Rainbow's End - Wizard (31 page)

The last door opened into Big John’s workshop and some more magic. There were seven or eight small machines, of which Thomas only recognised a
mini-lathe and a bandsaw. All of them were used for wood work, judging by the sawdust and wood shavings strewn on the floor beneath. The window was open, showing a huge old tree, its massive trunk twisted and knobbly with the gnarled knots of anciently forgotten, broken-off branches. The grass below was very green and speckled with pink and white wildflowers.

The view however, in this case, was not the room’s best feature. The violins were. They hung on the walls and Thomas counted eight. All the same size, but all different. The same shape, but in some the wood was almost black, in others a reddish-brown; in one a knot was incorporated in
to its body. They were all beautiful, shone with loving care and carefully applied varnish. Two or three more lay on a large workbench; one still just a body - or box; another with no bridge yet. Thomas stepped closer to the one with the knot in its box. It was a satiny dark-brown, the knot a golden rose; not marring, but turning the ordinary into the exquisite. He was close enough to smell linseed oil and varnish both.

‘It is my favourite as well.’ Big John’s voice came from behind, and when Thomas glanced over his shoulder, he saw an animated look in the gentle giant’s
grey eyes.

‘Do you play, John?’ he asked.

‘A little.’ He lifted his huge shoulders in a deprecating manner, supported by showing the palms of ham-sized hands. ‘Just a little.’ A woodpecker started up somewhere in the tree outside, elsewhere a turtledove.

‘Will you play something for me?’ Thomas asked.

*

They were in the recliners -
Thomas dwarfed by his, and Big John’s seemingly tailor-made for his large body, the violin a toy in his hands. The fire had been lit and the windows closed, the curtains left open. It had started raining outside: a continuous drizzle which softly plopped and ran down the large window and door in a thousand small rivers, and brought the lake to life - millions of spattering drops turning its surface a hazy grey.

The music was
“Danny Boy”: the first notes soft and very slow. Individual and pausing, as if to allow the listener time to savour and think in between. They picked up slowly, in volume and pace, finally settling into a rhythm and style similar to that Thomas had last heard the great Nigel Kennedy play the same piece in. The notes were all beautiful - some short, most long, some impossibly soft but crystal-clear; others reaching almost palpably upwards in wailing cadence, searching, searching… before dropping again to a wailing, heartsick lament. And then suddenly - loudly shocking the listener back into the bittersweet of hopeless hope: then softly again… and finally dying, the whispers of a dying rose.

John was a master
, and when Thomas lifted his awestruck eyes from the bow’s and finger’s magic, the big man’s eyes were squeezed tightly shut, large tears running over his cheeks and settling in the grey curls of his beard.

*

Later. The violin had joined its unstringed brother on the oval-shaped occasional table; the fire made soft noises and Thomas and John were having coffee - the boy’s with condensed milk and very sweet, John’s black. Both were staring into the flames: both busy with their own thoughts.

And then John
picked up the unstringed but otherwise finished violin. He thoughtfully turned it around and round in his hands, before handing it to Thomas. ‘Look on its side,’ he said. ‘The side of its box.’ Thomas did.

‘Now feel it -
softly.’

Thomas stroked the ball of his thumb lightly over the polished grain. And felt it, returned to it because this time he knew what to feel for. The wood was flawed
, split. He lifted the instrument to his eyes for a close-up look. And saw a crack, only a fraction of an inch wide, stretching almost the entire length of the violin’s body. ‘It’s broken,’ he said. He looked at Big John who shook his head.

‘Not broken, no. Damaged, yes. Flawed…
’ He paused. ‘I keep that particular instrument to remind me of people, Thomas. We all have errors. Flaws… call them what you will. But we all still perform, albeit differently. Some strange, some unique, some different… Some just need a little work to bring out their best.’ John picked up the violin he had just played on and stroked his fingertips over the golden starburst, raised slightly above the otherwise normal exterior - like a beautiful scar, enhancing it.

‘I almost threw this one away,’ he said. ‘And look at what it has become. A little love; a lot of patience; a lot of work. The reward
- stupendous.’ He picked up the bow and produced a few magical notes from the beautiful instrument, then replaced both items on the oval table once more; before picking up his mug and taking a few contented sips of coffee, lost in thought again.

