The Fire Chronicle (46 page)

“That’s what he said. But what if … what if I’m not—”

“Michael”—the wizard kept his voice low and private—“I know you do not wish to be the Keeper of the
Chronicle
. You tried to tell me so this morning and I would not listen. The fact is, the
Chronicle
chose you for a reason, and I believe the choice was correct. I myself would have chosen no other.”

“Dr. Pym, I appreciate your trying to make me feel better, and I know it’s good for team morale—but I’m just not the right person.”

He had finally managed to say it; the words were out.

The wizard, however, was shaking his head. “You are so, so wrong.”

“But—”

“Michael Wibberly, you have a fire inside of you.”

“I … Wait, what?”

The wizard placed his wrinkled hand over Michael’s heart. “It is the fire of true feeling, of love and compassion, of sorrow. It is the flame that ignites the
Chronicle
. Without it, you could never have used the book as you have. True, as yet you do not command the full power of the
Chronicle
; but even Katherine needed time to master the
Atlas
.” He reached up and gripped Michael’s shoulder. “You have so much more to give than you imagine.”

And so saying, he left, taking Emma with him, and Michael was alone with Kate.

He tried to lie down beside her, but his heart was beating wildly, and he stood and began pacing, the
Chronicle
held tight to his chest. He walked back and forth in the small room for an hour or more, glancing again and again at his sister’s face, as if he might catch some sign of life. The rain began all of a sudden, a fierce, pounding rain that came streaking down outside the room. Michael walked out into the darkness, still clutching the book, and allowed himself to be drenched. The rain was cold, almost freezing, but it did nothing to cool the fever burning through
him, and his heart still beat as if to break free from his chest. He knew only that he couldn’t go back into the room.

He hurried down the winding stairs, water streaming from his glasses, his feet slipping on the wooden planks. He was being reckless, he knew, but still he went faster and faster, growing dizzier and dizzier as he circled the great tree. Then he was on the forest floor and walking quickly, not knowing or caring where, pushing his way through the thickets of ferns as his feet sank in the mud, his arms locked around the
Chronicle
, his heart thudding.

After a while, he realized he was hearing, through the constant shushing thrum of rain, the faint sound of voices. It was the singing that he and Emma had heard before—the death song of the elves. Michael hurried toward it. Soon, lights appeared, wavering among the trees, and he came upon a procession. Thirty or more elves, wearing dark cloaks and carrying candles (whose flames seemed somehow impervious to the rain), were moving slowly through the forest. Michael hid behind a tree and watched them pass. Once again, the song comforted him, and he felt his panic begin to ebb. Then, just as the elves disappeared among the trees, the rain stopped.

Michael stood there, taking long, deep, slow breaths, and listening to the water drip from the branches. He put his hand to his chest and his heart was no longer pounding. He found himself fingering the lump of glass under his shirt. It occurred to him that the time must be well past midnight. He was thirteen. By any measure, he was now the eldest Wibberly.

He took the marble from around his neck and placed it on a thickly knotted root. Michael stomped down and felt the glass crunch beneath his heel. There was a hissing, and Michael stepped back as a silvery-gray mist rose into the darkness. The outlines of a figure began to take shape, the smoke molding itself into feet and legs, a torso, arms, shoulders, a head. And, as Michael watched, the swirling mist resolved into the familiar features of his father.

The misty figure was identical in every way—how he was dressed, the glasses he wore, the shagginess of his hair and beard, even the fatigue in his eyes—to the figure Rourke had produced before the fortress walls. The only difference was that the figure before him was made of nothing but smoke. Michael could see straight through him to the trees beyond.

“Incredible,” the figure murmured, gazing at its own ghostly hands, its voice thin and echoey, as if coming from far away. “It actually worked. But then …” The figure turned and caught sight of Michael. “Oh my … are you … you can’t be … Michael?”

Michael nodded. At the moment, nodding was all he could manage.

