“The poor creature!” Gilbert was trembling, though whether with horror or anger, Matt couldn’t tell. Luckily, the bus pulled up just then.
The doors hissed open, and Gilbert shrank back, eyes wide.
“It’s only one of those carriages I was telling you about,” Matt said, “though this is our form of coach. There’s no danger.”
“If you say so, Sir Matthew.” Gilbert forced himself up the steps and into the bus.
“Hold it, mac!” The driver put out a hand. “Fare!”
“I’m paying for both of us.” Matt dropped quarters in the meter. It clucked contentedly to itself, and he nudged Gilbert on.
They were halfway down to their seats when the bus started up, shoving the young knight down. That much, though, horses could do. He only pushed himself square in the seat, looking about. “As bright as day! So many benches, so wide, and all cushioned! Silver poles and rails! What are they for, Sir Matthew?”
“If the bus—excuse me, coach—is really full, people have to stand while it’s moving, so they hold on to the poles and rails—and they’re not really silver, just very highly polished.”
“The amount of time that must have taken!”
Matt almost told Gilbert they had machines to do the polishing, but caught himself in time. He didn’t want to have to explain what his civilization meant by a machine.
Matt didn’t know the night driver—old Frank must have finally retired—so there was no need to make conversation while the bus ran. That was just as well, since he had to explain to Gilbert that the “coach” wasn’t really going much faster than a team of horses could gallop, and that the signs up high on the walls were telling people about things they could buy and people who could help them if they needed it. Gilbert wasn’t very much impressed by the things, but was by the number of people willing to help. He did ask, though, why the signs were in two languages, and when Matt told him one of them was Spanish, the language spoken in his world’s Ibile, Gilbert asked “Are they Moors?” and several of the darker-skinned passengers looked up, ready to take offense. Fortunately, Matt was able to say “There’s our stop!” and press the yellow strip. The chime rang, and the STOP REQUESTED sign lit at the front of the bus. By the time Matt was done explaining the bell and glowing signboard, they were standing on the sidewalk, watching the bus’s taillights go away, and Matt switched to explaining how they could afford the fuel for lights at the back of the coach, and why they were necessary. He started walking as he talked, and Gilbert kept pace with him.
A raucous laugh sounded from a front porch, and Matt’s stomach clenched. “You might want to take a firm hold on that stick, Sir Gilbert.”
“As you say.” Gilbert grinned, his confusion and horror falling away in the anticipation of battle. Matt glanced at him, realized he was about to take out all his inner turmoil in good clean action, and felt a surge of thankfulness that he wasn’t going to be in front of the young knight’s stick.
“Hey, look there!” a callow young voice called out, and several other young men hopped down off the stoop. They swayed as they came toward the pair.
“What ails them?” Gilbert asked.
“They’re drunk,” Matt explained. He didn’t mention drugs.
“Well, it’s little Matty boy again!” Luco’s lip lifted in a sneer. “Went back for reinforcements, huh?”
“You could say that, Luco.” Matt let the boyhood fears wash over him and pass. “Having fun?”
“No, but we will now! Gonna run out on us again, Matty boy?”
“Only if it’s the only way I can keep from killing you, Luco.”
Gilbert said nothing, only grinned, teeth bright in the dusk.
“You talk big, Matty,” said a voice from behind, mocking.
Gilbert turned, but Matt kept his gaze locked with Luco’s. “How many of them are there?”
“Only five,” Gilbert told him.
“And I’ve only got four up here. What’s the matter, Luco? The rest of your buddies go to jail?”
Luco snarled and swung.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Matt blocked Luco’s swing and drove a fist into his belly. Luco grunted, folding, but pumped his fists at Matt’s abdomen anyway. Matt hunched, blocking some of the blows. Several got through, and they hurt, but his own fists had taken enough punch out of them to keep them from doing any damage. Choy and Liam closed in from the sides, and Luco shouted a curse as he swung a fist back for a hammer blow.
Matt chopped a short, vicious uppercut into Luco’s face.
