Rainbow's End - Wizard (38 page)

The walk home was a two hour stroll through the silent woods, and Thomas was surprised at how close it really was. This time, he talked to the trees
. None answered of course, not even with a rustle of the wind...

He got home in time for lunch, and of course,
Marge was there.

*

Another fire was burning in the grate: more for the comfort it provided than the warmth. They were both on the lumpy sofa: Thomas with a mug of hot chocolate and Sergeant Wilson with a large whiskey and water (Grammy had kept a bottle for his sometime visits, and occasionally had one herself).

‘So, Thomas,’ the old policeman said, ‘tell me about the school you go to.’

He thought furiously for a few seconds, and then Thomas said, ‘I don’t go to school, sir.’ At the lift of the grey eyebrows, quickly added: ‘I have private tutors. Four of them.’ Visions of Ariana, Orson and Izzy, and Joshi, flashed before his mind’s eye, and he realized, with relief, that it was not a lie after all. Even more relieved when the Sergeant, staring pensively into the fire, took a large swallow of his drink, and gravely stated: ‘A very rich man indeed, is Mr. Greenbaum. Very rich…’ Nodding sagely at his own wisdom, and then, ‘So you’re on holiday, then?’

He didn’t trust himself to answer,
but Thomas felt himself blush when he nodded.

Another
drink later and the policeman left; and just minutes after, Thomas lay in bed, staring at nothing again, his mind somewhere else…

He closed his eyes, and t
he light went out.

*

Marge handed him a cup of tea, and Thomas thanked her, then said, ‘You don’t have to come in every day, Marge. Izzy - Mr. Greenbaum only pays you to clean and to keep an eye on Pine Cottage. Not to look after me.’

‘He pays me very well, he does,’ Grammy’s old friend sniffed. ‘And what else am I
supposed to do with my time anyway.’ She sat down with her chin cupped in her hands. ‘Tell us about the restaurant again,’ she said. ‘And that penthouse - on top of a building’s roof, you said it was?’

He’d
been back at Pine Cottage a week.

*

A few nights later Thomas was laying turned around, with his feet on his pillow, looking at Orson staring down from the poster, and telling the Traveller about his day.

He had again been to Rock-and Firham both
, and as on almost every other day, to Rose’s grave; leaving a fresh bunch of roses (daisies picked from Pine Cottage’s own little flower garden, this time). He had gone to the small local “Fish-and-Chipper” for lunch (good, but not half as good as Christina’s), and Sergeant Wilson had run him home in the late afternoon.

On their way
back, they passed the old manor house, and Thomas thought again how different it looked. It had been cleared of most of the ever-encroaching ivy, and looked less gloomy, even happier, than before.

‘How
are Mayor and Mrs. Ridley?’ he asked.

The
old bobby glanced at the big old house himself. ‘Oh, they’re fine,’ he said. ‘The mayor stopped drinking just about the time you disappeared; and missus Ridley’s singing and humming to herself all the time. Like a happy sixteen-year old, she is.’

The sergeant
didn’t stay for a drink, begging an early night for a change, and Thomas, after listlessly nibbling on the club sandwich Marge had left him in the refrigerator, took a long bath and got into bed. He twisted around and pulled the duvet over himself, and after a last look at the other posters - which now held images of Joshi, the Little People, the Dwarves and the Fairies; all with backdrops of Rainbow’s End - thought off the bedroom light and turned on his side. He had been back at Pine Cottage ten days, and was falling asleep when the telephone rang.

*

The heavy black handset was cold against his ear, and Thomas listened to the hiss of a long-distance call, or a bad line. ‘Hello,’ he said.

The voice at the other end was very small, and Thomas, with another part of his mind, wondered why Grammy had never replaced the old telephone.

‘Thomas? Thomas, is that you…? Thomas?’ Concerned.

‘Hello, Izzy,’ Thomas said. His throat felt dry and he leaned his forehead against the cool wall.

‘Thank the gods,’ Izzy said, and then - ‘I was so worried… Are you all right, Thomas?’

‘Yes, Izzy. Thank you.’ Thomas waited.

‘Thomas, we, I… I need to see you - to speak with you…’ and after a silent pause, ‘please.’

‘Yes, yes of course.’ Thomas turned his face so the cold wall touched his cheek as well.

‘Are you sure you are all right, Thomas?’ Izzy asked, his voice fraught with worry.

‘Yes, of course,’ Thomas said again, and then, ‘I’m sorry Izzy. I’m just surprised
… And half asleep, I guess.’

‘I woke you up?’ Izzy sounded relieved, and Thomas smiled. ‘No, but I was getting there. I was just fading away.’

‘Oh… I’m sorry.’

‘Who’s “we”, Izzy?’

‘I beg yours?’

‘We. You said “we”
need to speak with you. Who is “we”?’

‘There is
no
we
,’ Izzy said. ‘Just me, Thomas.
I
need to speak to you.’ Some more silent seconds on the hissing line, then, ‘I give you my word Thomas. Just me.’

Thomas sighed. ‘You will have to send a car,’ he said. ‘Sergeant Wilson and
Marge both see me every day, and they’d be very suspicious if I just disappeared again - if I Travelled. They’d have to see me leave.’

‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Izzy said,
then asked, ‘Will tomorrow be all right? My driver can leave within the hour, and be with you quite early. It’s a seven or eight hour drive, I think.’

‘Yes
. But wouldn’t he be terribly tired then? Too tired to drive back, surely.’ It was Thomas’ turn to sound concerned, and Izzy laughed.

‘Not Jones
ey,’ he said, ‘that’s his name - Jones. He only works nights, normally, and he’d love this job. He loves driving, can do it for twenty-hour stretches, if he wants. He has before…’

Thomas sighed again. ‘Tomorrow is fine,’ he said, and then
, as an afterthought - ‘Izzy?’

