The Fire Chronicle

by John Stephens

  “As I was saying,” the wizard continued, “by means of these other selves, the Dire Magnus created a living bridge to carry himself across time. Now—and here we come to what I discovered in the mansion—it was always the duty of the current Dire Magnus to locate the next and confer on him the memories and power due him.”

  “What do you mean, confer the memories and power?”

  “These individuals are not born with knowledge of their true origin. It is not until the memories of the previous Dire Magnus—indeed, of each previous Dire Magnus—are transferred that the new Magnus gains the knowledge of who he is.

  “And the last Dire Magnus came into being, or awoke, you might say, in that mansion at the turn of the twentieth century. That was what I discovered. And it was he whom my fellows and I fought and vanquished—or so we imagined—forty years ago. Since then, no other has risen to take his place. I believe that he was the last of those taken from the other worlds.”

  “Then if you killed the last one, shouldn’t it all be over?”

  “You would think. But even in death, his spirit has continued to drive his followers. And now that the prophecy is close to being fulfilled, the Books found and brought together, he is determined to rejoin the world of the living and reclaim all his old power.”

  “How is that even possible?”

  “My boy, the answer lies beside you.” He nodded at the red leather book resting on the branch. “Which is why the Chronicle must be kept from him.” Dr. Pym knocked the smoking tobacco from his pipe. “Now I think it is time to see your sister.”

  Michael nodded. “I assume Emma’s with Gabriel—”

  “Actually,” the wizard said, “I was speaking of Katherine.”

  Kate was in a different tree, and to get there, the wizard led Michael across several of the bridges formed by the entwined branches, then down a harrowing staircase that wound around one of the massive trunks. As they walked, Dr. Pym explained how he had arrived in the valley just after the volcano had erupted, emerging from the tunnel beneath the mountains in time to see the dragon fly past, with all her passengers. He’d followed them to the elf colony.

  “The scene was chaotic, as you might imagine: between the elves’ joy at their princess’s return, their grief at learning of those who had fallen in battle, Emma shouting for someone to help Gabriel—I’m afraid my own arrival did little to calm things down—and then, without warning, Katherine was in our midst.”

  Dr. Pym abruptly stopped walking and turned around. They were on the stairs, Michael two steps behind and above the wizard, one hand clutching the Chronicle, the other the trunk of the tree. He’d been staring at the old man’s back as a way of ignoring the plunging drop to his left. Now he found himself and the wizard eye to eye.

  “Michael”—the wizard’s voice was somber—“there is no way to prepare you for what awaits, but do know we will make things right.” Then, without explaining further what he meant, the old man turned away down the stairs.

  Rounding the curve of the tree, they came upon a room very like Michael’s own, a deep alcove in the trunk set above a wide, flat branch. The wizard paused at the entrance and gestured for Michael to go ahead. Inside were three figures. The elf princess Wilamena stood to Michael’s left. She wore a dress of dark green satin, embroidered with golden thread in the design of a great tree that seemed—if one did not look at it directly—to be moving its branches in the wind. The princess’s hair had been washed and braided, and it shone brightly in the dim light. She looked at Michael, her eyes full of sympathy, but did not speak or move toward him.

  Across from her, to Michael’s right, was Emma. She had neither changed clothes nor washed nor slept since the previous night, and, seeing Michael, she leapt up from where she was kneeling and ran and threw her arms around his neck, sobbing. Michael made the motions of holding her and patting her back, but something in him had shut down. His eyes were vacant; his body no longer seemed his own.

  Directly before him, Kate lay on a low bed. Her eyes were closed, and she was wearing an ivory lace dress with a high neck. A blanket had been pulled up to just below her shoulders, and her arms lay outside the covers, her hands clasped about their mother’s golden locket. Her face was very pale.

  Michael didn’t have to ask; he knew his sister was dead.

  Gently, he disengaged Emma’s arms from around his neck, took her hand, and went and knelt beside Kate. He paused a moment to gather himself before speaking.