As he fell back, Matt ducked a swing from Choy, lashed a kick at Liam, then came up pivoting to slam a punch at Choy, who blocked and counterpunched. Matt dodged enough to take it on his chest. The pain woke anger, but he caught Choy’s wrist and turned, catching his shirtfront, and bowed as he stuck his hip out. Choy knew the move, though, and leaped over, turning as he did—and slammed right into Liam.
Behind them, Gilbert shouted with delight, and Matt heard some very solid cracks as the cane did its work. The punks shouted in outrage.
Then Luco pushed himself to his feet, but he and Choy stepped back as Liam stepped in, grinning, nunchuks whirling.
Matt leaped away, pulling a little stick of his own out from under his jacket—fourteen inches of polished, seasoned ash, an inch and a half thick.
Liam laughed and lashed out with the nunchuks—but clumsily; it was clear he hadn’t taken lessons. Matt swung his own stick, and the nunchuks tangled around it. Matt pulled and kicked, and Liam stumbled past, then fell.
Someone hit his back, hard. He lurched forward, almost unable to breathe because of the pain, and swung about into Herm’s pumping fists. Matt ducked over, fists close to his face, blocking the punches, trying to time his countermove, if he could just pay attention through the pain as fists landed on his shoulders, his arms...
But the other four punks whooped and waded in. Pain exploded on the side of Matt’s head, in his kidneys, in his other side...
Then somebody roared, he heard a series of hollow knocks, and only Herm was there in front of him, staring over Matt’s head openmouthed. Matt uncoiled and slammed an uppercut into his jaw. Without a word, Herm fell.
Matt turned in time to see Gilbert flicking his cane against the side of Luco’s head, then whirling it to jab Choy in the stomach. Choy doubled over, and Gilbert swung the stick overhand. The hollow knock sounded again, and Choy slumped.
Matt stared at the wanna-be thugs. They were all on the ground, groaning or still. “They aren’t...?”
“Dead? No. That is the virtue of a stick—it is harder to slay a man with it.”
Liam inched forward, reaching out for his fallen switchblade. Disdainfully, Gilbert kicked it away. Then he bent, picked it up, jabbed it in the crack between two slabs of concrete, and broke it off short. Liam pushed himself up to his elbows with a shout of protest that died as he saw the coldness in Gilbert’s eyes. He shrank back down, speechless.
“Let us leave this heap of offal, Sir Matthew,” Gilbert said. “I do not think they shall trouble us again this night.”
“No, thanks to you. Let’s go.” Matt knew Liam was wondering what offal was.
“We’ll... we’ll call the cops on you!” Liam called.
“What are ‘cops’?” Gilbert asked.
“The Watch,” Matt told him.
Gilbert stared. “Footpads will call the Watch?”
“He’s carrying a lethal weapon!” Liam blustered.
Matt shook his head and turned away.
“The switchblade!” Liam shouted. “It’s got his fingerprints now!”
“It’s got yours, too,” Matt called back. “Go ahead and call the police.”
They went on down the block, ignoring Liam’s curses. “Well, Her Majesty was right again,” Matt admitted. “I did need help. Thanks, Sir Gilbert.”
“It was my pleasure.”
Matt would have felt a bit better if Gilbert hadn’t sounded quite so sincere.
&n
bsp; They climbed the steps to the porch. Matt started to ring the doorbell, but remembered the problems of explaining to Gilbert and knocked instead.
The knight looked about him. “Truly a grand house, Sir Matthew! You are nobly born indeed!”
“Uh, nobody in this neighborhood is very rich, Gilbert,” Matt said sheepishly.
Gilbert stared.
“Or at least, they don’t think so,” Matt explained. “There are a lot of people who’re richer.”
The door opened, and Mama stood there in her apron, hair tied up in a kerchief, eyes red. Over her head, Matt saw Papa hefting boxes into a stack, his face grim. Matt’s heart sank.
Then Mama realized who was there. Her eyes went wide, and the gloom lifted. “Mateo!” She threw her arms around his neck and hugged. “So soon! What, did you forget something?”
