Rainbow's End - Wizard (30 page)

‘He was the fourth Traveller?’

‘I said so, didn’t I?’ Orson frowned in turn, wondering where this was leading.

T
homas made some quick calculations, then continued, ‘So he was the Traveller about ten centuries ago?’

‘
Twelve,’ Orson replied. ‘From 886 to 920. In Earth time of course.’

Thomas nodded in turn. ‘But how could you have spoken to him
just forty-odd years ago if he was the Traveller some twelve-hundred years ago, and “went back”, as you said?’

Orson’s eyebrow
subsided. ‘Ahhh…,’ he said. ‘You thought…’ He smiled, ‘A lot of Travellers become “Wise Ones”, or “Dwarves”, as they’ve been calling themselves lately, first, Thomas. Then, after a few centuries; sometimes more than a few, as in Hamish’s case, they decide they would rather go back. They get tired. Even Chester has considered it a few times.’

‘You mean they want to die?’ Thomas asked, disbelief in his young voice.

Orson nodded. ‘If
you’ve
lived for a thousand years or more, maybe you’d feel the same.’ He cackled, added, ‘After all, the liver can only take so much.’

‘Anyway…’ He
waved one hand at Merlin and said, ‘He had a big dent on the left side of his head - he fell on it when he was a baby. Supposedly, that was what “opened” him. And he was short.’ Orson drew himself up to his full, inconsiderable height, pushing out his chest and squaring his shoulders. ‘And very thin: consumptive, Hamish said…’ Another second later, ‘Oh yes, he had bad teeth and his breath stank something awful.’

He turned around and stood facing the view of the valley, his hands in his pants pockets and rocking
back and forth on the heels of his sandals. ‘When did you change the view?’ he asked. He saw Thomas frown. ‘John told me,’ he said. ‘Rockham, wasn’t it?’ Thomas nodded. ‘Well, this is better.’ Orson went to the poster of Everest and stood looking at it for a long minute, then moved on to the one with the Pyramids of Giza. After a few more seconds of contemplation, he said, ‘You have an outstanding memory Thomas.’ He leaned closer, squinted. ‘I couldn’t have done it better, and I’ve been there dozens of times.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Orson
’s eyelid lifted a fraction but he said nothing, just grunted.

‘Ariana would like to see you,’ he said. ‘I think it has something to do with the little one.’

‘Maggie?’ Thomas asked.

‘Mmmh’ Orson grunted again, his attention on the
poster of the snow-capped, early spring mountains of Alaska.

*

They sat on the wide windowsill, both sipping contentedly from the cans of their soft drinks. Icy dewdrops stippled and ran down the metal sides. The sun was lethargic; the breeze soft and pleasing.

‘Orson?’

‘Mmmh?’ He wiped some drops from his mouth with the back of his hand and his patchy stubble made a scratchy sound.

‘Tell me about Gwendolynne,’ said Thomas.

Orson frowned - surprised, then asked, ‘What do you want to know?’

‘She taught you, right
? She was your… Sponsor?’ The last was said hesitantly and Orson nodded. ‘And you are the strongest Traveller ever?’ Orson nodded again - not shy. ‘That means she must have been pretty strong herself, doesn’t it?’ Thomas asked.

The old Traveller brooded for a minute, then said, ‘Gwendolynn
e was very strong. If she had stayed, she would have been incredibly strong - a lot stronger than me. Nobody knows where she came from, but the little memory Ariana
could
find, seems to point in the direction of an ancestry adept in Shamanism, Mysticism.’

‘What’s
...Shamanism?’ Thomas pronounced the word slowly, unsure about getting it right.

Orson nodded and repeated after him
: ‘Shamanism. I have a book on it you can read if you want. I’ve had it for as long as I can remember, just never got round to it.’ Then - ‘I never was one for reading much,’ he muttered, apologetically. He was silent then for a few seconds, mulling over Thomas’ question some more. ‘Shamanism - Shamans, are people with higher developed senses, I suppose. People with a higher level of awareness… that have access to the memories... and abilities of previous generations, forebears.’

