Rainbow's End - Wizard (21 page)

‘The last time she came to Rainbow’s End, she stayed for seven years, and the frog began hoping that this time it might be forever. And then, just after his fifty-first bi
rthday, she left again…’ Orson shook his head and his eyes were dreadfully sad again. ‘This time she didn’t come back. He waited and hoped - for five years, ten… And finally stopped. The waiting, but not the hoping. Never the hoping… Until now.’ 

The
y sat quietly staring at the by now smaller flames for some time: then, as if waking from a dream, Orson opened the album on his lap at the last page - the photo of the wagon. He pointed to Rose, standing in front of it and smiling happily. ‘This was taken outside Stonehenge on the day Rosie turned thirty-five. It was at a Gypsy gathering.’ His finger moved to the ugly little man next to her, whose smile looked like a grimace. ‘The frog is me,’ he said softly, wistfully.

Thomas stared. First at the photo, and then at the man with the sad eyes sitting next to him. The fleshy nose, the eyes, even the wart; everything except the hair (which in the picture was a short, neat auburn), was the same. He was amazed at himself for not having noticed it much sooner. The other reality was harder to grasp.

‘Grammy Rose?’ he asked, incredulously. ‘She was here? At Rainbow’s End?’

Orson nodded. His grey eyes sombre and still sad. ‘Three times,’ he said, ‘eleven of our years in all.’

A similar scene, in front of another fire, but a hundred-thousand kilometres away and in another world, came to Thomas. It took place two or three years ago, but felt like forever…

*

They had just finished doing the dishes and Thomas was sitting at the old pine table. His elbows were resting on its scarred surface and his chin in his cupped hands. He was watching Rose put away the dishes and at the same time, making a cup of tea.

Her hair was a thick, silver-grey mop, cut stylishly short by
Marge (the small village’s part-time hair dresser and Grammy’s friend), who visited at least once a week. Rose was softly singing something in Romany, and Thomas thought to himself that, although younger than her, none of his friend’s mothers were half as pretty.

‘Grammy?’

‘Mmm-mm?’ Her brown eyes smiled at him.

‘Were you ever married?’

Her eyebrows lifted, but Rose’s hands remained busy. As always, she took his questions seriously, and spent a few seconds considering it before she asked, ‘Why?’ Her eyes were curious. ‘Why do you ask?’

Thomas shrugged, ‘Just wondered, I suppose.’

She finished putting some pots in the cupboard beneath the sink, and then stood up - her back against and her hands gripping the shiny metal rim behind her, looking at Thomas once more.

‘No, I never was,’ she said softly and seconds later gave a small, dreamy smile. ‘But I came very close, once.’ She saw the questions in his eyes and hers lifted to the empty wall behind Thomas. They saw things he didn’t, and she said, still softly, ‘Go light the fire, Thomas. It’s story time.’

The small lounge heat up fast and they both sat sunk deep into the worn but familiar upholstery of the ancient old couch. Grammy’s legs were folded under her and she leaned back against the backrest. Both her hands were wrapped around the mug of tea and she was staring at, but not seeing the flickering flames in the grate. She had been quiet for a long time, but they’d been through the same ritual dozens of times, and Thomas knew when to wait.

*

‘It seems so very, very long ago. And so very,
very
far away.’ Grammy’s voice was soft but clear; the only other sounds the loud, rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the small entrance hall, and the occasional sputtering of pine resin boiling and puffing, making mini explosions on the bark of the burning logs.

‘He made me laugh,’ she said, and smiled to herself in remembering. ‘And he was so ugly you had to love h
im. And rude…’ Rose gave a small, and after so long, still disbelieving laugh. ‘Oh, Thomas, he was the rudest person you ever saw.’ Her eyes became gentle with recall. ‘But not to me. Never to me…’ softer. ‘To me he was only love and gentleness. And laughter…’

She went on and told Thomas about loving and sharing; about special times and special people. Special memories. And later sti
ll, of another world, and dwarves and giants and magic…

*

Orson said something and Thomas returned to the present.

‘I’m sorry, sir…?’

‘Don’t call…’ Orson stopped and shook his head, hopelessly. He tapped the back cover of the album. A thick, plain white envelope lay under its transparent plastic covering. ‘More photos?’ he asked, in a wishful tone, hoping…

‘No, sir.’ Thomas’
mind went back again. Orson noticed and kept quiet.