After a while -
‘Do you remember when I said I would tell you about Jason someday, Thomas?’ The boy nodded.

‘Well,’ John
pointed his mug at the flawed violin still held in Thomas’ hands. ‘Jason - and a lot of other people,’ he said, are like that violin you are holding. Some were born that way, some became that way; some through their own choosing, others not. Because of situations beyond their control: accidents, heartbreak, tremendous loss… Some have been hurt physically, like the violin you hold; some mentally, and they are usually the worst afflicted because we cannot see the scars and the cuts. It is much more difficult to begin to, let alone heal them completely… In some, the hurt is so bad,’ his eyes lifted to the picture of the beautiful woman flanking the mirror above the fireplace for a lingering look, ‘they refuse to ever face life as it is again.

‘
We all have a place, a corner of our minds we run to when life gets to be too much, Thomas. A place we hide in, where we can switch ourselves off.’ The big man took a deep breath and another sip of coffee. ‘Problem is,’ he said, ‘some people find so much comfort there, so much security - false as it may be, that they stay there. They never come back. Their bodies, yes; their minds, no. Jason is a typical example. Orson found him when he was just six. He was terribly traumatised… battered… He is now seventeen in Rainbow’s End years, twenty-eight in the Earth’s. But still a child: living in a world of his own, and as happy as can be.’

‘But what does he do here?’ Thomas asked.

‘Jason?’ John frowned. ‘Jason does a lot of things.’ He gave a soft laugh. ‘He has appointed himself Ariana’s official pool cleaner; never a floating leaf to be found when Jason’s around.’ Another soft laugh. ‘He cleans the whole length of the river - right into the Magic and Petrified Forests; keeps it free from falling branches and other obstructions.’

‘But is it
not dangerous?’ asked Thomas. ‘Going into the Magic and Petrified Forests? I mean… Joshi says…’

John shook his head. ‘Not to Jason,’ he said.
‘Jason talks to the trees. He also talks to the Little People. He is the only one except Ariana that understands their language; he’s also the only one in front of whom they are not shy. And the dwarves… well - he dances and parties with them, doesn’t he?’

He saw the incomprehe
nsion in Thomas’ eyes and said - ‘Time, Thomas. In time you will learn - and understand. Don’t force it. There is too much.’

He stood and
the boy followed. ‘And now it is time for an old man like me to go to bed,’ he said. ‘Thank you for visiting me Thomas. I really, really enjoyed your company. I hope we can do it again soon.’ His eyes went to the chessboard. ‘Maybe a game of chess one night?’ Hopefully.

Thomas nodded, but said, ‘I’m afraid I’m not very good at it. Grammy Rose used to beat me all the time, and she said that she was not at all good herself.’

Big John snorted. ‘Well, you’re a master now.’ Incomprehension returned to Thomas’ eyes and the large man explained. ‘Orson and Izzy are both masters, Thomas. And they gave you their memories, didn’t they?’

The young Traveller nodded again and Big John smiled.

‘Good night, Thomas,’ he said, and closed the door.

2
5

Edith Carter’s slate roofed farm house looked big,
even from a few hundred metres up. It and the few outbuildings: garage, workshop and storerooms, were surrounded by woods, and circled by a gravel road and lawns yellowed by frost.

Not wanting to be seen until he felt it safe, Thomas hung suspended in the rainbow
’s red beam for almost a minute before spotting a small clearing amongst the trees and landing at its centre with a small hop. Winter had gone - there was no snow left on the ground but it was still cold, and the thick carpet of browning pine needles underfoot reminded him of Pine Cottage and Rockham. He walked to the edge of the woods; the thick dead foliage felt springy under his shoes, and he stood silently watching for several minutes before slowly crossing the backyard lawn. The Red Crystal swung from its thick golden chain, which was braided through the fingers of one hand - ready for instant use. It was Saturday morning in Scotland, somewhere between eleven and twelve (Thomas wore no watch), and quiet. The house was of brick; the outbuildings of stone, and from none of them a challenge was called. The back door was old-fashioned Dutch: separated into two halves - the bottom closed, the top open. There were three steps, which Thomas mounted before looking into a spacious, modern kitchen. From somewhere inside came the sound of soft music, and when he knocked, one or two small dogs immediately started yapping. The radio was turned down or switched off and he retreated back down the steps and onto the lawn, where he stood waiting; listening to the clack-clack of approaching steps.

