Ellen Under The Stairs (10 page)

John turned to the nearest soldier.
"Accompany this man, giving him every honor," the young soldier
looking startled that a Mage had spoken to him. "See that he is
taken somewhere where he can clean himself. See that he is fed. And
has a clean uniform to wear. A Stil-de-grain uniform befitting his
rank as Head First in the Mage's personal guard," John's "personal
guard," as yet, nonexistent.

"At once, sir," the soldier stammered,
looking at his officer to make certain he should follow the Mage's
command, the officer nodding quickly.

Pivoting smartly, the soldier led Leet
from the dungeon, John feeling better to find at least one,
reliable friend in this foreign land.

"What time of the day is it?" John had
just remembered something more dangerous to him than the men
chained to the wall!

The army Second looked puzzled at that
question.

"Near down-light, sir."

down-light -- dusk -- followed by
night when, without light, John couldn't communicate with the
natives of Bandworld. He had to get to a room, and fast, before
"his" subjects found he didn't speak Stil-de-grain.

"Quickly, we must get back. One of my
party is ...." What did you say when no one here had any experience
with physical illness? "... is tired. So tired she must have
immediate rest. Take me back."

"At once, great Mage." The
bow.

And they were trotting out of the
stinking prison, going up and up, John entering the dining room,
the women still at the table.

"Platinia, you will stay with Zwicia
as before." She nodded. "Ellen, come with me," Ellen looking ...
worse.

Of course!

As the light outside began to fail
...."

Grasping her hand, pulling her up,
John asked that they be directed to a bedroom close by, a young
soldier leading them to a room on first, the soldier bowing,
closing the door behind him.

"After down-light," John explained, "I
can no longer understand what my own people are saying. I don't
know what would happen if they ever discovered that."

"Seems there's a limit, even to the
power of the Crystal-Mage of Stil-de-grain," Ellen said
wearily.

But with a smile.

* * * * *

Ellen. Coughing in the night. Night
sweats. John staying with her, getting little sleep himself, making
certain she had water when she wanted it and that she had help in
getting to the small room down the hall called a garderobe, inside,
a toilet seat over a straight shot to a dung heap. Showed her the
sponge on a stick she would use to clean herself. Embarrassing
under other circumstances, but not when tending the
sick.

The following morning, to John's
unpracticed eye, Ellen seemed better. Less fever. More interest in
her surroundings.

The same improvement to be seen the
following day. Same for the next day.

With Ellen on the mend, life in Hero
Castle fell into a routine. Eating, short walks through the castle
to keep up Ellen's strength -- not that either of them needed much
strengthening in this "light pulling band."

John had assumed -- wrongly -- that a
day or two in the Magical light of this other world would cure
Ellen, her progress taking longer than he'd anticipated.

"And to think this was built with the
simplest tools," she said, John and Ellen on another jaunt through
the castle, Ellen well enough in the daytime to do anything she
liked.

"What?"

"Just crude tools," Ellen repeated.
"Trowels, hoes, chisels, picks, pit-saws." She was definitely
better to take interest in the construction of this old pile, this
the second week after their arrival in Hero Castle, the magic of
the light continuing to make Ellen stronger. Ellen and John now
quartered in elegant accommodations befitting the importance of a
Mage, he still had a connecting door to Ellen's suite should she
want something during the night.

Today, Ellen was wearing a white
tunic, the short, draped garment emphasizing the shapeliness of her
legs, the flat, Bandworld slippers just right for her model-tall,
five foot eight.

How old was she, anyway? Younger than
Paul. Maybe two years older than John, not that age made a
difference.

The two of them had been walking along
a darkened, flame-lit corridor. Were now descending flagstone
stairs, the encompassing walls magnifying the quiet scuffing of
their feet on the irregularly shaped risers. The only
unpleasantness was the air inside the castle: stale, as always,
smelling of dust and moldering rock.

A right turn at the bottom of the
staircase took them through an arch into a tapestry bedecked
hall.

As they entered, John thought he saw
movement at the far end of the gloomy chamber. Probably a slavey,
the castle's servants melting into the "wood work" when
encountering their "betters," the castle run by gardeners, drudges,
chamber maids, cooks, turn-spit, and a soubrette. Generally old.
Humble. Shuffling. More than anyone, the true owners of the
castle.

On the other hand it wasn't that odd
to feel that someone was watching them, the castle a warren of
rooms, passageways, and pillars -- perfect hiding places for those
who wished to ... hide.

Increasingly, John had the feeling
they were not safe here, isolated as Hero Castle was, with so few
soldiers to protect them. Anticipating the day when Ellen's health
would permit it, he'd had a messenger bird sent to the Palace at
Xanthin, (the castle butler able to "imprint" simple messages on
this world's "carrier-parrots,") the bird to say the Mage of
Stil-de-grain was coming and to be ready for his arrival. Extra
guards to be posted. Additional soldiers. Xanthin Palace searched
for undesirables.

Back to the tour, John finding little
of interest to point out in this somber room, what light there was
coming from second floor clerestory windows.

"These tapestries are marvelous."
Ellen had stopped to enthuse over what John saw as faded wall
hangings.

Giving the "art-lady" time to gush
over these time-bleached rags, Ellen expressing delight at their
fanciful animals and quaint, spear carrying hunters, John took her
hand (as he'd had to do from time to time,) to pull her along, the
two of them skirting the fire pit at the end of the dining
room.

"And you say cooking is done with fire
stones? The fire here a matter of magic?"

"Yes. It's all in the way you think
when concentrating. If you 'think' them into fire, they burst out
in flames. Cold flames. Producing only light. But if you think
heat, they don't sprout fire, but become hot enough for cooking."
His speech delivered, John remembered to release Ellen's
hand.