*

They were in front of the fire again, only about a month ago. Grammy had lost a lot of weight and had dark circles under her eyes. She slept a lot and was tired all the time. They were talking about
that
again. That dreaded subject. The time when she would not be with him anymore. The time Thomas dreaded more than anything else, and refused to call by its name, “Death”.

‘You are going to meet a man Th
omas.’ They sat close together - under an old duvet, and Rose had her arm around his shoulders. Holding him tight. She sipped some of her red wine (she’d loved red wine). ‘It might be years from now, but it might also be very soon. I have a feeling it’s going to be very soon.’ Her eyes dropped to Thomas’, and although the sickness seemed to have shrunk her body overnight, she was still a head or more taller than him.

‘Do you remember the man
we spoke about a few years ago - the one I was going to marry?’ Rose’s brown eyes were tender.

‘The ugly one?’ Thomas asked.

She laughed and gave him a hug. ‘The ugly one, yes.’ Another squeeze and she said, ‘He’s also your grandfather.’

Thomas nodded. ‘I sort of knew that, I suppose.’

Rose smiled. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I though you would have.’ Another minute and she said, ‘Go fetch me your photo album and some tape, please.’

When he returned, Grammy sat looking at an envelope, which she held between the fingertips of both hands. It was white and bulky, and seemed to be sealed. When he handed her the heavy book, she smiled her thanks and opened
it to its back page. The inside cover was layered with thick plastic, and while a surprised Thomas looked on, Rose used the small penknife she kept on her key-ring to make a long slit along its transparent top. She took the envelope - which smelled of her perfume - and slid it into the hardly visible slit, under the plastic, then closed the cut with two strips of tape. After some critical assessment, made sure by adding another - sealing the envelope into its plastic cocoon and making it part of the book. She looked at Thomas and put the tip of one finger on the sealed in envelope. ‘This is for him,’ she said.

Thomas was flabbergasted. The envelope was blank, with no inscription, no name. He looked at Rose with a bewildered look on his young face. ‘But how will I know…?’ he asked.

She answered with a gentle smile, a sure look and another hug. ‘You will know, Thomas,’ she replied, and her voice was very sure. ‘Don’t ask me how
I
know; just believe me - you will know.’

*

Thomas started picking at the tape, but his fingernails were trimmed short (a habit Grammy had instilled in him since he was old enough to trim them himself), and he made no inroads until Orson grumbled softly at his side.

‘Think it open, Thomas.’

He did; and the sticky strips were suddenly gone - leaving no trace that they had ever been. He slid out the envelope with the tips of two fingers; the air was suddenly filled with the fragrance of Rose and roses, and Thomas gave the envelope to Orson.

‘This is for you, sir,’ he said to the surprised old man. ‘But you’re only to open it once I’ve left. When you’re alone.’

Orson’s eyes begged and Thomas nodded. ‘It’s from Grammy Rose,’ he said, then added, softer, ‘
Your
Rose.’

The late night was beautiful - with a million stars and the huge moon to help the ball of fire light Thomas’ way back to the cave. It was also hot, and by the time he got to its entrance and the fireball disappeared, he was down to bare feet, wearing just his denim pants and undershirt.

*****

…Orson my love. My only love.

Today marked thirty-one years and six months since the day I left Rainbow’s End. Rainbow’s End, but not you. Never you. For even though you were many, many
kilometres away, you were always in my heart - and always on my mind (remember our song). I miss you, Orson. So very, very much.

Today was our gran
dson’s eleventh birthday. Your - our daughter - turned thirty-one a few months back. She lives in Majorca (remember how we used to dance on the beach and the sun all gold on the Mediterranean Sea?) I named her Elaine, after a much admired teacher I once had. Sadly, the name is all they have in common. But maybe I’m too harsh. Be that as it may…

Orson, I am dying, and I am now able to give you the explanation I feel I have owed you for so long (but never
could
give you). It is so simple really, and only three words say it all. “I fell pregnant.” Yes!! At Rainbow’s End. Where we all (Ariana included) thought it was impossible. She told me that for many centuries, no babies had been conceived - let alone been born at Rainbow’s End. Nobody knew why, but she thought it was a virus dating back to the Magari’s time. (They - the Magari - believed it was a curse).

