City of Golden Shadow

  "I cannot tell you how grateful I am. Come here, stand next to the heater for a moment. Oh, and put these on, will you?" He produced a pair of thin, stretchy gloves and handed them to her. As she struggled to pull them on, he turned his chair back toward the living room. "No sense in leaving fingerprints. I've cleaned up everything else already. But listen to me babble. Are you freezing, little Christabel? It's a cold night out."

  "I fell asleep. I tried not to, but I did."

  "That's all right. We have plenty of time before it starts to get light. And we have only a few things left to do."

  In the living room, sitting on the little table, was a glass of milk and three cookies on a plate. Mister Sellars pointed to them, smiling his funny, crooked smile.

  "Go ahead. You're going to need your strength."

  "Well, then," he said as she nibbled the last bite of the last cookie, "I think that's everything. Do you understand what you need to do? Really understand?"

  Since her mouth was full, she only nodded.

  "Now, you must do it just the way I said. This is very dangerous, Christabel, and if you were hurt I couldn't bear it. In fact, if there were any other way to do this, I would never have involved you at all."

  "But I'm your friend," she said through the crumbs.

  "Yes, and that's why. Friends don't take advantage of friendship. But this is really the most important thing, Christabel. If you could only understand how important it is. . . ." He trailed off. For a moment, she thought he might be going to fall asleep, but his yellowish eyes popped open again. "Ah! I'd almost forgotten." He rummaged in a pocket of his bathrobe. "These are for you."

  She stared at them, not sure what to say. "But I already have Storybook Sunglasses. You know that."

  "But not like these. You must take these home with you when we've finished, and then you must be sure to get rid of the other pair—throw them somewhere no one will ever find them. Otherwise, your parents will want to know why you have two pairs."

  "These are different?" They looked just the same, no matter how she turned them. She put them on, but they felt just like her other pair.

  "You'll see later on. Tomorrow, in fact. Put them on after you get home from school—what time is that? Two o'clock?"

  She nodded. "Fourteen hundred hours is what my daddy says."

  "Good. Now, we need to get to work. But first, would you wash this glass and plate? Just a precaution—I know you have the gloves on, but we don't want to leave any other traces we don't need to."

  When she'd finished, and had put the plate and glass back into the cupboard, Christabel found Mister Sellars in the hallway. Sitting so still, with his funny head and small body, he looked like a doll. "Ah," he said, "time to go. I'll miss this place, you know. It's a prison, but not an altogether uncongenial one."

  She didn't know what the long word meant, so she just stood.

  "Come along," he said. "It's in the backyard."

  Christabel had to push away some branches that the wind had knocked down before she could help Mister Sellars down the ramp. There was just enough light from the streetlamp to see by, but it was still very dark. The plants were growing everywhere, even in the middle of the lawn and out of the cracks in the pavement—Christabel thought it looked like nobody had come to do any work in the garden for a long time. The wind was still blowing hard, and the wet grass slapped at her ankles as she pushed him across the lawn. They stopped at the far edge. A rope hung over the grass there, both ends dangling from a funny metal thing on the limb of the big oak tree.

  "It's here," he said, pointing at the ground. "Just lift up the grass and push it back. Like this. Now you take the other side."

  The grass at the edge of the lawn rolled up, just like her mother rolled up the dining room carpet before she set the floor polisher to work. In the middle of the dirt that was now showing was an old metal plate with two holes in it. Mister Sellars picked up a metal bar that was lying at the edge of the path and put it in one of the holes, then braced it against the handle of his wheelchair and pried up the plate, which fell over onto the lawn with a soft thump noise.

  "Now," he said, "first me, then the chair. You're about to learn the principle of the pulley, Christabel. I've used it to lower a lot of things already, but it will be much easier with you to help me."

  He heaved on the rope to lift his withered body from the chair, then looped part of it under his arms, and with Christabel's help maneuvered himself over the hole. She kept him from bumping against the side as he slowly let the rope slide through his fingers. He only went down a little way before the rope stopped moving.

  "See? It's not far."

  She leaned over the edge. A funny little square flashlight sat on the floor of the cement tunnel, splashing red light on everything. Mister Sellars sat beside it on the floor, his legs curled under him. If she'd had an umbrella, she could have reached down and poked him. He loosened the rope around his chest and pulled it off without untying the knot.

  "We'll hope that I'm the only person who knows about this," he said, smiling his melted-looking smile. "These emergency tunnels haven't been used in fifty years. That's before even your mother and father were born. Now the chair," he said, tossing the loop of rope up to Christabel. "I'll tell you how to tie it."