“Yeah—you and Papa.” Matt grinned, hugging her, and carried her into the little hallway where he set her down.
Papa looked up in surprise. Then his grimness vanished and he came toward his son with his arms wide. “So you couldn’t stay away, hey? Too late, though—dinner is over.” He embraced Matt, then held him away and looked up at Gilbert inquiringly.
“Uh, Mama and Papa, this is my friend, Gilbert,” Matt explained. “Gilbert, my mother and father, Jimena and Ramón Mantrell.”
“A pleasure, goodfolk.” Gilbert gave a little bow.
“As is ours,” Papa said, reaching out to shake Gilbert’s hand. The knight went along with the gesture, albeit awkwardly. “Jimena,” said Papa, “can’t we take something out of the refrigerator?”
“Uh, I’m afraid we don’t have time, Papa.” At his father’s frown, Matt explained, “We had a little run-in with the neighborhood gang, and they might call the cops.”
“Call the cops! Them?”
“Surely you did nothing wrong, Mateo,” his mother said anxiously.
“Just self-defense, but it’ll take an hour or two to prove it, and we don’t have that much leeway.” Matt bit his lip; his parents were proud people, and he had to phrase this just right. “Uh, Mama, Papa—I didn’t tell you all the news this afternoon.”
“Oh?” Papa frowned, braced for the bad stuff. “What else?”
“Good news,” Matt said, “but, uh—we were so locked away in our own little world that I didn’t know I could tell you about it.”
Gilbert frowned at him, puzzled. Well, Matt could explain it all to them later.
“I found the right girl,” he said in a rush.
“Oh, Mateo!” Mama cried with delight, and reached up to kiss him soundly on the cheek.
Papa’s eyes shone. He embraced his son, then held him at arm’s length, grinning. “I’m glad, I’m so glad! I was afraid she’d never come along! When is the wedding?”
“Well, we already have a house.” Matt was getting good at sidestepping questions. “We’d like you to come visit us.”
“We will, we will.” Papa’s smile slipped. “But first we have to...” He waved at the stack of boxes and the stripped bookshelves.
“It looks like you’re moving out. Well, take it all along.”
“Oh?” Papa forced a weary smile. “Have you brought a moving van?”
“Isn’t one coming?”
Papa gestured with futility, tried to answer, then turned away.
“Even if we had money for the van, Mateo, we have no place to take the furniture,” Mama said softly. “We can take only what will fit in the rental van, and keep at the motel.”
Matt turned somber. “You could declare bankruptcy.”
“We could have,” Mama agreed, “and Papa said to, but I knew it hurt him not to be able to pay his debts. We sold the house, and tomorrow we will rent the van and drive away with what we can. The Goodwill will come to take what we leave.”
Matt frowned, looking out over the pile of boxes. “How much more do you have to pack?”
Now it was Mama who gestured with futility. “It is all here in the boxes, all that we cannot bear to leave—but the house, the garden, the memories...”
Tears filled her eyes. Matt said quickly, “Memories you can always take with you, Mama. I know it’s hard, but if you really have to go, then let’s go now.”
Papa looked up, frowning. “You brought a van?” Then he looked at Matt more closely. “You’re not surprised at any of this.”
“A neighbor told me,” Matt admitted.
Papa swore.
“What did she tell you?” Mama, at least, had no doubt about who.
“That the boys have harassed the store so badly your business went broke,” Matt said. Then he realized that he could take the offensive. He gave his father a look of hurt. “You should have told me, Papa.”
“It was not your fight,” Papa said stiffly.
“All your fights are my fights,” Matt retorted. “You taught me it should be that way with my friends. How much more with my parents?”
“I was being medieval,” Papa muttered.
“Yes, the medieval notion of keeping faith! How bad is it?”
Papa glanced at Mama; her look implored him, and he relented. “When I came home for lunch today, I had just finished closing up the store for good.”
“You knew that!” Matt accused his mother.
“We did not want you to worry,” she explained, then turned stubborn. “You might have dropped out of school!”
