Kip & Shadow

by David Pietrandrea

  “Goodbye, Kip,” he said finally.

  The sphere of light expanded into entropy, fading as it went. The world it created flickered like a dying candle as its light flared one last time.

  In this moment of bewilderment, Kip leaned in for a kiss. He was met with warmth and breath, and the electric buzz that those things made.

  A hand on the side of his face held him close, pushed a curl of red hair behind his ear. He felt the warmth of skin and the trace of every fingerprint.

  “Goodbye, Enos. Goodbye, my love.”

  A final sigh, delicious and drawn out, filled his ears. When Kip opened his eyes, Enos was gone.

  Goodbye.

  29

  Only stillness remained. The hundreds of Shadows stood around him in a wide circle, frozen to the spot. Their eyes were no longer purple but a pure and empty white. Kip scanned the sea of dark faces, looking for one he recognized. Would he even know his Shadow anymore?

  “Shadow!” Kip called, his voice amplified by Dark House, bouncing off hidden walls, moving across the star-scape ceiling.

  It faded.

  Then movement.

  Something roiled the sea of Shadows. The white-eyed creatures stepped aside, the crowd moving in a slow wave, and then two blue eyes appeared.

  Shadow pattered forward onto the steps of the dais, his wispy black tail moving back and forth. He looked away from Kip’s gaze.

  “I’m…I’m sorry I tried to bite your head off.”

  Kip smiled. “I probably deserved it.”

  Shadow bounded forward, clearing the dais, and jumping into Kip’s arms. Kip nearly lost his footing, but hugged his friend tightly.

  There was a soft rumble and Shadow dropped from his arms and looked around the chamber. The world that Vorax had created could no longer exist without its master.

  “I think we have to go out the way we came in,” Kip said.

  The well, he thought. Not the Pale London imposter, but the real thing, the entrance that he’d opened with his blood so long ago. He thought of the well-stones reshaping themselves to bridge the two worlds. The Pale World was a looping dream, the same drama forced to repeat itself again and again. It seemed fitting that their way out would be the way they’d come in.

  Kip turned to Shadow.

  “Time to go, my friend.”

  Shadow nodded fiercely and giggled. It was a musical sound that Kip had thought he’d never hear again.

  “But how do we get back there?”

  Shadow didn't seem worried, but looked at the audience that surrounded them.

  “Shadows have their own kind of alchemy.”

  And they did.

  A murmur ran through the crowd of Shadows, hundreds of white eyes activated, and focused. They looked distinct to Kip for the first time, all individuals with their own traits and character. The chattering mass of white-eyed Shadows burst to life, rising from the floor and spinning into a funnel of black. They rushed around Kip and Shadow, keeping them in the eye of the hurricane.

  With Vorax gone, they were free to work their own magic.

  The dizzying sea of gray sped up and tugged at them, gently pulling at Kip’s clothes and hair, and then his body. He looked down as his feet left the floor, his shadow shrinking beneath him.

  The dais moved away. The emerald moss that snaked across the floor had covered Vorax’s bones, reclaiming each piece of his skeleton. It looked almost peaceful, soft green covering an open ribcage. A flower grew from one of his eye sockets.

  It had ashen gray leaves.

  Kip and Shadow ascended through the structure of Dark House, rising through columns and buttresses and beams, each interlocking piece alive with stars. They saw some inner-working there, things they couldn’t comprehend.

  They passed through the cathedral-like ceiling and floated over Pale London. The city was alive with its own destruction. Buildings phased in and out of sight as they crumbled, stone and wood grinding together in a contained apocalypse. Purple geysers of light shot up like venting steam. Whatever magic had held the city together was now disappearing. All the landmarks of a life undoing themselves. Each building had a history and a world of secrets folded inside it, clutching those secrets tightly as they fell.

  Kip could see the ruined tower of Alchemy House, half of it already gone. The rest was collapsing. The black roof met the dark red shingles as it sheered them away, piece by piece, a butcher’s knife cutting though meat.

