by W.S. Lacey
“Who was he?” His father looked into his eyes.
“His name was Odd.”
They spoke of other things that day, but Spender never remembered them. When the time came, he mourned his father and, while he mourned, he began his search.
#
Spender shook off his guard and leapt at Odd. Just before he reached him, he stumbled on something unseen. He caught himself and had half risen when a very strange thing happened. He at once felt like he was being dragged down by weights and, though he managed to gain his feet, he could do no more than stand in front of Odd in a stupor, a feeling like scalding water streaming from his scalp to his soles. His thoughts became muddled and he tried to sort out what exactly was going on. He had, against his will, raised impossibly up on his toes and Odd, taking him by the sleeve, pulled him carelessly across the room as one would draw forth a chair.
“I used her to make all of this,” he said. “You really have no idea. Every cloud and cliff, all that crawls or swims; it was all created using her.” He spoke in a low monotone, his quiet and uninflected voice boring into Spender’s mind and ringing in his ears. He brought Spender to the catafalque and lifted him onto it effortlessly. Spender had a vague feeling that he had been tied down. He dimly saw that his feet pointed towards the simple door which was hanging open, revealing a wall covered in hieroglyphics. He struggled to remember the significance of this but a fog enshrouded his brain and he could only look up at Odd, who loomed murkily somewhere above him. Odd’s voice was muffled and far-off.
“I’ve often wondered if it was possible to go deeper still. It can’t be done with the effusions; they have only fragments of a soul.” He leaned over Spender’s body, his jacket brushing against Spender’s arm, unbuttoned his shirt, and laid his chest bare. Odd had a knife, a small one, really, and he placed the cold point of it above Spender’s heart. Spender thought he smelt faintly of sandalwood. Odd had put the palm of his hand on the small flat pommel of the knife and it had begun to sink into Spender’s chest when he was interrupted by North.
“You’re Adelard Odd, is that right?”
North had gotten the worst of a scuffle with the guards and he hung between them, bloodied and missing his eye patch. “Mr. Odd, sir,” he said with absurd formality in light of the situation, “I don’t believe you’re going to have quite enough time to finish.” A cavernous boom sounded from without the chamber. Odd straightened. “In a moment, those doors will come down and-” The doors behind them were wrenched from their hinges and fell before a seething mob. They flooded past North and the guards like an incoming tide and made for their king.
#
Spender and North were unaware that, from the time they set off from Tyre, they had set in motion events that had gained a certain momentum. The people of the city and, indeed, the people of every city in that strange place, nursed a hatred for the King. He was immensely powerful, though, utterly unforgiving, and surrounded by his Felicitous Guard. Nothing short of a violent general revolt could have any hope of deposing him. And so it was that a slightly daft holy man, a confused and blameless Spender, and a fiery conjuration formed the needed catalyst.
Gladbiscuit, who burned still with a fanatical fervor, saw a change in the people in the days following Balth’s departure. Simon the Chronicler succumbed to the temptation to exaggerate and it was not very long before news of Balth’s war on the King spread. The high priest, for his part, set to work fomenting a revolution. In an unprecedented show of unity, the peoples of several cities began stealing away to watch the battle and possibly do some looting.
They went by land and most reached the King’s city the next day, where they milled about and made up outrageous rumors about the approaching army. With the full focus of the King’s men on finding Spender and North (Spender particularly so), the rumblings went unnoticed. On the day that the galleon sailed up the canal, a small group of brash young men decided to storm the “castle”. Around that nucleus formed a vast number of deeply discontented people.
It is now important to point out that, unbeknownst to everyone (including Odd), the Felicitous Guard operated by a sort of corollary to Occam’s Razor. They could have had the singular good luck required to overcome a surprise attack by overwhelming numbers or, with considerably less luck, they could have been elsewhere. It was less of a stretch to be lucky enough to miss the thing entirely so, at the crucial moment, nearly every guard was Doing Something Else while Odd’s subjects found themselves unopposed.
#
North and the guards were thrown to the floor in the rush. A score of attackers collapsed as they advanced and several burst into flame. Odd made a short and futile retreat before he was pulled down. As Spender lay in his bonds, he saw that the ceiling above him had taken on a pleasing rosy glow. It was growing quite warm and he suspected that the room was on fire. He wished that he felt more strongly about this, but really couldn’t be bothered and, as he was feeling terribly drowsy, he began to doze off. Flames poured up the walls and pooled on the ceiling and the sounds of general tumult grew louder.
He came to his senses in the grass some distance from the manor house. It was blazing fiercely and a pillar of black smoke had risen and been caught by the wind. North was sitting beside him and, a short distance away, a small knot of sooty men stood shouting and jabbing their fingers at each other. North noticed Spender and leant him a hand as he sat up.
“I’m glad you’re all right. Odd’s dead, or he will be soon.” Two of the sooty men looked them over and went back to shouting.
“Do you know what they’re talking about?”
“Unless I’m much mistaken, they’re deciding whether or not to execute us.”
“Execute us! Why?”
