Rainbow's End - Wizard

Rainbow’s

End

-Wizard-

Rainbow’s End - Wizard

Copyright
© Cornelis Coetser 2013-10-07

All Rights Reserved

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and places are a product of the author’s imagination; and no resemblance or referral to actual persons, living or dead, intended.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or stored; or transmitted, or copied, in any form: electronic or otherwise, without the written permission of the author.

Jacket Design by

Suné Coetser©

To Riaan. Wherever you are little brother, may the wind always blow gently on you...

And to Suné, who always believed. Even now...

Part I

Be
fore…

       Ariana’s Pool.  Rainbow’s End…

The water in the pool was crystal-clear: clear enough for one to single out any of the thousands of pebbles strewn across its bottom, also the emeralds, rubies and sapphires shimmering amongst them. It was clear enough to use as a mirror, and the old man did. Often.

He’d chosen an emerald this time, a beautif
ul, large stone, glittering green. Turning his head first this and then that way, then swaying slowly back and forth, very slowly... placing it just right: ...Almost there...almost... A little left. Whoa, whoa!! Down a bit... down! Stop! Stop right there!... The stone floated right in front of his tightly closed left eye, and the old man froze, holding it there. Gods, you’re ugly, he thought, and giggled delightedly.

‘Orson.’ The water surrounding his reflection rippled, distorting it.

He snorted and sniffed and looked at the young woman standing on the water accusingly. ‘What?’ he demanded.

She sighed. ‘You heard me the first time, Orson,’ she said.

He nodded, slowly, then stuck his hands in the pockets of his tatty Bermuda shorts and looked into the clear skies overhead, very interested suddenly in a pair of fish eagles endlessly floating on the thermals high above.

‘Orson...’

‘What...?’ he almost shouted, and before she could answer - ‘Do you know what the weather’s like over there?’ He waved one wild arm in no particular direction. ‘In Northumberland, in Northern England?’

‘No, Orson, I don’t.’ Another sigh. ‘I am sure you are going to enlighten me though,’ she added.

The old man glared at her for some time, making his eyes bulge until they seemed on the verge of falling from their sockets. Then he stuck his arms out sideways, and made drizzling motions with his fingers. ‘Snow, Ariana,’ he said, in a theatrical whisper. ‘Lots,’ he shook his dangling fingers harder, ‘and lots of it.’

The young woman stood silent for some
seconds, then gave a little shrug. ‘So?’ she asked.

He lost it then, the old man did; went apoplectic. ‘So?!’ he screamed. ‘So?!’
He turned to a lone willow tree some ten metres away. A single, half-built nest hung from one of its long, supple branches, and below it - hanging upside down - a single yellow finch. ‘So, she says!’ he screamed at the bird, which ignored him, used to his histrionics. ‘She wants me to die, I tell you!’ He pointed at the girl standing on the water, accusingly. ‘Sending me out into the gods know where; into snow as deep as houses; ...into the freezing cold...’ The last was blubbered, beseeching. The finch, with an arrogant squawk and not as much as a compassionate glance, flew off in search of another stalk of grass, followed by the old man’s hateful stare. He turned back to the girl.

‘No
,’ he said.

‘Orson...’

‘No,’ he bulged his eyes again. ‘Not tonight.’ Enlightenment struck, and he added: ‘Anyway, tonight’s “Fawlty Towers”. You
know
it, and you
know
I never miss it.’ Vindicated.

Her
new sigh was almost a groan. ‘You have “Fawlty Towers” on DVD, Orson. You can watch it any time you want.’ She added, ‘And don’t do that thing with your eyes. You know it doesn’t scare me.’

‘I want to watch it tonight.’ Obst
inate; then, relenting a little. ‘I’ll freeze, Ariana. I’ll get lost, and I’ll freeze, and I’ll die.’

Ariana shook her head, slowly. ‘You know you won’t Orson. You can take Tessie
, and your fur coat, and your new boots...’ Her voice tailed off, then: ‘And you
are
a Wizard, aren’t you?’

He thought Ariana’s remarks over for a silent minute; then Orson gave a loud sniff. It made his fleshy nose wobble, and he said, ‘Well
... I see there’s no reasoning with you today, so I’ll come back tomorrow. Early.’ He turned and walked to the edge of the large flat stone he’d been standing on, and was about to step off it when Ariana’s voice stopped him.

