Ellen Under The Stairs (3 page)

As the Crystal's force built, her
likeness fading in the glass, the disk's surface changed from deep
magenta -- to mauve -- to violet. As she rubbed faster, to bleach
to a purple amethyst, then to heliotrope, to pale lavender, and
light hyacinth. Finally to become clear, madder grey, the surface
of the glass shimmering like liquid, the Crystal glowing with an
inner light.

Fear swelled her throat! She must be
on guard for Crystal-traps!

In spite of the danger, the fading
outline of her face had showed a thin lipped smile. Others were
afraid of her and of her Crystal -- as well they might be. Her
clever avoidance of Crystal-traps gave her a power, reserved to her
alone.

She had a different strength than
Mages owned, her power coming from the knowledge that others needed
her while she did not need them.

And yet that was untrue. While these
others could not take her Crystal from her -- would refuse even to
glance within the Disk's flickering depths for fear of endangering
themselves -- they could make her suffer.

Zwicia's old body could still feel
pain.

Though the flow of the Crystal
mesmerized her, Zwicia forced herself to be aware of her
surroundings.

She was not in her little, castle
room, but in another cubical. A cramped chamber with an iron-bound,
oak door. A dark room. A damp room. A locked room.

Her bed had been moved in. There was a
bowl of water and a floor-hole for her elimination. She had food,
though its taste was tainted.

A single fire-torch provided the
room's faint light.

The air smelled ... stale. Lifeless.
Because there was no window.

Block walls of sweaty stone surrounded
her, so cold they sent chills through Zwicia's bones.

Dragging a hand away from Crystal
stroking, she clutched her robe about her.

Unlike John-Lyon, Pfnaravin, had put
Zwicia into this ... cage. ....

Dungeon.

That was the word for such a cellar
room. Dungeon.

Why?

Zwicia did not know. Or, if she did,
had forgotten. Though she denied it even to herself, her mind was
sometimes Crystal-struck: as dazzled as light on shattered
mirrors.

Perhaps the Crystal would reveal the
answer.

Her Crystal showing ... pictures of
the past. The present. The future.

At her recollection that the
Weird-Disk could reveal the future, she felt a chill like the
passing of the shadow of a carrion bird circling high above. It was
a remembrance of something someone said to her. Something
important.

In her confusion, Zwicia stopped
caressing the Weird-Disk, the glass darkening, the feel of
Crystal-power lessening.

She shook her head in an attempt to
roll the loose marbles of her mind into the proper holes, her hair
flopping, the wattles on her neck jiggling. Thoughtlessly, she
picked at the purple fringe along the sleeve of her long
robe.

For some time, she had served the
Mage, John-Lyon, few knowing, as her Crystal had revealed to her,
that the young Wizard was from another world. In the Crystal's
liquid mirror, she had seen him emerge in the tower room. The youth
with the strange green eyes.

In the long ago -- which had been the
future, then.

But he had gone back to that other
place.

In John-Lyon's stead was another Mage,
Pfnaravin, also a man of power, an old man.

John-Lyon once had the golden Crystal
of Stil-de-grain, which made him Mage. But he had the Crystal no
longer. Puzzled, Zwicia wondered how she knew that. .... She just
did.

The Mage, Pfnaravin, had the green
Crystal of Malachite. It, too, had been lost: hidden in the palace
of King Yarro, in the king's capital of Xanthin. But Pfnaravin had
found his Mage-Gem, making him again a man of power!

Zwicia did not know how she knew these
things. Perhaps, in the past, the Crystal had showed them to
her.

But now, there was something she must
do. If she could only remember what it was.

She was rocking now, rhythmically.
Swaying over her Crystal. Humming to it in her old cracked voice.
Crooning to her Weird-Gem.

She had seen men come in the flyers.
Great birds settling near the world's rim. She had seen men in ...
heavy robes of magic. Seen them high above. Witnessed them build,
over the sky, a large, iron bowl.

She had observed the men-in-robes in
the bowels of the earth, using machines to heat the innards of the
world even father down. Seen the men as they stood on ledges of
deep caves. Directing down the fire from their machines to heat the
center of the world.

The Crystal had showed to her these
same men as they affixed a great Crystal in the top of a central,
hollow mountain. Positioned it there like a round jewel in the
mounting of a ring, the Crystal like an eye, shining clear on the
front side, black on the back.

The crystal that was the eye of the
world.

She had seen the men set the great
eye-Crystal into a slow rotation, the Gem's bright side throwing
glittering light to the dome overhead, the dome shining back to
light the world until it was full-light. She had seen the dark half
of the Crystal revolving from the mountain that held it; spin
slowly skyward, as it turned, shutting off the Crystal's light so
that the dome gradually turned dark -- making it the
night.

What she had seen was Eyeland. The
center of the world. The Crystal eye, when rotated down, absorbing
light from the world's hot center. Afterward, spinning slowly up,
to shine that light on the dome so the radiance would reflect back
as a new day.

Where had these builders of the planet
gone? The men in the very long ago in their great iron
sky-birds?

She did not know.

Suddenly, Zwicia was afraid! What was
she doing here in this terrible room? Where was the girl, Platinia?
Where was the Mage, John-Lyon?

The girl, so small and silent, didn't
frighten her. Even the young Mage with his terrible green eyes, did
not terrify her heart. But the new/old Mage, Pfnaravin .....
did!

There was something she must do.
Something she must do for the Mage, Pfnaravin. Something she had
been warned to do!

Stroking. Rubbing fast, the Crystal
turned clear again.

The glow. Always the glow that showed
... the future!

