Julie had stayed behind to discuss a few things with Katie, which left Miles heading home on his own. He was a little uneasy about this, expecting to be snatched out of this world at any time, but Julie had given him a small charm and told him not to worry. Unlike anything of Katie’s, Julie’s felt warm, and he thought maybe this one might actually work. Still, he took the long way home, away from the woods. At least this time, he got to use the car; Katie had promised to give Julie a ride back when they were finished.
But Miles didn’t head home right away. He meandered around town, just cruising, letting his mind wander. His mind kept drifting to Harry and to Terris, to the faerie world where they were imprisoned, possibly forever. Miles thought about what Terris had said about his suffering only lasting the short expanse of his lifetime, then thought of Harry, imprisoned so many lifetimes he had run completely mad. It all weighed on him, so huge, so impossible. He wished he could cast the spell tonight, but now more than ever, he knew he needed to prepare, to study up and to plan. And sleep. Julie had promised to protect his sleep again, but all Miles could think of was that Harry had no one to do that for him. And Terris was in that cold, lonely place inside his mind….
Miles’s misery overwhelmed him, and the next thing he knew, he was turning into the bar at the end of Third Street.
It was a small, dingy sort of place, the very antithesis of the kind of bar he’d gone to in Atlanta. There were no sleek chrome lines, no flashing lights or pulsing beats, and no beautiful men decorating bar stools. There was just tinny country music, dilapidated tables and chairs and equally run-down men and women. In short, the bar was as sad as the rest of Summer Hill.
Miles knew about a third of the people there. Most he knew from high school, some from seeing them around town since his return, but none of them were what he would call friends. So he sat in an empty, isolated space at the end of the bar and surveyed the landscape, letting it feed his depression. He ordered a beer on tap. It was watery and acrid, but it suited his mood. He drank the first beer in silence, then settled into the second. It went down a little better.
The third, actually, wasn’t bad at all.
In the bottom of the fourth glass, Miles found an almost Zen-like comfort. The music and the ambience that had so annoyed him became a balm as well, and when a grizzled old man sat down next to him, Miles spoke freely to him, telling him about getting fired and losing his boyfriend and then about the Lord of Dreams and Harry and Terris. Suddenly he was very eager to share his tales of woe.
“I would do it,” he told the old man, his words slurring. “I would let him kill me and ride me to the other dimmensh—dimmensh”—Miles hiccoughed and waved a hand in irritation—“place. I would. But I can’t stop thinking of Harry. I love Harry, I think.” He swayed on his stool and looked intently at his listener. “I’d let him fuck me too. Even though his cock is so big. I’d let him. I would.”
The old man gave Miles an odd look, slipped off the stool, and went around to the other side of the hostess stand, well away from Miles.
Miles toasted his new friend with an empty glass, murmured something incoherent, then set the glass back down. He wanted another beer, but first he needed to piss.
Jesus, did he need to piss.
“I’ll play the flute tomorrow,” Miles promised himself out loud while he stumbled down the dimly lit hallway toward the toilets. “I’ll play it, and I’ll figure it out. I’ll save them. And then… and then….” He stopped and stared at a velvet Elvis on the wall beside him. What would he do after? He’d free Terris, free Harry, and then… then what would happen to him? Would Harry come back? Would Miles stay with him?
Would he come back to this world, alone? Again?
“No,” Miles whispered to Elvis. “Anything but that.”
His eyes were blurry as he made his way to the bathroom, and he stumbled inside, heading for a stall instead of a urinal. He needed a wall to lean on while he pissed, he was pretty sure. And he did piss—he pissed a royal fucking river. When he was done, he tucked himself back in his pants, his fingers numb, which made him laugh. Then, suddenly, he wanted to cry. He hurried back out of the stall before he could.
Warren was there.