“I imagine they have a general inclination towards killing right now. Also, they’re pretty certain that you’re not Balth.” Beyond the edge of Odd’s estate, just past the last of the town’s scattered outliers, a gentle, windswept hill rose above the horizon such that the distant figures on it stood out against the sky. A crowd had massed at the top of the hill and was engaged in raising something up above their heads. Spender couldn’t quite make it out.
“What are they doing?”
“They’re crucifying him.” North said quietly.
In the end, the sooty men gave them a choice. Spender and North could go back through the impassable desert and the Sometimes Wood, never to return, or they could wait while they made two more crosses. That the desert was considered impassable was considered irrelevant and in the end Spender and North found themselves in a kind of brougham pulled, to Spender’s relief, by a perfectly normal horse. There was enough room to put one’s feet up and this they did, each acutely appreciative that they had thus far made it through the day alive. The carriage rumbled down the abysmally rough road, rocking back and forth as it went. Spender fretted at a frayed bit on his sleeve.
“North, I must apologize. When we went to Quartersoake, I had no idea that the Door- What I mean to say is, I had only wanted to know what happened to my mother. I suppose I’ve been dishonest.”
“I can hardly blame you, can I?” North said. “I don’t believe that either of us took the Door very seriously. As for your motives, it’s going to sound strange but I’m not nearly as surprised as you might imagine. Ever since this,” he pointed to his eye “I’ve seen a lot more of the nature of things. I wasn’t sure at first and I still can’t put my finger on it, but a great deal of the people and things in this place have a feel to them. In a way, they bear a likeness to you. When I was in that well at the bottom of the earth, I saw strange things. I saw Odd, though I didn’t know it was him at the time, and I saw a woman who looked a bit like you; she was pale and had dark hair. It’s only just now made sense, what I saw.” The carriage rolled on for a stretch. “I never knew about your mother; you never mentioned her in school.” Spender looked out the quarter light.
“Most of my life I didn’t know why she had died, what had happe
ned. I used to harbor the hope that she wasn’t dead, that some day she would come back. Then I did find out what had happened. She had been spirited away and- and I began to wonder if maybe she hadn’t died after all. I wanted, at any rate, to see the place where she last was.” Spender did not say that he had asked North along because he liked his company and thought that he would make it an altogether friendlier sort of day and, really, he didn’t have to.
The estate had burned in the morning and, to North’s great disgust, they reached the edge of the wilderness late that afternoon.
“I wish I had been paying better attention,” he said, a bit piqued, “we could have walked there in a day.” The revolutionaries let them off a slight distance from the swathe of shoes and effects and drove away without a shred of sentimental feeling. Spender and North stood at the edge of the barren land. It was still and silent but for the sound of the wind and the calls of crows.
“You don’t think that you’ll fall through again?” Spender asked.
“No,” North said, “I don’t know why; perhaps it’s because Odd is dead.” Nevertheless, he stepped gingerly past the line of demarcation and tested the ground with one foot. Spender joined him and they began walking, a pair of crows hopping in front of them before flying away in an ungainly burst of wings. The heat of the desert had gone completely and the sun, which they thought should be setting in a few hours, was lost in gray obscurity. Those last in their long line of captors had had the decency to send them on with provisions and they each had a sandwich as they walked.
“Do you think,” North said without preamble, “that we ought to be more bothered? More than we are, I mean.”
“I should think so;” Spender said, “ought to be completely unhinged.”
“Hello, that Chronicler is coming this way.” North had turned suddenly to look behind. Spender could just see a distant figure wavering towards them. Not wanting to stop, they slowed to an amble. When the Chronicler neared them, they waited expectantly. Just as he got into hailing distance, he shouted something quite urgently.
“What?” Spender shouted.
“Oh, look out,” North said. There was a peculiar sort of lurch, as if the earth had slipped off an end table, and Spender and North spilled headlong into the dust.
Chapter Eleven
Only there was no dust; what’s more, there was very little light. They found themselves sitting in the middle of a quiet street in the very early morning. It was a tree lined and sedate kind of street flanked by rows of slumberous houses with darkened windows. Spender made some inquisitive noises.
“We’re back,” North said. They were hardly inclined to knock on a door, so they walked down the middle of the street beneath the deep shade of the overhanging boughs.
Very often, when people go to extraordinary places in extraordinary ways and have extraordinary things happen to them, they find that things have gone pleasantly and reassuringly back to normal upon their return. Not so with North, who still had an eye that saw all sorts of things in a confused jumble. He remarked on this to Spender.
“And you can still see the ‘yet to come’?”
“I can. For instance, we’ll come to a park soon and loaf about there for a while. Later, we’re going to be stopped by a policeman.” Spender did not know what to say and laughed shortly. At length, they did happen upon a park and cut across it, kicking through the dew as they did. One or two windows had lit up and there was a general sort of stirring and whispering in the world by the time they had reached the other side of the park.
“I expect you’re right about that policeman; here comes one now.” The officer, having seen a pair of begrimed and strangely dressed men, each looking the very picture of a particularly shiftless vagrant, felt compelled to have a word.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said mildly.
“Oh, hello!” Spender tried to look winning. His clothes, which had been given to him on the fighting ship, were covered in ash, blackened by smoke, and missing a great deal of buttons. North’s differed only in that his were also bloody.