‘Yes, Thomas?’

‘Would you please send me something for Sergeant Wilson, and something for Marge? To say thank you. They’ve both been very good to me these past ten days…’ Thomas took a deep breath. ‘I will pay for it of course,’ and then, defensively - ‘I can. I have my own money.’

‘It is not necessary, Thomas,’ said Izzy, ‘to pay for it,’ and after a stubborn silence, a sigh. ‘Scotch or Irish?’

‘I’m sorry?’ Thomas was confused.

‘Never mind, Thomas
.’ Izzy sighed. ‘I will let you get back to bed now.’ And then, just to reassure himself, ‘Tomorrow, then?’

‘Tomorrow,’ the boy agreed. ‘Good night, Izzy.’ He replaced the handset, and
returned to his room, numb.

*

The two cars came slowly up the slight hill, the police Rover in the lead, labouring in second gear; and behind - like a great grey ghost, silently gliding, a two-toned Rolls Royce. Both stopped in front of the cottage, and Sergeant Wilson got out first, joining Thomas, who stood waiting at the garden gate.

‘Gentleman stopped in the village,’ he said, gesturing to the man
getting out of the other car. ‘Asked the way to Pine Cottage, so I thought I’d just bring him over here myself.’ The man was tall and thin, and reminded Thomas a little of Izzy, just younger. He wore a uniform of the same dove-grey as the top of the Rolls Royce, and fitted his matching cap onto a brush-cut of silvering black hair, before coming closer. He gave a little salute, and said, ‘Thank you, very much, Sergeant,’ before turning to Thomas and asking - ‘Master Ross? Thomas Ross?’

A bemused Sergeant Wilson lifted his eyebrows and Thomas blushed. ‘Just Thomas, please,’ he said.

A little bow from the man, and a nod. ‘Very well,’ he said, and then smiled. ‘My name is Jones - or Jonesey, if you will. Excuse me.’ He walked to the back of the big car, and opened its boot, closed it and came back with a cardboard case that tinkled as he walked. Writing on its side said - “Glenn Morach”, below that “12 Years old”, and below that “12×750 ml”. ‘What do you want me to do with this?’ the chauffeur asked, and Thomas pointed at the old policeman embarrassedly.

‘It’s for the Sergeant,’ he said, and Sergeant Wilson started sputtering,
protesting, ‘No, Thomas, it is too much… unnecessary…’

‘I know it’s not necessary, sir,’ said the
boy, ‘but it is something I
want
to give you. And it is
not
too much… After all,’ his voice turned conspiratorial, ‘Mr. Greenbaum
is
a very rich man.’

The law of Rockham’s eyes started twinkling and Thomas watched with a smile as he opened the Rover’s boot,
allowing Jonesey to place the box inside, and rebuffing him with a growled “careful”, when he irreverently, with another tinkle, shoved it further back.

‘Enjoy, Sergeant,’ said Jonesey,
closing the Rover’s boot and standing back, dusting his hands on each other. Then dug a small pouch out of his breast-pocket which he handed to Thomas. ‘This is for you as well,’ he said.

Thomas nodded his silent thanks,
and excused himself; and went back inside the cottage, to say goodbye once again.

The pouch was of black velvet with a small rainbow embroidered onto
its side. It opened with a drawstring, and Thomas upended its contents into his turned-up palm. It was a brooch: small and exquisitely made; with leaves of emeralds and green; its petals rubies and red; the whole dusted with tiny glittering diamonds to give it light and life. A rose. Thomas felt his eyes flood, and dropped the beautiful thing back into its pouch, pulling the string to close it properly. He had written Marge a goodbye letter earlier, and left it in an envelope addressed to her on the kitchen table; he softly placed the little bag on top of it.

He collected
the repacked backpack from his bedroom, and after a long last look around, not unlike three months ago, left the house. The Yale lock engaged automatically with a dull “cluck”, when he pulled the door shut behind him.

Before getting int
o the huge car - Jones held the back door open for him - Thomas was given a long hard hug by the grey-haired old Sergeant, who, with the unerring instinct of a forty-year policeman, muttered close to his ear, ‘You come back sooner this time, Thomas, you hear?’ He held the boy away from him at arms-length, and searched the grass-green eyes with his own blue ones. ‘Remember - this is also home to you, and everybody here, family.’ He gave him a little shake. ‘You hear me Thomas?’ Earnestly.

Thomas nodded, ‘Yes, sir,’ he said softly, and cl
imbed into the car before he could make a fool of himself. When he looked back from the bottom of the road leading to Pine Cottage, the policeman stood with one hand on his car’s roof, the other raised and waving goodbye.

Thomas waved back, but wasn’t sure whether it
was seen or not.

2
9

Heavy snow had started falling the night
after Thomas left
and only stopped with daylight the next morning. It left the valley with a foot-thick carpet of white: starting at the cave’s entrance and stretching away into the Magic Forest; covering the meadows and the slopes of the surrounding mountains, leaving just their tips exposed. Every day following, started grey and stayed that way; the low grey clouds too thick to let through any sun. Every night brought cold, and two or three more inches of snow.

The small herd of horses and groups of antelope
that daily fed off the valley’s lush grass had disappeared, either into the forest, or one of the smaller caves for shelter.

Birds only left their nests to forage for food, and were seldom seen.

The fish eagles also stayed close to their nest: one always kept the two eggs in their huge bed of twigs protected and warm; the other - when not hunting - could invariably be seen perched in the very crown of their tree, gloomily preening its feathers and wondering what had turned their world upside down.

At night, no crickets or frogs made music or sang
: It was too cold, and their conductor and queen had not been seen or heard of since the weather turned topsy-turvy.