Billy: Messenger of Powers (59 page)

He couldn’t see much of her face, because it was buried in her hands. But she was slim, not too tall. She wore a rather old-fashioned dress and blouse, with black shoes that were the kind Billy’s mother would have called “no-nonsense.” She was crying, huge, body-wracking sobs that shivered her from top to bottom. The cries bounced off the horrid shelves of the library, growing louder and louder as they echoed, and becoming the terrible ghost-screams that had hounded Billy in this place.

With the crying, however, the screaming and wailing that had so pervaded Billy’s world seemed to withdraw a bit. And as it went, Billy started to feel more like himself again. He still didn’t remember exactly where he was, or even what he was doing there, but he at least had a sense that he was supposed to be doing
something
in this ghastly place.

He looked around, lost and frightened, but could find no clues in his surroundings. Just bone and leather, candles and paper. No clues, no solace.

Billy turned back to the crying woman. “Hey,” he said softly. “Are you okay?”

Clearly she wasn’t okay, he could already see that, but he for some reason felt like it was important to help her. To stop her from crying.

The woman looked up. Her face was as young as he had thought it would be. Unlined, uncreased, the face of someone who hasn’t yet experienced much of life.

“Who are you?” asked the woman.

“I…I’m Billy,” answered Billy. He wasn’t at all sure that was the right answer, but it was what came to him out of the fog he was trying to find his way through right now.

I’m losing myself, thought Billy. Just like Vester warned.

Then on the heels of that thought came another: Who’s Vester?

But then Billy’s thoughts were drawn back to the woman. She grabbed the hem of her skirt, and used it to dab at her eyes. Billy saw that under the skirt were several layers of petticoats.

“Oh,” said the woman, with that stuff-nosed voice that always accompanies too much crying. “I don’t know why I’m crying. It’s just that it’s all so terrible.” And with that, she went into a new round of howling sobs.

Billy patted her uncertainly on the shoulder. “What is?” he asked. She didn’t answer, just continued crying, so he tried again. “Can I help you?” he asked.

The question stopped the woman’s sobs dead, like some kind of emotional light switch had been flipped to “off” position in her head. “I don’t think so,” she said in a shattered, haunted whisper. “No one can.”

She looked down, and Billy’s eyes followed hers. He saw that before her, sitting on a table made of what looked like a huge ribcage with a slab of unevenly carved granite atop it, was an open book.

An open book? he thought. There
are
no open books here. Not here, not in the Dread.

Once more, with this thought came the sense that he didn’t really know where these ideas were coming from. Light was beginning to glimmer at the edges of his mind, but still there was too much shadow, too many cobwebs, too much…Dread.

Billy shook his head and looked at the open book again. It was small, barely the size of a paperback, but with a worn spine that allowed it to sit flat, open to a page about a third of the way through. The other two thirds of the book were sealed with a grisly string of tendon and gristle that wrapped from within the book and bound that last part tightly shut.

But as Billy looked closer, he saw that the book had no words. Just empty, blank paper stared up at him and the woman. She didn’t seem to realize it, though, focusing all her attention on the open page.

“It’s blank,” he said.

“I know,” she answered. This sent her into a new round of wailing. “He’s gone,” she said in a hitching voice between sobs. “He’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone.”

“Who?” asked Billy, growing more and more confused.

“I don’t know,” answered the woman. “Don’t you see, he’s gone!” And she fell to the ground, clutching at herself and saying “he’s gone” over and over again.

Billy didn’t know what to do. He wanted to comfort this strange woman, wanted to help her. But he didn’t know what he could do. He looked at the open book again. Clearly, this was the source of her woes. Maybe he could close it, and get her mind on something else.

But when he tried to do that, he couldn’t. It was as though the book was super-glued to the macabre table below it, unmovable.

This is the open book in the locked library of Mrs. Russet’s mind, thought Billy. He didn’t know exactly who “Mrs. Russet” was, any more than he had known who “Vester” was. But the thought seemed to make him feel better. It was like he was putting together a jigsaw puzzle in a dark room. All he could do was feel a piece, then touch the rough edges of the other pieces until two clicked together. The picture wasn’t visible to him at all, but he could feel the puzzle coming together, bit by bit.

The Dread is a re-lived terror, he thought. This is the library of Mrs. Russet’s mind. The books are all shut, except this one. And this one is the one the woman weeps over.

This is the book of her fear, he realized. And as this thought came to him, so also did the understanding of what he was doing here, and who this mentally and emotionally crippled woman must be.

“Mrs. Russet,” he whispered. He knew it was so, that it must be so, even though he didn’t understand the how or the why of it all. This woman, young as she was, broken as she appeared, was somehow also his old, implacable, and above all tough history teacher.

And with that realization came the understanding that whatever was in the open book before him, only Mrs. Russet could read it. Because it was her fear, and hers alone.