Ellen shook her head, John knowing how
it felt to be overwhelmed by too much, too soon.

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw
more movement. Platinia. Trailing -- John often forgetting about
little Platinia, the girl always there without seeming to be
there.

John felt better that Platinia was
back in her world, also less guilty. His hope was that whatever had
caused their brief, romantic relationship would soon be forgotten.
What he was certain of was that the girl would feel comfortable
staying with the old Weird. They got along.

"Have you noticed that most tables
have only three legs?

John hadn't, but did now.

"Three legged tables used to be
commonplace because of rough floors, a four legged table needing a
level floor to be stable. But a three legged table will sit firmly
no matter now uneven the floor."

"Interesting." Mildly. For Ellen, the
artist, a fascinating bit of architectural trivia.

John had heard about Ellen's career as
artist, Ellen awarded a free ride at a local university. After
graduation, she'd worked as an illustrator for Hallmark cards.
Unfulfilled in the commercial art world, she'd sought inspiration
by haunting local galleries -- the Nelson -- others at KU and the
U. of Missouri. That's where she'd met Paul, in what she called the
"room of fake antiquities" on Missouri's Columbia campus, Paul
there for a conference. Bored, he'd wandered off to have a look at
the sprawling university, finding his way into the Art
Building.

Seeing Ellen there, the rest was
history.

Hearing how the couple met had been
painful, John needing to accept the fact that Paul, not he, had
"gotten the girl."

"You said that, today, we might see
the outside?"

"You feel up to it?"

"Every day better."

"If you're sure."

"Try me."

Getting outside wasn't easy, of
course, Ellen stopping to examine every chair, portrait, lamp
stand, end table, decorative pot, etching, sideboard, mural,
hassock, icon, and ornamental molding in each side room on their
way.

At long last exiting the ponderous oak
door that led to the cobble stoned inner ward -- the open square at
the castle's center -- they crossed to enter a dark tunnel beyond,
the byway leading to the double towered gatehouse.

"I had to draw a typical castle for my
final in medieval architecture," Ellen said, smiling with
remembrance, her throaty voice echoing in the rocky defile. "This
is typical of late-medieval construction. The double inner doors
with their drawbar, for instance," Ellen motioning as they passed
through, the flanking wood doors flung open, the solid timber jam
pushed back into its recess in the wall. Inside the cave-like arch
of the tunnel, she pointed to the passageway's end: a heavy
timbered grid faced with iron, cranked up in its raised position.
"That's a portcullis."

Ellen looked up at the dusky ceiling
of the massive entrenchment between the flanking towers. "And there
they are. Above this passage are rooms with holes in the floor."
John looked up. "Do you know what they're called?"

"What? The holes?" John understood
European history, just not the kind of architectural detail an art
major would know.

"Murder holes. The idea is that enemy
soldiers get in this tunnel only to find the doors back there shut
and barred. That's when you drop the portcullises ahead of them.
Unable to go forward or get back out, they're trapped in here to be
slaughtered by defenders dropping rocks on them through the holes
above."

Just another "fun" fact about life in
the Middle Ages.

Continuing, they cleared the
portcullis and were into the daylight of the outer ward, soon
entering the darkness of the gatehouse.

Traversing that bastion, they had only
to cross the castle's heavy timbered drawbridge, currently spanning
a deep, dry moat. (A permanently lowered drawbridge not saying much
for castle security.)

Crossing the bridge, they were free of
the square walled, corner towered fortress.

At last topped by nothing but a width
of golden sky, they were at liberty to savor the wonderfully fresh
outdoor air.

The only vegetation to be seen at that
elevation was random, scraggly bushes clinging to the flinty
mountain top, plus scrub trees struggling painfully by ones and
twos to survive in patches of dirt clinging precariously to
depressions in the rocky crest.

No wind song. John had never felt
anything but a light breeze in this world. (The exception, the evil
wind caused by Auro before John defeated him.) All they could hear
was the occasional chirp and scrape of insects, and the shrill of
an invisible bird.

With nothing else to see but distance
until they were off that peak -- Hero Mountain the tallest pinnacle
in a chain of lesser ridges crooked back like a dragon's spine --
John led them left to flank the castle, following a path that was
the approach to the castle gardens, the track winding through
violets, pansies, and rose bushes.

Entering the formal plantings through
an arboreal arch, they continued through flowering trees, the air
scented with multiple fragrances.

The path (now a flagstone walk)
meandered through hedges, dwarf conifers, and sheltered nooks,
benches of stone and wood inviting the weary wanderer to rest in
shaded woodlets.

Further on, frothy, gold, water jets
shot up from platinum basins, the water reflecting the saffron sky.
Bending over a reflecting pool, they saw bright fish dart through
glass-clear water. Most shiny gold. A few orange, red,
white.

Eventually dazed by too much beauty,
then sat on a slatted bench beside a languidly flowing rivulet, the
air laden with the sweet smell of lavender; the turf at their feet
jeweled by azaleas, buttercups, and white alyssum.

"I can't get over the sky," Ellen
said, looking up for the twentieth time. "So uniform in color and
so gold."

"Though you couldn't tell from inside,
at a distance, you can just make out the sky over the next "inward"
band. Green. That's Malachite." John pointed, Ellen standing on
tiptoe to see a little further.

"In the opposite direction, you can
see a half-circle of Orange over Realgar. When I was in Realgar, at
mid-day when the air was clear of fog, I could make out the barest
sliver of a Red crescent. The red of the outermost band --
Cinnabar.