The Thief of Always

  “Mine!” said a voice out of the ground. “Mine!”

  It was Hood, Harvey knew. There was no other voice on earth that cut so deep.

  Rictus struggled in his creator’s grip, digging in the debris for some weapon. But none came to hand. All he had was his skill as a persuader.

  The magic’s yours,” he said. “I was holding on to it for you!”

  “Liar!” said the voice that rose from the debris.

  “I was! I swear!”

  “Give it to me then!” Hood demanded.

  Where shall I put it?” Rictus asked, his voice a strangled croak.

  Hood’s hand loosened him a little, and he managed to haul himself to his knees.

  “Right here…” Hood said, hanging onto Rictus’s collar by his littlest digit, while his forefinger pointed down toward the rubble. “…Pour it into the ground.”

  “But—”

  “Into the ground!”

  Rictus pressed the globe between his palms, and it shattered like a sphere of spun sugar, its bright contents running out between his palms and into the ground in front of him.

  There was a moment of silence; then a tremor ran through the rubble.

  Hood’s finger let its captive slip, and Rictus hurriedly got to his feet. He had no chance to make an escape, however. Pieces of timber and stone instantly moved over the heaps of rubble toward the spot where he’d poured the magic, several lifted high into the air. All Rictus could do was cover his head as the hail increased.

  Harvey was clear of this flying debris, and might well have made a retreat in these few moments. But he was wiser than that. If he fled now, he knew, his business with Hood would never be finished. It would be like a nightmare he could never quite shake from his head. Whatever happened next, however terrible, it would be better to see it and understand it than to turn his back and have his mind haunt him with imaginings to his dying day.

  He didn’t have to wait long for Hood’s next move. The hand holding Rictus’s neck suddenly let him go, and in a flash was gone from sight. The following moment the ground gaped and a form appeared, hunched over as it climbed out of its tomb in the rubble.

  Rictus let out a cry of horror, but it was short. Before he could retreat one step the figure reached for him, and turning to face Harvey, held his traitorous servant high.

  Here, at last, was the evil that had built the Holiday House, shaped more or less as a man. He was not made of flesh, blood and bone, however. He had used the magic Rictus had unwillingly provided to create another body.

  In the high times of his evil, Hood had been the House. Now, it was the other way around. The House, what was left of it, had become Mr. Hood.

  XXV. The Vortex

  His eyes were made of broken mirrors, and his face of gouged stone. He had a mane of splinters, and limbs of timber. He had shattered slates for teeth, and rusty screws for fingernails, and a cloak of rotted drapes that scarcely hid the darkness of his heart from sight.

  “So, thief—” he said, ignoring Rictus’s pitiful struggles, “you see me as the man was. Or rather, as a copy of that man. Is it what you expected?”

  “Yes,” Harvey said. “It’s exactly what I expected.”

  “Oh?”

  “You’re dirt and muck and bits and pieces,” Harvey said. “You’re nothing!”

  “Nothing, am I?” said Hood. “Nothing? Ha! I’ll show you, thief! I’ll show you what I am.”

  “Let me kill him for you,” Rictus managed to gasp. “You needn’t bother! I’ll do it!”

  “You brought him here,” Hood said, turning his splintered eyes on his servant. “You’re to blame!”

  “He’s just a boy. I can deal with him. Just let me do it! Let me—”

  Before Rictus could finish Hood took hold of his servant’s head, and with one short motion simply twisted it off. A yellowish cloud of foul-smelling air rose from the severed neck, and Rictus—the last of Hood’s abominable quartet—perished in an instant. Hood let the head go from his hand. It flew up into the air like an unknotted balloon, giving off a farting sputter as it looped the loop and finally fell, emptied, to the ground.

  Hood casually dropped the body, which had summarily shrunk to nothing, and turned his mirrored gaze back upon Harvey.

  “Now, thief,” he said. “YOU WILL SEE POWER!”

  His mane of splinters stood on end, as though every one of them was ready to pierce Harvey’s heart. His mouth grew wide as a tunnel, and a blast of sour, icy air rose from his belly.