Thomas thought about what Orson had said for a while, and then asked, ‘Like the memories and abilities you and Izzy gave me?’

Orson grimaced. ‘In a way, Thomas,’ he said. ‘A very small way. But we only gave you memories. The abilities - your powers - they come from somewhere else. Some of it - some small part, from your grandmother and her forebears. Gypsy’s have ties to Shamanism… Some say its origins lay with them. And to some of them, it is very much a part of life; if not a
way
of life.’ He grinned. ‘Like the one who caused Chester to land up here.’ Then, serious once more, he leaned forward so his face was close to Thomas’, his grey eyes serious. ‘You cannot compare your powers to those of Shamans, Thomas.’ he said.

‘You,’ he placed a hand on Thomas’
sandy hair. ‘You are a thousand times more powerful, and in a few years from now, your powers will be vast: wonderful or terrible - depending from which side they are looked at.’

*****

Something woke Thomas. A feeling: a change in the room’s atmosphere. Whatever it was, he was suddenly very wide awake. The night air coming through his open windows smelled of grass and flowers, and was pleasantly fresh, allowing him to sleep under a soft cotton sheet only. It slid off his chest as he scooted back and lifted himself on his elbows. The huge white cheese of a moon, cast a golden swathe across the shining top of his desk. It also cast an ethereal glow around the small man sitting cross-legged on top of it, hair and beard a ghostly halo. Thomas - surprised at being unsurprised - slid the pillow lying next to him on top of the one at his back, and moving further back, half-lay-half-sat against them and the beds headboard. He kept quiet, knowing words from him were not necessary. They looked at each other for a long silent minute, and then came the familiar sing-song voice.

‘I am the Keeper
of the Keys,’ Joshi said, fingering the large key dangling from its chain around his neck. Impossible as it would seem - in the half-dark and from a distance of five or six metres - Thomas could see the Magari’s facial expression (serious), and, he imagined, his wise brown eyes.

‘But I am also Rainbow’s End’s histor
ian, its scribe, its archivist - whichever you deem most suitable. I am also Ariana’s and her Traveller’s advisor. I say this humbly, especially in Ariana’s case. She is infinitely wiser than I could ever be, but sometimes two heads are better than one.’

He fell quiet, as if waiting, and Thomas
, puzzled, asked, ‘Why have you come here, Joshi? To my room, I mean.’

‘To answer that which you do not know, Thomas. What else?’ The wizened old face in the moonlight bore genuine surprise at
the boy’s question. ‘Remember - I am one of your teachers. Your training will take many, many years. And then some more… And one day, when you are either dead or a Wise One yourself, you will
still
not know everything there is to know about Rainbow’s End. I have existed here for thousands of years, and
I
still don’t. Neither does Ariana - goddess or not.’ He fell silent then, and after a while Thomas asked - ‘Anything? I can ask anything?’

Joshi
nodded sagely, and the halo surrounding his head shimmered. ‘Anything it is in my power to answer,’ he said.

Thomas thought about
the Magari’s answer for a second, and then asked, ‘The little people, Joshi. Where do they come from?’

‘No one knows
.’ Joshi shrugged. ‘They are as old as the Magic Forest itself. They have always been here. As far back as memory reaches. They don’t talk - except to each other, and as you saw, they’re extremely shy. We’ve had a curse or a virus, or something, on Rainbow’s End - for more than a thousand cycles. Long before Ariana came. We called it the “Barren Curse”. She has told you about it?’ Thomas nodded, and then Joshi too. ‘It caused the extinction of the Magari, and also decimated the ranks of the Little People,’ he said. ‘But thankfully,
they
seemed to have come through it.’

‘The curse is gone?’ Thomas asked, and the last of the
Magari nodded. ‘You are the living proof of it,’ he said. ‘Your mother was conceived here.’

Thomas took some time mull
ing over this last statement, and then asked another question - one which the hairy dwarf’s previous reply had given rise to. ‘Tell me about the Magic Forest, Joshi?’

The
Magari shrugged. ‘It is magic,’ he said, simply. ‘It is the home of the Little People and the home of the Fairies - you have met two of them,’ he added and Thomas felt his face go hot in the dark.