  The sights were terrifying, and the sounds deafening, but it was a joyful destruction.

  Let it all turn to dust, he thought; this world of fakery and lost dreams.

  The mass of Shadows was a dark cloud, and Kip and Shadow rode it like a carpet flying over Arabia.

  They flew over the Potter’s Market as a giant crack split the earth and swallowed the Three Nymphs Fountain.

  The Thames boiled and evaporated into a swirling mist, exposing muddy riverbeds before, they too, dried up; hardening into dead earth.

  The bridges that spanned the river buckled and writhed like serpents before falling.

  Kip thought of Bonfire Night and the horrible event that had set so much in motion. Guy Fawkes got his wish after all, destroying all the constructs of the world, but it was ending in collapse, not fire.

  Looking back, Kip saw Dark House still standing in the sea of rubble. It defied its surroundings. Somehow Kip knew it would remain there, only moving on its own timetable. Where it would go next, he didn’t know.

  They sped up, leaving the ruin of Pale London behind, and raced over the dead sea, now as still as glass. It reflected the trailing cloud they rode on as clearly as a mirror.

  The world contracted as it closed around them, no longer propped up by Vorax and whatever power he’d had.

  The scattered wreckage of the Library of Attila floated over the water, so much flotsam and jetsam.

  The low mountain range they’d passed under flitted by as quickly as if they’d stepped over it with one long stride. Kip remembered the tunnel through it, the complete darkness and the suffocating water. And the coldness.

  The dead forest with the burned Ragman tree was next, but the details were losing focus, more shapes and colors now than physical things. Soon this world would be as dark as the bottom of Kip’s well again.

  Lightning struck on the horizon, hitting the earth and sending maps of stars networking over the ground. Neutron stars, blue giants, supernovas, infinite drops of light massed into a swirling picture.

  The wind moved in Kip’s hair and filled his mouth and nostrils. Tears stung the edges of his eyes, a few dropping and flying into the distance behind him.

  Shadow scanned the horizon with delight. His blue eyes filled with wonder. He put his hand on his friend’s back as they watched the Pale World dim around them.

  Kip didn’t know if it was like waking up again, or going back to sleep, but it felt right.

  A column appeared in the distance. It was the vertical expanse of his well, vanishing into the atmosphere above like a great chimney.

  Its base was still there, the bridge of stones that had been their first link to this world. They were being pulled back into place, flying one-by-one to join the column of stone. As they did, the column shifted like a coiling snake.

  This was the boundary for the Shadows, all but one. They spun towards the earth like diving swallows and deposited Kip and Shadow at the foot of the stone bridge. They rose into the air, swooping and diving in a great murmuration, then disappeared into the remains of the Pale World. Some went off in groups, slipping into darkness, while others flew on alone, back into the alien world.

  Shadow remained and stared up at the coiling stones of the well.

  “Shadow can come?” he asked, his voice quiet and unsure.

  “The way I see it, I’ve given you something from the human world. The trade has been made, my friend.”

  Shadow looked down at the medal pinned to his chest and beamed.

  “It sure is fancy.”r />
  Together they stepped onto the bridge of floating stones. It bobbed and shuddered beneath their feet as each stone was drawn back to the well. It took all of Kip’s strength not to look down. He kept his eyes locked on the cave-like entrance, each step bringing him closer.

  The world was nearly a black void now, the well-structure the only pinpoint of light. A churning sound echoed through the void. There was the sound of music in it, almost below the threshold of hearing; the beating of drums. It rolled on and on, coming in waves. Whether it sounded in his mind or in the void, Kip didn't know, but it was growing louder, driving out any thought or reason.

  They scrambled into the base of the well, each stone falling away just as their feet left it. Kip struggled to gain a foothold in the column of stone that stretched above them, the smooth rocks too slippery for purchase. Shadow scampered beside him. His glowing eyes bobbed up and down as he looked back at Kip.

