EVENMERE
James Stoddard
Book Three Of The
Evenmere Chronicles
Other Books by James Stoddard
THE HIGH HOUSE
THE FALSE HOUSE
THE NIGHT LAND, A STORY RETOLD
THIS TALE OF FIGHTS AND FLIGHTS
AND POETRY MEN
I DEDICATE TO MY SON
WILL
LONG MAY YOU RUN
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Writers write novels mostly in solitude, but novels become
finely-honed only with the help of others. I am deeply grateful
to my wife, Kathryn, First Reader of my books and my heart.
Also to Lon Mirll and Kreg Robertson for their priceless
critiques, without which this would not be the book it is today,
to fan and friend Dr. Robert Finegold, a fine writer in his own
right, for his invaluable insights, and to Scott Faris for his
friendship and beautiful cover design.
To have the opportunity to work again with Betsy
Mitchell, who edited both The High House and The False
House , is a gift beyond hope. Good editors show writers ways
to make their books better; Betsy is one of the best.
I owe an endless debt of gratitude, one I should have
acknowledged long before now, to Terry Waldren, who made
many things possible.
Also thanks to fan Erin Shoemate for allowing me to use
her Wonderfully Cool Name. Erin and I have met only through
correspondence, so any actions or personality traits given to
her namesake in no way reflect those of the real person.
Finally, many thanks to those who have written over the
years, asking for a third novel about Evenmere. They provided
the encouragement that made this book happen.
Walking up a road at night, I have seen a lamp and a
lighted window and a cloud make together a most complete
and unmistakable face … Yet when I walked a little farther I
found that there was no face, that the window was ten yards
away, the lamp ten hundred yards, the cloud beyond the world.
Well, Sunday’s face escaped me; it ran away to right and left,
as such chance pictures run away. And so his face has made
me, somehow, doubt whether there are any faces.
—The Man Who was Thursday by G. K. Chesterton
The Poet of Vroomanlin Wood
Jonathan T. Bartholomew made his way up the narrow
stair toward the great attic of the infinite manor known as
Evenmere. His lantern cast dim shadows on the wooden steps
and unpainted walls. He trembled as he went, and could not
stop trembling. If I can delay it for the first minute, there is a
chance. If I can survive for sixty precious seconds …
He reached the top and paused. No winds disturb the attic;
the pelting rains are never heard within. It is set apart, as if
outside time and space. Jonathan peered into the dimness,
listening to a silence broken only by the rhythmic creaking of
the floorboards.
Like breathing , he thought. That’s right. The old serpent’s
hot breath.
He took a dozen paces forward, his boots making prints on
the dusty boards. He paused, certain his presence had already
been detected. This was the beast’s kingdom; nothing occurred
in the attic without its knowing. Even if the creature were far
from the stair, miles away in the depths of the immeasurable
garret, distance meant nothing within its own realm; it could
reach him in the twinkling of a moment.
It likes to play with its prey, torment them like a great big
tomcat with a mouse. Maybe that will buy a little time. It all
depends. If it recognizes me, that might be good. Jonathan
frowned. Or it might be as bad as bad can be. Terrible bad.
A low rumbling arose, a throaty growl increasing in
volume until every board in the attic resonated with it. The
vibrations reached Jonathan’s feet, shaking his whole body,
filling his chest with a pulsing pressure. He thrust his fingers
into his ears. On and on it rolled, growing louder and louder;
and when it was as loud as he thought flesh could endure, it
increased even more. The pounding was in his head; the
vibrations toppled him to his knees. And still the intensity
grew.
He rolled into a ball, gritting his teeth against the pain. I’m
gonna be shaken to bits without even getting the chance to
talk. Going to be pieces of Jonathan everywhere.
The roaring abruptly ended. He groaned and lay gasping
for breath. Bracing himself against the floor on his slender,
ebony hands, he rose unsteadily to his feet.
Sixty seconds. If I can last long enough to get its attention.
Maybe I better say something, before it swoops by and gobbles
me up.
From out of the darkness a massive tail, thick as a tree
trunk, slammed against the floor in front of him, sending him
bouncing across the boards like a tossed coin. Head spinning,
body aching from innumerable bruises, he crept on hands and
knees to retrieve his lantern, which had rolled a few feet away.
He raised the lamp.
A tyrannosaurus of unspeakable proportions stood before
him, its head large as a house. It reared its colossal frame into
the attic heights, licking its lips with serpentine tongue, its
rows of yellow teeth sharp as spears, its scent the
overwhelming odor of reptile. Saliva, dripping from its open
mouth, fell hissing to the floor. It bent over Jonathan and
roared.
