm. How it works on someone like you, who is immune to traditional magic.”

  Kyja shivered. Her entire life she’d dreamed of having magic. It wasn’t until the wizard explained that she was from another world—a world that didn’t use spells, wands, and potions—that she’d understood why she was different from everyone else on Farworld. But that didn’t mean the desire for having magic had gone away.

  “What we do know is that the aptura discerna is a window into the soul,” Master Therapass continued. “What we see in it is a reflection of not only our desires, but our thoughts, our beliefs. To some extent, even our memories.” He touched her shoulder. “The thing to do now is get some sleep. I will give the situation further study, and we can try again—”

  “No!” Kyja blurted, cutting him off.

  Master Therapass blinked.

  “Marcus is in trouble.” Kyja jumped up from the table, knocking her chair across the floor. “We don’t have time to study. We need to help him.”

  “What are you suggesting?” the wizard asked. His face tensed, but she didn’t care.

  “I need to pull him over. Something’s wrong.” She put a hand to her chest. “I can feel it.”

  “Please sit down.” Master Therapass pointed to her chair. It jumped up and hurried back to the table beside her. But Kyja didn’t want to sit. She couldn’t. Fear and anger fueled a desperate energy that forced her to keep moving.

  “I understand your worry,” the wizard said as Kyja paced the room. “But there are things you don’t know. Things I probably should have told you before now. For one thing, Marcus is safe.”

  Kyja stopped pacing. “How can you know that?”

  Master Therapass coughed into his fists. “I told you that I sent Marcus to Earth. That you are from there as well. What I didn’t tell you was that just as there is a link between you and Marcus, there is a link between Earth and Farworld. I’ve known this for some time.

  “What kind of link?” Kyja asked.

  “I don’t understand it completely. No one on Farworld does. When I first sent Marcus to Earth, I sent him to a person I’d been in communication with for some time
.”

  Was he talking about Elder Ephraim, the man who found Marcus? “How could you communicate with someone on Earth? I thought the only way that was possible was by opening a drift.”

  The wizard held up a hand. “Now is not the time. Suffice it to say that when the time is right, I will explain more to you. You know that Marcus is destined to save Farworld. But you’ve never asked about your destiny. About how you will save Earth.”

  Kyja was speechless. She licked her lips. A day ago, this conversation would have fascinated her. But now she was worried about Marcus. “What does any of this have to do with keeping him safe?”

  “There are places on Earth,” Master Therapass explained. “Places of safety created by others who also understand the link between our worlds. The monastery is not as it seems. Elder Ephraim was a great religious leader. But he was more than that. As long as Marcus stays within the monastery, the Dark Circle cannot reach him.”

  “But he isn’t there!” Kyja stamped her foot. “I would have seen him if he was. He must have left.”

  Master Therapass ran a finger across the aptura discerna, and the colors of the window swirled. “That is not possible. People are watching him, making sure he does not leave the grounds. I would have been alerted by one of them if he had.”

  Kyja ran her fingers through her long dark hair. “So we’re supposed to just wait? I’m sorry; I can’t do that. I know you don’t believe the note. But I do. It’s almost exactly the middle of the night. I can bring him over now. We can talk to him. See where he went.”

  “It is too great of a risk,” Master Therapass said. “I have been studying Marcus’s link to the shadow realm, and I fear it is an even greater threat to him that I had first thought. Believe that I am making progress. I’ve uncovered a way to keep him in Farworld longer than normal so he doesn’t have to pass through the shadow realm as often. But I need more time to find a way to protect him when he does pass through.”