  The interior of the well was a tower of blackness. Kip imagined the outlet, his laboratory and home; the crackling hearth and warmth waiting for him there.

  The drumming came for them, ready to obliterate all remnants of the Pale World. It broke through all other sound as it stitched up the world Kip had made, his death-wish world that had to end. The drums bit at his heels.

  Kip’s fingers found every groove in every stone as he pulled himself up, not knowing how much more stretched above him. Shadow was next to him trying to support his body, pulling and pushing.

  “I can’t make it,” Kip yelled above the rushing noise.

  After all that had happened, he’d never planned his escape. He wasn’t a magician. He had no tools to overcome this final challenge.

  The stones were losing their shape, turning to a solid mist that he knew was about to break apart. Only the thinnest layer of reality still held them together.

  Kip started to laugh. There was no madness in it, only surrender. It had all seemed so serious for so long that the absurdity had never occurred to him.

  His laughter echoed up the well, bouncing off stone and cutting through the darkness. Shadow joined him, his soft childlike giggle adding to the echoing chorus. Kip hoped it would echo right out of the well and into London. Let laughter be the last sound he made.

  Kip’s muscles shook as he tried to climb one last time, the strain taking over his body. He looked into his friend’s blue eyes, tracing every fleck and beautiful imperfection.

  Then he let go.

  The drums screamed with a fierce pounding.

  Shadow jumped into Kip’s arms as gravity did its work.

  Together they plummeted into the decayed void of the Pale World.

  A blinding crack of light stabbed Kip’s eyes. It shot down the tunnel, a focused beam of energy. It etched every stone with color, illuminated them at the microscopic level.

  The white light enveloped Kip and Shadow, snatching them out of the air like a reaching giant. Kip’s head snapped back from the whiplash as they changed direction. His fingers brushed the tunnel wall as they sped upwards.

  He could hear the electric cracking of whatever power held them. It made his hair stand on end. He imagined them rocketing through the roof of Alchemy House and into the sky above.

  There was a hiccup as the air changed; some invisible boundary had been crossed. It was real air he was breathing, real sounds that filled his ears, real sights that dazzled his eyes.

  Kip and Shadow sped through the circle of stone and then tumbled to an earthen floor. Kip felt the cold dirt between his fingers. It felt real and had a scent of life and decay.

  A cracking sound behind him made Kip turn to see the well collapsing in on itself. The cold stone broke into jagged pieces, loud cracks filling the air. The perfect ring broke and moved like an avalanche in reverse. It knitted itself back into the ground as the light from its open mouth flickered.

  Shadow was at his side now, watching. With a final crack, the stones crashed together and shuddered beneath the dirt floor. The light cut off, giving a final blaze before disappearing. There was a scorch mark in the dirt and a thin sliver of smoke, and then nothing but darkness.

  “We’re home,” Kip whispered, trying to slow the beating of his heart.

  A small shard of light came to life, a candle flame in the blackness, as someone approached.

  “You’re home,” a voice said.

  It was a woman’s voice, both timid and strong somehow. It rode a line between two points.

  As Kip’s eyes adjusted he saw her face. It was pale and wore a look of injury; older than it should have been; a woman in her mid-twenties. Silver-white hair hung in her face, nearly hiding two piercing blue eyes.

  It was Clover Blackmoor.

  30

  They sat in the living room of Alchemy House. Heavy dust covered every surface, turning the room into a soft gray landscape.

  They’d beaten some of it out of the cushions of the high-backed chairs they sat in, excavating the red and yellow fabric. Clover had lit a fire in the hearth. Kip watched the fire and marveled at how real it was. He’d forgotten nearly everything except the Pale World. Memories came back to him in fits and starts, his mind seizing on one forgotten thing after another.

  Most of all the fire was warm.

  Clover Blackmoor put down an iron poker, rubbed her hands together, and sat in the chair next to Kip, dust billowing around her.

  The question hung in the air as Kip watched her settle, now a woman grown. He didn’t think he had the strength to ask it.