The entire attic shook with its force. Jonathan could only
cover his ears and squirm beneath the power of its awful
trumpeting, certain he was about to die.
The dinosaur ended its blaring cry. Its head was less than
ten feet away, its terrible jaws so close Jonathan could see the
red, festering sores on its gums.
“Who is this dark morsel, scarecrow thin, who dares enter
the attic of the Last Dinosaur?” Jormungand rumbled, its voice
deep as a foghorn. “Speak! Tell me your name, the name of
your kin, the name of your station.”
Before Jonathan could answer, the dinosaur leaned even
closer, so near its fetid breath enveloped him. Its cold,
unblinking eyes narrowed. “Why, if it isn’t the famous
Storyteller. Aren’t I the lucky one.”
Jonathan drew a deep breath, and slowly, cautiously,
climbed to his feet. He gave a low, theatrical bow, and without
straightening, lifted his eyes toward the dinosaur’s face. “Most
folks call me that, but I prefer going by Jonathan T.
Bartholomew. At your service.”
“You will indeed be served,” Jormungand replied. “With
butter if I can find it. I have noticed you off and on for
centuries, Jonathan Bartholomew, wandering from country to
country, the perpetual tramp, the eternal hobo, spre
ading your
jaunty little stories to lighten the heart and warm the inner
soul. I can’t tell you how long I’ve been dying to eat you.”
“That’s right,” Storyteller said, trying to steady his voice.
“That’s right. But before you do, tell me, do you like living in
this big ol’ attic?”
“A question. But you aren’t the Master of the house, and I
am not required to answer.”
“That’s true,” Jonathan said, “but since there’s just you and
me way up here in the dark, and so much time to spend with
nothing to do, why not tell me? Besides, I don’t ask it for my
own gain, nor for yours, so it’s as if it’s not really a question at
all. More like a presumption waiting for a testimonial.”
The dinosaur stood eyeing the man, its head weaving back
and forth, its heavy breath pumping in and out. Finally, it said,
“I do not enjoy it here. I was imprisoned ages ago by Those
even I may not defy.”
“It must get dreary dull,” Jonathan said, “all these
centuries up here alone. I can just imagine you, dreaming of
long-denied battles, struggles from the days of blood and
breaking bones, when you were Cyclops and Grendel and
Dragon slaying warriors by the thousands, longing for the time
when you can make your escape and slip away to do all your
old mischief. Raisin’ Cain; makin’ trouble.”
Jormungand’s head lifted higher. “That is well-said. I do
have a dream, a grand aspiration of being free again, a vision
of a single, united world where all humanity suffers equally
beneath my dominion, without respite, without hope. I dream
of burning fields and wasted cities, victims scrabbling through
the wreckage under the light of a million cold and distant stars.
I dream of children orphaned, of the old and infirm left to die,
of deadly plagues and torrential floods, of massacre on an
indescribable scale, armies slaughtered by the millions, the
smoke from the pyres blotting out the sky. I dream of cracks in
the earth leading to the molten core, planets sundered from
their orbits and whole suns extinguished. I dream of
destruction as art and myself as the master artist.” Jormungand
gave a groaning sigh. “Yes, I have a dream.”
“Poor beast. Is there nothing else in your heart?”
“Only that. But we each must have our little fantasies. And
who are you to enter my domain, the country of the Last
Dinosaur, offering pity, seeking to touch the pain of he who is
Pain, he who knows that none of his dreams will ever come
true? Would you dare give comfort to Despair? What
stupendous ego!”
“I didn’t come to offer pity, old worm, for there’s nothing
in you it can touch, but only to tell a story.”
“What kind of story?”
“One you already know.”
“Why should I listen to something I have heard before, and
why should you slink up here to tell it?”
“Because it must be told, and only in hearing it can you
understand the necessity for its telling.”
“Mysterious and abstruse. How philosophical. How wise. I
don’t like abstruse. I think I will eat you, instead.”
Jormungand opened his jaws, preparing to strike. Jonathan’s
heart fluttered.
“You could do that,” the man said quickly, shaking a
slender, ebony finger at the monster. “You could have me for a
snack. ‘Course, I wouldn’t be much, the smallest tidbit, the
tiniest morsel for that great big appetite of yours, that endless
craving, that terrible hunger no amount of flesh can slake.
That’s right. Better, wouldn’t you think, to eat me after you
and I have passed the time with a good yarn, after we’ve
whittled down a few moments of eternity? Neither for your
amusement nor your edification, but simply because it’s what I
came to do?”
