The Sword Bearer (5 page)

John heard Mrs. Smith scurry from the kitchen door into the parlor and close the door behind her. He was absolutely sure Nicholas Slapfoot was up to no good. The parlor door was now closed and he realized he could creep past it unseen.

Holding his breath, he started down the stairs. He stopped momentarily when a stair creaked, but he felt certain no one had heard. He crept in perfect silence past the parlor, silently opened the front door that led to the street and crept outside. It was a clear day. The sky was blue, and a wind was blowing. His heart suddenly lifted. He turned to close the front door as quietly as he could, but at that point tragedy struck The wind pulled the door out of his hand and slammed it shut with a sound that seemed to John like a clap of thunder. He turned and ran for all he was worth for Ellor Street.

By the time he reached the corner voices were calling him back "It's all right, young John. There's nothing to be scared of, lad. You're goin' to be all right" That was Mrs. Smith.

And at the same time the reverend was squeaking, "Come back, my boy, come back! No one is going to hurt you."

But worst of all was Nicholas Slapfoot "Young John, young John Wilson! I said I'd come for you, an' I'm comin'. I'm comin' right now!"

John turned the corner and ran so that his feet seemed not to touch the ground. Peter's! Peter Shufflebotham's! He had to get to Peter's house for the four pounds. Peter would understand. He dodged down a side street and peeped back round the corner. No one had so far reached the corner of Pimblett's Place and Ellor Street He still had a chance if he ran fast enough.

In and out, down entries and among the winding streets he ran. At last he was hammering at Peter's door. "Mrs. Shuffle-botham! Mrs. Shufflebotham! Is Peter there?"

The door opened and a fat lady looked at him in amazement "John Wilson! Whatever's the matter, lad? There's no need to carry on like that!"

But at that moment John heard the voice of Nicholas Slapfoot "There 'e is! 'Urry up, Reverend. 'E's right 'ere, the mean little brat!"

John turned, astounded to see how fast the cripple could move. How had he known where to look for him? John was sure he had shaken all his pursuers off. In the distance he could hear the high-pitched squeak of the minister, "Wait oh, do wait! I can go no farther!"

John certainly did not wait but ran with all his might running faster than he had ever run in races for his school or his city, dodging down side lanes, entries, climbing over walls as the cries died down slowly behind him. He was breathless but thinking clearly. He was now near the Cross Lane end of Ellor Street where his favorite secondhand bookstore was located. If only he could get inside it unobserved and hide among the bookshelves, he could recover his breath and have time to think. He would not be far from the bus stop for Victoria Station.

When he reached the bookstore the door was open, and he slipped inside unobserved by his friend Mr. Bloomenthal, the owner. Quietly he made his way to the shelves at the back of the store, pulled a book off the shelf and did all he could to quiet his breathing.

In the bookstore there was silence. John's heart began to beat more slowly. The pain in his shoulder had died away. He stared unseeingly at his book, listening intently. Minutes, seeming like hours, crawled by punctuated only by the occasional shuffling steps of Mr. Bloomenthal (who was still unaware of John's presence) and the sounds of books being pulled and pushed on bookshelves. John's legs ached from standing so still.

When the door opened again, the bell rang loudly, and an agonizing jolt of pain shot through John's shoulder, causing him to drop the book he was holding. Old Nick's voice sounded, "We're lookin' for young John Wilson. 'Is granny died last night an' 'e run away. We know 'e sometimes comes 'ere an' we wondered if. . ."

"Eee, I'm right sorry to 'ear it. Nice young lad. Often comes 'ere but 'e's not 'ere now. Leastways I've not seen 'im. Shop's empty as far as I know . .."

But at that moment John sneezed, and both men moved toward the shelves at the back of the shop. In panic John turned to see a stairway leading down to a cellar, and with his heart beating wildly he followed the steps into a dimly lit room filled with piles of unsorted books. He could hear the two men approaching the top of the stairs. The pain in his shoulder was excruciating. A door at the back of the cellar seemed his only hope of escape and he seized the handle. It vibrated startlingly in his hand, but he turned it and advanced in desperation, suddenly finding himself surrounded by strange blue light He closed the door behind him.

