Rainbow's End - Wizard (29 page)

‘Tell me about “The Push”, Orson.
’ Thomas juggled the balls faster, making a fiery circle in the dark.

‘“The Push”?’ The old man’s eyes in the light of the
fire were wide-eyed nonplussed.

‘“The Push”, yes,’ Thomas answered impatiently
, ‘and don’t be so deliberately dense,’ he added, exasperatedly, without thinking. The balls abruptly fizzled out and he whispered a horrified “I’m sorry” at the expression on his grandfather’s face. ‘I didn’t think…’

Orson
was gaping at him: speechless and eyes bulging. Then, shocked seconds later, he gave a loud guffaw, followed by a delighted cackle. ‘You’re just like her!’ he crowed. ‘Just like Rose!’

Thomas,
who was still embarrassed, remained silent, and the cackling died down after a few seconds. The crickets were the only sound for a minute, and then another ball of flame appeared - this time it was Orson’s.

He said
, ‘It’s not easy to explain, Thomas. Easier to do, really. And I can’t do it with you... Can’t push you, I mean. I tried when I fetched you from that cabin on Broken Hill; it wouldn’t work. I think it has to do with us both being Travellers: one cannot impose his will on another.’ He pursed his lips, pensive for a few seconds, and then continued.

‘
Those in the know say that sixty percent of people use just five to ten percent of their brains, Thomas. Another ten percent use more, in varying degrees; and sadly, the remaining thirty percent, use less.

‘
Just a third of our brains are accessible to us, and of this third, we
use
on average a third: hence the figure of ten percent - one third of one third.
That
is what separates us mortals from demi-gods and gods. Demi-gods have access to a further one third - which, incidentally, they
use
;
and gods, the whole of theirs. That last third is what gives them the power to give life; and immortality.

‘Some mortals
; very few, possess the ability to use some - and note that I use the word
some -
of the second third of their minds, but they have to be opened first… be made to see what it is possible for them to do, as you have. It allows them,
again
in varying degrees, the use of certain paranormal powers, or facilities… Call it what you will. Powers such as telepathy, telekinetics, mind-control, teleportation… These are the Travellers. You, me, Izzy… At your initiation, Izzy and I have passed on to you our knowledge, our memories. Ariana has opened you.’

O
rson leaned forward and took a spoon from the empty ice cream container at his feet. He sat back and glared at it, and its silver metal handle almost leisurely elongated, stretching like chewing gum being pulled, becoming thin and impossibly long, then twirled and bent into a corkscrew shape, finally tying itself into a clump of knots.

‘Imagine,’ he said, ‘tha
t this spoon,’ he waved the now useless lump of twisted metal through the air, ‘is somebody’s mind - somebody’s will. You can bend it, manipulate it, impose your will on it; make it obey you, do what you want it to do. All this you can do by looking at it - by “Pushing” it. Your eyes,’ he said, pointing at his own, ‘are your tools. Do you understand?’

Thomas
frowned, thinking, and then nodded. ‘I can make somebody do something, just by looking at him… or at her? Just by willing it? Anything?’

Orson shook his head
. ‘Not just by looking at them, no. You have to look into their eyes. Not
at
their eyes, but
into
their eyes... B
ehind
their eyes. You have to “
Push
!” them.’ His voice was forceful, and he punctuated his words with a violent shoving away motion of his hand. ‘And not just
anything
,’ he said. ‘You cannot
make
people, or
will
people, to do something that clashes with their principles, their moral code, if you like.’ He thought about an example. ‘You cannot, for instance, make somebody steal, or murder.’ The seasoned Traveller was quiet for a few seconds. ‘Unless what you will him to do is acceptable to you both… if you both lack the basic human principle, conscience…’ he finished, then asked again, ‘Do you understand?’

Thomas nodded and they sat
listening to the night for a long minute. Orson let the fireball die and a little later Thomas heard him mutter, ‘I hope that dog behaves himself. Tessie shouldn’t be having puppies at her age…’

*****

‘Three jumps,’ the Traveller said to the goddess.

His s
horts were  muddy brown Safari style with lots of pockets, which Ariana was sure she’d seen him wear thirty years ago, his shirt a purple eyesore with a loud green paisley pattern, his sandals the stylish leather Gucci’s.

She stared at him
, and her eyes said that surely he must be wrong. ‘Only three? Orson, are you sure? It was not just a fluke?’ Ariana’s voice tailed off and her Traveller snorted impatiently.

‘After three he was perfect,’
Orson paused, ‘and then he got better. He lands like a ballet master, Ariana. And that’s not all…’ He told her about the fireballs. ‘The first night he almost burned down the forest; the next he was playing Ping-Pong and making fire circles... Already bored.’ He shook his head, troubled. ‘It took Gwendolynne almost a month to teach
me
what took him less than ten minutes to master.’

‘And you are the best
; the most powerful Traveller ever,’ said Ariana softly, but matter of fact.

Orson nodded sagely
, accepting accolades where it was due. And it was the truth, after all. He remained glumly silent for a minute, then asked, ‘Do you remember what she, what Gwendolynne said on the night of Thomas’ initiation? About him going to be strong?’

Ariana nodded. ‘Joshi actually said it before she did
; the night he and I discovered Thomas’ parentage, or rather, his grand-parentage.’ She smiled at Orson, and they sat listening to the water fall and the distant sound of children playing. The finch and his wife were out.

‘Tell me about the Tanner boys,’ said Ariana.

Orson shrugged. ‘They go fishing almost every day. Young Gary seems to have pulled them into his circle of boys fairly quick. They share a room, Thomas says, and its view is of the lake in Alaska - the place we fetched them from. It’s of springtime, not winter. They say that’s the way their father liked it.’

