Ellen Under The Stairs (6 page)

"And we got it out of Paul why he was
so nervous? That he'd heard I'd bought a haunted house, and didn't
know how to tell me?"

She nodded.

"It wasn't long after that that I
found the house wasn't so much haunted, as ... noisy."

"Noisy?"

"I discovered that ... the 'ghost'
sounds ... were coming from a storage area under the hall stairs."
John paused. Found the going easier now that he'd begun. "Heard
rain. ... chanting."

"Chanting?" Said with interest,
Ellen's eyebrows arching, her blue eyes wide.

"It was just about that time that I
lost Cream."

"Lost ... this kitty?" Ellen looked
concerned, even though Cream was clearly fine.

"That's right. I lost her ... under
the stairs.

"When I bought this old house, it was
unbelievable dry. No one had lived here for decades, probably
because of the house's evil reputation. Just walking around, Cream
charged herself with static electricity.

"One day when I had the storage door
open, Cream darted in there ... and disappeared." John stopped.
Started again. "And here's the strange part. I couldn't see her ...
but I could hear her mew.

"Crazy as it sounds, that gave me the
idea there was another 'reality' that could be entered by getting
charged up with static electricity and going under the stairs, that
space a kind of passageway between here and there.

The hard part over, the rest of the
tale tumbled out. The van de Graaff. The dead Mage, Melcor. The
crystal. The bands, each with different gravity. Eyeland. Golden --
singer, gymnast, rope walker, knife thrower, burglar, and pretender
to the Malachite throne. Zwicia -- though who could explain
her?

John's rambling coming to an exhausted
close, Ellen looked at Paul.

"Not a joke?" she asked, the rich
timber of her voice sounding small, even in the quiet
room.

Neither of the men spoke.

"Not a joke," Ellen whispered. "Not a
joke ... and something more?"

Without further explanation, John
stood. Walked to the package by the fire. Brought it
back.

Unwrapping the paper, he took out
Platinia's black robe. Spread it on the coffee table.

Paul bent to look at it. Shrugged.
"Woven. Looks like its been made by hand."

Settling back, he grinned. "Could have
been woven by some Indian tribe in South America."

"How about these?"

John took out both his and Platinia's
hand-made shoes, putting them on top Platinia's robe.

"Impressive, but ...." Paul waved them
away, as well.

Like any good showman, John had saved
the best for last. "And ... this?"

With a flourish, John took out
Platinia's under-robe of Cinnabar silk.

Unrolling the robe fully, he floated
it on top the clothing pile.

"Ah," Ellen said, bending over as far
as her "baby burden" would allow, first to smooth the white cloth
with both hands, then to feel it between thumb and forefinger.
"Look at this, Paul.

Paul bent down to touch the robe.
Shrugged again.

"I've never seen anything like it."
Ellen was impressed.

"A robe's a robe."

"But this is finer than silk. And I
know silk." She looked up at John, eyes sober. ""You get more of
this, and I'll open a boutique that will make us rich."

"It's special there, too. Fit for
Mages. Kings. Etherials -- a title that needs explanation. It's
called Cinnabar silk. Comes from the band of Cinnabar; unknown
territory for the most part. Cinnabar's the outermost ring-country
of the other world. Super-light gravity to hear people tell of it.
Under a red sky. Most are scared to death to go there; talk in
mystic terms about 'The Cinnabar.' Call it the land of the
'flyers.'"

"Wishing to convince us of your
travels," Paul interrupted. "Don't I remember that you have another
proof of passage?"

He meant Platinia.

And he was right. Time to produce the
girl, whether she liked it or not, Platinia the reason for this
"war council" after all, John needing all the advice he could get
about what to do with her. Quiet advice.

"By accident," John said, aiming that
fib at Ellen, "I brought someone back with me. A girl. A girl named
Platinia. Only to find that I don't know what to do about her. And
to make things worse, she barely understands me with I try to tell
her something. It's a matter of the lack of magic here, magic
automatically translating foreign language there. You should have
heard me try to explain to her how to wear the clothes I bought
her. She had no concept of what goes on ... first." John felt
himself blushing. Hoped Ellen and Paul wouldn't notice in the
semi-dark room.

Ellen was nodding. A hint of smile on
her lips that John hoped was sympathy.

With a quick move to end his
embarrassment, John excused himself to go up stairs.

And there she was on the bed, Platinia
seeming not to have twitched since he'd left her to let in Paul and
Ellen.

"I want you to meet these people,"
John said, Platinia still as stiff as a cadaver, legs together,
arms rigidly at her sides. Lying there in the colorful blouse and
pair of jeans he'd brought her, she looked like a sulky twelve year
old. "Friends of mine. Only two of them. A man and his
wife."

"A ... woman?" Platinia turned her
head to look up at John.

"Ellen. That's her name. You'll like
her. She's here to give me some advice about what clothes to buy
for you. What you might like to eat."

And finally, responding like she did
to direct commands, slowly, as if he'd used a whip to break her
will, Platinia struggled to sit up; made it; her arms trembling
with the effort. Weak, but also playing the martyr.

John felt sorry for her, though. Sorry
she was suffering so much from what, to her, must seem to be
crushing gravity. Sorry, because she was pathetic
Platinia.

Relenting, John walked over to the bed
to take her hands, to help her stand.

Arm around Platinia's waist, he
supported her down the single flight of stairs, then into the
living room.