Everything changed. His pain was gone. It was as though he had been dreaming and that now he had suddenly woken up. Or as though he had been awake but had walked into a dream.

His panic melted and in its place came the kind of feeling you get when you are inside a very large cathedral (if you've ever been in one). Although he could still faintly hear the voices of Slapfoot and the shopkeeper they sounded as though they were so far away that they no longer had anything to do with him.

His heart was still beating and he had the feeling that he ought to keep still and quiet, not because he was scared that someone might find him, but because he was in an important place, the kind of place where you are supposed to stand at attention and not move.

In spite of the blue light (a light that was inconceivably lovely) he could see nothing, nothing, that is, except the light itself. Yet he knew without being told that he was standing in a very large place. He could not even see his own feet, though he could feel vibrations on the floor beneath him.

Then came the gentlest rumble of thunder, the thunder of a quiet voice speaking. "Welcome, John Wilson. I am glad you have come."

To his surprise John began to cry. At least tears began to flow down his cheeks silently and his nose began to run a little. He fumbled for his handkerchief and used it.

"Are you afraid, John Wilson?" The thunder boomed majestically, echoing and re-echoing.

It was a thunder you had to answer. John found he was trembling, just like the floor to which his feet were rooted. "Yes. No—I mean, I don't know." And, silently, he cried more, releasing tears that were filled with relief and with other feelings he could never have named. He was afraid with a kind of fear he had never felt before. Yet in spite of his fear and his flowing tears he felt sure that all was well and that this beautiful, terrible place was also a place of safety.

"Why are you crying?"

"They're going to put me in some sort of orphanage and I don't want to go. Me granma died last night." These were the only reasons he could think of, but he was not sure that they explained his flood of tears. His handkerchief was getting wet and soggy, and he held it loosely in his trembling hand.

Suddenly he felt it being taken away from him, though he could detect neither movement nor sound around him. Indeed he could still see nothing except the impenetrable blue light Then warmth touched both his cheeks.

"What. . . ?"

"This is my bottle. You can feel it against your face," the thunder rumbled. "I am collecting your tears in it."

"Me tears? Why?" The words had slipped out of his mouth before he could stop them.

"Your tears are important to me. I intend to keep them so that they will never be forgotten."

There was a long pause. He did not dare to ask more. If anything the strange words made John's tears flow faster, and yet the warmth against his cheeks was comforting. Slowly he became aware that the rest of his face was dry and that the warmth was gently moving up his cheeks, drying his face as it did so.

"Who are you,... please, sir?"

"I am the Changer, the Unchangeable Changer. I am the Beginner-Who-Never-Began." The words made no sense, and John dared not ask for an explanation but trembled all the more. "You now know your mother died, John Wilson. Yet of your father I will not speak at present."

The warmth was just below his eyes now, and though he broke into a smile even at the word
father
he could feel that his tears, if it were possible, were flowing faster than ever.

"When ... I mean, when will you speak of him, sir, . . . please?"

"When the time is fully come," the Changer rumbled.

For a moment John thought of his Grandma's words, "When you're old enough." But the Changer's words sounded different. They made him a little more certain, more hopeful, that his father would be found. But doubts still lingered. He was suddenly conscious of the string round his neck.

"Please, sir, will I have to go to the orphanage? I don't want to. I really don't. Please, sir, if you don't mind."

"That is why I called you here," the thunder replied.

John wanted to say, "But you didn't call me. I just came." Instead he said, "You mean I'll have to go back to them? I don't mind Mr. and Mrs. Smith (though Mr. Smith gets drunk every Friday night) but that Slapfoot. .."

"No. You will not go there. You will not return to Pendelton for many years."

"What's going to happen to me?" He began to do his best to speak "proper" English.