‘Orson?’

He stopped and looked heavenward for a few drawn out seconds, then gave a long-suffering sigh and turned back to the water. ‘Yes, Ariana?’

‘If you don’t fetch him tonight, Orson,’ she said, ‘the boy will die.’

***
**

Northumberland.  England

‘Grimple.’ The voice at the other end was abrupt
, its tone no-nonsense, rude even.

‘Mr. Grumpy?’
Thomas heard a sputtering sound, and repeated, ‘Mr. Grumpy? This is Thomas Ross, sir. From Pine Cottage?’

‘Yes
, Thomas?’ Impatient.

‘It’s Grammy, sir
. Grammy Rose? She said to phone you…’ Thomas’ voice got softer.

‘Yes
, Thomas?’ Grimple’s voice was less abrupt than before, in it, a hint of trepidation.

‘She’s dead, sir
.’ Thomas’ voice was just a whisper. ‘Grammy’s dead…’ He felt his throat close up again, as it had done numerous times in the last few hours, and slowly returned the handset to its old-fashioned cradle. It began ringing almost immediately, but he ignored it; it would be Mr. Grimple, phoning back. He was Grammy’s solicitor, and also their landlord.

Thomas stood
in the cramped entrance hall, which wasn’t much larger than a big closet, really. Apart from the front door, two doors led out of it: one into a small, but cosy, sitting-room, the other into the passage. He could see through both. A fire had been set in the smoke-blackened fireplace of the sitting room the day before, but not been lit. A lumpy old sofa stood in front of it. It was covered by a handmade, needlepoint bedspread, and brought a thousand memories to mind: memories of cold winter nights curled up - half-submerged, really - in its springy softness, watching the hungry yellow, red, and blue flames, lick at and consume the fragrant pine logs; and listening to Grammy’s mesmeric voice telling of fantastic faraway places, and the people and creatures living there. His eyes started burning again, and Thomas squeezed them tightly shut - fighting back the tears that threatened to spill from them. He walked into the passage, to his bedroom.

The small, single-storied cottage had only two,
of which his was the largest. Grammy Rose used to say that young people needed space to grow in, and their imaginations space to fly in. He stood just inside the door and let his eyes slowly take in and savour that which, until then, had made up such a large part of his young life.

A l
arge casement window took up almost half of the outside wall, and beneath it, the polished top of his desk gleamed golden soft in the feeble half-light of the mid-winter’s morning. A large throw rug covered most of the wooden floor; on it - pushed against the far wall - Thomas’ three-quarter sized bed. It was covered by a thick, heavy patchwork quilt, and the boy, who had hardly slept the night before, longed to climb under its soft, familiar warmth, and simply close his eyes. His gaze lifted, meeting the eyes of his heroes, staring from shadowy posters on still half-dark walls: depicting scenes from “The Lord of the Rings” and “King Arthur”. Merlin the Magician had the place of honour, at the top of the bed’s headboard, and like so many times before, Thomas wished he could talk.

The telephone
’s ringing stopped, and the house was suddenly, eerily quiet. Grimple’s next call would be to Rockham, Thomas knew: to Sergeant Wilson, the small village’s only policeman. It was only three kilometres away, and because of the cold, the old bobby would probably forego his bicycle, and drive out in the council’s battered old Rover. It shouldn’t take him more than ten minutes, the boy thought to himself, and after a last, lingering look at his own little world, hefted the heavy backpack standing in the corner behind his feet.

It had been packed more than a month ago, and they
- Grammy and himself - were very careful about what to leave in, and what to leave out. It remained heavy - that couldn’t be helped - and cumbersome; the thermal sleeping bag tied to its bottom making it worse. He half-carried, half-dragged it into and down the short passage, passing Grammy’s bedroom door on his way; through the small kitchen, leaving it at the back door. Going back to the front entrance, he took - with a guilty twinge - Grammy’s leather coat off its hook next to the door, then re-traced his steps. He stopped outside her bedroom door this time, but did not go in. They had said all of their goodbyes the night before, and when she closed her eyes in the early morning and left him, Thomas had pulled the thick quilt up to her chin and softly kissed Grammy’s suddenly smooth forehead. He’d left her door ajar, and now, with his forehead resting against the wooden jamb, whispered a last farewell outside. He felt his throat closing up yet again, and heard it then - that “oh so familiar” voice.