Ignoring the Hamiltons for the moment,
John scooted up one of the big chairs and backed Platinia into it,
helping her to settle herself, Platinia drawing up her child's legs
beside her.

In silence, John crossed to sit in his
own chair.

"Hello," Ellen said softly, trying to
avoid staring at the frightened girl, but managing to get a good
look at her all the same.

Paul just ... sat. Though he'd been
convinced before that John had been to Stil-de-grain, seeing this
strange girl had stunned him. You didn't brush Platinia aside like
hand-woven cloth, something too undeniable ... alien ... about
her.

"This is Ellen," John said, indicating
Paul's wife. "And Paul."

Platinia sat, arms wrapped around her
legs, knees pulled to her chest.

Ellen took a breath. Held it. Then
continued. "If you could have anything you wanted, what would you
like?"

She doesn't speak much English," John
put in. "And there's no magic ...."

"Home."

"You want to go home," Ellen repeated,
getting a barely perceptible nod from the small girl.

"So?" Ellen was looking at
John.

"That's the plan as far as I'm
concerned. Unfortunately, we were run out of Stil-de-grain. So it's
best to let the other world cool off a bit. Maybe a week." John
held up his hand as Paul was about to protest. "I have no intention
of going back for any length of time. But I just can't charge up
Platinia and push her under the stairs. It's a matter of ... honor,
if you like. Like taking the same girl home you've invited to the
prom.

"Seriously, I want to make sure its
safe to leave Platinia in Hero castle." He hurried on. "I don't see
that as a problem. Just to go back with her. Get in. Get
out."

"About clothing for Platinia, I could
do a little shopping," Ellen volunteered. "I'd like that. I've
never gotten to shop for an older girl. It'd be fun."

"That great!"

"Look," Ellen put in softly,
pointing.

Platinia.

Asleep in the great chair. Tousled
hair above her pretty-child face.

"I know," John whispered
sympathetically. "Imagine how tired she gets. Weighted down as she
must feel."

"Though it'll be a stretch," said
pregnant Ellen, dryly, "I'll do my best to imagine how 'weighted
down' she feels."

* * * * *

Home from school, the first thing John
did was call, "Platinia?"

He took off his coat, hanging it on a
wall hook in the short entrance way. Draped his scarf over the same
hook. "Platinia?"

Probably upstairs. Asleep.

Climbing to second, a quick peek in
his bedroom showed him she wasn't asleep on the bed.

He crossed the hall to assure himself
she wasn't in the spare bedroom -- though what she'd be doing in
that room, he couldn't guess. He used it for storage space. Had
shoved some boxes of junk in there, plus a couple of pieces of his
parents' furniture he hadn't been able to use.

In the up stairs hall again, looking
past the bedrooms, John saw that the door to the antique bathroom
was open. No Platinia in there.

All possibilities checked off on
second, John trotted down the stairs, feeling good physically but
beginning to worry. If Platinia wasn't sleeping on the living room
couch ....

And she wasn't. Nor was she in the
kitchen. Or in John's den.

Entering the front hall again, John
had a wild thought. Was it possible Platinia had found some way to
use the static electric generator he'd left under the
stairs?

No.

The triangular door under the hall
stairs was closed and the catch in its keeper. Since the door could
be fastened from both inside and out, she could be back
there.

Just to be certain, getting down on
his knees on the hall floor John unlatched the door and looked
inside. .... No tiny girl to be seen.

Meaning ... no Platinia!

Latching the wedge-shaped door,
standing, John out of places to look, he felt his heart begin to
skip beats. No need to panic, he told himself. At least, not
yet.

To settle himself down, John forced
himself to cross the hall. To go into his den. Made himself sit in
his familiar chair. At his familiar desk.

Something had happened to
Platinia.

Someone?

No. He didn't believe anybody had
kidnapped little Platinia. If a stranger had been in the house,
something would be out of place. And nothing was.

No.

Platinia had wandered off.

Wandered off and gotten
lost?

John couldn't make himself believe
that. There was no way she could lose her way in the scraggly patch
of woods surrounding the house.

Slowly, deliberately, head in his
hands, elbows on his desk, John reviewed the possible explanations
of Platinia's disappearance. Could come to no other conclusion than
that Platinia had ... run away.

Run away became she was terrified of
being here!

But to leave the house knowing she
would enter a world where she lacked the most basic of survival
skills?

John had only one thought. Phone
Paul.

And John was up and striding across
the front hall into the living room.

Sitting quickly on the far end of the
divan, he picked up the phone and dialed his office. If only Paul
.....

Five rings. ... Six. ... And the
receiver at the other end was picked up. "Paul
Hamilton."

"Paul, it's John.

"How 'ya doin'?"

"Listen Paul, I need to talk to
you."

"Any time, my son," rumbled Paul,
being fatherly. "But I'm on my way to a meeting with the Dean. I
was already out of the office when I heard the phone. Had a devil
of a time getting my key out and the door unlocked. Figured I'd get
to the receiver just as the other party hung up."

"It's about Platinia."

"Platinia?" Paul sounded less harried;
and more interested.

"She's ... missing."

"What does that mean?

"It means what it says. She's run
off."

"Where?"

"I don't know. And the worst of it is,
she wouldn't know, either. She's scared. Scared of this world.
Scared in general."

"Right."

"And I don't know what to do. I have
no idea how to go about finding her. I can't even call the police.
What would I tell them? Officially, she doesn't exist in our world.
She doesn't' have a birth certificate. No security card. No ...
past. She might not even have fingerprints, for all I
know."