  “When … when did she …”

  “Just after she appeared,” the wizard said from the doorway. “The elf physicians and I tried everything we could. I’m very, very sorry.”

  Michael reached out and touched his sister’s hand. The skin was cold.

  It wasn’t real, he thought. It was some trick. This wasn’t Kate; she couldn’t be dead. And yet he knew it wasn’t a trick, and this was his sister.

  Emma seized his arm, shaking it as she sobbed.

  “Michael—bring her back! Use the book! You can do that, right? Bring her back! You have to! You have to!”

  Michael didn’t have to be told. He already had the Chronicle open, the stylus in hand, and was getting ready to prick his thumb.

  “I’m afraid that is not going to work.”

  Michael looked to where Dr. Pym stood, framed against the forest.

  “Your sister’s spirit has crossed into the land of the dead, the same place where the Dire Magnus has been trapped for forty years. His power there is very great. He will not release her.”

  “What’re you talking about?” Michael demanded. He was impatient and scarcely heard the wizard’s words.

  “There is a shadow over her,” the elf princess said, speaking for the first time. “It settled on her the moment she died.”

  “Your sister,” Dr. Pym said, “is a prisoner in the land of the dead.”

  Michael insisted that he at least be allowed to try to bring Kate back. The wizard agreed, but said that if he felt any resistance, he must not force it. Michael barely heard him. Pricking his thumb, he placed the bloodied tip of the stylus on the page, felt the familiar current run through him, saw Kate’s face snap into focus, and began to write.

  He couldn’t get past the second letter of her name. It was as if an invisible force stood against him, and when he tried to push back—directly disobeying the wizard’s orders—he felt a crack start to open in the stylus. He stopped, panicked.

  And that was that. Dr. Pym urged the children not to give up hope, saying he was going to consult with Princess Wilamena’s father and the elders among the elves, that they would find a way to free Katherine; then the wizard and the elf princess left, and Emma collapsed against her brother, sobbing; and Michael, who felt as if he were at the bottom of a dark well, and receiving only dull vibrations from the world above, put his arm about her and let her cry.

  The two of them stayed by Kate the rest of the day, hardly speaking. Twice, Emma left to check on Gabriel, returning each time to say that he was still asleep.

  When night came, there was singing in the forest. It was sad and beautiful, and an elf who brought them dinner said it was a death song for the elves who had fallen in the battle; and the children listened and felt comforted. But neither was hungry, and without Dr. Pym to tell them to eat, the food remained untouched. The wizard returned sometime later. He told them he had not yet found a way to free Kate from the Dire Magnus’s hold and he pressed them to get some rest. Michael said he wasn’t going anywhere, but he joined the wizard in demanding that Emma go to bed. Emma tried to argue, but having stayed up with Kate all the previous night, she was mumbling and heavy-lidded and almost trembling with fatigue. Eventually, she gave in.

  Her room was in a different tree, and she hugged Michael before she left.

  “It’s your birthday soon, isn’t it? I guess … happy birthday.”

  As Emma stepped out onto the branch, Dr. Pym called for her to wait, saying he would guide her through the dark. He turned to
Michael.

  “What is it, my boy? I can see you have a question.”

  “Could I … could I have brought her back? Did I do something wrong?”

  It had tortured him all day, the idea that it might have been possible to bring Kate back, if only he’d been strong enough or clever enough, and that the wizard, to spare his feelings, had placed all the blame on the Dire Magnus.

  Dr. Pym seemed neither troubled nor surprised by Michael’s question. “No, my boy, you did nothing wrong. You never had any chance of reviving your sister. I only allowed you to try so that you could understand what it is we face.”

  “But I almost broke the stylus.”

  The wizard shrugged. “Worse things might have happened. The stylus is a crutch, nothing more.”

  The elf who had brought dinner had also brought candles, and in the flickering light, Michael studied the old man’s face and tried to divine his meaning. The answer, if there, was impossible to read.