There was a long silence. John began to fear that the Changer might be angry with him. But after a few moments the low rumbling thunder continued. "You are going to learn about things that can be changed and about other things that cannot There are things that I change and others that I do not change. Perhaps I will let you join me in changing some things I intend to change."

John felt bewildered. He was trying hard, desperately hard to understand what the Changer was talking about but in the end he sighed and shook his head.

"Please, sir." His voice was unsteady. "Please, sir, I don't understand." He was working hard on his accent though the thunder didn't seem posh in any way. But school habits died hard.

"No, John Wilson. The time has not yet come for you to understand."

Again there was a pause. John began to feel a little less afraid. "Where will I live? Who will look after me?"

"I will look after you. As for the place where you will live for a while, I took you there last night"

"You took me .. . ?"

"You thought you were dreaming," the thunder echoed, "but as you will see the moment you go through the door, you were really awake."

"The door? The door behind me?" John could still faintly hear Nicholas Slapfoot "He's in there, that Old Nick..."

"There is no door behind you now. It was a door I made for you. No other eyes could have seen it When the mist ahead of you clears you will see two lines of cherubim and beyond them a door. At the foot of the door lies a sword. Pick it up, open the door and go through it"

John took a deep breath. "Please, sir, what's on ..

The rumble of thunder began almost as soon as he had opened his mouth, "You will see when you open it"

John had the feeling the Changer was smiling and he laughed a little nervously. "Sir, I'm scared. Not very scared. Just a bit"

The air around him was clearing and the warmth was gone from his cheeks. His flow of tears had ceased and his face was dry. He could see that a floor of the palest blue marble was spreading outward in a circle around him as the blue mist withdrew. Fear seized him. "Sir," he shouted, "are you going away?"

"No," the soft thunder rumbled from somewhere close to him. "You will not hear me often, and you will certainly not see me. But I will always be near you."

The circle of marble was now huge and John began to wonder how long it would take to cross it.

"Sir, what do cherubim look like?"

The thunder sounded more distant, and John felt that in spite of his promise the Changer was leaving him.

"Start walking forward, John Wilson!" the voice was more distant yet.

Tremblingly John began to place one foot after another. He was still shaking and found that he was sweating too. A sudden thought came to him and he shouted, "Sir, you didn't forget your bottle, did you?"

Then he heard the warmth of a thunderous laugh that seemed to fill the universe with merriment, and though it grew ever fainter he found that without lifting him up from the marble floor, the laughter caught him up into itself. He began to run, laughing as he did so, laughing helplessly and stopping from time to time to hug himself with inexplicable joy, before running on again, laughing and knowing that the laughter was a kind of link between them, a link which would never be broken.

At first he hardly noticed the two columns of flaming fountains, lined like rows of burning poplars on either side of him. When he did so he realized that under normal circumstances he would have been terrified. But the terror had been burned out of him for the time being and he ran forward, still laughing, between the burning giants.

The door was ahead of him. He could see it clearly now. It was a small door, hardly big enough even for a boy to get through, and like everything else around, it glowed with pale blue light

Now he had reached it. "Pick up the sword!" the mighty voice of the nearest cherub called.

He had almost stepped on it in his mad rush. It lay at his feet, its handle jewel encrusted and its blade smooth and shining. It was heavy to lift. But the door was in front of him, and he leaped forward, the sword in his right hand. He seized the handle and turned it. lunging forward into total darkness.

He was sure that for an instant there had been light as he came through the door. But it was certainly pitch-black now. Blackness enveloped him. Sword in hand, he leaned back for a moment against the door through which he had come, wondering what he was to do next. A faint current of air on his face told him that he was under the open sky. Cautiously he extended his right foot and slithered across the ground, which proved to be rough and stony.

Holding his left arm across his face as protection, he took a cautious step forward. So far so good. But where was he? Where was he supposed to go? The Changer had told him nothing. He extended his foot again to test the ground in front of him, and this time sensed earth, stones and dead leaves.