“But your visit was the perfect note to raise our spirits from defeat,” Papa said gently.
Matt wilted. “Okay, I’m an undutiful son not to have been checking up on you!” At least they didn’t know just how neglectful he had been.
“That doesn’t matter, Matt,” his father said softly. “Our problems are our own. You go build your life.”
“I will, but problems are for sharing—that’s another thing you taught me,” Matt said. “What does matter is that we can get you out of here.”
A siren wailed in the distance.
Gilbert looked up, tensed to fight. “What spirit is that?”
“No spirit, only an alarm,” Matt said quickly. “It’s the police coming—Liam did call them, the idiot! And I’m sorry, Papa, Mama, but I can’t afford the delay!” He didn’t want to add that he might have a little trouble explaining Gilbert’s lack of identity cards. “Please, I’m going to have to ask you to take me on faith, no matter how crazy it may seem.”
Papa glanced at Mama. Their gaze held for a moment or two; then they turned back, nodding. “What harm can it do?” Mama asked.
“None,” Matt assured her. “Here, stand around your boxes and hold hands—Gilbert, you too!”
Frowning, Mama and Papa linked hands with them. Gilbert, of course, obeyed the Lord Wizard without an instant’s hesitation.
The siren wailed closer.
“Now, repeat after me,” Matt said. “Lalinga wogreus marwold reiger.”
Mama and Papa frowned, but repeated obediently, “Lalinga wogreus marwold reiger.”
“Athelstrigen marx alupta,” Matt intoned.
Mama and Papa repeated, “Athelstrigen marx alupta...”
“Harleng krimorg barlow steiger,” Matt chanted.
“Harleng krimorg barlow steiger.”
Matt went on, repeating the words line by line until he’d finished the verse, then told them, “Again!”
He lined the verse out for them to repeat time after time, until they could recite it all the way through without him—giving him odd looks, but reciting.
The siren came closer and closer.
“Say it over and over, no matter what I say!” Matt told them. “Just keep chanting!”
They did as he asked, saying the words over and over. Then Mama’s eyes widened, and Matt knew the words were beginning to make sense to her.
Outside, the siren wailed to a stop. Orange and blue lights flickered through the windows. A car door slammed, and footsteps thudded on the outdoor stairs.
Matt threw back his head and called,
“St. Monca
ire, lend us your strength!
Spider King, throw us a length,
A strand to serve us as a path,
Sheltered from the foeman’s wrath!
Lend an ear, Witch Doctor Saul!
With physics, math, and heart, now HAUL!”
Then he called out, “All together, now!” and chanted the verse again, only this time, they all understood the words:
“You, betrayed by Time and Space,
Born without your proper grace,
To a world befouled and base—
Feel your proper form and case,
Recognize your homeland’s face.
Cross the void of time and space!
Seek and find your proper place!”
A fist pounded on the door.
“The words make sense!” Papa cried in delight—but he spoke in the language of Merovence, not America, and the world suddenly went crazy, tilting and spinning around them.
When it stilled, Mama slumped against Matt. He held her up, saying, “It’ll pass, it’s just disorientation... Gilbert, how’re you doing?”
“Well enough,” the knight called back. “Come now, Goodman Mantrell, it is a sickening feeling, but bear up and it will pass... there!”
Matt glanced over and saw Papa still leaning on Gilbert’s shoulder, but straightening. “Thank you for your arm, Master Gilbert.”
“My honor.” But Gilbert looked a little nonplussed.
“He’s a knight, Papa,” Matt began, but Mama looked about her at the sun-filled space and let out a cry of amazement. “El Morro!”
Papa looked around, too. Matt took a quick glance, enough to be sure they were in the courtyard, Mama with him, Papa with Gilbert, their huge pile of boxes in between. A couple of knights and a dozen footmen were running toward them.
“I see the resemblance,” Papa told Mama, “but I do not think this is El Morro. It is a castle, though.”
“Not even a Spanish one, now that I look at the architecture,” Mama said, “but still, a real castle! How did we come here?”
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