Rainbow's End - Wizard (49 page)

‘I didn’t think it possible, truth be told,’ Orson continued. ‘There’s nothing like it in my memory
- and that means
all
Travellers’ memory, as you well know.’ He gave Ariana a challenging glare, just to be disconcerted by her smile.

‘Tell me everything,’ she said. ‘From the beginning.’ The last edge of sun slipped away, and all was suddenly shadow; stars began appearing in the darkening sky.

‘The first quake,’ Orson spoke hesitantly - as if searching for the right words, ‘broke up a huge slab of cement. There were three earth-moving vehicles standing on it: two lorries and a bulldozer. One of the lorries was tossed about twenty metres into the air. Like a toy.’ He shook his head, remembering.

‘The second tremor was st
ronger.’ Orson glanced at Ariana, but she remained silent, wrapped by the early dark. ‘A lot stronger,’ he continued. ‘As if he’d just been testing his capabilities at first, and was now ready for greater things, so to speak. It tore through the remainder of that slab like a thousand jack-hammers, and tossed the second lorry at least twice as high as the first. The impact when it struck the earth was tremendous… totally wrecking it.’ Another silent shake of his head.

The tip of the huge old moon peered shyly over the edge of the cliff, and then, slowly, it drifted into full sight. It stopped in the middle of the star-speckled sky, and hung there; its twin drifted in the water below Orson and Ariana’s dangling feet. More crickets joined the first, and downstream somewhere, two frogs began talking.

And Orson went on…

‘I did the sums,’ he said. ‘Thomas moved more than half a billion cubic metres of rock and soil into that huge hole. He half-filled it in less than half an hour.’ The Traveller glanced at Ariana again, to make sure she properly grasped what he was saying, then ruminated for a minute. ‘I used lightning to melt and solidify its bottom and sides, then filled it with water,’ he said then, deprecatingly. ‘It took me hours, and a lot of strength.’ As if to prove his point, he gave a ragged, drawn-out sigh, and leaned back on straightened arms.

They sat in silence for some time then,
both busy with their own thoughts.

‘Where is
he now?’ Ariana asked, and Orson snorted.

‘Sleeping, of course,’ he said. ‘We’re not all gods, you know.’

She nodded, suitably chastised, and they were companionably quiet again, staring at the floating moon and stars.

‘He’s getting stronger all the time, Ariana.’ Orson said then, unable to keep the pride from his voice. ‘All the time…’

40

‘Hardly home and she sends us off again,’ Orson grumbled. ‘I’m going to wring that finches scrawny neck one of these days.’

The bird had woken them an hour ago: First Orson, who had been snoring in his recliner after a late night of catching up on the life and woes of Basil Fawlty and friends; and then Thomas, still sleeping soundly after his mammoth exertions the previous day. Marcus and Andy Tanner eventually woke him with their persistent knocking, to tell the sleepy young Traveller that a finch, which had just flown out of the cave, had been fluttering around and clinging to his door-frame, squawking and kicking up a terrible racket. It had seemed stubbornly determined to get into Thomas’ room, and no amount of shooing and chasing could get rid of it, until, just seconds before Thomas opened the door, with an accomplished air about it, the bird had flown off. The brothers looked awkwardly embarrassed, as if recognising a tall tale when they heard one - never mind told one themselves. They’d been relieved when Thomas assured them the finch was a messenger, and he never doubted their claim for a minute. This
was
Rainbow’s End, after all.

The Travellers stepped aside to allow a policeman and woman, dressed in short-sleeved black uniforms and shining boots, astride two gleaming chestnut horses, to pass them. The officers gave the strange-looking pair not as much as a second glance: this was after all, Central Park.

T
hey continued on their way, and Orson waved his staff at their surrounds. ‘Five million shrubs and trees they planted here,’ he said. ‘Back in the mid eighteen-hundreds.’

‘I know,’ Thomas replied, without thinking, and earned himself an affronted look.

‘You carry on then, smarty-pants - tell me what you know of this place,’ Orson said with a snooty sniff.

Thomas looked the other way
, hiding his grin, and recited, as if reading: ‘Central Park is eight hundred and fifty acres, or three hundred and twenty hectares in size. It was laid out in the mid eighteen-hundreds, and opened in 1876…’

‘They do things big, these Americans,’ Orson interjected, grudgingly, ‘even back then.’

Thomas nodded and continued, ‘The park houses a zoo, an art-museum, an open-air theatre, and ice-rink, three small lakes, fountains, athletic fields…’ A deep breath, ‘…footpaths, bicycle-paths, children’s playgrounds, picnic spots… And a police-station,’ he finished triumphantly.

Orson grunted
, silently amazed at hearing the exact words in his head repeated to him - verbatim. He added, in a superior tone: ‘It was designed by Messrs. Olmstead and Vaux. They received a two-thousand dollar prize.’

‘I know,’ Thomas repeated, and laughed delightedly at his grandfather’s fresh glare.

It was Orson’s turn to look away - to hide his own grin. ‘Let’s go up here,’ he said, seconds later, when they reached a smaller path branching from the one they have been following. He led the way, and Thomas followed, knowing he was right; it felt right - their quarry was in this direction.

It was
fourish on a Monday afternoon, towards the end of April and a wonderful spring-day in New York. The two Travellers had arrived half an hour ago; astounding two Japanese students having a picnic, who’d sat gaping at them in open-mouthed amazement as they nonchalantly walked out of the clump of trees they’d landed amongst, brushing leaves and twigs from their clothes. Orson greeted them in their own language - which, to Thomas’ delighted surprise, he understood - and they (the students) abruptly closed their mouths when the old man warned them about flies. They’d been aimlessly wandering since then, and when Thomas asked Orson how they would find what or whom they were looking for, he’d replied, simply, ‘We’ll know.’