  “Come closer,” he roared, opening his arms.

  The rags that clung there billowed, and spread like the wings of some ancient vampire; a vampire that had dined on the blood of pterodactyl and tyrannosaur.

  “Come!” he said again. “Or must I come for you?”

  Harvey didn’t waste his breath with a reply. He’d need every gasp he had if he was to outpace this horror. Not even certain what direction he was taking, he turned on his heels and ran, as another blast of soul-freezing air struck him. The ground was treacherous; slippery and strewn with rubble. He fell within six strides, and glanced back to see Hood descending upon him with a vengeful shriek. He hauled himself to his feet—Hood’s rusted nails missing him by a whistling inch—and had taken three stumbling strides from Hood’s shadow when he heard Lulu calling his name.

  He veered in the direction of her voice, but Hood caught the collar of his jacket.

  “Got you, little thief.” he roared, dragging Harvey back into his splintery embrace.

  Before Hood could catch better hold, however, Harvey threw back his arms and pitched himself forward. Off came the jacket, and he made a third dash for freedom, his eyes fixed on Lulu, who was beckoning him toward her.

  She was standing on the edge of the lake, he realized, perched inches from the spinning waters. Surely she didn’t imagine they could escape into the lake? The vortex would tear them limb from limb.

  “We can’t “he yelled to Lulu.

  “We must!” she called back. “It’s the only way!”

  He was within three strides of her now. He could see her bare feet slithering and sliding on the slimy rock as she fought to keep her balance. He reached out for her, determined to snatch her from her perch before she fell, but her eyes weren’t on him. They were on the monster at his back.

  “Lulu!” he yelled to her. “Don’t look!”

  But her gaze was fixed upon Hood, her mouth agape, and Harvey couldn’t help but glance back to see what fascinated her so.

  Hood’s pursuit had thrown his coat of rags into disarray, and there was something between its folds, he saw, darker than any night sky or lightless cellar. What was it? The essence of his magic, perhaps, guarding his loveless heart?

  “Do you give up?” Hood said, driving Harvey back onto the rocks beside Lulu. “Surely you would not choose the vortex over me?”

  “Go…” Harvey murmured to Lulu, his gaze still fixed on the mystery beneath Hood’s coat.

  He felt her hand grasp his for a moment. “It’s the only way,” she said. Then her fingers were gone, and he was standing on the rocks alone.

  “If you choose the flood you will die horribly,” Hood was saying. “It will spin you apart. Whereas I—” He extended an inviting hand to Harvey, stepping up onto the rock as he did so. “I offer you an easy death, rocked to sleep on a bed of illusions.” He made a smile, and it was the foulest sight Harvey had ever seen. “Choose,” he said.

  Out of the corner of his eye Harvey glimpsed Lulu. She had not fled, as he’d thought; she’d simply gone to find a weapon. And she had one: a piece of timber dragged out of the rubble. It would be precious little use against Hood’s enormity, Harvey knew, but he was glad not to be alone in these last moments.

  He looked up at Hood’s face:

  “Maybe I should sleep—” he said.

  The Vampire King smiled. “Wise little thief,” he replied, opening his arms to invite the boy into his shadow.

  Harvey took a step
over the rock toward Hood, raising his hand as he did so. His face was reflected in the shattered mirrors of the vampire’s eyes: two thieves in one head.

  “Sleep,” said Hood.

  But Harvey had no intention of sleeping yet. Before Hood could stop him, he grabbed hold of the creature’s coat and pulled. The scraps came away with a wet tearing sound, and Hood let out a howl of rage as he was uncovered.

  There was no great enchantment at his heart. In fact, there was no heart at all. There was only a void—neither cold nor hot, living nor dead—made not of mystery but of nothingness. The illusionist’s illusion.

  Furious at this revelation, Hood let out another roar of rage, and reached down to reclaim the rags of his coat from the thief’s hands. Harvey took a quick step backward, however, avoiding the fingers by a whisker. Hood came raging after him, his soles squealing on the rock, leaving Harvey with no choice but to retreat another step, until he had nowhere to go but the flood.

