Ellen Under The Stairs (2 page)

The youth returning to reclaim his
Mage-Gem, Pfnaravin would arrange John-Lyon's death, but in such a
way that Pfnaravin would be the first to touch the Stil-de-grain
Gem, thereby adding its power to that of the green Crystal of
Malachite.

Pfnaravin had been on the wrong scent.
His true path must be to befriend this otherworlder, starting with
John-Lyon's friends. The sailor Coluth. The youth Golden. The girl
Platinia. Do this to let all know that the arrest of the young Mage
was the result of lying informers, soon to be executed. That
John-Lyon would be welcomed back with song and ceremony.

"Out!" Pfnaravin shouted at the
others, once more aware of their presence. "Remove ...
that!

With an imperial point, Pfnaravin
indicated the Crystal-shattered body of the dead
fighter.

Scrambling to follow the Mage's
command, soldiers bent to collect the scattered body parts of their
unfortunate comrade.

"If John-Lyon returns, he is to be
welcomed. A feast to be held in his honor. As a first preparation,
a search must be made for the young Mage's friends, Coluth and the
others, so that I can appoint them to their former positions of
high honor.

Though looking shocked, the soldiers
nodded their understanding.

"Spread the world to all, that
John-Lyon is to have our every assistance upon his
return."

"Yes, high Lord," said the squad Head,
fist smartly slanted across the golden crest-ribbon appropriate to
his command.

"Go."

And they went, bearing the grisly body
parts, supporting their flame-hurt comrades, the squad's tread
falling away to silence.

But would John-Lyon return? All
depended on it.

Ah! A way to know.

Zwicia. The Weird of Bice. Another
friend of John-Lyon, now housed below.

Weirds had their larger Crystals in
which they saw the past, present, and at times the future. Coming
from Pfnaravin's home band of Malachite, he would make Zwicia
predict the return of John-Lyon if he must crack every bone of her
disgusting body!

Welcome back, John-Lyon of the other
world! Welcome to Bandworld where Pfnaravin's magic reigned
supreme!

* * * * *

Over the edge! Then whirling,
spinning! Having the horrid feeling of inversion, of being sucked
dry! And all the while, tumbling beside him, Platinia, the girl
falling with him through the static electric throat of the passage
between there and ... here.

With a disorienting thud, John Lyon
found himself pitched into darkness, the girl sprawled beside him,
the hand-cranked static electric generator painful under his
twisted body.

Suddenly, everything was
quiet.

The smell was of ... dust.

Near him, Platinia moaned.

Forcing an unnaturally heavy hand away
from his body, John felt for Platinia to assure himself that the
girl was there beside him in that cramped hole.

Where was he?

Disorientation. What he always felt at
such a time. At ... such a time as ... what?

John was beginning to have sensation
again; his mind tugging at the edges of his memory.

He was ... home. In the tight, black
cavity under the front stairs, squeezed into the wedge-shaped
storage space, the compartment he'd discovered to be the gateway
between here, and what John had come to think of as the "other
reality."

Medieval.

Magical.

Though John made an effort, he could
barely move, Platinia groaning again in the dark.

Band sickness.

That's what people on the other side
called it. For it was becoming clearer that John had just returned
from Bandworld, a place where countries were called Bands because
each nation circled the planet like rings on an archery target, the
inhabitants of Band countries experiencing different gravitational
pulls.

Paul ....

John was so debilitated he had to flog
his memory

Describing the other world to Paul
Hamilton -- John's friend and colleague at Hill-top College -- had
Paul speculating that the other "reality" was round, but pancake
flat. A planet with a dome over it to contain its atmosphere. An
artificial creation.

What had Paul called it? ..... A
terrarium world. Constructed by ... God knows who.

John had told Paul about the legend
that a "Hero" had found the pathway to their world, the Hero
returning to his own time and place with the concepts that formed
band worlds' medieval civilization.

No sense of time, those benighted
people. According to them, everything happened in the "long ago."
Which could be a month. A year. A century.

John wasn't making much sense. But
didn't care. As heavy as he felt, he was content, for the moment,
to stay where he was.

He felt ... heavy ... because he'd
come back from Stil-de-grain: a "light pulling" band. He'd also
spent time in Realgar -- a place with even weaker gravity. John
coming from a "heavy gravity" planet like earth, he'd enjoyed a
"weight lifter's" advantage over those reared in the moon-like
"pull" of Bandworld.

But it was murder coming
home.

He'd adjust to it. He had before. It
was just that the transformation wasn't easy.

Gravitational shifting was why, when
traveling from lighter "weight" bands to heavier ones in their own
world, the people of the other reality thought of the leaden way
they felt as "sickness." Band sickness.

Paul had warned him to stay away from
the other world. But John had gone anyway -- why, he couldn't
recall just yet. It'd come to him.

All he could remember at the moment,
was that he'd once again bluffed his way into being Crystal-Mage of
Stil-de-grain, his celebrity leading to his imprisonment by
Pfnaravin, the embittered Mage of Malachite. If Coluth, Golden, and
a couple of Coluth's sailors hadn't slipped into Hero Castle and
gotten John out of that cage ....

John's mind was wandering
....

Platinia moaned again, John feeling
sorry for the tiny, black haired girl. So small, so slender he'd
first taken her to be a child, only to discover she was a young
woman. From the first time he'd met her, he'd seen it as his duty
to protect her. Why, he wasn't sure. In Platinia's presence, he was
never certain about what motivated him; had even thought she might
have a kind of hold over him; had cast a spell on him.

