Back Under The Stairs - Book 2 in The Bandworld Series (9 page)

How could the men of Cinnabar know which
merchant-trader had defrauded them if they were not watching?

A profitable venture. One he could have
duplicated -- Coluth, an honest trader -- a journey some captains
made repeatedly (like some would command their men to run the
Leech!)

A trek Coluth could never bring himself to
take again. Nor did a single member of his crew -- those who had
been with him on that terrifying day -- ask him to repeat the
journey!

Coluth shuddered!

Though there were different kinds of courage
-- the bravery of the sailor wrestling with the sea, the fighter's
daring -- none were so bold as those who ventured -- twice -- into
the Cinnabar!

"I remember, once, when lightning hit my
daddy's barn," said Professor Gaber in his reedy voice. "That was
back in ... let me see ... back in 1910, it must have been." The
old man nodded to himself. "That was before rural electrification,
which came under Teddy Roosevelt. The Tennessee Valley Project, if
memory serves."

Still wearing his baseball cap with the
ear-flaps down, Andres Gaber couldn't hold a thought (to say
nothing of a fact) for two seconds at a time.

"Living out there ... in the woods, I would
think you would have had the foresight to install a lightning rod,"
put in Kitterman, the Social Science Department's self-proclaimed
intellectual. A whip-thin man in a three piece suit.

Of the professors gathered in John's office
to hear the bad news, only Paul seemed at all sympathetic.

"Hardly any damage as it turned out," John
said, wishing he'd never broached the subject of the lightning
strike.

"You'll know better next time. For now,
ta-ta." And Kitterman was off. Followed by Gaber. Also off.

The others gone, Paul squealed his chair
around so he could reach the office door with one, wide-as-a-barn
arm to nudge the door forward; listened until the door shut and the
latch clicked. "You did install a lightning rod, didn't you?" Paul
growled. John nodded. "You could have said that."

The fact that John had put up a lightning rod
lay at the heart of the problem, something John would have told
Paul except that Paul seemed so ... strange ... today.

John glanced over at the slumping chairman to
find Paul pushing on his brow ridges with the "Jolly Green Giant"
fingers of both hands. A sure sign of a sinus headache, not much
mental help to be expected from Paul, today.

Ruefully, John remembered how old Fredericks
had warned John about lightning rods. Specifically, about how
faulty installation could put your house at greater risk than an
unprotected roof, advice John had paid attention to, John watching
carefully to make certain the workman fastened the wire from the
rod to a metal stake driven into the ground.

Then, yesterday -- in the dead of night --
Kerboom!

John had come awake to find himself sprawled
on the stairs, rain water dripping on his head. As it turned out, a
lightning bolt had charred a quarter-sized hole through the room
and downstairs hall floor, going to ground under the house.

After John had stopped shaking at the thought
of how close he'd come to being lightning-fodder, first getting a
towel to dry himself, John had done the right thing. Called the
fire department.

No hot spots found, the fire truck had
rumbled off, John solving the rain-in problem by putting a bucket
under the hole in the roof.

Deciding that seeing an old man's face
disappear under the stairs was the result of his "wiring" being
scrambled by the strike, John went back to bed for what was left of
the night.

And John might have continued to consider
this "old man" image to be a figment of his lightning-fried brain,
except that, coming downstairs this morning, John found the
triangular door under the stairs open, the nails John had driven in
to secure it, pried out. Opened with one of John's own kitchen
knives, no less, John finding the knife on the hall floor along
with a filthy blanket.

What was really worrisome about this
lightning bolt business was that, before gunning off to school that
morning, John had checked out the lightning rod that had failed so
spectacularly, to discover that, just above the stake, someone had
cut the copper grounding wire.

Except that the word cut ... didn't quite
describe the way the wire looked. Chewed through, was more like
it.

John would have liked to have discussed all
this with Paul -- the sanest man John knew. Except ....

"Something wrong, Paul?"