“But … you … you’re so big!”

Michael had been holding himself perfectly still. He hadn’t known what to expect when he’d smashed the orb, but finding himself face to face with his father—or some version of his father—for the second time in as many days had left him reeling.

“Oh, my boy—” And the figure rushed forward, as if to embrace him. Michael didn’t have time to move, and anyway, it proved
unnecessary, as the specter passed right through him. Michael turned and saw the figure standing two feet behind him, looking confused and a little embarrassed. “Well … that was stupid.”

“Listen—” Michael knew he had to regain control of the situation.

“Are we in some sort of forest?”

“What? Yes, but—”

The figure waved its hand impatiently. “Never mind that now. There’re things I have to tell you. This may be difficult to believe, but I am in fact—”

“I know who you are.”

“You do? You mean you recognize me? How could you remember—”

“I saw a picture.” Michael had recovered, though his voice was still shaky. “What kind of proof can you offer that you are who you … look like?”

“Proof? You mean like ID of some kind?”

“I don’t know! I just need proof!” Michael felt himself becoming frantic. “How do I know you’re my dad?”

“Well, as it happens, I’m not.”

Of all possible responses, this was not one that Michael had seen coming, and it momentarily checked his rising panic.

“Is your father a strange, smoky apparition? No. Your real, flesh-and-blood father is somewhere else. At least, I hope he is. I’m a reflection of Richard; only instead of reflecting just his face, I reflect everything: how he looks, his memories. For instance, I remember the last time I saw you—or rather, he saw you. It was Christmas Eve, ten years ago, he carried you and Emma out of the
house and into Stanislaus’s car. You were both sleeping. And both so small.” The figure was quiet for a moment, then said, “And I have his thoughts and feelings. If he was here now, looking at you, he’d be thinking exactly what I’m thinking.”

“What’s that?” Michael asked hoarsely. “Just … out of curiosity.”

“How much he wished to have seen you grow up.” The figure stepped closer. “Michael, in giving you up, your mother and I did what we thought was best. But every day for the past ten years, we’ve lived with the pain of our decision. Compared to that, captivity was easy.” The figure shrugged. “Is that proof enough?”

Michael was frozen with uncertainty. He wanted to believe that this was his father, or a reflection of him, but how could he be sure?

“So you have all my dad’s memories?”

“That’s right. Ask me anythi—”

“Who is King Killick?”

“… I’m sorry?”

“Who’s King Killick? If you’ve got my dad’s memories, you should know. I’ll give you a hint. He’s a famous elf king.”

The figure stared at him, a confused look on its face. “I … have no idea.”

Michael felt something crumble inside him.

There, he told himself, that’ll teach you to hope.

“Of course,” the figure continued, “if you’d asked about the
dwarfish
King Killick, that’d be another matter. But I’ve never heard of an elf named Killick. Seems odd for an elf to have a dwarf’s name—”

“What—”

“There’s actually a quote of Killick’s I’ve never forgotten. The dwarf Killick, I mean. He said, ‘A great leader lives not in his heart—’ ”

“ ‘But in his head,’ ” Michael finished.

“Exactly! You know it too! Then why did you think Killick was an— Oh, I see, you were testing me! So, have I passed?”

Michael nodded; he didn’t trust himself to speak.

“Good.” The figure knelt before Michael. “Then here’s what I have to tell you. Your mother and I have escaped. How and who helped us aren’t important. We’re sending you and your sisters this message so you know we’re okay. We think we know where one of the books is hidden, and we’re going to look for it—”

“But you don’t have to!” Michael blurted. “I’ve already got it!”

“What’re you talking about?”

“We went to see Hugo Algernon! We found the tomb in Malpesa! We came to Antarctica! I’ve got the
Chronicle
! See?”

He held out the book. The figure reached for it, then stopped. Tendrils of smoke rose from the tips of its fingers. “Oh dear.”

“What’s happening?” Michael asked.