Not as strange a thing to think as it
might seem. For, to his amazement, he'd learned that the other
world did have ... magic ... John-the-skeptic eventually having to
admit there was no other word to describe the "miraculous"
occurrences in that "other place." (Not story-book magic like
building castles in the air or turning people into frogs. But
magic, nonetheless.)

Time to get out from under the
stairs.

John took a mind-clearing breath.
Tasted dust from the dirty pine flooring of the confined storage
space.

With shaky muscles, John pushed
himself up from the plank floor, only to hit his head on the
underside of the steeply zigzagged stairs, negotiating the cramped
space made difficult because John ... couldn't see. Why? Because
the triangular door to the storage area under the stairs was
closed?

John stuck out an unsteady hand to
find out. ... No. It was just that it was nighttime. The whole
house dark.

Straining his fatigued body this way
and that, trying not to bruise little Platinia beside him, John was
able to torture the generator out from under him.

Panting in much needed oxygen, he
pulled himself to his hands and knees, John barely able to trip the
inner latch on the door and crawl out on the hall's wood floor
before collapsing on his side to rest.

Near him were the shadowy outlines of
the stacked boxes he'd dragged out so he could enter the storage
space for his trip.

The flashlight he'd used in his
preparations had to be close by.

Rolling over painfully, twisting
himself into position, sticking out his too-heavy arms, John
reached under the stairs to get a grip on the static-electric
generator; managed to wrestle it out and slide it to one
side.

Struggling up on all fours, weights
seemingly strapped to every part of his body, he found the
flashlight where he remembered putting it. Picked it up. Switched
it on. Squatted back.

The "ten pound" flashlight trembling
in his hand, John switched it on to see black robed Platinia, still
sprawled under there, her arms seemingly Velcroed to the floor. In
obvious pain, she was sweating, her dark eyes open, blinking in the
light.

"Here," John said, managing to crawl
to the triangular storage space again.

Supporting himself on both elbows for
a moment, he bent forward. Reached in. Caught Platinia's hand.
Pulled her out.

Wearied from that burst of activity,
John sagged back to sit on the hall floor, then lean against the
short wall opposite Platinia.

They were home at last. At least, John
was home.

"We're at my house, Platinia," John
said, waving the light about.

Even talking was difficult in the
world's fierce gravity!

"You came here before. Some time
ago."

"I am ... weak," the girl said in her
tiny voice.

Weak and sweating.

If John could crawl into the living
room and get a lamp switched on, he felt he could get a grip on the
situation. ... But he couldn't.

"Band sickness. You've had it before."
John thought he saw the girl nod, a hefty increase of weight more
difficult to overcome for someone reared in light gravity. "You get
used to it."

Again, the slight nod of her
head.

John was already getting
stronger.

"The Mage ... Pfnaravin?" said the
girl, Platinia at least feeling well enough to ask a
question.

"Don't worry. He won't follow us here.
We beat him."

"Beat ...?" Platinia gave a feeble
gesture of puzzlement.

"Escaped. By plugging the hallway with
furniture and setting the tables and chairs on fire, I bought the
time we needed." His memory getting better, John recalled playing
fire-bug with his most modern cigarette lighter. "Coluth, Golden,
and the others went out the roof," he explained, thinking she might
be as disorientated in her thought processes as he; might need a
memory jolt. "I got the static-electric generator out of the room's
hiding place. Then cranked it up to get the both of us here before
Pfnaravin's soldiers could catch us."

"I cannot stay ... here." Said with
rising panic.

"You've got nothing to be afraid of. I
know how to get back. I'll take you home. Don't worry. But we ought
to wait until Pfnaravin stops hunting us."

When was the question. Particularly
since there seemed to be a time-warp between worlds, days - months
- years spend there equaling not much time passing here, the
reverse also seeming to be true.

For now, John and Platinia had to get
some sleep.

Climbing the stairs was out. In their
condition, the second floor bedrooms were beyond reach, John's plan
of the moment to have Platinia sleep on the living room couch, John
on the rug, John so tired a bed of bricks would feel
soft.

Looking over at the girl, John
realized that another odd thing had happened. Reaching the tower
room, getting out the generator, he'd turned to see Platinia
walking toward him. Solemn looking as usual. Black hair. Darkly
pretty face. At that moment, feeling a sudden passion for her!
Before realizing it, had her in his arms!

As they'd kissed, John had the
overpowering sensation that he loved her like he'd never loved
anyone; that he could never leave her; that he had to bring
her to his world.

Bizarre ... since looking at Platinia
now, John felt no ... love ... for her. Concern, yes. But not love
..........

An inconsistency in his emotions to be
considered later.

For now, John was too tired to think
about anything -- sleep the first step toward the solution of all
future problems. Sleep ... and more sleep.

* * * * *

Muttering to herself, Zwicia hunched
over the unstable bench as she continued to stroke her
Weird-Crystal with her eagle-claw hands. The Crystal's iron chain
off her wattled neck, she'd placed the flat Disk on the rough
table. Looking down, she saw only herself -- Zwicia, the Weird of
Bice -- rotted to an old woman with ice-clear eyes, age reducing
her to a wrinkled face and frizzy, iron grey hair.

At first stopped by the reflection of
the crone, she began again to stroke the Crystal near its rim,
fingering the smooth glass where it curved down slightly to fit
into its circular, iron collar.

Caressing the Disk slowly, she could
feel Crystal power build: a dry sensation crawling up her fingers,
spreading to the backs of her hands and arms.