But leave that there… I fell pregnant and I became scared. Not for me, but for our baby. I wasn’t prepared t
o either let our child be stillborn, or die before it even had a chance to live. I also knew that if I told you I was leaving, you would come with me. I couldn’t allow that to happen. Without a Traveller, there would be no more children, and Rainbow’s End would have no purpose. It would die… cease to exist. I could not do that - not to that wonderful, beautiful place. That place just made for children.

Neither could I do it to you. You are as much a part of Rainbow’s End, as it is of you, Orson. You would fade away anywhere else. You would die inside… I know (I am supposed to be a Gypsy Princess, remember)

The letter ran to many pages, and went on to remind the old Traveller of the places and times he and Rose had shared. Happy times and sad times, hello times and goodbye times. Secret times… And places where it had seemed to be just them in the world.

As he read on, silent tears rolled over Orson’s craggy cheeks and fell unheeded on the scented paper held like t
reasure between his blunt fingertips - mixing his essence with that of his love, his Rose. The last page was sad, but it also gave new hope, new purpose, new life.

…I send you a boy Orson. Our boy. I call him th
at, because that is what he is - who he is. He is a Roma. He is also a Traveller. I know; I have seen him do things he does not yet understand himself, and again I remind you - I am a Gypsy. I know these things. I feel them.

Thomas is strong. He is very strong. His mind already; his body will follow. He is also honest, which is sometimes better than strong.

But most of all - he is a good boy. Make of him a good man, Orson. Help him find himself. Help him find his destiny.

In closing, I want to remind you of something. You have been alone for sixteen years. I, thirty-two.

I know we will meet again, my love, but until then - remember me as I used to be.

Only yours

Roshalee…

*****

The door said “Thomas” in garish green but the little girl could not read. Neither could she reach its handle, but after a lot of stretching - and wishing - it lowered itself, and she opened the door, went inside and then closed it behind her. The bed offered the same problem, but after some more stretching and wishing, its one side sagged lower and she clambered on top and then beneath its covers. Then, hugging her doll tighter and one thumb in her mouth, Maggie closed her eyes and went back to sleep. Next to a dead-to-the-world Thomas.

16

The wind was screaming across the barrenness of Desolation
. Bryan Stone stood outside the stark grey walls of Kraylle’s Castle, looking across the flat expanse of rock that stretched as far as the ever-present moons allowed him to see.

His clothes were brand new, black and warm; but e
ven the black, ankle-length fur coat Kraylle had given him, couldn’t stop the bitterly cold wind from finding gaps and openings; its icy breath reminded Bryan Stone that he was alive. He hadn’t given up his boots; they, together with thick woollen socks, kept his feet snug and warm. He wore no head covering and when he turned his face to the unfamiliar skies above, the wind snapped at it with frigid breath, but not a grain of sand or stone. All of those had been swept away aeons ago.

He shouted into space and his voice was carried away so fast, it might never have been
. For the first time in years, he felt happiness, at home; and when he walked back to the castle, the massive figure of Kraylle stood watching from its arched entrance. The demi-god’s coal-black eyes wore a look of sardonic boredom, but when Bryan said, ‘I like it here,’ a glimmer of approval flickered in their depths.

Desolation
’s barren bitterness suited his soul, and Bryan Stone knew he was home.

*****

Annie, Frieda, John and Arnold were having dinner together. They did this every two weeks or so. One - to discuss recent events on Rainbow’s End; and two - because they liked to. It was late, and most of the younger children were already in their rooms, or in the dorm, sleeping. Some of the older boys were watching the night sky from the benches outside, talking about the day’s adventures; and some of the older girls were shopping in the huge warehouse - trying on dresses and fur coats and hats and shoes and wigs and jewellery.

The dining room had only one table tonight
: round with place for four, with comfortable chairs designed for a relaxing eating experience. The lights were very dim and shadowy photos of famous restaurants graced the walls: Gigi’s, Le Escargot, Beefeaters, Little Louis, The Rooftop and Anna-Belle’s.

