“Everything is real,” said Malak who was Grandfather, busily blocking Fay’s desire to reach her parents. Whatever invisible force had blocked her way was now removed, but he was more than adequate to block her path with his body.
“Be careful,” said Fay.
As Clive cautiously plucked a leaf from its branch, he shivered at the touch even though it was still a warm summer day. The leaf rested in his hand as if some marvelous insect that had lost the strength to fly … in a land that had banned insects.
Fay saw his expression change as he gazed down at what was happening in his hand. “What is it?” she called to him, forgetting Malak and her parents as she ran over to him. No barriers blocked her in this direction.
She ran to him as Clive backed away — an incongruous sight, because he was trying to back away from what remained in the palm of his hand, arm held straight out as if it belonged to another person. Coming up behind him, she saw the object of his disgust. The leaf was decomposing. It wasn’t turning brown and brittle, as might be expected. Instead, it was liquifying into a muddy orange sludge. The remains made a hissing sound, the part that really bothered Fay. “Throw it away,” she told him.
Clive always tried to follow good advice. He let go of it, but that wasn’t good enough. Dropping to his knees, he rubbed his hand frantically against the ground.
“You don’t have to do that,” came the reassuring tones of Malak. “You’re not hurt.” Clive worked up the nerve to turn his hand over and give it a thorough examination. He seemed to be all right. The same could not be said for the grass that had been touched by the liquid as it changed color from natural green to a purple that was neither its color nor the color of the sludge.
Malak was as happy as a clam at a vegetarian convention. He jumped up and down, hooted for joy and talked some more: “What I can do for the Center of All Seasons, I can do for a thousand lesser worlds, feeble reflections of what goes on here; and that includes humble, little earth, my pretties. Thanks to your parents, dear Clive, dear Fay, I can bring to your world the same originality they worked so hard to bring to their relationship. There’s nothing more boring than tranquility, you know!”
Clive wasn’t buying a word of it. He grabbed a handful of leaves and ran at Malak, throwing them at his face and trying to mash the rest of them into his cloak. The Jennifers called out warnings but for reasons best known to themselves they wouldn’t budge from where they continued standing, holding hands. A memory was nagging at the back of Clive’s mind like a bad headache … something about a direct approach being unadvisable.
“Aint gonna work on me,” said Malak, shrugging off the attack. “I’m immune from my own policies, sort of like your country’s Congress.”
“It used to be your country, too, Grandfather!” said Clive as tears started pouring down his face. Fay had never seen her brother cry and the sight made her all the angrier.
“None of that, my boy. We haven’t the time. If you want to be patriotic, I’ll provide endless opportunity, never fear. But first we must finish the task of Ye Olde parental sacrifice. They’re still alive, you know.”
Swaggering over to the writhing human bodies, Malak bent down and removed the daggers which made a strange popping sound. Immediately, Mom and Dad lay still. “Reminds me of their wedding night,” he added gratuitously. “The negative energy released by a truly loveless marriage is not all it’s cracked up to be. What we want is a case were love has gone as sour as yesterday’s cottage cheese, but there’s still a little speck of the original passion left. The ambivalence factor should never be underestimated.”
He gestured for one of his football-headed freaks to seize Fay and bring her over to Mom and Dad. The action was pointless and cruel as Fay had been struggling to get to them. Clive wanted to come to her aid but now a football man blocked his passage.
“Fay, you are a mystery to me,” he said. “You still love them.”
“So does Clive,” she felt the need to say. Clive was silent.
“Not the way you do, dear little Fay. Something there is in the poor lad that makes him judge them. No sense of his proper place, I’m afraid. Confidentially…” Malak leaned over and did a mock whisper in her ear, “I never thought you had the potential to be a tax collector the way your brother did. I’d never have sent you to meet the Maw.”
“Thanks so much,” she said sarcastically. “Instead I got the spider-fish thing.”
“Nothing but the best for you,” he agreed, oozing with charm. “The kind of love there is in you is a valuable resource. Or as I read somewhere a long time ago, ‘Love suffereth long, and is kind; love envieth not; love vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up; doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not its own; is not provoked, taking not account of evil; rejoiceth not in unrighteousness, but rejoiceth with the truth; beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.’ One can never be too careful about the books one reads.”
Clive chose that moment to chime in with: “Or as ABBA says, ‘Breaking up is never easy, I know, but I have to go.’” Clive prided himself on his knowledge of classical music.
Malak spun around, deeply irate over the interruption. But Fay was grateful for Malak’s distraction because it gave her a chance to think again. He was talking about love in its biggest sense, and accusing her of having more than her fair share. He was going to use that somehow to do something dreadful. The dumb lyric from the popular song brought love down to a more trivial level. Kids at school were constantly saying they were in love with each other … and if they were lucky, it would last as long as a hit song on the pop charts. The only caveat was that with everyone worried about AIDS, kids pretended to be less shallow and superficial than they knew themselves to be. For the first time, it struck Fay that Mom and Dad were just about as reliable in the old “love” department as the kids at school. Russell and Claire had simply taken longer to get bored.