  When she had attached the rope, Mister Sellars pulled hard. The little metal thing in the tree squeaked, but at first the chair didn't move. Christabel pushed it, but that only made it move sideways. Mister Sellars pulled again, this time rising up off the floor so that all his weight was hanging on the rope. The tree branch bent, but the chair rose up just a little way off the ground. Christabel steered it over the hole, then Mister Sellars let the rope slide back gently through his fingers and the chair bumped to the bottom of the tunnel. Mister Sellars pulled himself up into the chair, then attached both ends of the rope to the chair's handles.

  "Step back, Christabel," he said. When she did, he waggled his fingers over the armrest and the chair started forward. When the rope had pulled tight, the branch bent far down. Mister Sellars waggled his fingers a little faster. The treads on the bottom of his chair seemed to grab at the tunnel floor, and for the first time the chair made a quiet noise, like a cat purring. Something went snap! The branch sprang up and the rope flew down into the tunnel.

  "Ah, good. The pulley came with it. That was the only thing I was still worrying about." Mister Sellars looked up at her. In the reddish light, he seemed like something in the Halloween spookhouse at the PX. "I'll be fine from here," he said, smiling. He folded one of his arms in front of him and bowed his head to her like she was the Otter Queen. " 'We who still labour . . . Being weary of the world's empires, bow down to you. . . .' That's Yeats again. Now, don't forget to put on your new Storybook Sunglasses after school. And remember—be very careful with the car." He laughed. "I'm finally going to get some use out of that thing." His face went serious again and he lifted his finger. "Be very, very careful. Do everything just the way I said. Can you remember the whole rhyme?"

  Christabel nodded. She said it all for him.

  "Good. Don't forget to wait until the streetlight goes out." Mister Sellars shook his head. "To think that it has come to this—that I should be forced to such ends! You're my partner in crime, Christabel. I've been planning this for a long time, but I couldn't do it without you. Someday, I hope I can explain to you what an important thing you're doing." He lifted his crinkly hand. "Be good. Be careful!"

  "Aren't you going to be scared down there?"

  "No. I may not be going very far, but I'll be free, and that's more than I've been able to say in a long time. Go on now, little Christabel. You have to get home soon anyway." She waved good-bye. Then, with Mister Sellars helping from underneath, she dragged the metal plate back over the hole, then rolled back the grass and patted it down.

  "Here's the first thing you must think The bar goes back beneath the sink. . . ."

  She took the pry bar with her into the house and put it under
the sink, just like in the poem Mister Sellars had taught her. She kept saying the rhyme over and over—there was so much to think about, and she was scared she'd get some of it wrong.

  The bundle of stiff, smelly cloth was in the can under the sink, just like the old man had told her. She took it, and the little plastic thing beside it, then walked out the other kitchen door into the garage. There was just enough light coming in through the window at the top of the door to make out the car, Mister Sellars' Cadillac, sitting in the shadows like a huge animal. She very badly wanted to turn on the light, just as she had wanted to turn on the kitchen light—with Mister Sellars gone, the house seemed darker and stranger than her own house had been—but the rhyme said not to;

  ". . . And leave off every single light."

  She made up her mind to be brave and thought of the next part.

  "Now wave to open the big garage door A switch by the kitchen will do that chore. . . ."

  When she passed her hand in front of the sensor by the entrance from the kitchen, the garage door slid upward on silent runners. Beyond the shadowy bulk of the car, she could see all the way past the streetlamp to the end of Beekman Court.

  Christabel walked around the car, reciting Mister Sellars' rhyme. As she passed the passenger door she saw something inside, slouching in the driver's seat. It startled her so much she almost screamed, even though she could see right away it was just a big plastic bag. But even if it was only a bag, she didn't like it. She hurried around to the back of the Cadillac.

  ". . . Next, find the little secret door Hidden behind the number four. . . ."

  The number four was on the car's license plate. She pulled at the edge and the whole license tipped down. Behind it was the place where you put something in the car—it was an old-time car, Mister Sellars had once explained, and didn't work on electricity or steam. Even though he said the car had been in the garage when he moved to the house. Mister Sellars always acted like it belonged to him and he was proud of it.

  She unscrewed the cap, then unrolled the thick cloth and pushed one end into the hole and shoved it down. As she was doing this, the streetlamp behind her suddenly went out. It got so dark so fast that it seemed like all the lights in the world had gone out at the same time.

  Christabel held her breath. She could see the deep, deep blue sky and the stars through the open garage door, so it wasn't as scary as she'd thought at first. Besides, Mister Sellars had told her it would happen, and anyway she was nearly done with her special job.

  She stepped away from the cloth, held up the little plastic tube, and pushed the button. A spark jumped up. Even though she had been expecting it, it surprised her and she dropped the plastic thing, which clattered on the garage floor and bounced away somewhere to one side. There was nothing but shadow on the floor, deep and black. She couldn't see anything.