Entrée
was a choice between fried calamari, snails sautéed in garlic, or devilled potato skins. The main course: Spare Ribs with an apricot sauce, a mini seafood platter, or crumbed fillet steak. John had them all. Salad was melon and paw-paw halves, carved into intricate shapes and stuffed with tomato and lettuce, onions and green peppers, baby potatoes and mushrooms, beans and peas, and bits and pieces of cold meats and cheese, and mayonnaise and sour cream and freshly ground black pepper… Dessert: ice-cream. With custard and fresh or canned fruit, or chocolate or caramel or…whatever. You choose.

Arnold
, in a “If you like the food, Kiss the Chef” T-shirt, spent more time in the kitchen than at the table; and every time he was thanked by either John or Annie, gave a grave nod (accepting their accolade - as any great chef would…). Frieda’s praise was received in a totally different manner. His spiky moustache tips started quivering and jumping, he wrung his hands, and the skin from his neck on up took on a cherry-red hue.

When they had finished their long meal and thanked Arnold
yet again, and were on their way out; John took the chef’s chubby face between his large hands, and without a word leaned forward and gave him a kiss. Right on the mouth. The three of them trooped out: Annie and Frieda holding on to each other in uncontrollable laughter, and John with a straight and pious face; leaving a stunned Arnold with bulging eyes and gaping mouth, like a fish out of water.

*****

The knock on Annie’s door was soft but urgent, and when Frieda came in, her face wore a worried frown. ‘I can’t find Maggie,’ she said.

Annie gave her a re
assuring smile. ‘She’ll be with the other children, Frieda. She’s safe. And nothing will help her forget as quickly as playing with other children - even if they
are
a bit older.’

Frieda’s frown disappeared, but she bit
her lower lip and her eyes were still worried. ‘Are you sure?’ she asked, not at all sure herself.

A
nother smile and Annie put her hand against her friend’s cheek. ‘Very sure, Frieda,’ she said. ‘Now go to bed and dream of your gastronomic genius.’

Frieda blushed, but managed a
giggle as she pulled Annie’s door shut.

*****

And Rainbow’s End slept.

The dwarve
s made music and drank, while Jason danced. The giant spirits of the Magari walked in the Magic forest and sang to the trees; the fairies flitted from tree to tree - looking for someone or something to annoy with their mischief.

And a lonely young woman
: with the heart of a young woman, but memories as old as the universe, and powers beyond her ken, sat on a tongue-shaped rock and looked at the star splattered sky. And wondered, if ever… And dreamed…

And
Rainbow’s End slept.

17

‘My mommy’s dead,’
said the little girl with the unruly hair.

Thomas lay looking at her for a long minute, still h
alf asleep and very surprised at waking up and finding Maggie in bed with him. She had wished the curtains open and was sitting against the bed’s padded headboard, clutching her doll and watching the snow fall outside the large window. She looked at him, and whatever Thomas saw in her pansy-blue eyes, had him reply - ‘So is mine.’

When Frieda knocked on his door an hour later, worriedly looking for Maggie, Thomas thought it open, and the relieved woman found the two children
sitting up in bed - their backs against pillows stacked against its headboard, drinking from mugs of cocoa and talking animatedly while watching it snow.

*****

The building lay to the south of London’s central business district and was eighteen storeys high. It had been built ten years after the Second World War; by the Rainbow Trust, and was called The Rainbow Building - what else?

Izzadore Greenbaum, its owner by proxy
, and president of the companies housed in it, stood on its roof outside the penthouse in which he lived, and waited for the sun. It had just gone half past ten - tea time for the many employees working (and some living) in the building - and the sun was still blocked by some of the other, higher buildings.

But after forty years of Travelling, he was used to waiting, and at last, the golden ball emerged from behind some buildings to the east, its rays weakened by the city’s almost ever-present smog. Izzy lifted his a
rm and started whirling his keychain…

An overweight woman with frizzy purple hair
, whose name was Suzie and who worked in a building across the street, sat watching the old man (whom she supposed to be the buildings janitor), swing something resembling a slingshot above his head. She was enjoying her third chicken-egg-mayonnaise sandwich, and one of her colleagues had to hastily perform the Heimlich Manoeuvre when she choked on it.

S
he was sent home in a taxi, in shock, after gibbering something about a skinny old man vanishing into thin (albeit dirty) air.

Later
- when speaking to her doctor - Suzie’s superior, in whispered but urgent conversation, requested him to lower the strength of her blood-pressure medication.