This disconcerting view of complete adult bankruptcy took root in Fay with the suddeness of a summer cold. Only she wasn’t going to be able to sneeze it away. The idea festering inside her head was that if Mom and Dad had loved their children more, they would have at least faked marital love to keep the pretense of the family alive. When adults talked about honesty and rethinking their priorities and getting on with their lives, they arrived at a most interesting place concerning the kids. They expected their offspring to pretend eternal affection; but they wouldn’t pretend with each other for the sake of those same children. Plus: they’d never extend the freedom of walking away to their kids, either. The police never went after runaway spouses. But runaway kids found out the meaning of being a fugitive in less time than it took to make a fink phone call.
If Malak had known all the trouble that was loosed by Clive’s little comment, he would have dumped a bucket of black magic all over his poor grandson. Instead, he turned back to consider Fay, blissfully unaware of the sea change that had just taken place.
“I’ll be bringing them back to consciousness just for you,” he told Fay. “You can help them do a shallow and temporary reconciliation. When they realize the danger, they’ll at least have the sense to go along….”
Yes, Fay thought, fear is the key. That’s what had been missing in her parents’ lives together: an insufficiency of marrow freezing terror!
“… but then again, they may be so deeply moved by their predicament, and the sacrifices their children made on their behalf, that the love will be real. If that happens, my master spell won’t work. So you have a good motive to do your best. But if they give me what I need, I can release their negative energies, feed that into all the magic I’ve been hoarding … and bring the Fifth Season to millions of worlds.”
Kitnip sniffed around and said, “Sort of like turning the Universe into a catbox that’s never emptied.”
“Animal,” snorted Malak, no doubt offended by creatures of Kitnip’s size who refused to be subordinate. There would be a lot more professionally made
Slaks and a lot fewer amateur life forms when he was finished setting Existence to rights.
“There’s only one difficulty with your plan, sir,” said Fay, smiling sweetly.
“You have no choice, child. The contest is between your hope for their reunion and my confidence in their incompatibility.”
“But great Malak, your excellency, sir,” Fay said just as sweetly. “What if I’ve changed my mind? I don’t want them back together.”
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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 EIGHTEEN
WHEN YOU CAN’T TELL THE PROBLEM FROM THE SOLUTION
Fay’s words reverberated across the expanse of Malak’s face, starting with a twitching around the eyes, trembling down to the corners of his mouth that were pulled down into a terrible frown, and quivering through every inch of flesh until reaching the wrinkles around his throat. In life, Grandfather had never liked people to stray from roles that he had meticuloulsy written for them. Most folks were true to form … most of the time. The rare exceptions were the only ones who won his grudging respect, and undying enmity. But since becoming Malak, he had known he could bank on the certainty of Fay’s love for her parents.
He was discombobulated, reduced to saying, “You can’t mean that.” Clive had raised an eyebrow in surprise and was about to contradict his sister when he recognized the impact she was having on the enemy. Through thin slit eyes, Kitnip peered at the tormentor’s shoes, as black as her fine fur, and let one ear slowly flatten itself against her head. With a sideways glance, Fay caught the reaction of both brother and cat. She had confidence they would play along.
Sensing his uncertainty, she pressed her advantage: “I was tired of Mom and Dad before you died. By the time you ruined my summer, Mom was a coward, and Dad an idiot. I’d put up with them until the day you did weird things to the wallpaper in the nursery. Then Dad beat up Clive and Mom didn’t do anything to stop it…”
“Maybe she didn’t hear,” said Malak, trying to salvage the situation.
“She heard! She’s a coward and Dad became violent and I don’t care what happens to them anymore.”
There was the sound of a great sigh out beyond the hills, and several damaged leaves began to curl on their branches as if caught in an invisible fire. The leaves fell off, turning to stinking globs before they hit the ground. Beyond the steaming little piles, the picnickers began to back away, and huddle together in fear.
Terror was like a shot of good whiskey to Malak. His face brightened and regained its composure. “Maybe I’ve been going about this the wrong way,” he said aloud, but he was speaking to himself. “Maybe there’s another trigger I can use.”
Clive said two words to his sister, but they were all she needed to hear: “Calm down.” She nodded and started taking deep breaths. The ball was in her court. The only way she could score was to be relaxed. Indifference to her parents’ fate had bothered Malak; but the anger she was letting herself feel seemed to feed him. Clive held up his hand and let her see that his fingers were crossed. She smiled at him as the anger washed over her, and left her body clean.
“I suppose they couldn’t help themselves,” said Fay. “I’m sorry for them, but they’re not my problem any longer.”
Malak’s sharp intake of breath sounded like a valve being turned off. This would teach him to talk himself! How could a stupid child be so in control of herself? “You don’t know what you’re saying,” he argued, desperation creeping back into his voice. “Those are your parents,” he said, gesturing at the ground. “Think how they’ve suffered.”
“They did it to themselves,” said Fay, coldly.
