“Yes. She can have incursions, though she's managed to keep them harmless and to a minimum, but she expends great energy in doing so. We can't have a school on that basis. It has to be solid, well grounded, and self-sufficient. We'll have our energy drained by many, many other things.”
“No floating candlesticks?”
“Hardly. Think of the tapestry and banner liabilities alone.” Gavan's expression flickered with humor.
“So what is it you can train me to do?”
“I'm not sure. I was hoping Fizziwig would be around to do it.” Again that sad smile. “Jason, there are procedures. I can show you how to open a Gate or two that isn't right, and deal with what we find. I can show you how to defend yourself, and cover your tracks, and slam a Gate shut, if you need to. What I can't do is show you how to find the right ones. The Great Gates. It's a Talent, and a rare one, and although we can often describe a Talent like that later, after working with it for years and years, we can't really explain what makes it work. A Gatekeeper just . . . does.”
“You don't know.”
Gavan shook his head slowly.
“But didn't Fizziwig ever tell you? Even a little?”
“He tried once. He might have been speaking Mandarin Chinese for all I understood, and believe me, I tried although I had no idea how important it would become later. And, truthfully, I can't say that it was the Gating which aged him. That seemed to happen all on its own, unrelated to anything we had done or planned to do. It was almost as if the centuries we were thrown through . . . which we skipped . . . were bound and determined to catch up with us.”
Jason looked at Gavan. “Are you aging?”
“A little. Not like he did. But.” Gavan pulled his cloak about him, straightening the shoulder seams and correcting its hang, a bit uneasily it seemed to Jason. “Once I was a rather shy and awkward lad, who developed a great crush on this Magicker lass, a woman really, just grown and in her prime, with a blush to her cheek and music in her hands. Then came the Happening, and when I awoke and we met again, she hadn't aged at all. Not a day. But I had found a decade or so, and wore it, and had become a man. I thank the disaster for that, she could look on me as her peer and perhaps entertain my suit. When we're not bickering.”
There was a noise from the misty clouds behind them rather like a snort.
“Not,” Gavan added hastily, “that anything has ever come of it, thank you for grounding me, Aunt Freyah.” He gave an ironic bow.
Jason, however, was not quite sure it had been Aunt Freyah who'd made the stifled noise. The cloud at their backs boiled a little bit as if a storm or wind pushed at it, but it stayed in place. He looked into it, wondering if he could make out Bailey or Trent but could not see them although he could feel their presence. It was uncanny.
He turned and looked down into the valley below, with its backdrop of dragon-spined mountains the color of red-orange spires like something out of a wind-sculpted desert rock. Once, he'd seen a dragon lying there, just like that spread of peaks, or so he'd thought. Now, he didn't know exactly what he'd seen, but surely not what he'd thought he had. The pool of water looked more blue than ever, a long thin waterfall trickling down one of the cliff faces, feeding it, its borders a luxurious and verdant green. He wanted to jog down the small pathway into the valley and taste that water . . . run through the grass and get a closer look at the spine of mountains, see how close or far away they really were, and if they could be such a thing as a petrified dragon.
He lifted his foot to take a step or two. Gavan caught him by the elbow.
He glanced up at the other. “Looks perfectly fine to me.”
“Well, it's not,” answered Gavan grimly. “Eleanora, might you have another brick about?”
A red clay brick came sailing out of nowhere and landed with a thud at Gavan's feet. He picked it up. A small imprint at the corner read Firehouse Station Queens 12. “An excellent vintage,” remarked Gavan. Then he said firmly to Jason, “You stay here.” Without explanation, he marched down the winding pathway until he reached the flat valley floor. Then he shouted back, “Here will do.” With his bootheel, he scrapped out a small patch of dirt, then firmly implanted the brick there. “This will make a fine cornerstone . . . if it stays.” Gavan straightened back up, dusting his hands off, and returned up the path to Jason. “Won't take long,” he said confidently.
“What won't?”
