Rainbow's End - Wizard (27 page)

*

‘We call it the “Black Rainbow”,’ Ariana said, ‘or Moonbow. Very few people know of it, or suspect its existence, but it is there nonetheless... Just like the sun activates the rainbow during the day, so the moon activates a rainbow at night. It has six, instead of our seven beams, and where ours have colours, theirs start with white, and end with black, with shades of grey in between.’ A pause, ‘And remember Thomas - black is
not
a colour. It is the
absence
of colour.

‘With us, if the sun does not s
hine in a certain place, we cannot land there. It is the same with them. They cannot land where the moon is not visible.

‘They have
some advantages - they do not need Travellers. Any of them can use their Dark Crystals, but Kraylle has to control their journey; where they land. They can also Travel during the day, if the moon is visible.

‘Because they are not Travellers, they have no special powers. Kraylle can use them
- telepathically direct them over distance. But he can
not
project his powers through them. Just as I can’t.

‘Travellers
, using their powers, have taken many children from the Walkers over the centuries. Orson does it regularly. He seems to derive a lot of personal satisfaction from it. I say good for him. Kraylle hates him.’

‘Have the Walkers ever taken a child from a Traveller?’ asked Thomas.

‘Never.’ Ariana shook her head. ‘And normally they would not even try. Yours was the first time they have attempted to in a long, long time. But then, you are different, aren’t you.’ Ariana ruffled his hair.

Thomas nodded, his expression serious. He asked, ‘If we use curves in space and time to get to certain places at certain times, why can’t we always get there first
?’

Ariana smiled at him, pleasantly surprised. ‘You really are into this, aren’t you
?’ she asked. ‘You really are interested?’

He
nodded again and she said, ‘Some curves are available only some of the time. None at all times. To give you an example…’ Ariana closed her eyes for a few seconds. ‘If you want to land in Cairo at noon two days ago,’ she said, ‘you would have to take the rainbow at sunup tomorrow. And remember - Time curves are being used by Kraylle and his Walkers as well. If the signal is received at night, chances are they will get there a lot earlier than you.’

Thomas was quiet for a long minute
, digesting the information Ariana had given him. Then he asked, ‘Have you ever been to Desolation?’

‘No.’

‘Then how…?’

‘How do I know what it’s like?
How do I know about the castle?’

He
nodded.

‘Demi-gods know all about other demi-gods, Thomas
,’ Ariana said. There are very few of us. Fewer than full-fledged gods, I think. They have to convert us, after all. Either promote - up from normal human, or demote - down from full-god status, as in my father’s case. And they wouldn’t want too many of us. It might make them feel threatened.

‘
Also remember that Kraylle and I are twins. We live in each other’s heads - see through each other’s eyes… Oh, not all the time - usually only when we think of one another at the same moment. It happens only rarely, but I have seen Desolation hundreds of times without ever having gone there. And he, Rainbow’s End.’ she added, softer.

*****

It was early still and the sidewalk on which Izzy stood only had a few pedestrians on it. He felt uncomfortable with what he was about to do, but made the call nonetheless. It was taken almost immediately.

‘Edith Carter speaking
. Good morning.’ The voice had a soft Scottish burr, and Izzy thought he heard the worry in it. He took a deep breath.

‘Good morning
, Mrs. Carter,’ he said, and then: ‘Mrs. Carter, you don’t know me and for the moment, if you don’t mind, I would like to keep it that way. Stay nameless, I mean.’

‘Yes?’ The voice waited.

‘I am phoning in connection with the ad you placed in the newspaper - the ad concerning little Maggie?’

The voice became trembly. ‘Yes?’

‘Mrs. Carter - you are Maggie’s paternal grandmother? She has your surname…?’

‘No,’ came the reply. ‘I am her mother’s mother
- maternal. My daughter never married, Mr…?’

‘Just
Mr. is fine for the moment, Mrs. Carter. And before we go further, I would like to put your mind to rest. Maggie is fine, Mrs. Carter. I am the person who found her, and at this moment she is with people who care about children very much…’

‘Where?’ Mrs. Carter interrupted. ‘Where is she?’

‘It is terribly difficult to explain, Mrs. Carter. But please believe me - and I know it is difficult - Maggie has never in her life been safer than she is right now. Or happier.’ It was quiet on the other end and Izzy said, ‘Mrs. Carter, when I found Maggie, or rather, when she found me, her mother was already dead. The newspapers said it was a drug overdose. Is that correct?’

‘Yes…
Mr…’ Mrs. Carter’s voice told of suffering. ‘Maggie’s mother, Amanda - we called her Mandy - was a drug-addict. She took too many of the pills - or whatever it
was
she took… You say you found her so I don’t have to tell you the rest. Where is she Mr.? Where is my granddaughter?’ Mrs. Carter’s voice had turned fraught with worry. ‘I am a rich woman. I will pay…’

Izzy interrupted her, almost harshly. ‘Mrs. Carter!’ The voice at the other end went quiet and he continued. ‘Mrs. Carter, I do not
want
or
need
your money. I am merely trying to establish the circumstances Maggie would return to when she comes back - and please note that I said
when
; not
if
. That little girl was in hell when I found her and I will
not
return her to it.’

Mrs. Carter’s voice
sounded suddenly lighter, relieved - almost happy. ‘I am a very wealthy woman, Mister,’ she said. ‘And I love that tiny thing more than I love anything on this Earth. I can and
will
, give her anything her heart desires. But most of all - I will give her love.’

‘Mrs. Carter,’ said Izzy. ‘I am going to contact you again in a few days.’ Edith Carter’s voice interrupted, protesting, but Izzy’s overrode hers.