“I’m running out of time. This body isn’t built to last. Listen to me.” The specter placed its evaporating hands on Michael’s shoulders. “That’s wonderful that you have the
Chronicle
. But we’re looking for the last book.”

“The last—”

“If we fail, listen, if we fail, or if you find it before we do, don’t let Stanislaus bring all three books together. They must be kept
separate. We’ve learned things. They may or may not be true, but it’s not worth taking the chance.” Michael started to speak, but the figure cut him off. “You don’t have to understand. Just promise me.”

Michael nodded. He could see through the figure more and more clearly.

“But … you can’t go.…”

“I’m afraid I don’t have much of a choice. I can’t tell you how proud I am of you, and how proud your actual father would be, if he were here now.”

Michael couldn’t believe that this was it. There was so much he wanted to ask, so much he wanted to say. Then Michael realized that anything he told the apparition would vanish when the apparition vanished. It would be like whispering to the wind.

“I lost the
Omnibus
.”

“What?”

“
The Dwarf Omnibus
. You gave it to me the night Dr. Pym took us away. I’ve been keeping it all this time. I wanted to give it back to you. But I lost it. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, my boy, that doesn’t matter. Honestly.”

But Michael was shaking his head. He knew he was avoiding the thing he had to say. He took another breath.

“I … betrayed … Kate and Emma.” The words were heavy and stuck in his throat; he had to push them out. “Last year, in Cambridge Falls, I betrayed them to the Countess. She promised she would find you and Mom. She lied, of course. And I knew … I knew what I was doing. But after, it was so awful. It hurt so
much, I just … I never wanted to feel like that again. I never wanted to feel anything again.…”

He was crying quietly, and he wiped his hand across his face, which was still wet from the rain. The figure said nothing.

“But the
Chronicle
,” Michael went on, “it makes you feel things! And I don’t want to! I can’t! No one understands that! I just can’t!”

Then he dropped his gaze and clutched the book even tighter to his chest.

“Michael.” The figure had to say his name twice more before he looked up. “That quote from King Killick, do you know why I’ve never forgotten it?”

“Because,” Michael said thickly, “it … makes good dwarfish sense?”

“No. Because it was how I used to be. Before you and your sisters. Before your mother. I lived entirely in my head.”

“And it was better, right?” Michael said. “Things hurt less?”

“No! I mean, yes, I felt less pain. But the point of life isn’t to avoid pain. The point of life is to be alive! To feel things. That means the good and the bad. There’ll be pain. But also joy, and friendship and love! And it’s worth it, believe me. Your mother and I lost ten years of our lives, but every minute of every day we had our love for you and your sisters, and I wouldn’t trade that for anything. Don’t let the fear control you. Choose life, son.”

Then the figure put its ghostly arms around him, and Michael closed his eyes, and it seemed that his father’s shade became more solid, more real. Michael could feel his father’s chest against his
cheek, hear the beating of his heart, and then Michael opened his eyes, and he was holding nothing but air.

Suddenly, he was aware of a golden glow, and he turned and saw the elf princess. She wore a cloak with the hood thrown back, and her hair shone in the darkness.

“Were you … watching?”

She nodded, unashamed. “Yes.” She stepped forward and took his hand. “Come with me.”

“Why?”

“I am going to show you how to bring back your sister.”

Hand in hand, Michael and the elf princess raced through the forest. Wilamena led the way, the sodden arms of the ferns swinging back to let her pass before closing on Michael and drenching him, which they did again and again. He hadn’t asked where she was taking him, nor had she offered any hints, and so it was a surprise when they arrived at the canyon wall and Michael saw a dozen cloaked figures standing about with candles. He recognized them from the procession through the forest, and indeed, they were still singing, though so quietly now that Michael had to strain to hear the song. The figures were gathered before a triangular crevice, and, as Michael watched, one of the elves extinguished his candle, stepped into the crevice, and disappeared.