Rainbow's End - Wizard (37 page)

28

He
Travelled for less than a minute,
but the time-curve Thomas used, landed him behind Pine Cottage in the late afternoon. The sun’s position above the treetops to the west indicated at least another couple of hours of daylight. Winter had lost its hold and was officially over, but, as at Edith Carter’s house the previous day, the air still had a bite to it. Also, because Northumberland was further south and a bit warmer, more and bigger patches of green showed in the grass surrounding the house.

The cottage had been given a fresh coat of paint recently
, and its walls sparkled a clean white, its roof tiles cerise. The key to the back door was where it had always been, under the bristly Welcome mat below the bottom step, and the door opened soundlessly after Thomas unlocked it. Somebody had been in to clean, the last day or two, and the air inside was fresh, but warmer - cosier than out; welcoming and familiar. Strangely, a glass stood upside down on the yellow plastic drip tray, almost exactly where Thomas had left one when he left. It created the feel that he had never been gone at all.

He put his canvas bag on the sca
rred old kitchen table, and then walked slowly into the rest of the house. The passage was dusky-dark: the curtains of the rooms leading from it had been pulled closed; but the pine floor shone softly yellow-brown in the light falling through the frosted pane of the front door. The grandfather clock was ticking again; a deep, rhythmic welcome.

Grammy’s room was the way it always
had been: neat and ordered and everything in its place; and Thomas blocked the last images he had of it. His own was just as he left it, and to his stunned surprise, on top of his bed, the backpack and sleeping bag he’d left in the forestry cabin.

He pulled wide the curtains and his
posters came to life; his desktop gleamed in the sunlight falling across the room. The lounge was also as he had left it, right down to the unlit logs in the cast-iron grate. He opened the curtains of both windows - north and west - and friendly light found the room, highlighting the round dining room table and the worn sofa.

The small entrance hall was still crowded with the old clock and the
telephone table, and Grammy’s coat hung on its hook.

*****

The sun was still strong, but sinking towards the far-off Magic forest and mountains when Orson got to Ariana’s Pool. She was sitting on the Talking Rock, and he thought that she came out of the water a lot more often, as he sat down next to her; silently except for a tired sigh. They did not speak for a long time: it was not necessary. The finch came swooping over their heads, trailing a long green stalk of grass. He landed on his newest half-finished nest, into which he busily started weaving it - clambering all over and hanging upside down. When he’d finished, he raucously invited praise, and Ariana silenced him with a glance. Orson saw Tessie sleeping in the shade of the tree.

‘Thomas is missing
,’ he said then. ‘I’ve been looking for him all day.’ Forlornly.

Ariana gave a small nod and when she looked at Orson, her eyes were an even deeper
blue than normal. They were shadowed and sad, and she said softly, ‘I’ve been waiting for
you
all day.’ An unexpected little whirlwind dropped some red and gold-tinted maple leaves, from somewhere down the valley, on the pool’s surface, and they watched them slowly turn in circles and float peacefully downstream.

‘Thomas Travelled at first light this morning,’ Ariana said.

*****

He was sitting cross
-legged in the middle of his bed, various items strewn all around. Mostly clothes, but also a few cans of tinned food and some dehydrated veggies; powdered mashed potatoes, eggs and milk; two small bags of cornflakes; knife, fork and spoon set; a small flashlight… Everything was there. Everything Grammy Rose and he had so carefully - mindful of the limited space - selected. Even his wallet - with a thousand pounds in cash in it, rolled into a thick pair of woollen socks.

If not for the season’s passing, and the light switching on when he thought about doing it, Thomas could almost imagine that the past
few months had never happened. He switched on his small portable radio with another look, and was just in time to catch the weather forecast for the next day. A small male voice was saying - “And here’s what the weather holds in store for tomorrow, the tenth of April…” Thomas stared at the small box with astonishment. He had been gone for almost three months.

*

Later… It was as easy starting a fireball on the Earth as on Rainbow’s End, and Thomas lit the fire with one. He’d been sitting in the half-dark of the lounge for a half an hour or more; the only light falling through the open door of his bedroom and into the passage; its dim gleam in turn filtered into the sitting room. Earlier - not feeling up to preparing a proper meal - he’d had some powdered eggs, and then come to the familiar old sofa, where he’d been sitting ever since, staring at nothing and thinking about nothing, his mind dismally blank.

He heard a car stop outside
and a door loudly slam, and seconds later, a knock on the front door; almost immediately after, the ring of a discovered doorbell. He got up slowly, not knowing who to expect, and not ready for whoever it
might
be. The door had a Yale lock; Thomas switched on the outside light, and with both hands, opened it.

The man in the pool of the outside light had grey hair and a weathered face
: golf and salmon fishing. He had his black cap tucked under his left arm, and squinted into the half-dark of the house, then uttered an astonished, ‘Thomas? Is it you, boy?’

