Land Beyond Summer

by Brad Linaweaver

  “Grandfather wasn’t kidding about his powers,” whispered Fay.

  They took inventory of their new situation for which task they were well situated, high atop a gigantic mound of stone. It was big enough to be considered a mountain but its smoothness suggested a hill. Wherever they were, it seemed to be midday and visibility was excellent under a startlingly blue sky. The only other time Clive could remember a sky like that had been when his parents had taken him to see a historic mining town in Colorado when Fay was only a baby.

  Fay was first to see the volcano, if that’s what it was. It was about the same distance away as the statue but down another quarter of the circle as they turned slowly around. Everywhere they looked there were marvels, but the volcano was in a class by itself because of what it was doing. It was erupting in complete silence. And yet this was not its most arresting feature. The contents of the eruption were not rocks and lava but giant bubbles with bright lights shining inside. These objects rose to a point directly above the mountain before exploding (also silently), making flashes of light as they disappeared.

  “Everything Grandfather told us was true.” Clive sounded miserable.

  “No, you mustn’t think that,” answered Fay quickly. “I will never believe anything he said about Mom and Dad, no matter how much magic he has now.”

  “You didn’t believe he had magic the day he told us!”

  “You didn’t either!”

  Fay could usually talk herself out of a bad mood. Clive envied her this ability; but when she got herself all worked up, she could carry her brother along with her. This was no time to bicker, with the world they knew vanished only minutes before.

  They took in their surroundings as slowly and carefully as if one sudden movement might shatter this strange world, or themselves, into a million pieces. They were at the very apex of the smooth hill of stone, a hill descending so gradually that it looked perfectly safe to traverse.

  The hill was four different colors, each making up one quarter of the circle. At first glance, these sections appeared to be painted, but the colors were natural to the rock, even though they were separated by perfectly straight lines. Fay straddled green and yellow. Clive was off to her side, completely in a zone that was red. The remaining color was pure white.

  At the axis where the lines met was an ornate telescope, covered in gold and silver bricabrac, and appearing to be something out of a Jules Verne book. Its base was firmly anchored in the rock itself at the exact center of the stone mountain.

  Clive looked through the telescope first. It was pointed at the statue. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing, but it made a kind of demented sense. “You gotta see this,” he said, gesturing to Fay. She did … and found herself gazing on the stern, solemn, angry face of Grandfather, chiseled out of a great amount of white marble. Back home, he would have considered such a statement of vanity to be more money that it was worth, no matter the choice of subject.

  The telescope could be turned a full 360 degrees to get the whole tour. Clive decided to let Fay take the first long turn. He was shaken by the face on the statue, and although he wouldn’t admit it to her, he felt his sister was probably more qualified than he was to understand what was happening. She’d had the dreams. Quite a lot could be seen with the naked eye, but for the few landmarks to be studied, the telescope was indispensable. Each color extended beyond the hill to a vast plateau below. The hill was ringed by trees, and these spread out to make a great forest. Where the white section ended, the trees were covered in snow and ice, except for the ones that stood up like grey splinters, dead husks with naked branches. The only place with snow was the white section.

  The red section led into a part of the very strange forest where the trees had leaves of many different shapes and sizes, as well as dozens of colors. They were gold and red and orange and brown, and all kinds of combinations. Some of these leaves were falling from the branches but no sooner did one go than it was replaced by a new leaf, usually of a different color.

  The remainder of the wood was marked off where the green and yellow sections ended. Here the trees were covered in bright, green leaves. There were birds singing and chirping in the branches. They sounded like normal birds — at least the birds one might notice back home.

  Fay studied a small river dividing the two sections, but from this distance at least, there didn’t seem to be much different about these two areas of woodland. Once she got over the surprise of the segregated sections, where different kinds of weather were cut off from each other as by a force field, she was most fascinated by the large objects dominating the horizon. For this task, the telescope was indispensable.

  The giant statue was where the white woods ended. The volcano marked the end of the green section. As for the other two, the red section was watched over by what could only be described as a titanic totem pole. With the aid of the telescope, Fay could make out details of exquisite birds and animals, and human faces, up and down the length of a column of wood that must be nearly two hundred feet high and yards wide! At the base of the column there was an ornate Victorian house, with a door made of the same wood as the pole, and covered in carvings as well.

  But an object even stranger than the volcano was reserved for the yellow section: it appeared to be a giant glass cocoon, or beehive, reflecting its surroundings back at the viewer instead of being transparent. Fay could tell that Clive was becoming impatient for his turn but she was frustrated by the absence of any knob or adjustability to the eyepiece. The range was too limited to satisfy her curiosity. Beyond the large objects on the horizon, there was very little she could make out. There was a yellow fog hanging over much of the landscape past that point. She had seen that fog before.

  “Here, Clive,” she said, appreciating how smoothly the telescope swiveled on its mount. He eagerly lowered his face to the eyepiece. Yet none of the oddities she had witnessed could compare to the most remarkable aspect about the place. It hit her like a slap in the face. More than anything else, what proved to Fay that she was no longer on earth, was the absence of the sun! There was no cloud anywhere. There was no sun. Which left the problem: where was the light coming from?