"How'd you get to know me so well in such a
short time?" Paul groaned, managing at the same time, an
appreciative smile.

"So ...?"

"Probably nothing."

"So ...?"

"You know how doctor's are."

"You're sick!?" Men Paul's size weren't
supposed to get sick. Like ministers didn't get sick. Or
doctors.

"It's Ellen."

"Ellen ...?"

"I think I told you Ellen had trouble
carrying the last baby. This time, the Doc. wants her off her feet
as much as possible."

"Anything I can do?" Though John didn't know
what he could do, he would have done anything to help Paul: helping
Ellen the same as helping Paul.

"You free for a lot of babysitting?"

Before bachelor John had a stroke, Paul
grinned. "Naw. I got that fixed. Ellen's mother is coming to stay
until the baby's born."

As John had thought, this was definitely not
the time to bother Paul about a broken wire or about John seeing
the apparition of an old man "disappear" under the hall stairs as
the lightning bolt struck John's house.

Returning to his "vision" of the man under
the stairs, John wondered if this could be the person John thought
he'd seen spying on him from the fringe of woods around the house?
(Thinking along those lines, the old fellow getting into the house
could also explain John's "missing food" phenomena.)

The thought of lightning -- nature's static
electric powerhouse -- caused John's tired mind to skip to one of
the pleasant surprises he'd had on returning to Kansas City. That
time didn't "count for much" when traveling between the worlds. As
this world measured time, being in the "other reality" for many
months had used up but a single day.

Suddenly, John's blood was singing!

Remembering that he didn't want to disturb
Paul, John leaned forward to "ground" his elbows on his battered
desk. Steadied himself by resting his chin in his hands.

Though John hadn't thought about it until
this very moment, finding a way to travel to another, "timeless"
world fulfilled the dream of the Spanish explorer, Ponce de Leon.
By being able to travel to a "zero-time" world, wasn't it the case
that John had discovered the elusive Fountain of Youth? Or to put
it another way, given the time dislocation between worlds, wasn't
John now in a position to live -- effectively -- forever!?

If he played it right, John could teach here
at Hill Top College during the week -- enjoy the luxuries of this
world -- then "static himself" into the other world to "rough it"
for months and months, returning to this world to find that those
months had cost him only a day or two of life in this world.
Repeating this pattern, John could extend his life experience by
several hundred years compared to the lives of "one-worlders."

There were dangers in the other reality, of
course: getting "drunk" with crystal-power; succumbing to
crystal-sickness -- the desire to stare at those fascinating,
shifting images in Zwicia's, larger crystal.

In other ways, however, the "danger
differential" was pretty much a wash. Here, you caught diseases,
most of them curable with antibiotics. There, you didn't catch
germs at all. The reason? Healing magic in the light (the same,
daytime magic that made it possible for anyone, by concentration,
to light the cool flame of a fire stone torch or to think fire
stones into heat for cooking.)

Language was no problem in a world where
magic in the daylight automatically translated all languages. After
down-light (when most people could only understand the language of
their native band) you went to bed, anyway.

Now that John knew the style of clothing worn
there, he'd have no problem with that.

As for transportation, he could borrow the
static electric generator again.

No. Not ... really ......

True, he'd had no trouble using the power of
the Van de Graaff to get to the other world. The problem, as
before, was getting home, John reluctant to rely on magic to do the
trick a second time.

Trying to calm down, John listened for a
moment to Paul shuffling papers on the adjoining desk.

John glanced at his watch. "About time for
class, Paul."

"Right."

And Paul was up, John following him into the
hall where the big man "blazed" a trail through milling, class
changing students.

Thinking about a possible return to
Stil-de-grain, John looked around him with "new eyes." Was this the
"reality" John wanted? Teaching reluctant students? Wasn't there
something to be said for living history, making history, as opposed
to reporting the triumphs and tragedies of others?

Continuing to think about playing the "two
world" game, John discovered that something was still nagging at
him about Jiles' photographic equipment: the camera items of the
other day. Could photography be used in some way to help John in
the other reality?