  Again, Hood snatched at the filched rags, and would have had both coat and thief in one fatal grasp had Lulu not run at him from behind, swinging the timber like a baseball bat. She struck the back of Hood’s knee so hard her weapon shattered, the impact pitching her to the ground.

  The blow was not without effect, however. It threw Hood off balance, and he flailed wildly, the thunder of the vortex shaking the rock on which he and Harvey perched and threatening to toss them both into the maelstrom. Even now, Hood was determined to claim his rags back from Harvey, and conceal the void in him.

  “Give me my coat, thief!” he howled.

  “It’s all yours!” Harvey yelled, and tossed the stolen rags toward the waters.

  Hood lunged after them, and as he did so Harvey flung himself back toward solid ground. He heard Hood shriek behind him, and turned to see the Vampire King—the rags in his fist pitch headfirst into the frenzied waters.

  The maned head surfaced a moment later, and Hood struck out for the bank, but strong as he was the vortex was stronger. It swept him away from the rocks, drawing him toward its center, where the waters were spiraling down into the earth.

  In terror, he started to plead for assistance, his pitiful bargains only audible when the whirlpool carried him to the bank where Harvey and Lulu now stood.

  “Thief!” he yelled. “Help me, and…I’ll give you…the world! For…ever…and ever…”

  Then the ferocity of the waters began to rip at his makeshift body, tearing out his nails and rattling out his teeth, washing away his mane of splinters, and shaking his limbs apart at the joints. Reduced to a living litter of flotsam and jetsam, he was drawn into the white waters at the whirlpool’s heart, and shrieking with rage, went where all evil must go at last: into nothingness.

  On the shore Harvey put his arms around Lulu, laughing and sobbing at the same time.

  “We did it…” he said.

  “Did what?” said a voice at their backs, and they looked around to see Wendell wandering toward them, blithe as ever. Every article of clothing he’d found in the rubble was either too large or too small.

  “What’s been going on?” he wanted to know. “What are you laughing at? What are you crying for?” He looked beyond Harvey and Lulu, in time to see the last fragments of Hood’s body disappear with a fading howl. “And what was that?” he demanded.

  Harvey wiped the tears from his cheeks, and got to his feet. At last, he had a purpose for Wendell’s perpetual reply.

  “Who cares?” he said.

  XXVI. Living Proof

  The wall of mist still hovered at the edge of Hood’s domain, and it was there that the survivors gathered to say their farewells. None quite knew what adventures lay on the other side of the mist, of course. Each of the children had come into the House from a different year. Would they all find that age—give or take a month or two—awaiting them on the other side?

  “Even if we don’t get the stolen years back,” Lulu said as they prepared to step into the mist, “we’re free because of you, Harvey.”

  There were murmurs of thanks from the little crowd, and a few grateful tears.

  “Say something,” Wendell hissed to Harvey.

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re a hero.”

  “I don’t feel like one.”

  “So tell them that.”

  Harvey raised his hands to hush the murmurs. “I just want to say…we’ll probably all forget about being here in a little while…” A few of the children said: no me won’t; or, we’ll always remember you. But Harvey insisted: “We will,” he said. “We’ll grow up and we’ll forget. Unless…”

  “Unless what?” asked Lulu.

  “Unless we remind ourselves every morning. Or make a story of it, and tell everyone we meet.”

  “They won’t believe us,” said one of the children.

  “That doesn’t matter,” said Harvey. “We’ll know it’s true, and that’s what counts.”

  This met with approval from all sides.

  “Now let’s go home,” said Harvey. “We’ve wasted too much time here already.”

  Wendell nudged him in the ribs as the group dispersed. “What about telling them you’re not a hero?” he said.

  “Oh, yeah,” said Harvey with a mischievous smile. “I forgot about that.”