The woman was middle-aged
, fiftyish, and said, ‘Good morning,’ before shushing the dogs at her feet. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked then, frowning, and with her hands on top of the door’s bottom partition, leaned  forward to look over Thomas’ head; into the woods behind, and to his left and right. She saw nobody else, and nothing suspicious, and turned her attention back to the boy, some metres away, standing on her lawn.

N
ot much over ten, she thought, with straw-coloured hair and disconcerting eyes, the colour of lime green jelly. Dressed casually, in blue jeans and a navy turtleneck, hands in his white windbreaker’s pockets. His tennis shoes were new.

He answered with a “
good-morning” of his own, and she had the strangest feeling that those strange eyes looked into, and not
at
her.  ‘Are you Mrs. Carter, ma’am?’ he asked, politely, and the woman nodded, wordlessly. The boy smiled and his teeth were very white. His next question would have been a possible threat, had it not come from one so young. ‘Are you alone, Mrs, Carter?’

She nodded again
, and then amended. ‘Me and the dogs.’ She leaned forward once more and looked into the woods again. ‘Where have you come from?’ she asked, perplexed, and then - ‘How did you get here?’

The boy
smiled again. ‘I’ve come from a secret place, Mrs. Carter,’ he said, and Edith Carter gasped. They were the same words the old man on the telephone had used a few days ago, when she had asked him where Maggie was. ‘And I flew here,’ continued the boy; his smile amused but sincere, not insolent.

‘
My Maggie…’ Edith Carter opened the bottom door and stepped outside. ‘Do you know where my Maggie is?’ Imploring.

‘Yes.’
The boy nodded, and then said, ‘My name is Thomas, Mrs. Carter. Thomas Ross. Can we talk?’

*

The loveseat hung suspended between the trunks of two big old pine trees, its frame fashioned from the same wood, with a thick, long cushion to sit on. They shared it, and faced the back of the sprawling house. A hen with a clutch of fluffy golden chicks had come marching from around a corner and they were scratching and pecking around the yellow grass, here and there finding a small clump of green shoots, heralding the beginning of spring. Their clucking and cheeping carried on the slight wind, which was just chilly enough to be uncomfortable.

‘Tell me about Maggie,’ Edith Carter said and Thomas turned his attention to her.
She was wrapped snugly in a warm looking woollen coat, which she’d fetched when Thomas refused to come in. Around fifty: a nice face - “Lived in”, Grammy would have said, strong jaw and nose, curly red hair cut fashionably short, pansy-blue eyes just like Maggie’s. Tallish but not overweight. Not athletic either, but comfortable. Not matronly, but motherly.

‘She is very happy,’ he said
, ‘and she has stolen a lot of hearts.’

Edith
Carter gave a sad, soft smile - remembering. ‘She does that, doesn’t she?’ she said then.

A scene, some days ago
, Thomas wasn’t sure how many - they all seemed to run into one another - came to mind. Arnold, Frieda and Maggie had all come walking up the incline towards the cave opening: Frieda carrying a blanket; Arnold laden with a large icebox and an even larger picnic basket, puffing; and Maggie, skipping ahead on short legs, face radiant and rambunctiously shouting “Thomas!”, when she saw him sitting on one of the benches flanking the huge oval-shaped entrance; clambering onto it and joining him without being invited to. Then - breathlessly telling him, her small voice joined by wild gestures of hands and arms, of their wonderful “pignic”; the food (copper freckles showed through dried ice-cream smears); the funny Arnold (talking in a parody of the chef’s south end French); the huge fish that had gobbled up the potato crisps she had thrown on the water; the beautiful young woman who had come walking out of the pool; the high tree branch that had lowered itself to almost ground level, allowing Maggie to see into the nest built on it, and reverently (as demonstrated by a very small fingertip feather-softly tracing along Thomas’ forearm), stroke the wispy down on the baby birds small, strange-looking bodies - their necks thin and long, their tummies hugely distended. Her tightly squeezed-shut eyes and wide open gaping mouth, croakily squeaking voice and flapping elbows, miming their begging for food. Maggie’s lack of guile and her total happiness was overwhelming at the best of times.