‘Yes, sir,’
Thomas said, and followed with - ‘Good Evening, sir.’ It was Sergeant Wilson, Rockham’s police officer.

He followed Thomas into the small lounge, all the while twisting and turning his hat in his large hands. ‘I thought I saw a light burning from the top of the road when I drove past…’

*

‘And this adopted father of yours: Mr. Greenbaum?’ Thomas nodded and the sergeant took a gulp of his coffee. ‘Is he going to join you here?’ he asked, and before Thomas could reply, said, ‘I’ve met him, you know… What a nice man - told me to call him Izzy.’ Another gulp. ‘He was here to arrange a stone for Rose’s grave,’ he dropped his eyes self-consciously and cleared his throat before continuing, ‘and to arrange for the house to be painted and looked after.’

‘Who does it?’ Thomas asked. ‘
Who looks after the house?’

‘
Marge does - from the village. Rosie’s old friend, the hairdresser. You remember her, don’t you?’ Thomas nodded.

‘I thought
she’d forgotten a light on when she’d left this morning…’ Sergeant Wilson took another swallow of coffee, and then, unable to contain himself any longer, asked, ‘Where were you Thomas, when… after Rose passed away? The whole of Rockham and Firham were out looking for you - for days…’

Thomas hated lying, but knew no other way out
. He replied, vaguely, ‘I really can’t remember, sir. I remember walking into the woods… and after that not very much. Those first few days are like a blank…’

Sergeant Wilson nodded his grey head sagely, knowingly. ‘Shock,’ he pronounced, like a d
octor the mumps. ‘Some forestry people brought your rucksack and some other things into the police station a week or so after you’d gone missing… We feared the worst. And then we were notified that you’d been adopted by Mr. Greenbaum - Izzy; and that the house now belonged to you. I just brought the rucksack and everything and left it with Marge. I hope there’s nothing missing…?’ Sergeant Wilson ran out of breath.

‘Everything’s there, sir. Thank you,’ Thomas said.

They talked for another hour before the old policeman, regretfully, replaced his empty mug on its oversized saucer, refusing another, which would have been his fourth. At the door he paused, and asked Thomas, ‘Would you like for me to come fetch you tomorrow? Take you to see where we’ve buried your gran? Rose…’ Awkward again.

‘I would like that very much, if it is not too much trouble sir,’ Thomas answered, and the
policeman nodded, ignoring the last.

‘That’s settled t
hen,’ he said. ‘Around eleven, all right?’

‘Eleven is fine, sir.
’

The
old bobby nodded again, adding, ‘Such a loverly stone, Mr. Greenbaum had them put on…’ then bade Thomas goodnight. The boy stood watching the car’s fading taillights, and listened to a gearbox rarely used above second gear, whine its protest into the distance.

*

Thomas put the fire out by simply thinking it, and after brushing his teeth in the cramped little bathroom, went back to the kitchen; locked the door (something unknown on Rainbow’s End), and switched off the light.

He lay in bed, covered by the same, but
not
the same duvet he had used at Rainbow’s End, and watched Merlin the Magician from an inverted position, the poster only a couple of feet above his head. Before thinking off the light, Thomas changed him to what he knew the greatest magician that ever lived,
really
looked like.

And slept, and dreamed: of sunshine and water
falls, and forests and mountains and mountain streams, of children and dwarfs, of eagles and dolls and a dog… And of a lovely young woman with beautiful eyes - who lived in the water and conducted an orchestra of crickets and frogs.

*

Sounds from the kitchen and the smell of frying bacon woke him, and when Thomas walked into the kitchen, there was Marge. The smile on her face when she saw him, crinkled her eyes, and she embraced and held him for a long time. Then stepped back and stood holding his shoulders, looking him up and down.

Marge
could have been Grammy’s smaller sister - with the emphasis on smaller. She had short dark hair with greying streaks, and the same flashing eyes - albeit for different reasons. She possessed a wonderful sense of humour and laughed a lot - at others, but mostly at herself. She was also a terrible gossip.

‘What a nice tan!’ she exclaimed. ‘And you look so healthy!’ She let go of him and gave a nice smile. ‘I’m so glad to see you, Thomas. Welcome home.’
Then turned back to the stove, and Thomas saw her pink something from the corner of her eye, before she spoke over her shoulder, ‘We can talk later, but right now you’d better go wash up and get dressed. Breakfast will be ready in five minutes and Sergeant Wilson,’ Marge glanced at her wristwatch, ‘will be here in about twenty. He phoned me last night to tell me you were back.’ Her normally happy face clouded over and she said, ‘He’s taking you to Rosie’s…’ she searched for words, but after a second, not finding any better, said, ‘grave.’ Softer.

Thomas nodded and turned to go back to his bedroom
, said, ‘Marge?’ and when she looked up from her task, ‘I’m very happy to see you too.’