  Nothing cast any shadows. That took a bit of getting used to. She tapped Clive on the shoulder and let him in on her latest discovery. He didn’t believe her at first, but the matter was quickly settled when she asked him about the light. She was just about to conclude that her brother was being dense (one of her bad habits) when he came through like gangbusters.

  “Do you suppose,” he began earnestly, “that the bubbles from the volcano provide the light? They look like little suns when they pop.”

  Suddenly they felt a wind, and with it came the sound of chimes. Fay began to shake, but the wind was warm and pleasant. She had a terrible thought: if Grandfather had come here after he died, did this mean that they were dead, too? Did this place have a name they weren’t supposed to say in school? Even though she was younger, she often felt older than her brother. She decided to keep this idea to herself.

  Fay bent down and picked up the envelope. When the blackness had come out, she had felt paper inside. Now seemed a good time to double-check. Sure enough, there were two pages inside. The first was hand written with a flowing penmanship that was beautiful and as easy to read as if it had been typed.

  “What does it say?” asked Clive.

  She read it aloud to him. She was a good reader. Dear Fay and Clive, Please forgive the unorthodox method by which I have reached you. If you are reading this page then the transition has already taken place. You are on the Mound of Seasons, the center of a shrinking dimension. The fate of your world is tied to what happens here, as are millions of other worlds.

  Malak is reborn from a member of your family, and he has stolen your parents because he needs them for a sacrifice when the moment is right. There is no walking away from the blood, dear ones. You are tied to them and tied to him; on your heads falls the fate of more than I can possibly relate
in a letter.

  He Who Was Your Grandfather and is now Malak, the Dour One, is at war with the Seasons. He hates them all, even Winter, although he once pretended to prefer it, and now has his fortress there. Most of all he hates Summer which is why he chose this time of your year for the attack.

  As Fay read and Clive listened, they were both too intent on the matter at hand to notice a subtle change in the color of the white statue dominating the Winter region. The sword was turning darker, and as this happened, a wind started up and blew at the young Gurneys. This was no ordinary wind but came in a narrow shaft of air, as if an arrow had been loosed at them. Your parents were replaced with creatures called Slaks. Eventually he would have replaced you, as well, but not until you had performed certain tasks for him on earth. By bringing you here ahead of schedule, we’ve caused him a problem and given you a chance. The most important thing is that you should come to me at my house; it is the only house in the Land of the Seasons, and you can see it at the far end of Autumn by using the telescope you will find waiting for you. I cannot come to you because….

  Fay would have read more but at that moment the shaft of wind struck. It was the coldest wind Fay had ever felt, but it just grazed the tips of her fingers, discoloring them with a blue-grey frost. She didn’t let go of the letter. The words on the page changed color, from their original black to grey and then a white that could barely be discerned, before falling to shatter into a thousand shards against the hard rock surface below. The last two words to fall were: Mrs. Norse.

  “I want out of here,” said Clive.

  Fay screamed once. “Oh, what are we going to do now?” she moaned, and started shaking. Clive put his arm around her and tried to let his mind go as blank as the sheet of paper in her hand.

  “Wait,” he had the presence of mind to say, “check the other page.”

  It had not been affected, but it was no communication from Mrs. Norse. It was a love poem Dad had written to Mom the first year of their marriage: “Honey, I don’t pretend that this rhymes or scans, but I passed poetry in college and this is the best I can do.” TO MY GIRL

  When the end of the rainbow leads not to pots of gold,

  Other treasures may fill to vaulted ceilings a woman’s soul;

  If worldly woes squeeze today’s happiness from an open heart

  still dreams of hope replinish passion from old love’s dart!

  The world is too much with us, eroding lives with distance;

  Life becomes an aching trap when beauty forgets its radiance

  We long for Eden before the Fall, sin untasted on the tree;

  You are all that ever matters, more than words could ever be

  Oh, to grind our fears to bread on which to feed laughter,

  That tribulations are digested as we are happy forever after

  Good faith is man’s aspiration and woman’s armor, her sheen

  For in the end, happy memories are all a prince of fools may

  set before his Queen.

  Fay read it. Clive wore a critic’s expression throughout the experience. “I wonder why Mrs. Norse sent us this,” she said.

  “I wonder why it wasn’t messed up by the wind, too,” he said with a touch of regret. “We better do what Mrs. Norse said. At least we got that much from the letter.” He held out his hand to help, expecting her to favor her weakened ankle.

  “Clive!” she cried out. “I didn’t notice until now. There’s been so much happening. My ankle is fine. It’s like I never sprained it.”

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  Return to Table of Contents.

  The Land Beyond Summer is posted for entertainment purposes only and no part of it may be crossposted to any other datafile base, conference, news group, email list, or website without written permission of Pulpless.Comtm.

  Copyright © 1996 by Brad Linaweaver. All rights reserved.