For a moment, they stood and stared at one another, surprised. For a moment neither of them moved. Warren looked like a fatter, taller, and scruffier version of what Miles supposed he must look like: his eyes were bloodshot, his clothes were untidy, and his fly was clumsily done. There was a haunted look about his eyes that hinted that he’d been trying to drown his misery but hadn’t quite managed it. He’d pushed it aside, perhaps, but it was there, waiting and ready to push him back under again at any second. He looked defeated, and weary, and very, very pathetic.
In that moment, Miles felt an odd affinity for his old enemy.
But then the moment passed, and they moved into their old roles like they were stepping into a familiar dance. Warren murmured a slur beneath his breath, and Miles cowered, backing up into the stall, which of course was a very big mistake. Because this was one of those moments where Warren was not going to belittle him and make him parrot self-loathing statements. This was when Warren used Miles to vent his own failure, to deal with his own inadequacies. This was where Warren bought himself a few moments of ease by giving some of his pain to Miles. In Miles’s drunken state, the act seemed almost logical, and he yielded as Warren gripped his shoulder and thrust him farther inside, then pushed him down toward the toilet bowl, seat still dripping with Miles’s bad aim. And, sadly, the bowl was not flushed. Even so, Miles still did not fight.
This was what he was. This was how pathetic his life had become, how, really, it had always been. Terris was right. Atlanta, his success, all of it had just been a dream. This was his reality.
His horrible, depressing reality.
But before Warren even had him turned around, Miles felt his attacker stiffen, then heard him cry out softly. Miles turned his head to see what had caught Warren’s attention, and then he froze too.
A man was hovering over the toilet. A silver, transparent man.
It wasn’t Terris, and not Harry, and somehow, Miles knew this was not the Lord of Dreams. This, actually, was the man that Miles had dreamt had sat at the foot of his bed when this had all started. This was the man he’d seen at the edge of the forest. This was the man who had appeared in Katie’s circle.
How many men were there after him?
And—wait, Warren could see him too?
He glanced back over his shoulder and saw that Warren had gone very pale. He was staring at the ghost man, shaking his head. Miles was entirely forgotten.
The ghost man drifted forward, and Miles watched in drunken wonder as the beautiful, transparent face twisted into a smile.
“Boo,” it said.
Warren screamed, stumbled out of the stall, and ran out of the bathroom.
Miles turned back to the ghost, wondering why he wasn’t afraid, wondering what this was all about, wondering what he was supposed to do now. The ghost, as if sensing his questions, turned to him.
“Play the flute,” he said.
“Who are you?” Miles whispered.
The ghost didn’t answer, just regarded Miles for a few minutes. Then he reached up and touched Miles’s cheek with cold, ghostly fingers. He smiled sadly.
“You cannot live in dreams, Miles. But remember that reality is what you make of it, and that your disappointment is not your truth.”
Miles frowned, but before he could ask the ghost what the hell that meant, the man faded again, and Miles was left alone, drunk, lonely, and confused, staring at the faded graffiti on the wall.
THREE DAYS AFTER he saw the ghost man in the bathroom, Miles played the flute. And at Katie and Julie’s suggestion, he played it inside a circle.
It was a circle he’d cast himself, which was something he never thought he’d do. Despite all the hoodoo he’d witnessed lately, he still felt silly calling North and South and East and West and spr
inkling salt, and he had a feeling the things he’d gathered for his altar were pretty paltry. But he did take the spell seriously—seriously enough to cast it in the attic storeroom above the shop and at a time when no one was around. He was naked again, too, and he’d taken a makeshift bath in a basin just a few feet away. Contaminants, Katie had said. Who knew what and how little of it would mess up a spell like this? She’d told him to go into the circle with nothing but himself to the best of his ability, and that’s what he had done.
Julie had told him to ask for the Mother Moon to guide him, to help him, and to protect him. Miles had tried, but not much had happened. He was too nervous to try again. Also, he was so cold he couldn’t think of anything else. It was drafty in the attic.
When he finished casting, he surveyed the scene, trying to decide if he could really feel the circle and the four elements or if this was just his mind playing tricks on him. Then he decided it didn’t matter and picked up the flute. He turned it over a few times in his hand, took a deep breath, and drew it to his lips.