“You'll see.” Gavan leaned against one of the great rocks forming the pass out of Iron Gate Haven. He whipped a handkerchief out of his pocket and began to polish his cane with great care.
Jason stared downhill. The brick was so far away now, it looked little more than palm-sized as it lay in a tiny square of dirt. He watched it for a long moment, then flinched as something itchy, crawly, seemed to be going down the back of his neck. He squirmed and threw his arm up so he could scratch at it, but again Gavan caught him by the elbow.
“It's not an itch,” he said.
“The heck it's not! It's a bug or something.” Jason fairly danced with the need to scratch at it. “Let me go so I can get at it!”
“No,” said Gavan. “It's this . . .” and he pointed downhill at the brick which lay in the sun. Jason stared as the object wavered slightly, seeming to jump and quiver upon the ground, ever so slightly and yet detectable even from where he stood. “Earthquake?”
“Confined to one tiny patch of ground? Don't be ridiculous.” Gavan stared expectantly downhill now. “Wait for it.”
Right elbow held tightly in Gavan's grip, Jason threw up his left arm and began to scratch furiously at the back of his neck, even as he watched the brick. It began to dance upon the dirt, vibrating, jumping up and down with enough vigor that he knew he couldn't be imagining it. “What is it doing?”
The itch wouldn't go away, the scratching wasn't helping, so he dropped both arms to his sides. He stared at the brick, which could have been a marionette on strings for all its wild activity now, standing on end and flip-flopping from side to side. Then a dull pop assaulted his ears, and the brick exploded into a chalky red cloud of dust which slowly disappeared.
Jason blinked.
He heard Bailey whisper, “Wow” out of the misty fog behind them.
Gavan sighed.
“What happened?”
“We're not quite sure. It has to do with the compatibility of the planes. Ours and this one . . . Eleanora?”
Her soft voice drifted out of nothingness. “Think of your world as a tuning fork, Jason, vibrating to a certain pitch or sound. Then think of someone else striking another tuning fork, vibrating to another note. They are not compatible, they're just pitches of noise and one will rule the other out. Everything molecular has its own pitch, its own song. If the forks are conjoined, one vibration will eventually rule the other, or both vibrations will cease to exist. In this case, the brick . . . ceased.”
“But we don't belong here either.” The back of Jason's neck had stopped itching but now his nose did. He rubbed it. “Could that happen to us?”
“I hope not. It is a possibility we've considered.”
Jason felt itchy all over. “Worse than that can happen through other Gates?” Considering what he'd just seen, he and Trent had been incredibly lucky.
“Wrong Gates? Much, much worse.”
Jason nodded. “Okay. When do we start training?”
31
TIGER, TIGER, BURNING BRIGHT
J
ASON woke in the middle of the night, staring at his porthole window which framed a great yellow slice of moon. For an uneasy moment, he couldn't quite remember where he'd been, other than sleeping, for it seemed he'd been somewhere, doing or thinking of something important. Then he remembered the Council meeting and sank back into his blankets, temples throbbing with a slight headache, and worry.
They had discussed Henry briefly before everyone dispersed, news the Council had not heard though Gavan had been told days ago. It seemed to hearten them a bit, to hear of a Magicker regaining lost powers since such a tragedy was often thought irreversible. The Council broke up on a positive note, each member determined to go through his or her own notes and journals for anything that might help Jason in his quest.
Afterward, all he could remember of his uneasy dream was Mrs. Cowling, Aunt Freyah's niece, both ladies so much alike with their apple cheeks and bright-eyed gazes and soft curly hair although Aunt Freyah's was definitely silver and Mrs. Cowling's a soft brown with blondish tones . . . well, all he could remember was his old English teacher reciting a poem to him. “ âTiger, tiger, burning bright, in the forests of the night.' That's Blake, Jason. Remember it.”
Burning tigers. He scrubbed at his face. Back to sleep or wake up? He was in that in between where he could easily do both, and it seemed silly to wake up in the middle of the night.