  CHAPTER SIX

  WOLF AND KITNIP

  “That’s great news, sis,” said Clive. “It should be easier for you to get down. This is what I’ve always wanted, a real adventure.”

  “Oh Clive, grow up,” said his younger sister. “This isn’t a game.”

  “I didn’t say it was; but it does sort of look like one from up here.”

  “Clive!” She could sound just like her mother when she was upset. “I’m afraid.”

  “I know. I am, too. God, I hate Grandad.” Just mentioning their nemesis made the day — if they could call the endless blue sky a day — seem all the heavier. “You know, what are we going to call him from now on? It’s getting ridiculous calling him … you know.”

  With a wistful smile, Fay remembered how the man didn’t like them addressing him by anything less formal than Grandfather. “The Mrs. Norse lady has given us enough names to choose from.”

  “Malak,” whispered Clive.

  “The Dour One,” echoed Fay. They might have gone on in this vein a while longer except that they were distracted by the presence of a cloud. It wouldn’t have been worth noting back home … but as the first cloud they had seen here, it was quite an event. They hadn’t noticed it forming over the distant sword of the statue shortly after they lost the Norse letter.

  The cloud was moving very fast. As it grew nearer, it became darker. Clive had seen a tornado once at summer camp. It hadn’t been very large, but was big enough to be a killer; and it was the most scared Clive had ever been. This cloud was funnelling down, and taking on the resemblance of that long-ago windstorm.

  “We’ve got to get away from here!” Clive shouted over the wind, but his advice wasn’t necessary. The tip of the funnel struck the rock near them, and began a zig-zag movement in their direction. They held hands but it didn’t do any good. Before the funnel reached them, they were torn apart by the surging wind. Clive went tumbling down the red path, while Fay was forced back along the yellow.

  For one insane moment the funnel lifted straight over Fay’s head. She expected to be pulled up inside it and torn to pieces. She could see the dark tunnel of wind, lit by flashing electricity as little tornadoes bounced back and forth along the inside of the walls. Then it moved on, leaving her both awestruck and alive.

  The tornado continued in a straight line away from her, but other winds came behind it; she could see Clive disappearing over the rise and called out, but the wind drowned out her voice. The blank sheet that had been Mrs. Norse’s letter went fluttering off in the direction of the giant statue but she held on to her father’s poem and jammed it back in the envelope, shoving it in the side pocket of her shorts. While she was saving the paper, her glasses fell off and smashed against the rock.

  Then she made a mistake. Reaching for her glasses after it was too late merely resulted in her falling down. She started rolling painfully down the hill. The distance from the stone hill to the ground was over a thousand feet, and if she didn’t stop tumbling very soon, she’d be killed by the unyielding granite surface. Fortunately, it wasn’t very steep; and a respite in the wind allowed her an opportunity to stand.

  She attempted to work her way back up to the top so she could find Clive, but when she tried, the wind started up again, pressing down on her with sudden force, as if an invisible wall opposed her. There was no choice but to continue toward the ground below.

  The yellow rock under her feet gradually turned to pebbles, and before she knew it, she was safely walking on green grass. The moment the hill was left behind, the air changed. There was a pleasant cool breeze, nothing like the freak storm she’d left behind. Other than that, the day was warm, but not hot. She looked up, expecting to see the sun, but, of course, it wasn’t there. She had no idea where the warmth was coming from.

  When she could accept the fact that she was safe, her legs gave out and she gratefully collapsed on the soft grass. She allowed herself the luxury of crying. This had not been one of her better days. She might have cried longer if she hadn’t been distracted by something pleasant. Gradually her vision cleared as she wiped the tears away
, and she took deep breaths, half choking because she was so upset. She began examining the red scrapes on her knees and elbows, and some purple bruises as bad as what Clive had gotten from his father. She was all set to cry again when she realized she’d received another gift besides her improved ankle (which had miraculously survived its undignified descent down the hill). Her various injuries were vivid and clear to her eye. Unconsciously, she reached up to adjust her glasses.

  That’s when she remembered she’d lost her glasses. Her vision had been restored to 20/20. Somehow this dried up her reserve supply of tears. She got to her feet and turned around to check out the stone mountain. She was only a few feet from it. There was a crazy slanting effect, as her perspective shifted. She had to close her eyes for a moment, but she still saw the yellow under the lids, from all that yellow on her side of the hill.

  A few years ago, the family had been able to afford their last real vacation. They’d done the whole Florida bit, from Disney to Sea World to Cape Kennedy. When they’d gone to see the Vehicle Assembly Building, she’d pressed her nose right up against the side of the biggest building — by square foot volume — in the world. She’d thought the side of the building was moving, crushing down on her, as the sheer bulk of what she saw was too much for the brain to register. What was happening to her now was like that, but different; more a case of the side of the mountain sliding sideways under her gaze than looming over her.

  She sat down on the ground a second time. There was no aspirin if she should have another headache. Taking deep, regular breaths to calm herself, she knew this was a time for thinking things through. Her dreams had never suggested there might be a place like this for real, except that there were differences. She’d seen nothing like the floating boxes yet. But the yellow fog was all too familiar.