*****

‘The first two and the last two pages,’ he said.

It was early enough for the w
illow to still drip a last few raindrops that had fallen a couple of hours ago. They were sitting side by side on the Talking Rock, and Ariana held Rose’s letter in her hands, her concerned gaze on Orson’s haggard, red-eyed face.

‘Are you sure, Orson?’ she asked softly, feeling his
hurt.

The Traveller nodded
, and looking away, said in a gruff voice: ‘Read it, Ariana. The first two and the last two pages.’

Ariana stared at the back of Orson’s head for a few more seconds, and then, with a soft sigh, let her eyes drop to Rose’s elegant script, printed on the scented paper held between her fingertips.
She began reading very slowly, savouring every word, making it last.

Orson sat
with his hands in his lap, his fingers entwined, his legs dangling and his feet inches above the water. He was leaning forward and staring at his reflection: on his face a miserable and unhappy look. The finch was quiet for a change; the burbling little waterfall splashing into the top of the pool, the only sound for once.

It took her an inordinately long time
- reading some of the sentences twice and even three times. She read between the lines as well… feeling her friend Rose. Hearing her voice and hearing her laugh, hearing her cry... Feeling her heartbreak. By the time Ariana had finished the letter,
she
was crying softly, and Orson put his arm around her shoulders - hugging her as only her father could.

He w
anted to weep with her, but he had no tears left.

*****

There were already children playing - running and splashing and chasing each other around the seven pillars of colour; some others drifting and paddling around the bottom of the waterfall on large inner tubes salvaged from Izzy’s many lorry wrecks. Some of the boys were loudly planning a fishing expedition for later in the day, and some of the girls showing off the swimming suits they had gotten themselves out of the store the previous night. Breakfast had only been an hour ago, and it was too early yet to seriously wish for ice-cream, cold-drink, or any other snacks.

They were all very surprised, and one smaller girl gave a frightened squeal
, when a thoroughly drenched Izzy came stumbling out of the Rainbow, his mohair coat looking tattered and streaming water. He smiled apologetically to everyone and took off his solid gold and diamond-studded Rolex, which he had forgotten to replace with a cheaper watch that morning. It would never work again, and he absentmindedly gave it to the gaping girl. His calf skin loafers squelched wetly when he stepped out of the water and he stood on the pool’s bank for a few seconds - combing his bedraggled hair with his fingers and thinking himself instantly dry, then headed for Ariana’s Pool.

*****

There were three newspaper clippings, and Ariana read them carefully. The first was Roshalee Ross’ obituary, confirming what
they already knew of Thomas’ origins; the second about the body of a young woman that had been found at a bus stop shelter, dead from a drug overdose; and the third about a £20 000 reward offered by the grandmother of a little girl called Margaret (or Maggie) Carter, who had gone missing from the place her mother had been found dead at.

After reading them, Ariana
was silent for some time, staring towards where the water burbled through the split in the cliff wall - lost in thought. Then the finch and his mate started screeching at each other and she said, ‘She will have to go back of course.’

‘
Of course.’ Izzy nodded. He thought of Frieda. ‘But there’s no hurry, is there? I would like to make some enquiries about Mrs. Carter senior when I go back.’

‘I know about Frieda and Maggie, Izzy.’

The thin old man turned pink above his stark-white shirt collar. ‘Of course you do,’ he said. ‘I forget.’ Then added, ‘I will also phone Mrs. Carter, and tell her Maggie is safe and very happy, and will be home soon.’

Ariana nodded
, satisfied for the moment, and they went on to other matters.

They were
on the Talking Rock - Izzy with a large handkerchief spread beneath the pants-seat of his restored-to-glory Brooks Brothers three piece suit, his coat neatly folded across his knees, listening while Ariana brought him up to date on what had transpired at Rainbow’s End during his short absence. And then he turned to her and gaped, disbelievingly.

‘He’s what?’
he croaked.

Ariana grinned. ‘He’s a grandfather,’ she said.

Izzy’s eyes lit up - first with wonder, and then delight.

‘Oh man,’ he said softly, ‘Are we going to have a party.’

The thought that Deborah and
he had left Rainbow’s End, when it was possible to have children there, only came to Izzy later. But, as he reflected, everything has a reason. It was a choice he made. A choice that had made him a very, very happy man.