‘It is also the place where the ghosts of the
Magari dwell. A place of giant toadstools and talking trees.’ He heard Thomas audibly gasp, and Joshi held up one hand in the semi-dark. ‘Of vines as thick as Big John’s leg, and roots wider than he can reach around. It surrounds the Petrified Forest, which is only a few acres in size and where the Wise Ones - myself included - live. It is also a place, which is better to stay out of, if you don’t understand its mysteries. Many have gone missing in it, never to be found. The children are not allowed in its deeper reaches; the lower end of the valley is their limit.

‘More I will not say about it right now. You will not grasp
, or believe it in anyway.’ The silence between them was thick with disappointment and after a minute, with a sigh, Joshi relented. ‘The talking trees?’ he asked and Thomas nodded, eagerly.

‘Some of them
do
talk, Thomas,’ the ancient little man said. ‘Maybe all - I don’t know. I have been talking and singing to them for numerous centuries, and only a very few have ever answered me.’ He paused, and then added, ‘And only when least expected; but most needed.’

The last of the
Magari slid from the desk and onto the open windowsill. His white robe shimmered, and he said, ‘I will come again in thirty days - every thirty days - and we will talk some more.’ He swung his legs over; his robe flashed shimmering silver, and he was gone.

*****

The big man’s smile was genuine, and he stood to one side, then spread wide his powerful arms and said: ‘Welcome to my home Thomas.’

The door that said “Big John” in fat black print opened into his sitting room; the first and lasting impression was that of space and relaxed comfort,
the ambience of peace and quiet. It was immediately felt by Thomas, and he stopped and gave a small sound of delighted wonder at what he saw.

The room was rectangular in shape with a fireplace at one end
; some unlit logs stacked on its cast-iron grid. The mantelpiece was long and of dark marble; a huge mirror above it doubled the room in size. It was flanked by two paintings - a beautiful auburn-haired woman to its left, and a young girl - Maggie’s age, with John’s twinkly eyes, to the right. A long haired, cream-coloured rug lay in front of the unlit fire; on it, two large recliners - reminding of Orson’s - of brown leather, well-scuffed and well cared for, with rows of brass studs along their tops and sides; between them an oval-shaped occasional table. An exquisitely carved chess set and an unstringed violin on it. Two of the remaining walls were of dark wood with blonde inlays, sparsely hung with beautiful nature scenes; the remaining one taken up by a sliding glass door and a huge picture window. Both looked onto a placid lake with water as still and smooth as a pane of glass. It had a small pier and was surrounded by what seemed like thousands of pine trees, the sky above was a brilliant blue, with snow-capped mountains and wispy white clouds far away. Some birds were making conversation and Thomas heard the “plop” of a jumping trout, before seeing the rippling circles spread on the still surface some fifty metres away.

The big man placed a heavy hand on Thomas’ shoulder. ‘Do you like it?’ he asked and gave a deep, delighted laugh when those strange green eyes stared at him and the boy
whispered, awed - ‘It must be the most beautiful view in the world!’

‘It should be,’ Big John said, squeezing his shoulder. ‘It’s taken me a lot of years.
A whole lot of years.’

Thomas looked at him, puzzled. ‘Can you change your view…
I mean, can you change only
some
things about your view?’

‘Of course you can,’ John answered. ‘It is the same as with changing your whole view.’ They were still
looking at the lake, and one of the nearer pine-trees suddenly started growing until it was three times taller than those surrounding it. ‘Just focus on what you want to change and think it.’ John said. ‘The same as with changing a bed or a chair.’ The tree dropped down to its original height. ‘I find something to change almost daily: the pier might look too long or to short; more or less trees; more snow on the mountains; sometimes a boat; sometimes I feel like rain…’ Smiling and shrugging his shoulders.

He w
aved a hand at one of two closed doors, and said, ‘Let me show you the rest.’ The bedroom was shades of green and blue, the bed large enough for its large occupant; the view was of the Rainbow Pool and some children playing in it. Thomas thought he could see Gary sitting on its one bank, shouting something to one of the boys floating on a huge inner tube.