  “Ten years,” she said softly.

  Shadow looked up from where he was settled, his blue eyes reflecting the fire.

  Ten bells in the Pale World.

  “You were gone ten years. I came to Alchemy House every day of those ten years. I looked down that well, and I waited. They wanted to take it from you, all the greedy hands in London. There were people of every kind and discipline waiting in the wings. I think I recognized their hunger, and knew Alchemy House must be yours. It was given to you, no matter how long ago, and so yours it would stay.

  “I used my inherited wealth and position to keep them away, or did my best. The scavengers came none-the-less. They picked over this place.”

  Kip had noticed how sparse things looked. He’d forgotten what objects used to occupy the shelves, all the things he’d held so dear, things he’d almost fetishized: books, statues, candles, curios and curios.

  He looked at the ceiling and saw the dead tree limbs there. They hung limply. The dark gray-green leaves had all fallen away, leaving withered branches behind.

  “You can speak,” Kip said.

  “I could always speak. It was my father who made me mute. He began controlling me at age seven. I think I showed too much will, even then, my tongue running faster than my mind. I had more magical ability than he did and, once discovered, he had to put an end to it. I was a zombie for all those years, forced to do his bidding in silence.”

  Kip looked at her again and truly saw her now. Her younger self, always unreachable, had fallen away to reveal this quiet but powerful woman.

  “I’m the Mistress of Magic House now,” Clover continued, her voice cracking. She put her hands in her lap and knitted her fingers together. “And I have a lot to atone for; all the horrors of my father.”

  “No.” Kip almost shouted it. He slid from his chair so that he was kneeling in front of her, and put his hands over hers. He saw the cuts on his knuckles from when he’d attacked the stone of the well when he’d first entered Vorax’s underworld. They hadn’t healed.

  Even in ten years gone by.

  “Magic does strange things,” he said, “often horrible things; alchemy too, for that matter. It’s the price of what we do. Your father controlled you.”

  “It’s the price, but also the gift,” she said, smiling sweetly. “I’m sorry for what my father did to you, the names he called you, the hurts he worsened. I’m sorry for the world.

  “But there will be other adventures out there for you, b
eautiful men to match the first. There are cunning and sharp minds to know, mouths to kiss, hands to hold, a life to live.”

  Tears filled Kip’s eyes. He let them blur his vision, let them wash the world away. They ran down his face, finding his mouth and chin, before dripping to the floor, making small circles in the dust.

  Shadow purred with his deep-throated purr and pattered to Kip’s side. Kip lay a hand on his head and gently stroked it.

  All the tears in the world, Kip thought. Let them come now.

  “A new start,” he said, his voice cracking.

  Kip told her everything. He let the story spill out breathlessly. He shared every sight and sound he’d experienced, and every emotion too. Shadow chimed in when inspired, adding to the story with his excited gestures and own perspective. Clover’s attention never wavered. She nodded and listened, and asked questions when necessary.

  And then it was her turn. How to sum up a decade of life? It was a neat parcel of time to work with, a block of ten years, but so much had happened. She talked of her defeats and her challenges, and how she’d emerged as the Mistress of Magic House. London had changed but had also marched on in its own untouchable way.

  Kip thought of the Sulfur Glass and the visions he’d seen there.

  “Did the Pale World spread out from Alchemy House?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “I kept it at bay. It became another one of my daily penances when I came here, another atonement. I managed those who saw it or were affected by it, reordering their memory or erasing it altogether.

  “I thought I wouldn’t be able to hold it back, and perhaps I wouldn’t have, but then you returned. When you came back, its power died.”

  She gestured to the shrunken tree limbs above.

  “We’ll need to clear those out,” Kip said.

  He looked at Clover and saw her avoiding his gaze. There was one question she hadn’t asked.

  “Your father died of old age,” Kip said, realizing it for the first time. “Whatever magic held me down there, it didn't work for him. He…simply died of old age.”