The two youths needed their hair cut and washed; their clothing too. They’d waited for the old man and the boy to be well down the path, before stepping from behind some trees and blocking their escape. The one was tall and thin, the other small and thin; they both had a ferrety look about them.

‘Give, old man.’ The once
bright-red, ironed-on heart on the smaller ones T-shirt, depicting the “love” in “I love New York”, was faded a sickly pink; patches had been peeled and picked from it - probably with the same grimy fingernails on the just-as-dirty hand held out to Orson.

The Traveller glared at him. ‘Give what?’ he asked.

‘Check out the eyes,’ Floyd,’ the tall one said, and Orson’s look swivelled in his direction.

‘What about my eyes?’ He sounded genuinely worried.

‘They’re falling out man,’ Floyd answered, and both young punks cracked up at this: the taller one holding his sides and leaning forward from the waist, hooting with laughter and repeating his friend Floyd’s remark, over and over.

The Travellers stood watching the clowns with long-
suffering patience, and at last, after a minute or so, the small one - Floyd - pulled himself together sufficiently to repeat his earlier demand.

‘Now give me the stick, old man,’ he said, stepping closer and holding out his hand. His eyes went to the crystal seated at its top. ‘What is that thing, anyway,’ he asked
. ‘What’s it worth?’

Orson stood straighter and pushed out his insignificant chest. ‘It’s a staff,’ he said, huffily, ‘not a stick. And the
“thing” you’re referring to is a crystal.’ He sniffed and his nose quivered. ‘It’s priceless,’ he said, as if to a fool. ‘It’s the only one in the Universe.’

His last remark caused some more hilarity, and then Floyd repeated, ‘Give it then.’

Orson shrugged and opened his fingers. ‘Take it,’ he said.

Floyd’s surprise was huge. He grabbed the long black staff, intending a quick get-away
, but instead was stopped before starting. The staff clung to the old man’s palm as if glued there, as immovable as any one of the numerous lamp-posts interspersed along the park’s many paths. With a last, violent attempt to dislodge it, he let go of the “stick”, and stepped back. His face was flushed and ugly, and after a quick dip into one of his greasy-jean’s pockets, and the press of a button, young Floyd stood holding a flick-knife. Its blade was wicked-looking and shining-sharp.

As if he’d been waiting
for exactly this, the taller adolescent produced his own, identical knife. ‘We going to stick them, Floyd?’ he asked, and the eagerness in his voice was pathetic.

‘Yeah.’ There was a taunting look in Floyd’s eye
s. ‘You take the baby,’ he said, and without further ado, they rushed in; silent and with knives flashing in the patchy sunlight filtering through the canopy of the trees.

And then they were screaming and falling and rolling on the path
, which had humped under and tossed them into the air; ineffectually beating at their aflame hands which they were suddenly unable to open, violently but vainly attempting to cast white-hot melting knifes from them.

*

They found him a quarter of an hour later, both Orson and Thomas, without a word between them. Like homing-pigeons, they were drawn to the solitary figure occupying one of several benches next to one of the park’s three lakes; staring blankly at a duck with ducklings, swimming placidly on the other side of the metal fence.

‘Orin?’ Orson asked softly, and the boy turned towards them
, unsurprised, as if expecting them. His hair was long for a boy: almost shoulder-length, and his eyes a deep blue: almost as dark as Ariana’s, Thomas thought.

‘Is your name Orin, young man?’ Orson asked, and the seated boy nodded
. ‘We’ve come to help you,’ he said then, and the boy nodded again, as if it was what he expected, and wearily got to his feet.

They came walking down the path, purposefully and swaggering, and the floating ducks and geese hurriedly swam away, sensing the menace in the air. Orson was alerted by Thomas, who put a hand on his shoulder. He made a small sound of disgust, when he saw the Night Walkers, and cast his eyes heavenward.

‘You’ve got to be joking,’ he said. ‘Twice in less than an hour?’

The Night Walkers came to a halt some ten metres away. ‘We’ve come for your new friend, Orson,’ Rudi said.

Orson gave a derisive snort. ‘Don’t test me Rudi,’ he said. ‘Not today. Some of your
ilk have already tried.’ He pointed the staff in the direction they’d come from; where they’d left Floyd and friend.

‘They’re in hospital by now, I should think.’
There was some whispering among the boys in black, and when they stood around, obviously undecided and glaring at Orson and company, the Traveller asked, again of Rudi, in a cutting tone, ‘Since when are you back in charge, in any way? Where’s your red-haired friend? Bryan, isn’t it?’ He gave a noxious sniff.

‘Bryan Stone’s gone to Italy,’ Rudi said. ‘Kraylle sent me because it was urgent.’ He gestured at the puzzled, but unafraid boy standing between the Travellers.
‘He couldn’t wait for Stone to get back; he thought
you
might already be here… And he was right.’ The hatred in Rudi’s voice had two targets: Orson and Bryan Stone, and the Traveller gave a knowing cackle.

‘You don’t like
this Bryan Stone very much, do you?’ he remarked. ‘Kraylle’s new lap-dog? Usurped crown-prince Rudi, has he?’

Rudi’s yellow eyes turned murderous
; his face an expression of hate. ‘I’m going to kill you, Orson,’ he said.

‘No, you’re not.’ Thomas surprised everyone by stepping forward. ‘Even if you could,’ he said, ‘and you can’t.’
Orson put out a hand to stop him, but the fire burnt like two green coals in the young Traveller’s very pale face and he shrugged off the older Traveller’s hand. And began walking towards the Night Walkers, with slow measured steps. And the ground began trembling, and the trembling became worse, the nearer he got to them, and finally became localized beneath their feet; bouncing and shaking and causing them to grab at and jostle each other, using all of their wits just to remain upright.