Ariana
nodded. ‘And the girl? Heather…?’

‘She’s fine,’
Orson said. ‘Her and her dog.’ He scowled. ‘Do you know that she practically called me a dirty old man when we fetched her? Not in so many words, but still…’ He fell gloomily silent and Ariana looked away, smiling. He was changing, this Traveller of hers. A few weeks ago, he would have cackled happily about things that bothered him now; like a young girl calling him a “dirty old man”.

They sat basking in the friendly sun
, in amiable silence, both busy with their own thoughts. A few sun beetles started their particularly monotonous “whirrr” in the grass behind, and somewhere to the west, out of sight, one of the fish eagles called to its mate.

‘Maggie has to go back
,’ Ariana said, her voice a sigh and sounding sad.

‘The little one?’ Orson asked and she nodded.

‘It is going to break Frieda’s heart,’ he said.

The goddess gave another nod and her dark eyes were troubled. ‘I hate it when my people are unhappy, Orson.’ Her eyes found his. ‘You most of all. You have been unhappy for so long…’

He looked away, embarrassed, and gave a small shrug. ‘It is better now,’ he said.

‘I know.’ Ariana
squeezed his hand. A second later, she asked, ‘Do you think Thomas can Travel on his own, Orson?’

‘If he knows where to land, yes.’ Orson didn’t hesitate.

‘Scotland?’

‘Yes.’
He nodded.

When he left a few minutes later, Ariana called after him, ‘Orson?’

He turned back, waiting.

‘Ask Thomas to
come and see me tomorrow morning, please.’

He grunted.

‘And Orson?’ He waited. ‘I like your tan,’ said Ariana. ‘It suits you… with the hair.’ Her eyes went to his neatly cut grey hair. ‘It makes you look very…distinguished. Like a ship’s captain, or an admiral…someone who spends a lot of time in the sun.’

He
said nothing, but his tan turned a little darker, and when he walked off, there was a spring in his step.

*****

‘You want me to do what?!’

Outside, the wind ha
d picked up speed again, moaning and sweeping the barren rock of Desolation clean. A few small bits of fabric and thread, left by the heap of blankets carried inside by the boys in black, resisted at first - clinging and hooking onto and into unseen grooves and minutely sharpened points worn into the stones surface; their grip tenuous at best and soon torn loose, gathered and carried away to wherever in the cosmos the howling winds went to.

Elsewhere, t
he young men who called themselves the Night Walkers, huddled together in a small room in another wing of the castle, afraid to come face to face with Kraylle; waiting for Bryan Stone to call them, and to tell them everything was all right.

‘I want you to change
some blankets into mattresses,’ said Bryan Stone to the giant demi-god. He pointed to some neatly folded blankets in the room’s four corners. ‘Good mattresses,’ he said, ‘not cheap foam rubbish.’

Kraylle lifted a sar
donic eyebrow. ‘And how do you want me to do that, pray tell.’ In a mocking tone.

In t
he same way you changed a pile of dirty blankets on my room’s floor into a bed with a mattress, pillows, duvet and extra blankets - all new and clean.’ Bryan’s tone became almost pleading. ‘Please, Kraylle,’ he said. ‘I have a plan with all this… the new clothes and sleeping stuff.’ He waved an arm at the room’s arched entrance, the passage. ‘These boys: you call them your soldiers, but all they are, are hooligans really. What I want is to turn them into real soldiers.’ The boy’s voice was serious and Kraylle’s eyes narrowed.

‘Like sergeant
major…’ he searched behind Bryan’s eyes, ‘Barry,’ he whispered, cruelly. ‘Barry is your real name, isn’t it Bryan Stone? And you want to be like your father: like father - like son?’ His voice mocked - ‘Sergeant Major Bryan Stone?’

The boy shook his head
vehemently. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not like
him
. Never like him.’ His blue eyes flashed and there was fervid passion in his voice. ‘I want to be like you… Or as near as it is possible to be.’

Kraylle looked piercingly at the boy with the reddish glimmer in his hair and the pale-blue eyes
. Time seemed to stop for a minute, and then, without another word - just a sweeping glance of his brooding black eyes, the blankets changed into four thick mattresses, still wrapped in plastic.

The
y - hulking demi-god and boy - stepped into and across the passage, into another room. Another sweeping glance, and four more blankets became beds.

‘Anything else?’ the fur-wrapped giant asked his little general
, sarcastically.

‘Yes sir, three more rooms,’ answered
Bryan Stone. ‘And then a shower room.’

‘A show
er room!’ the demi-god exclaimed exasperatedly. ‘And…?’

‘A stove…
a microwave…’ Bryan’s voice tailed off - uncertain, and Kraylle’s black eyes lifted to the cold grey roof of his castle.

‘A proper bloody hotel
this place is turning into,’ he said; and almost as an afterthought - ‘Ye gods.’

24

Orson shook his head slowly from side to side
and took another step closer, causing the foot end of Thomas’ bed to press into the tops of his short legs. ‘That’s not what he looked like at all,’ he said, frowning at the poster of Merlin.

The sun coming through Thomas’ large window did not fall directly on the large picture, but it made the dark blue-blacks and greys shimmer with life.

‘Hamish knew him personally,’ and in answer to Thomas’ questioning look - ‘He was the fourth Traveller. He went back… oh, about forty years ago. Anyway…’

Thomas frowned
, confused, and Orson asked ‘What?’

‘Hamish?’ Thomas’ voice hesita
ted and Orson, eyebrows raised, nodded. ‘What about him?’ he asked.