Jormungand eyed him for endless seconds. Finally, the
behemoth closed its jaws and gave a heavy nod.
“Very well. Begin your little recitation. Every moment it
diverts me delays your death. Think of yourself as the
Scheherazade of the attic. But don’t expect a thousand nights,
or even a thousand seconds.”
“Mighty fine,” the man said, wiping the sweat from his
brow. “Mighty fine.”
Beneath the dinosaur’s very fangs, Storyteller reached into
his backpack and withdrew a worn, woolen blanket. He spread
it carefully on the floor and sat cross-legged upon it, his
lantern by his side, its beams catching the planes of his dark
face.
“I will begin at the beginning,” Jonathan T. Bartholomew
said.
Beyond Jonathan’s wildest hopes, the dinosaur stood silent
as a child, listening.
As every youngster knows, Storyteller began, and many
foolish adults refuse to believe, Evenmere, the High House, is
the mechanism that runs the universe. Its lamps must be lit lest
the stars fail; its clocks must be wound lest Time cease. The
Master of the house must maintain the Balance between Chaos
and Order so the warp and weave of existence does not
unravel. The Circle of Servants aids him in his task; and the
White Circle Guard and the myriad rulers of the countries
within the mansion help maintain his authority.
But a most peculiar stranger has appeared in the halls of
the mansion. He has traveled many miles through the
corridors and halls of Evenmere, driven by a need few can
comprehend. Perhaps he doesn’t quite comprehend it himself,
but it will lead him to perform terrible deeds. And in the doing,
he and others like him will shake the foundations of the house,
and with it, the entire universe …
As the Poetry Man made his way through a tapestried
hallway of the High House, he trailed his hand along the wall,
laughing in delight at the cool touch of the oak paneling. His
eyes sparkled with pleasure. “I can feel the proximity of stone.
It is very near.”
Since heeding the call of the Wild Poetry he had traveled
the house, spreading the word, sharing it with whoever would
hear. With his verse and the tiny chameleon who whispered
from its position on his shoulder, he had been drawn through
Ooz and West Wing and the green corridors of Gittenty. From
there he had passed into the winding passages of Tengfey,
which are adorned with carvings of astronomers and
leprechauns.
He now stood at the border of Jossing, a blue antechamber
unguarded save by double doors flanked by marble wolves.
On the lintel were carved the words, Welcome to Jossing, Land
of Stone .
He flung the doors wide, sending them rattling against the
walls. A balding clerk, seated at a desk in the small chamber,
started at the sound and stood in alarm.
“Fear nothing, friend,” the poet said, “I’ve come in peace
today. To spread all cheer to Evenmere, and to your happy
kin.”
With a strangled cry the man fled the chamber, spilling
> quill and ink in his haste.
The poet laughed. He did not know why those he met
feared him, nor did it concern him; his business was only with
those who desired his gift.
Leaving the chamber, he entered a short corridor.
Following the sound of the clerk’s receding footfalls, he turned
onto another passage with walls covered with mosaics
depicting distant mountains.
After a time, the passage gradually widened. The
mountains on the mosaics slowly grew closer; the carpet
changed from gold to dusty brown, with patterns like veins of
ore scattered across it. The light, which issued from louvered
openings in the ceiling, lessened until he proceeded through
twilight. In the dimness his eyes seemed to betray him; the
rock patterns on the walls and floor appeared to be real stone
protruding into the passage.
To his delight, he became aware of the noise of gravel
beneath his boots. Kneeling, he ran his hand over the ground,
which was no longer carpet, but bedrock. He retrieved a rough
limestone shard, tossed it in the air, caught it, and let it fall
clattering against the stones. Just ahead the ceiling was higher,
and escarpments descended from it, giving the passage the
appearance of a narrow gorge. Desert vegetation—cactus and
yucca, long-stemmed wild grasses—grew between the rocks;
stone columns supported the ceiling. He grinned. He had heard
that Jossing began this way, the house melding into a country
of rolling canyons. Countless lands lay beneath the eaves of
Evenmere, and he intended to spend the rest of his existence
spreading his gift to as many as possible.
Moving gracefully among the boulders, he wound along
the corridor, gradually ascending, singing as he went:
Earth and Stone
Earth and Stone
Massive mountains
Caverns deep
Molten deserts
Underground
Where the heart
Of granite sleeps
As he sang, he felt the power of the earth welling within
him—like calling to like—filling him with its strength. The
source of his poetry was that of high crags and subterranean
pits, molten mantles and mountain peaks. It was that kinship to
Jossing which had drawn him here.
Evenmere (The Evenmere Chronicles Book 3) Page 1