Zwicia was afraid of the future.
Fearful to see in it ... her death!

Drawn to look closer at this future,
she saw that the Mage, John-Lyon, was standing in the circular
room.

Where had he been?

Zwicia knew. He had been to the other
world. Now, he was back.

The Mage seemed ... to be in a Crystal
trance ..... No. He was moving, looking all about.
Smiling.

Was this the future?

Yes. The ghostly light still glowed
around the border of the disk. This was the future that Zwicia
saw.

There was movement in that shadowy
tower.

Massaging the Crystal faster, leaning
even farther forward, she saw one person.

Two people. The Mage and the girl
Platinia.

Three people, the third person turned
away.

Who the third person was, Zwicia
didn't know. Someone tall. Taller than the girl. But shorter than
the Mage.

Was this truly the future? If so, in
what length of time? Did this third person mean that Pfnaravin had
gone to the other world. That the Mages had returned
together?

The portent of these pictures was a
mystery.

Though they meant little to her, she
must tell ... Pfnaravin!

That was what she was to remember. The
Mage Pfnaravin had locked her in this room. Would keep her here
until she had seen the future.

That was what the Mage demanded of
her. He had ordered her to see the future and to reveal what would
happen so he could plan for it.

Particularly, he wished to know when
John-Lyon would come back.

Suffering the always painful wrench of
breaking free of the Crystal's grasp, crying out in pain, Zwicia
stopped rubbing the disk, the Crystal's picture fading, the glass
disk darkening as the power waned ... until it had returned to
magenta.

Zwicia sat on the rough bench,
trembling, sweat plastering her thin hair to her old skull. Without
the Crystal's light, her eyes were dim, a halo dancing around the
flickering light of the torch across the room. She was cold. She
was ....

Pfnaravin was a man of power. He would
hurt her if she failed to do his bidding!

Hurt her?

What hurt could he do her? She was
old. She was weak. If he hurt her very much, she would
die.

Knowing that he held little power over
her, she could do as she liked. What she liked now -- to hide a
secret from Pfnaravin. The secret of when John-Lyon would
return.

Zwicia was old. Zwicia was confused.
But Zwicia, Weird of Bice, would do as Zwicia wished.

Which was to look into her Crystal
every day. To stroke it until it's mesmeric images came, these
pictures the joy of Zwicia's near-dead soul!

* * * * *

It was a struggle to get to his feet
from the pallet of chair cushions he'd arranged for himself in
front of the fire place. Besides feeling heavy because of Band
Sickness, John was sore. Sore, as in blue and purple bruises from
landing on the old Van de Graaff.

Platinia was still asleep on the
divan. Sometime in the night, John remembered dragging himself up
to get an Afghan off the short couch in his den, bringing it back
to spread it over the sleeping girl. She had looked small and
pathetic huddled on the couch, a divan that, judging by her size,
had been made for giants. Then again, there was hardly any other
way Platinia could look than small and pathetic.

Without waking the exhausted girl,
John made it to the front door, then outside to his Mazda RX-7,
driving to the chilly end of the lane to get the morning
paper.

Thank God John's old house was so
isolated, set as it was in a patch of woods leading to 72nd. No
neighbors to see him dressed as he was in his white -- but badly
soiled -- robe of Stil-de-grain cotton.

Stepping inside the house,
stripping off the paper's small rubber band, John unfolded
the
Star
. Looked
at the day and date printed at the top of page one.

Monday.

The Monday after the Friday night John
had made his second foray into the other world.

As before, time spent there didn't
register as time spent here. Just another mystery in the strange
business of trans-world travel.

Shaking his heavy head at how dull he
felt, he dragged himself across the hall, instinctively going wide
of the space beneath the stairs to enter the living room, finding
that the girl hadn't moved on the old davenport.

As usual, entering his own parlor gave
John a twinge of grief, the room improved with the better pieces of
his deceased parent's furniture.

Circling the coffee table to reach the
phone stand at the far end of the green divan, John eased his
too-heavy body on the couch below the sleeping girl.

Picking up the receiver, dredging up
the number, he dialed.

"Hill Top College."

"Betty," John whispered, not wanting
to wake Platinia. "This is John Lyon. I'm not feeling well. Slept
through the alarm, in fact. Will you have my classes
posted?"

"Certainly," Betty said. "You sound
bad. Laryngitis?"

"Maybe," John lied, laryngitis as good
an excuse as any for whispering into the phone. "I think it's only
a passing bug. I'm sure I'll be there tomorrow."

"Don't come in too soon," she
warned.

"Thanks."

"Don't worry. I'll get your classes
posted."

"Thanks again."

Hanging up, John rested for a moment,
sitting on the couch at the feet of the sleeping girl; panting back
his strength.

Floundering up, trudging into the hall
again, he began the climb to second, pausing every few steps to
catch his breath.

Reaching the top floor, he managed to
strip and have a quick bath.

Toweling off, John seemed less
ponderous, Band Sickness wearing off as he knew it
would.

John brushed his teeth and put on
deodorant, neither of which he'd done in the "other reality." Why?
Stopping to think about it, he could not recall smelling either bad
breath or B.O. in the Bandworld. Probably because bacteria caused
both odors. Just another "disease" the other world's light magic
killed.

Dressed in this world's clothes, John
was almost ready to face what he knew would be a difficult
day.

Before leaving the second floor,
however, John got his wrist watch from where he'd left it on the
dresser only two days ago -- by this world's time. After that,
crossed the upstairs hall to have another look at himself in the
bathroom mirror. A good look.