“He helped,” added Clive, pointing at Malak. “I saw the tortures he inflicted on Dad in the field, and Mom surrounded by little monsters. Those weren’t Slaks I saw. They were real, I’m sure of it.” Yet even as he recounted this litany of suffering, he remembered the pictures he had seen of Fay and himself. He was yet to be placed in a box and swung out over empty space. When Fay and he had brought each other up to date, she hadn’t mentioned being in a giant doll house. His experience by the sea seemed more dreamlike in recollection than, say, his visit to Mrs. Norse’s house. In a world where anything could happen, how did one separate symbol from reality? And was it even worth trying?
“Hard lessons,” said Malak. “They thought life was going to be easy, an endless summer of love. Perfect examples of their generation, they sought to be eternally young. You know what that means? No experience takes hold and imparts wisdom. They don’t remember anything.”
“Then what’s your excuse for the way you are?” asked Kitnip.
“Be careful, feline. I remember everything.”
“Then where’s your wisdom?” asked the cat, holding on to the point as she might trap a squirming rodent.
Displaying the same qualities that had led his earthbound self into politics, Malak simply ignored the cat’s annoying suggestions and again addressed Fay, his focal point, his hope: “Now look here, granddaughter, you’ve been through a lot to find your parents. Maybe I was too hard on them. What do you say we bring them out of their trances and you and your brother can have them back just the way you’ve always wanted them?”
“I don’t believe you,” said Fay. “You intend to kill them.”
“Not so!” he exclaimed.
“What about the knives?” asked Fay.
“There’s no blood, no gaping wounds,” he answered reasonably. “The most advanced kind of magic doesn’t require a lot of mess. Sacrifices don’t have to be bloody. They only need to be thorough.”
“How do we know they’re Mom and Dad?” asked Clive. “Maybe they’re Slaks.”
“Ridiculous!” Malak seemed genuinely hurt. “Your sister has no doubt in that regard, do you, child?”
But Fay was paying little attention to him. She watched Kitnip who, one moment had been perfectly still as if posing for a statue, and the next was a black streak of motion darting between the legs of Malak’s minions. The cat had her little nose pressed up against Dad’s face and then, as a cumbersome hand grabbed for her, lept over Dad’s recumbent form and landed square on Mom’s stomach, where the cat proceeded to investigate familiar human skin and clothes and hair.
“They’re real,” announced Kitnip.
“And to think you managed that without taking a bite out of them,” came a familiar voice.
“Wolf!” shouted Clive, happy and ready for trouble. A silver-grey shape raced out of the woods, four paws barely seeming to touch the ground, and licked the faces of Mom and Dad. Kitnip joined in.
Never one to let an opportunity pass by, without at least collecting a toll, Malak made a brave attempt to adjust to the situation. “So there you are,” he said. “You see that they’re real so lets bring them out of their trances.”
“So you can collect their negative engery,” said Fay.
“Hey, fair’s fair! You get your parents back and I get what I want. A win-win scenario. With all you’ve learned in such a short time, Fay, I’m sure you and your brother can help them see the error of their ways. Then I’ll send everyone home, one big happy….”
“No,” said Fay. “You’re trying to trick us. Grandfather liked Mom and Dad being unhappy. Malak only cares about his war against the Seasons. You are both people.” Malak smiled and made a series of flamboyant gestures in the air, each completed by his pointing at various relatives — his bony finger extended toward the extended family, one member at a time. “Testimonials,” he said. “That’s what I need.” It was like watching a stage magician who threatened live embalming for the audience as his final act.
“Don’t bother,” said Clive.
�
�We don’t trust you,” said Fay.
“I don’t trust them, either,” Clive added for the benefit of his relatives.
“The American family is in a bad way,” mourned Malak. “Here you trust a total stranger, this self-righteous woman you don’t even know, over your own flesh and blood.”
“I’ve met her,” said Clive. “Mrs. Norse is only righteous.”
“Shut up!” shouted their host.
“All your problems begin in simple rudeness,” came another voice, a most welcome one. Malak spun around, dreading to face the inevitable but drawn to his own personal abyss. Mrs. Norse emerged from behind the four Jennifers who, at that precise moment, let go of each other’s hands and collapsed on the ground. They had been very busy.
Malak’s expression put Fay in mind of a ripe cantelope ready to collapse in on itself. This was her first encounter with the Lady of the Seasons and she had a most favorable first impression. Where Malak’s face was hard and full of judgement, Mrs. Norse’s face was a study in long suffering kindness mixed with an unselfconscious superiority.
“You weren’t invited,” said Malak. Her presence drained off his confidence as a syringe might suck up poison.
She spoke to him as firmly and calmly as if she were admonishing a naughty child. “You have forgotten that part of the divorce settlement was that I’d have custody of the Four Seasons.” Clive and Fay exchanged looks as if to say: Naturally, Of Course, It Makes Perfect Sense.
“You can stop worrying about the fine points,” he said. “Soon there will only be one season.”
Land Beyond Summer Page 18