  “Tell me,” Dr. Pym said, “did the Guardian give you any warnings about using the book?”

  “He said … he said it would change me.”

  “How could it not? Each experience we have changes us. And when you use the Chronicle, you live another’s entire life, share their hopes and fears, their loves and hatreds; it would be very easy to become lost. You must always remember who you are.”

  “That’s what he said. But what if … what if I’m not—”

  “Michael”—the wizard kept his voice low and private—“I know you do not wish to be the Keeper of the Chronicle. You tried to tell me so this morning and I would not listen. The fact is, the Chronicle chose you for a reason, and I believe the choice was correct. I myself would have chosen no other.”

  “Dr. Pym, I appreciate your trying to make me feel better, and I know it’s good for team morale—but I’m just not the right person.”

  He had finally managed to say it; the words were out.

  The wizard, however, was shaking his head. “You are so, so wrong.”

  “But—”

  “Michael Wibberly, you have a fire inside of you.”

  “I … Wait, what?”

  The wizard placed his wrinkled hand over Michael’s heart. “It is the fire of true feeling, of love and compassion, of sorrow. It is the flame that ignites the Chronicle. Without it, you could never have used the book as you have. True, as yet you do not command the full power of the Chronicle; but even Katherine needed time to master the Atlas.” He reached up and gripped Michael’s shoulder. “You have so much more to give than you imagine.”

  And so saying, he left, taking Emma with him, and Michael was alone with Kate.

  He tried to lie down beside her, but his heart was beating wildly, and he stood and began pacing, the Chronicle held tight to his chest. He walked back and forth in the small room for an hour or more, glancing again and again at his sister’s face, as if he might catch some sign of life. The rain began all of a sudden, a fierce, pounding rain that came streaking down outside the room. Michael walked out into the darkness, still clutching the book, and allowed himself to be drenched. The rain was cold, almost freezing, but it did nothing to cool the fever burning through him, and his heart still beat as if to break free from his chest. He knew only that he couldn’t go back into the room.

  He hurried down the winding stairs, water streaming from his glasses, his feet slipping on the wooden planks. He was being reckless, he knew, but still he went faster and faster, growing dizzier and dizzier as he circled the great tree. Then he was on the forest floor and walking quickly, not knowing or caring where, pushing his way through the thickets of ferns as his feet sank in the mud, his arms locked around the Chronicle, his heart thudding.

  After a while, he realized he was hearing, through the constant shushing thrum of rain, the faint sound of voices. It was the singing that he and Emma had heard before—the death song of the elves. Michael hurried toward it. Soon, lights appeared, wavering among the trees, and he came upon a procession. Thirty or more elves, wearing dark cloaks and carrying candles (whose flames seemed somehow impervious to the rain), were moving slowly through the forest. Michael hid behind a tree and watched them pass. Once again, the song comforted him, and he felt his panic begin to ebb. Then, just as the elves disappeared among the trees, the rain stopped.

  Michael stood there, taking long, deep, slow breaths, and listening to the water drip from the branches. He put his hand to his chest and his heart was no longer pounding. He found himself fingering the lump of glass under his shirt. It occurred to him that the time must be well past midnight. He was thirteen. By any measure, he was now the eldest Wibberly.

  He took the marble from around his neck and placed it on a thickly knotted root. Michael stomped down and felt the glass crunch beneath his heel. There was a hissing, and Michael stepped back as a silvery-gray mist rose into the darkness. The outlines of a figure began to take shape, the smoke molding itself into feet and legs, a torso, arms, shoulders, a head. And, as Michael watched, the swirling mist resolved into the familiar features of his father.

  The misty figure was identical in every way—how he was dressed, the glasses he wore, the shagginess of his hair and beard, even the fatigue in his eyes—to the figure Rourke had produced before the fortress walls. The only difference was that the figure before him was made of nothing but smoke. Michael could see straight through him to the trees beyond.