This he definitely could feel.
He kept his tone clear and simple, sending humility and as many good feelings as he could through the instrument. Julie had stressed that this was the most crucial point of all, especially the humility.
“Anything that old has a life of its own, and a consciousness,” she’d said. “It is probably faint, but it’s there, and it will be watching you closely. Think of it like approaching a dog or a horse. It will know if you’re nervous or if you’re planning evil intent. If you come at the flute in a pure manner, you’ll know pretty fast if it harbors negative energy or not. If you’re pure and it isn’t, it will slap you back. Anything else it will try to use. So be careful.”
Miles was careful. He played the scale up and down for fifteen minutes or so, slowly, patiently, all the while thinking, I am humble. I come with pure intent. I come for the purpose of good and light and healing. I am humble. I come with pure intent. Over and over and over, the scale and the mental chant a litany, and it didn’t take long for him to truly mean it. Without quite meaning to, he also began to think of Harry and of Terris, of their plights as he had heard and seen and understood, and he took a chance and revealed, too, his empathy.
The flute didn’t do much, but it felt warm and gentle in his hands. Julie hadn’t said exactly what it would do if it were an instrument of good—the pun was killing him—but she had warned him that it could trick him no matter what. So he kept playing his scale, shutting his eyes and thinking of Terris’s pain and how much it made him, Miles, ache, and how unfair he felt all this was to Harry. He played the scale and felt his feelings, over and over and over and over and over. When he grew tired and dizzy from so much playing, he put the instrument down and opened his eyes.
The entire space inside the circle with him had filled up with tiny, glistening silver flowers. They had grown up out of the floorboards of the storeroom.
Miles put the flute down carefully. Neither Julie or Katie had said anything about this.
He touched one of the petals tentatively. They felt like flower petals, but he was pretty sure they were real silver. He shook his head in amazement. How had this happened? He gnawed on his bottom lip. Was it a good sign? Flowers certainly didn’t seem bad, per se. He touched the stem of one of them carefully, then plucked it. It came easily into his hand.
Okay, then.
Miles ran his hands over the flowers a few more times, trying to decide what to do next. More scales? A song? He had no idea. Katie had said he’d need to go on instinct here, but to stay humble. He nodded. Okay. That’s what he’d do.
He picked up the flute again, but this time he didn’t raise it to his lips right away. He held it, closed his eyes and whispered, “Show me what I should ask you to see.”
Then, hands shaking, trying to project love and peace and humility, he brought the flute back up. As it settled into place against his lip, he felt a strange tingle run through his body; he took a breath, and before he could let it out, the tingling rushed again.
Miles slipped into a trance, and he began to play.
He didn’t know the song he played. It wasn’t even tonal, not really, and it was far more technical than he had ever played in high school. The flute, he realized dimly, was playing him. It made him nervous, but at this point there was no backing out, so he remembered what Katie said, clung to love and light and humility, and held on for the ride.
When the song stopped, he opened his eyes.
The storeroom was gone. His salted circle ring was glowing silver on top of some matted grass, and Miles—and all his silver flowers—sat in its center. He was in a forest now, not the forest outside the trailer park, but in a place Miles had never been before. As he studied his surroundings a little more carefully, he was pretty sure this was a world he’d never been before.
The trees were taller than any he had ever seen, and they were oddly shaped: they looked like trees drawn in storybooks, with fat trunks and willowy branches that arranged themselves into picturesque forms and pleasing shapes. In short, they were the sorts of trees that did not grow on their own in the wild but were cultivated. Except nobody ever cultivated a forest; it was too big. This was a forest designed by Disney. It was beautiful. It was perfect.
It was, Miles realized, the sort of forest a faerie would design.