But then how can I help her? thought Billy.

He knelt down beside the crying girl. “Lumilla,” he whispered. It felt strange to call his teacher by her first name, even in her present form. But it would have been even stranger to call her “Mrs. Russet.”

Besides, it seemed to have been the right choice, because Lumilla’s crying diminished noticeably as he said her name. “Lumilla,” he said again, as calmly and softly as he could. He touched her shoulder again.

“That name,” said Lumilla, confused. “That name is familiar.”

“It’s you,” said Billy. “You’re Lumilla.”

Her tear-streaked face looked up at him, the barest hint of hope glimmering out of her eyes. “How do you know?” she asked.

Billy hesitated. This wasn’t Mrs. Russet, not the way he knew her. So he didn’t think she would understand their relationship, not really. Instead of trying to explain it, therefore, he simply shrugged and smiled and said, “Because we’re friends.”

“We are?” she looked around as she said this, as though afraid that it might not be true. Billy couldn’t blame her. Almost worse than being alone in this terrible place would be having a friend, and then having that friend taken away.

“Yes,” he said soothingly. “We’re friends. And I’m not going anywhere. I’m here to help.”

“But how can you help?” she asked, and started weeping again, though more quietly than before. “How can you help when he’s gone?”

“Who?” asked Billy.

As before, Lumilla didn’t answer. But this time she stood up and pointed at the book, the empty book that was two-thirds sealed.

“Lumilla,” he said, “I can’t read it.”

“Don’t read,” she whispered, and grabbed his hand suddenly. “
Feel
.” And with that, she forced his fingers to touch the pages of the book.

Billy had already touched the book, when he had tried to close it. This time, however, touching it at the same time as Lumilla did, he got a sense of what was there. Not a total picture, not the details, but a gist of what she saw in the pages of her fear. It was like he was seeing a movie trailer in his head, just the high points of the story, just the parts that mattered most.

Lumilla, young. Beautiful, not broken. Bold. Discovering the Power that she was.

She went from her family. She went on a journey. Finding evil and darkness in the world of the Powers. But also finding light.

She found someone. A man. “My name is Terry,” the man said.

“Really?” said Lumilla with a charming giggle. “I’ve always thought that was a funny name.”

The man smiled. He was strong and tall, with big arms and the kind of presence that made people feel trusted and safe. “Actually, that’s just what my friends call me. And if you think my nickname is strange, you should hear what my
real
name is.”

Lumilla laughed.

And then it was later. Lumilla and Terry were walking in a park. A magical place, with flowers that danced on their stems in the moonlight. There was a pond, and instead of ducks or geese, the water itself formed into living shapes that ebbed and flowed into and out of existence. The couple walked, and talked, and laughed, and planned for the future they would have, the future they would enjoy together.

Then things moved again, still onward in time. The man was being dressed in a brown cloak. The threads of history marched along the fabric. He sat on a brown throne on the Diamond Dais. Lumilla stood behind him, beaming with pride.

They held hands.

They walked in their magical park. They planned a family.

And then, fire and destruction.

The War of the Powers. Talks of a family ceased. Terry and Lumilla, still young, found themselves ripped from happiness and thrust into chaos.

A sudden jump in time. Terry and Lumilla were fighting side by side, calling up the Earthessence to crush the armies of Darksiders that threatened humanity. The battle was fierce, but the tide was turning slowly in favor of the Dawnwalkers, led by Terry and Lumilla, standing side by side in an unbreakable chain of Power and love.

Then, out of nowhere, a presence. Wolfen. His eyes harsh and angry, his face younger but already gnarled and marked by the clawlike grip of anger and hate. His salt-and-pepper hair only black now, but still long and thick.

He appeared beside Terry. Terry raised his hand, calling up columns from the earth, creating a rock prison around Wolfen. But the Black Power only laughed, and the rocks themselves withered and died before him.

Lumilla saw what was happening, the danger her husband was in. She screamed. She tried to get to him, but the crushing armies of the Dark were everywhere. Fire, Wind, Water, Earth, Life, and Death surged all around in a wall of disorder.

Terry fought. But Wolfen was too powerful. The Dark Master laughed. And touched Terry.

There was a flash of black light, if such a thing were possible.

Another jump in the story of Lumilla’s and Mrs. Russet’s fearful memory. The War of the Powers was over. Wolfen was vanquished.

Lumilla went to her husband. Terry was on a bed on Powers Island, recovering with countless other wounded and weary warriors of the Dawnwalkers.

Lumilla touched his hand.

“Do I know you?” Terry asked.

And then, before her eyes, he shriveled and shrunk. He became Rumpelstiltskin. He touched her hand. “It’s dirty,” he said. “You should clean that.”

“Come away with me,” said Lumilla. “Come back to the world, come back to our special park, walk with me, talk with me.”