“Out for a walk, are we?”
“Costume party;” North invented wildly, “great to-do; fresh air; curative.” He pulled at his sleeves and rather ineffectually tried to flatten his hair.
“A party you say, sir? That’s very fine. Where was it, sir?”
“Oh, a good friend’s- roughly- over- excuse me, but what town is this?” The policeman, having mentally assigned them as privileged sodden wastrels, took on a patronizing air.
“You’re in the suburb of Barleystowe, sir.” North looked around and further mussed his hair.
“But that’s miles and miles away. How did we ever…” They thanked the policeman for no particular reason, disengaged as smoothly as possible under the circumstances, and set to finding a cab, which was no mean feat considering their appearance.
#
They went first to the asylum, still in their faintly disgraceful get up, in order to see about North’s father’s car. What they found was unexpected.
“My God, it’s mostly gone,” Spender said. It had, in fact, become a half-asylum. One wing and the central façade of the building had been completely demolished, though it seemed that the destruction stopped at the point where the crack had been and where Odd’s room presumably still stood.
“The car’s gone, too,” North said grimly. “I’ve already got to explain a gammy eye; I don’t want to tell my father I’ve lost the Humber as well.”
“There’s nothing for it” Spender said. “We’ll have to find Mr. Harris.”
Their cab had gone and, by the time they reached Quartersoake on foot, the shops had opened. After inquiring around, they were able to find out where Mr. Harris had his eggs delivered and were soon at his door. He answered their knock in a dressing gown, with glasses askew.
“I haven’t any idea who took your- Oh. Oh my goodness, it’s you.” He fumbled with his sash. “I thought you were- I went after you when you didn’t return. You weren’t anywhere to be found, though.”
“Do you know where North’s car is?”
“It’s all right, he has it,” North said. Mr. Harris, who was nearly frantic, was not in a state of mind to find North’s knowledge remarkable.
“Yes, it’s quite safe. I had no idea what to do with it; would have reflected poorly...” He drew his robe around him tightly and looked up and down the street. “Do come in, won’t you?”
Mr. Harris put the kettle on and grabbed armfuls of paper off his table, piling them haphazardly on a writing desk in the corner.
“Awfully sorry,” he said, “there’s a woman who comes round twice a week but it tends to get a little out of hand in the interim.” When Spender and North were seated, he rattled cups around and embarked on a hunt for the sugar. At last, he turned around and leaned back against the icebox. “So, whatever happened?”
“I don’t think you’d believe us,” Spender said.
“I think I would.”
“There is an entire world on the other side of that Door and, until very recently, Adelard Odd lived there as king.” Mr. Harris looked blankly at them.
“It was an awful prank,” North said quickly. “There was a bet on that we wouldn’t do it. We had coin of the realm and our honor at stake.”
“Of course, of course.” Mr. Harris grinned foolishly. “I never really believed that there was anything to that door; no rational person would. Imagine my surprise when you two failed to turn up.”
“What did Mr. Webley say when you told him?” Spender asked.
“Ah; actually, it wouldn’t have done wonders for my employment were he to find out that I let you wander off into an eldritch oblivion.” He became conveniently distracted and cleaned his spectacles with the corner of his dressing gown. “I told him that you took your tour of the place, disparaged it thoroughly, and made off with some things that you found lying around.” North looked askance at him. “I suppose the great offense he took at that was partial
ly responsible for his deciding to tear the place down, trust fund be damned. I took it pretty hard, I can tell you, seeing my employment being dynamited. Still, I’m staying on until they finish the job and they’ve only got as far as the center part of the building.”
“We were just there,” Spender said, “and it looked as if they went all the way to Odd’s room.”
“Oh they couldn’t have,” Mr. Harris said. “They got leery about the job and decided to renegotiate with Webley’s lawyers. Perhaps it collapsed; the old place was never in the best of shape and being demolished may have weakened it.” He cocked his head and seemed to have a moment of inspiration before turning and finding the sugar in the icebox. He put it on the table with a why-did-I-put-that-there sort of murmur. “The thing is; everything, the upkeep, my salary, was paid by an anonymous benefactor. Mr. Webley only likes to act as if he maintains it.” The kettle quavered for a moment before going into hysterics and Mr. Harris hastened to tend to it.
“Who would want to preserve the asylum, though,” Spender asked, “and to what end?” Mr. Harris, who was setting out the rest of the tea things in a hospitable and highly disorganized fashion, did not hear him. In the face of a hot cup of tea and Mr. Harris’s affability, Spender’s question was soon forgotten and, by the time he and North were on the drive back to Spender’s home, any thoughts not involving a good scrub and a soft bed had completely gone from his mind.
#
After that coveted sleep and a large and lazy breakfast, Spender and North set about the somewhat laborious task of telling North’s family that they had gone off on a whim and had been riding when a branch intruded itself into North’s holiday plans. North’s parents, who hadn’t noticed that they were ever gone, took it well enough; his father, being an avid outdoorsman, asked them where they rode. This provoked a spate of mumbling tending towards ‘up north’. Fortunately, North’s father drew his own conclusions with which he was very well satisfied.