*

Rockham… The marble slab and headstone were of white and grey marble; the headstone’s top inscribed with large lettering, which simply read: “ROSE”; the centre inlaid with a glass window the size of a paperback book, a picture of a laughing Rose behind it, and below, again, simply: “Roshalee Ross”, and her dates of birth and death. That was all, and Thomas sat on the grass next to her, and told Rose all about Rainbow’s End and the past months; about the done-up cottage, and Marge and Sergeant Wilson… But not about his fight with Orson, and about leaving Rainbow’s End for good; and not about
not
knowing what, or where to next… That would come later; maybe next time.

He had picked a daisy from one of the two bushes growing on either side of the small cemetery’s entrance gate, and placed it where he thought Rose’s heart would be. Then - after a look around to be sure nobody watch
ed, changed it into a beautiful yellow rose.

*

Firham…

‘Just walk behind and take out the one you want Thomas,’ said old Mr. Mackenzie.

Thomas had driven into the small town with Marge. They used Rose’s old Mini Cooper, which Izzy had given to Marge. Thomas had given her some money for groceries, saying it was from Izzy (blushing), before coming to Mr. Mackenzie’s barbershop to buy himself a new watch. The barber was sitting in one of his two barber chairs, reading a Louis L’Amour western with the aid of a large magnifying glass, and hadn’t bothered getting up when Thomas came in.

The boy went behind the glass showcase
, which reminded him of the one he saw at Louis Men’s Hairdressers, on the ground floor of the Rainbow Building, and after sliding open one of the overlapping glass doors, selected an inexpensive electronic wristwatch, which he took to the old man in the large leather chair.

‘How much?’ Mr. Mackenzie squinted at him myopically through glasses resembling th
e bottoms of old-fashioned cold drink bottles. Thomas showed him the tag, (which he ignored), and said, ‘Ten pounds, sir.’

He held out his hand, and when
handed a single note, folded it in half without checking its denomination, before putting it in his shirt’s pocket. He squinted again. ‘Do you need a haircut, Thomas?’ Mr. Mackenzie’s huge blue eyes blinked owlishly behind his thick spectacle lenses, and Thomas took an involuntary step backwards. Firham’s barber was known for his haircuts all over the county; his customers invariably left with one of two.

His memory was as short as his sight, and Mr. Mackenzie would sometimes do the same patch of hair repe
atedly - leaving one with a rat-eaten look; alternatively, and worse - he frequently neglected to do one side of a customer’s head, and stripped the sheet off said half-mown victim with a flourish, declaring him satisfied and as handsome as a newly-minted £1 coin, before demanding payment. During both of these ordeals, because of his poor eye-sight, he had to lean in so close that one could count the individual thick grey hairs sprouting from both his nostrils and his ears. Then forced to breathe the cloying smell of the Brylcreem he slathered his remaining hair with, and listen to his stentorious breathing whilst he bent to his task.

‘No, thank you, sir,’ Thomas said.

Mr. Mackenzie grunted and took up his novel again. ‘Well, come in before school starts up again,’ he said, ‘and give my regards to your grandmother.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Thomas closed the door behind him with a content
ed smile. At least some things - and some people - never change. The schools had re-opened more than a month ago.

He had been back t
hree days.

*

The woods were strangely quiet; the trees seemed suddenly small, the brown trunks in their long straight rows impersonal, the yellow foliage of a few months ago, now turned green. He heard a very few birds, and saw none. Not that he was looking - his mind was somewhere else.

Wondering about tomorrow
, and about the future. How long he would be allowed to stay at Pine Cottage: How long before Sergeant Wilson or Marge started asking questions he could not answer; questions he would not lie about… How long before William, his best friend from school, found out he was home and came visiting, and asked questions impossible to answer… For that matter - how long before he would have to go back to school, although, and Thomas gave a small smile; after his initiation ceremony at Rainbow’s End, he probably had enough knowledge in his young head to qualify him for several Masters, even Doctoral, degrees… How long before Izzy would send for him… and if a place in one of the Rainbow’s End children’s homes would be found for him… And, and, and… He touched the crystal, which lay warm against his breastbone, and wondered how soon
it
would leave him: it would not come off at all now, not even when he took a bath or a shower.

There were so many questions, and right then, in that place, no answers. He looked to the trees again, wistfully, wishfully…

*

It was Thomas’ fifth day back -
if you counted the few hours of the first as one, and he had early in the day (after leaving Marge a note), used the crystal to go back to the Forestry cabin. It was locked, and he used his handkerchief and some water from the rainwater tank, to wipe away the dirt on a pane of one of the two dirty windows, before standing on tip-toes and peering inside. It was just as he remembered; small, yellow foam mattresses… He sat on the single step for an hour at least; just staring at the large field of rocks in front of him, and remembering. Remembering a sick boy and a black-clad gang of young no-goods, and the ferociously protective old man who dared them… And then dared defy them.