As John turned into his classroom, additional
ideas were coming to him. For instance, before journeying to the
other world, a trip to a jewelry store was a must!

And there was something else John had just
remembered! Perhaps the "key" to the other world "lock." John
smiled. The keeper of the key? Who else but Jason Fredericks!

No need to rush, though. If this "two
reality" strategy worked out like it might, John had ...... all the
time in the world!

* * * * *

Through a short lobby adorned with a single,
artificial, potted palm, John emerged into a larger room that
smelled of ... dust, paint, old canvas, hot lights, rancid make-up,
and mildew.

Antique spotlights decorated the room's
ceiling, a scratched display case containing fancy old playbills
dominating the room.

"May I help you?" said a quiet speaking,
middle-aged man behind the case.

"You have costumes for rent?"

"In the back. And what would you be looking
for, sir?"

"Tunics."

"Tunics? Doing some Shakespeare, are we?" The
man smiled widely.

"No." The smile faded ... slightly.

"This way, please."

Tagging along, John was led, first right,
then left through a hall that took them to "the back" -- which
turned out to be an unpainted, concrete barn-of-a-space featuring
row after musty row of clothes racks crowded with costumes on wire
hangers. Along the walls were beat-up metal shelves holding hats,
gloves, muffs, scarves, canes, costume jewelry, and shoes.

Following the man as he threaded his way
through racks and more racks, they came to a clothing stand at
room's end holding robes plus brown, black, and white tunics.

If John had been worried about finding
clothing that would look right in the other world, he could rest
easy. A bit of gold striping stitched down the front of any of
these outfits would do.

John picked a brown tunic off a hanger,
measuring it for size against his body. "How much to rent this one?
For a week?"

"Twenty dollars. That includes the dry
clearing fee on its return."

Not bad. "OK. I'll take it."

Which didn't mean John was committed to a
second trip to Stil-de-grain, he reminded himself.

"Footwear?"

John was glad the man had mentioned that.
"What do you have?"

The man padded off to one of the wall
shelves. Turned to look at John's feet with an appraising eye.
"Size 10?"

"Just about."

Turning, the man pulled down half boots from
the back of the shelf, boots that were remarkably like the heavy
leather, work boots worn in Stil-de-grain. "How much for a
week?"

"Twenty dollars."

Figured.

At the front counter again, the man filled
out the rental form. "If I may see your tax-free slip ...?"

"I don't have one."

"You're not representing a not-for-profit
theater group, then?" Plainly, the man was puzzled about John's
intentions.

"No."

"A commercial dinner theater?" The man was
all smiles once more. Legitimate theater was his life.

"Sorry. This is for ... sort of ... a dress
up ... costume party."

"Really? Around Halloween, people come in
here in simply droves. The women all want to be Queen Elizabeth. Or
Cleopatra. Or something equally tacky. One year, would you believe,
the Henry Kissinger mask was popular." The man sighed at having to
serve philistines.

"This is more of a private party for a
friend."

"We also have leather ... costumes."

No sign of John being interested, the man
sighed again. "I'm sorry. But since only theater people rent
costumes at this time of year, I'd assumed ... What I mean is, I'll
have to charge you tax in addition to the forty dollars."

"OK." And that was that.

* * * * *

"Would you be looking for a 10 karat piece?
Fifteen? Or our best 24 karat chains?" On a clear plastic display
stand on top the jeweler's counter, were enough gold chains to
weigh down Mr. T. Regular chains. Twisted chains. Chains that
looked and moved like golden serpents.

If you wanted to buy gold in some form other
than coins, a jewelry store was your best bet.

The last time John was in the other world, he
had no money -- less of a problem after John had hooked up with
Golden, Golden turning out to be as rich as his name. This time --
assuming John actually went back -- John wanted to take something
with him that he'd have no trouble turning into the coin of the
realm, gold his best bet.