He should have been dreaming of Gates. Gavan had refused to start his lesson on the spot, saying that he had obligations to return Jason, but that lessons would and must start . . . soon. In the meantime, Jason had to look within himself for that was where he would begin to find the Gate desperately needed to help anchor the Haven they wanted for the Academy.
In other words, it was all on him. Without a clue or book to help him, without a lesson or a Magicker versed in such things, it rested on his shoulders. No wonder Gavan had called him Atlas, the man in ancient mythology who carried the world on his back, and told him not to let the worry squash him. He didn't tell him not to worry, just not to be squashed.
Jason grinned at that. Rubbing his face again, he slid back down into his bed, watching the great yellow moon outside as it slowly edged past his porthole window. Once or twice, he thought he saw a crow wing across it, but that could have been his imagination. Better a crow or raven than a burning tiger, he yawned to himself sleepily, just before burrowing his head into his pillow with his eyes shut.
Earlier in the evening, however, others had been just as busy. Henry had evening chores and baby-sitting after dinner while his parents and all his siblings but the youngest went to a planning meeting. It took him a while to get his baby sister sleeping happily in her crib. He made sure the sides were up, for she was a toddler now and had climbed out once or twice. It was something that worried his mom, and so it worried Henry. He'd already decided he was never going to have kids when he got older, as it seemed totally not worth the hassle. Not even when his sister gave him a sloppy hug and snotty kiss.
He was taking the last sack of house trash out to the garage barrels when the shadows moved. Henry let out a stifled noise that would have been a yell except he couldn't breathe, and he threw the trash bag at whatever it was, preparing to run.
Dr. Patel emerged from the shadows. “Henry. Are you quite all right?” She bent over and picked up the plastic sack, handing it back to him. “Did I frighten you?” Her anklet chimed softly as she stepped forward, wrapped in a bronze-and-gold silken sari with a shawl folded over her arm, her smile gentle.
“Dr. Patel! N-n-no. No. I was just . . . just . . . startled.” His face turned red hot as he took the trash from her and hugged it as if it could hide his embarrassment.
“It's all right, Henry, I understand the wolfjackals have been about lately. I do not blame you for jumping. Have you a moment for a visit?”
He looked back toward the house. “A quick one. Everyone's gone except me, but my sister's asleep. Would you like a . . . a cup of tea or something?” He hugged his trash sack tighter and something inside belched. He bolted into the garage, lobbed it into the trash can, and came back out, his face hotter than ever.
“Tea would be most pleasant, but I cannot stay long.” Anita Patel smiled at him. Hardly taller than he was, and with soft, dark eyes, she didn't appear very intimidating. She put her hand to the crystal at her throat, worn almost like a cameo.
“R-right.” Henry led the way to the kitchen's back door. He used the microwave to boil the water, and soon had two cups of his mother's most fragrant orange-and-spice tea on the table, putting out cream and sugar.
Dr. Patel made her tea like the English did, he thought, as he watched her use a lot of cream and sugar, making the cup look almost like coffee with milk, caramel colored. He almost spilled his mug watching her fix hers, and his face stayed hot just when he thought it might cool down a bit. He must look like one of his mother's garden tomatoes in August!
If his face was incredibly red, the Magicker who was also a physician did not seem to notice. She sipped at her cup a few times before settling back in her chair with a pleased sigh. “Thank you for your hospitality, Henry.”
He nodded happily. “Any time.”
“Do you know why I am here?”
“Well.” He twisted his body about on the wooden kitchen chair, considering. “No.”
“I came by to see how you were doing, and to congratulate you. I heard the good news about your Talent returning this evening.”
“Oh! That.” Henry beamed, pleased. “I'm hoping I can go back to camp next summer and start lessons again.”
“Oh, no. Time is too precious. Each Magicker gets a guardian of sorts, who visits and gives private lessons throughout other seasons.”
“You're my guardian?”
Dr. Patel set her cup down, surrounding it with her small, neat hands. “I don't know yet, Henry, but I'll ask if you'd like. You have a great deal of potential.”
“That would be terrific! I need someone calm, I think.”
She laughed softly. “Couldn't hurt.”