  The first of the children were already braving the wall of mist, eager to put the horrors of Hood’s prison behind them as soon as possible. Harvey watched them fading with every step they took, and wished he’d had a moment to talk to them; to find out who they were and why they’d wandered into Hood’s grip. Had they been orphans, with no other place to call home; or runaways, like Wendell and Lulu; or simply bored with their lives, the way he’d been bored, and seduced by illusions?

  He would never know. They were disappearing one by one, until there was only Lulu, Wendell and himself left on the inside of the wall.

  “Well,” Wendell said to Harvey, “if time really is set to rights out there, then I’m going back a few more years than you.”

  “That’s true.”

  “If we meet again, I’m going to be a lot older. You may not even know me.”

  “I’ll know you,” Harvey said.

  “Promise?” said Wendell.

  “I promise.”

  With that they shook hands, and Wendell made his departure into the mist. He was gone in three strides.

  Lulu sighed heavily. “Have you ever wanted two things at the same time,” she asked Harvey, “but you knew you couldn’t have both of them?”

  “Once or twice,” said Harvey. “Why?”

  “Because I’d like to grow up with you, and be your friend,” she replied, “but I also want to go home. And I think in the year that’s waiting for me on the other side of that wall, you haven’t even been born.”

  Harvey nodded sadly, glancing back toward the ruins. “I guess we do have one thing to thank Hood for.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We were children together,” he said, taking hold of her hand. “At least for a little while.”

  Lulu tried to smile, but her eyes were full of tears.

  “Let’s go together as far as we can,” Harvey said.

  “Yes, I’d like that,” Lulu replied, and hand in hand they walked toward the wall. At the last moment before the mist eclipsed them they looked around at each other, and Harvey said: “Home…”

  Then they stepped into the wall. For the first stride he felt Lulu’s hand in his, but by the second stride it had grown faint, and by the third—when he stepped out into the street it and she had gone completely, delivered back into the time from which she’d stepped, all those seasons ago.

  Harvey looked up at the sky. The sun had set, but its pinkish light still found the ribs of cloud laid high above him. The wind was gusty, and chilled the sweat of fear and exertion on his face and spine.

  Teeth chattering, he started home through the darkening streets, uncertain what awaited him.

  It was strange that after so many v
ictories the simple business of walking home should defeat him, but defeat him it did. After an hour of wandering, his wits and strength which had preserved him from every terror Hood could conjure—failed him. His head began to spin, his legs buckled beneath him, and he fell down on the sidewalk, exhausted.

  Luckily two passersby took pity on him, and gently asked him where he lived. It was dangerous, he vaguely recalled, to trust his life to total strangers, but he had no choice. All he could do was give himself over to their care, and hope that the world he’d returned to still had a little kindness in it.

  He woke in darkness, and for one heartstopping moment he thought the black lake had claimed him after all, and he was down in its depths, a prisoner.

  Crying out in terror he sat up, and to his infinite relief saw the window at the bottom of his bed, the curtains slightly parted, and heard the light patter of rain upon the sill. He was home.

  He swung his legs out of bed and stood up. His whole body ached as though he’d gone ten rounds with a heavyweight boxer, but he was strong enough to hobble to the door and open it.

  The sound of two familiar voices drifted up from the bottom of the stairs.

  “I’m just happy he’s home,” he heard his mom say.

  “So am I,” said his dad. “But we need some explanations.”

  “We’ll get them,” his mom went on. “But we shouldn’t push him too hard.”

  Clinging to the banisters as he went, Harvey started down the stairs, while his mom and dad continued to talk.

  “We need to find out the truth quickly,” his father said. “I mean, suppose he was involved with something criminal?”

  “Not Harvey.”

  “Yes, Harvey. You saw the state of him. Blood and dirt all over him. He’s not been out picking roses, that’s for sure.”

  At the bottom of the stairs Harvey halted, a little afraid to face the truth. Had anything changed, or were the two people just out of sight still old and frail?

  He went to the door and pushed it open. His mom and dad were standing with their backs to him at the window, staring out at the rain.