‘Fly, Thomas,’ Grammy whis
pered to him. He shook himself - mentally and physically, and went back to the kitchen. It was warmer than the rest of the house - it always was. The age and work-darkened old pine table with its four unmatched chairs brought back memories of hot chocolate and Bovril; of steaming broths and vegetable soups, and thick slices of buttered homemade bread; of hot syrupy pancakes and laughter… And love…

He
took a last drink of water and upended his glass on the sink’s drip tray, then made to open the outside door. Before twisting the handle, something else came to Thomas. For the first time in his memory, the old grandfather clock in one corner of the entrance hall had stopped its ponderous, rhythmic ticking.

The outside
temperature was freezing and the slight wind sharp enough to slice through his windbreaker and denim pants. Thomas shrugged into Grammy’s leather coat: it almost touched the ground and its sleeves had to be rolled over twice, but it was fur-lined and soft and comfortable, and he buttoned it right up to its throat. The ground was damp and cold and wet seeped through his pants when he knelt to struggle into the backpack’s straps. He put on his knitted wool cap, and then Grammy’s gloves - which were in the coat’s pockets. They - like the coat - were too big, but also fleece-lined and soft, and felt good when he pulled them on.

A few patches of snow lay on the ground and Thomas skirted them on his way to the first trees of the forest - less than fifty metres away. At the tree line he stopped, and turned for a last, lingering look at Pine Cottage. The happy little house stood forlorn and sad and lonely. It spoke to Thomas - sharing a thousand memories, all of them happy. Tears flooded his eyes, and he thought about going back, but the sound of gnashing gears blew in from a kilometre away, and turning his wet cheeks into the frigid wind, he entered the waiting forest.

1

The wind was a wolf.
An invisible arctic wolf that hunted up and down and in between the rows and rows of tall grey and brown trunks of the conifer forest, its frigid breath licking and biting at face and bone and anything warm.

The sky above the treetops hung pregnant-heavy and low; glowering with the angry colour of tarnished lead.

It envelope
d the woodland world: transforming it into a hibernating, icy grey and silent cocoon; its only sound the pitter-patter of the rustling, roving wind.

*

Thomas was cold and tired: dreadfully cold and terribly tired. He’d entered the forest around mid-morning, and it was getting on to late afternoon now. The sun had not been out all day, and to the boy, the grey-white world at his feet had eventually become never-ending. His back pack - at first just heavy, had - after hours of pulling at his shoulders - turned into a proverbial sack of sand: unwieldy and weighing a ton. His legs and feet had become numb, and his earlier easy strides, short and stumbling steps.

He tripped and fell -
again. The snow was thicker here, deeper in the forest. Ankle-deep in places, and so white it appeared luminous against the murky floor of the silent woods. It covered the holes of gophers and field-mice, and concealed or helped camouflage a multitude of exposed tree-roots and smaller rocks.

His thick clothing prevented
Thomas from being injured, but he nevertheless stayed stretched out on the damp earth, simply too tired to care about the icy cold pressing against the already frozen skin of his cheek. All he wanted was to go to sleep, and slow, heavy lethargy stole stealthily through his body. He closed his eyes, and the cold was suddenly not
so
cold; he felt himself fading…sinking…and then sleeping.

It could have been ten minutes later, or an hour, when Grammy Rose whispered in his ear,
like she did on frozen white mornings, when she woke him with a hot mug of coffee or tea, and opened his heavy curtains; and they sat against his bed’s headboard and took hot sips, and talked and watched the snow flutter and fall outside and against the room’s large, double casement window. ‘Wake up, Thomas. Look…’

The side of his face on which
Thomas had been lying was numb with cold, the back-pack straddled his back like a ton of lead, and the effort of lifting his head, and then struggling, first to his knees and then his feet, had him groan piteously. He coughed then - for the first time; a racking cough that tore at his throat and lungs, and put fresh tears in his eyes.