  “Incredible,” the figure murmured, gazing at its own ghostly hands, its voice thin and echoey, as if coming from far away. “It actually worked. But then …” The figure turned and caught sight of Michael. “Oh my … are you … you can’t be … Michael?”

  Michael nodded. At the moment, nodding was all he could manage.

  “But … you … you’re so big!”

  Michael had been holding himself perfectly still. He hadn’t known what to expect when he’d smashed the orb, but finding himself face to face with his father—or some version of his father—for the second time in as many days had left him reeling.

  “Oh, my boy—” And the figure rushed forward, as if to embrace him. Michael didn’t have time to move, and anyway, it proved unnecessary, as the specter passed right through him. Michael turned and saw the figure standing two feet behind him, looking confused and a little embarrassed. “Well … that was stupid.”

  “Listen—” Michael knew he had to regain control of the situation.

  “Are we in some sort of forest?”

  “What? Yes, but—”

  The figure waved its hand impatiently. “Never mind that now. There’re things I have to tell you. This may be difficult to believe, but I am in fact—”

  “I know who you are.”

  “You do? You mean you recognize me? How could you remember—”

  “I saw a picture.” Michael had recovered, though his voice was still shaky. “What kind of proof can you offer that you are who you … look like?”

  “Proof? You mean like ID of some kind?”

  “I don’t know! I just need proof!” Michael felt himself becoming frantic. “How do I know you’re my dad?”

  “Well, as it happens, I’m not.”

  Of all possible responses, this was not one that Michael had seen coming, and it momentarily checked his rising panic.

  “Is your father a strange, smoky apparition? No. Your real, flesh-and-blood father is somewhere else. At least, I hope he is. I’m a reflection of Richard; only instead of reflecting just his face, I reflect everything: how he looks, his memories. For instance, I remember the last time I saw you—or rather, he saw you. It was Christmas Eve, ten years ago, he carried you and Emma out of the house and into Stanislaus’s car. You were both sleeping. And both so small.” The figure was quiet for a moment, then said, “And I have his thoughts and feelings. If he was here now, looking at you, he’d be thinking exactly what I’m thinking.”

  “What’s that?” Michael asked hoarsely. “Just … out of curiosity.”

  “How muc
h he wished to have seen you grow up.” The figure stepped closer. “Michael, in giving you up, your mother and I did what we thought was best. But every day for the past ten years, we’ve lived with the pain of our decision. Compared to that, captivity was easy.” The figure shrugged. “Is that proof enough?”

  Michael was frozen with uncertainty. He wanted to believe that this was his father, or a reflection of him, but how could he be sure?

  “So you have all my dad’s memories?”

  “That’s right. Ask me anythi—”

  “Who is King Killick?”

  “… I’m sorry?”

  “Who’s King Killick? If you’ve got my dad’s memories, you should know. I’ll give you a hint. He’s a famous elf king.”

  The figure stared at him, a confused look on its face. “I … have no idea.”

  Michael felt something crumble inside him.

  There, he told himself, that’ll teach you to hope.

  “Of course,” the figure continued, “if you’d asked about the dwarfish King Killick, that’d be another matter. But I’ve never heard of an elf named Killick. Seems odd for an elf to have a dwarf’s name—”

  “What—”

  “There’s actually a quote of Killick’s I’ve never forgotten. The dwarf Killick, I mean. He said, ‘A great leader lives not in his heart—’ ”

  “ ‘But in his head,’ ” Michael finished.

  “Exactly! You know it too! Then why did you think Killick was an— Oh, I see, you were testing me! So, have I passed?”

  Michael nodded; he didn’t trust himself to speak.

  “Good.” The figure knelt before Michael. “Then here’s what I have to tell you. Your mother and I have escaped. How and who helped us aren’t important. We’re sending you and your sisters this message so you know we’re okay. We think we know where one of the books is hidden, and we’re going to look for it—”

  “But you don’t have to!” Michael blurted. “I’ve already got it!”

  “What’re you talking about?”