He drew his knees up against his chest and looked around. The leaves were all different colors, hovering around what could be considered normal greens and yellows, but they were just a little too much of whatever color they happened to be. A few of the trees had given it up altogether and boasted leaves which were almost blue. The bark of the trees was either rich and brown, or pale, lovely gray. When it suited the leaves above them, the bark was peppered with green moss. The plants below the trees were flowers, growing through the patches of sun, which aimed themselves just right. The paths were not strewn with sticks but were all evenly packed lines of dirt, accented prettily with smooth round stones. The place where Miles sat was a small clearing, full of flowers and grasses that did not reach too high. All stumps were nicely arranged and ready-worn for sitting.
The only thing out of place was a shadow beneath one of the trees, and as Miles stared at it, he realized that this was not a shadow, but a man. Then the man stepped forward, and Miles saw that it was a beast.
It was Harry.
One glance told Miles that the man he had met in the dungeon was long gone, as Harry had warned him. The beast that crept cautiously out of the shadows lumbered, sniffing the air. He eyed Miles and his circle warily, and when he saw the ring of flowers, he snorted and stamped at the ground.
“Nā seolfor,” the beast growled.
Miles had climbed to his feet at the first sight of Harry, but he looked down now at the tiny metallic blooms beneath his feet. That word again. Damn it, he had to figure it out! He rubbed his cheek, frowning at the ground. Was it something in the magic? The flute?
“What is seolfor?” Miles asked Harry, not expecting an answer, but unable to think of any other place to start.
Harry snorted again and stamped at the circle. “Seolfor.”
Miles indicated the circle with his finger. “This? The circle?” He plucked a flower and held it up.
Harry roared and stepped back. “Seolfor!”
Miles dropped the flower. “Silver. That’s what that word is, isn’t it? Silver.” The conversation with Terris at the café came back, and he almost laughed. “God! He told me, didn’t he! He said I had everything but the Old English translation. And that’s what that word is. Seolfor is silver.”
“Nā seolfor!” Harry shouted.
“Do you speak English?” Miles asked. “Modern English?” He racked his brain for the annals of his Brit Lit series, for the memorized passages which had been so useless right up until now. “‘Whan that Aprill, with his shoures soote, the droghte of March hath perced to the roote….’ Shit, no, Chaucer is Middle English, not Old.”
He shut his eyes and rubbed at his temple, trying to retrieve another passage. Then he looked up at Harry again.
“‘Hwæt! We Gardena in geardagum, þeodcyninga, þrym gefrunon, hu ða æþelingas, ellen fremedon.’ At least I think that’s the opening to Beowulf.” He grimaced. “Of course, I don’t remember what I just said, and I can’t imagine—”
But Harry was looking at him intently. “Scóp?”
Miles blinked, then clapped and laughed. “Harry! Harry, you’re Old English! Or, rather, you speak it. But you’re from England! You are from this world!”
Harry lumbered forward, pointing angrily to the ring of silver. “Náhtfremmend!”
Whatever that word was, it wasn’t a good one. Miles held out his hands. “Please—I don’t understand. Please, Harry—it’s me, Miles. I don’t speak Old English, I only quote epic poems a professor made me memorize. Please—you spoke to me before. I know you’re there. Please, Harry!”
But Harry wasn’t there. Just the beast, pawing angrily at the ground.
Miles wanted to scream. He hated the perfect forest, hated the Lord of Dreams and Terris, hated all of it for wrapping him up inside and not letting him go. Harry was his only real friend in this. Harry was the one he truly felt for. Terris was just another manipulator, however much Miles empathized with him. But it killed Miles to see the kind, articulate man he’d known in the dungeon reduced to this, and for he himself to be so helpless to aid him.
He picked up the flute and shut his eyes, and he thought desperately at it. Please. Please, help me, even just to talk to him. He put the flute to his lips, drew a breath, and began to play.
Harry screamed and stumbled backward toward the trees.
“No!” Miles dropped the flute and reached for him. “No, wait!”
But Harry just kept screaming and turned to run.
“No!” Miles cried and took a step forward.
There was a crackle and a snap. Miles shut his eyes against a bright light, then gasped as he felt something wrap around him like lightning, close and smothering. Then it was gone, and he could breathe, and he opened his eyes.
Miles and the Magic Flute Page 13