‘Mrs. Carter, the place where Maggie is being looked after, is a secret. At the moment I cannot elaborate, save to repeat that she is safe, and very, very happy.’ He paused. ‘I am however, concerned that this call might be monitored by the police,’ - the small sound she made confirmed this - ‘and therefore, I would rather say goodbye now. I trust you will sleep better, now you know she is safe.’

Izzy pressed the cheap
cell phone’s red disconnect button, and feeling very Sherlock Holmish, wiped it clean with his large handkerchief, before dropping it into the litter bin next to which he was standing, covering it with some old newspapers already in there.

*****

‘Each continent has a colour,’ said Orson.

The room was at the back of
the cottage - next to his bedroom, and behind the one he had added on for Thomas a few days ago. It was as big as the lounge, and three of its walls were covered by maps of the world. From a stand designed to hold architect drawings, hung at least a hundred more, protected by thick sheets of transparent plastic. Stacks and piles of Atlases, and other books with maps in them, lay everywhere on the carpeted floor. Against the remaining wall (the room had no windows), stood a wall-to-wall bookshelf, stretching from floor to roof; a ladder on wheels in front of it. It was crammed full of clip-files, with names and numbers neatly printed on their backs. A desk stood in the middle of the floor, its large working surface clean except for a reading lamp, a large globe of the Earth that rotated on its own axis, and a pair of compasses - magnetic and dividing.

He tapped them on his fingers. ‘Red is A
sia, Orange Antarctica, Yellow Europe, Green North America, Blue South America, Indigo Africa, and Violet Australia. They include the islands surrounding them. Red, which is Asia, includes countries like Japan, Taiwan and Sri Lanka. Violet: Australia, includes New Zealand, Tasmania, Indonesia, Micronesia, Polynesia and all of the South Sea islands; Fiji, Tonga, Tuvalu…The Solomon’s. And so on and so on.’

He waved one arm at the map-covered walls. ‘You’re going to have to memorise
all of this,’ he said, suppressed glee in his croaky voice. He saw Thomas’ look of incredulity first, and then the beginning of rebellion, and hastily back-tracked; quickly added. ‘It’s not so bad. You’ll find that when you start spending time in here, most of what you see, and what you read, has already been passed into your memory by Izzy and me on the night of your initiation.’

He
went to the shelf holding the clip-files and selected one, holding it aloft. ‘This is the North Eastern region of England,’ he said. Took it to the desk and flipped it open. Thomas joined him and watched him riffle the stack of pages. ‘It includes Northumberland,’ glancing at Thomas - ‘your home county. All cities, towns, villages - their sizes, their populations, their history… In short of course.’

Orson turned to the shelf with the files. ‘Each country is there, and depending on how often we Travel to them - their provinces, states, counties, cities; their towns, their villages, their communities, camps.

‘
Every state of the United States, for instance, has its own file. So does Canada. Same with the six states of Australia. New Zealand has two - one for each of its islands. Ireland has two - Northern and Southern. Smaller countries like Iceland, Croatia and Latvia have only one. So do larger countries where the majority of the populations are concentrated in smaller areas - like Finland, or Iceland. For Africa, one file for each country, because there are so many.

Orson’s lesson
was interrupted by the raucous screeching of a finch, and he stood listening for a few seconds, head tilted to one side; before swearing softly under his breath.

‘Ariana wants me…us
,’ he said.

Thomas frowned, puzzled. ‘How
do you know?’ he asked.

‘The finch,
Thomas,’ Orson said. ‘Ariana’s bloody finch.’

*****

It was summer. January gone and the most of February; the sun warm on the fields and hills and mountains of New Zealand. All was green with splashes of wild flowers everywhere; whites, purples and pinks, washed clean by lots of rain and smelling fresh.

The house was the only one in sight. It stood at the foot of one of the hills in the St. Arnaud range, twenty
kilometres south of the town of Wakefield. A shack, really; some of its badly-rusted, corrugated roofing sheets curling skywards; wall paint peeling and lots of windows broken, the holes covered by a miscellany of plastic sheets and bags in different colours.

Its front yard was overgrown, the path to the door almost non-exist
ent; the small backyard - maybe a hundred metres square - devoid of anything except two bald old car tyres and a few grassy sprigs, the plants having all been uprooted by the scratching of free-ranging chickens, who in turn, had all been caught by weasels.

Her name was Heather and she was eight years old. She was sitting around the back of the house - on its bottom step; the stripped kitchen gloomy-bare
behind her, its door hanging askew on one remaining hinge. A scruffy dog lay at her feet, and recent tears had left pale tracks on her dirty cheeks.

Her mother had left more than a week ago, in a nice car and with
yet another man Heather had never seen before; and when the girl had phoned the number she’d left, and the voice at the other end had said “children’s welfare”, she hastily returned the instrument to its cradle. Two days later, when the box of rusks had only four in it, she had tried to phone her friend Julie, who lived in a nice house in Wakefield and went to the same school as Heather, but the phone was dead. She ate almost nothing and the remaining rusks lasted another three days; she shared the last one with her dog the night before.

She heard their voices and their tread before they came into si
ght, and Heather and the dog were standing, waiting when Orson and Thomas came around the corner. They looked like scroungers, the two, and that’s what she took them for at first. The boy was dressed in cut-off denim shorts, a U2 T-shirt and sandals; the old man wore faded green Bermuda shorts, holed in several places. A nice lavender golf shirt. His shiny new sandals were obviously expensive, and probably stolen, she thought. Neither of them wore a watch, and whatever the old man carried the shiny long staff for, she didn’t know. There are no snakes in New Zealand.

They stopped a few
metres away and their reassuring smiles didn’t fool Heather for a moment.

‘There’s nothing here,’ she said. ‘Nothing worth taking,
nothing worth selling.’