  Her heart went bump, bump in her chest like a bird was trapped inside her and trying to get out. What if she lost the plastic tube? Then Mister Sellars would get in trouble—he'd said it was very very important—and maybe she would get in trouble too, and her Mommy and Daddy would be so angry, plus maybe Mister Sellars would be put in jail. Christabel got down on her hands and knees to search. Right away she put her hands on something dry and crackly. She wanted to scream again, but even though she was really afraid of what might be down there (spiders, worms, snakes, more spiders, skeletons like in the spookhouse) she had to keep looking, she just had to. Mister Sellars had said to do it when the streetlamp went out. He had said! Christabel began to cry.

  At last, after a very long time, she felt the smooth plastic beneath her fingers. Sniffling, she got to her feet, then felt her way to the back of the car again. She held the thing away from her so it wouldn't be so scary, then pushed the button. The spark jumped and turned into fire. She took the end of the cloth—carefully, just like Mister Sellars had said—and touched it to the fire. The cloth began to burn, not a big fire, just a blue edge that smoked. She crammed her gloves into the opening to keep the license plate from swinging shut, then stretched the burning end of the cloth as far from the car as it would go before dropping it onto the floor. She walked out of the garage quickly, saying the last part of the rhyme to herself, partly to make sure she remembered, partly because she was really scared. Outside, she pushed the button on the wall and the garage door hissed down.

  Now, with almost everything done, Christabel turned and ran up Redland as fast as she could. All the houses were dark, but now all the streetlamps were dark too, so she ran with only the light of the stars to show her the way. As she turned the corner and hurried down Stillwell, she threw the plastic flame-maker into some bushes. Then, when she reached her own front lawn, all the streetlamps suddenly started to shine again. She hurried to her front door.

  Christabel had forgotten about the alarm. When she pushed the door open, speakers all over the house began to buzz, startling her so much she almost wet her pants. Over the horrible noise, she heard her father begin to shout. Terrified, she ran as fast as she could and got through her bedroom door just before the door to her parents' room banged open. She threw off her coat and shoes and clothes, praying that they wouldn't come in. She had just got her jammies on when her mother hurried in.

  "Christabel? Are you okay? Don't be scared—it's the door alarm, but I think it went off by accident."

  "It's some kind of power outage, I think," her father shouted from down the hall. "The wallscreens are all off, and my watch is almost an hour different than the kitchen clock. Must have triggered the alarm when it came back on."

  Christabel had just been tucked back in bed by her mother, and was scrunching down beneath the covers, feeling her heart begin to slow, when the flame at last reached the gas tank in Mister Sellars' Cadillac. It made a noise like God himself clapping His hands together, rattling windows for miles and waking up almost everyone on the Base. Christabel screamed.

  Her mother came back into the bedroom, and this time sat beside her in the dark, rubbing her neck and telling her it was all right, it was a gas line or something, it was a long way away. Christabel clung to her mother's stomach, feeling like she was so full of secrets that she might blow up, too. Light flickered in the treetops outside as the fire trucks hurried past going weeaaw, weeaaw, weeaaw. . . .

  "Hey, Landogarner, you got sword-head house," Zunni commented.

  Tiny yellow monkeys were busily rearranging the decor of Orlando's 'cot. Two of them were adding an exaggerated handlebar mustache to the severed head of the Black Elf Prince, and half-a-dozen others seemed to have changed the body of the Worm of Morsin Keep into a transparent chute; as Orlando watched, one little banana-colored simian was sliding on its belly through the innards of Thargor's prize beast.

  "Sword-head? Oh, yeah. I used to spend a lot of time in the Middle Country. You know that?"

  "Boring," pronounced Zunni. "Kill monster, find jewel, earn bonus points. Wibble-wobble-wubble."

  Orlando couldn't really argue. He turned to watch another pair of monkeys altering the historical pictures of the Kara-gorum Tapestry into a procession of cartoon snails having sex. He scowled. It wasn't so much the exuberant vandalism that bothered him—he had gotten pretty sick of the old decor—as the seemingly effortless way the Wicked Tribe had penetrated his protected programming. It would have taken a team of engineers from some place like Indigo a whole afternoon to manage what these little lunatics had done in minutes. He suddenly understood how his parents must have felt when he tried to explain the things he did on the net.

  Beezle appeared from a hole in the ceiling and was instantly swarmed by mini-apes. "If you don't get these things offa me," the agent warned, "I'm gonna drezz "em."

  "Be my guest. I'd like to see you manage it"

  Beezle knotted his legs tight to protect them from marauding monkeys. "Fredericks is requesting permission to enter."

  Orlando felt something grow warmer inside him. "Yeah, sure. Let him . . . her . . . let him in." He would have to get t
his straightened out in his mind, it seemed. So, if Fredericks wanted to be treated like a guy, then she was a guy. Just like old times. Sort of.

  Fredericks popped in and was immediately set upon by flying yellow creatures. As he waved his hands reflexively to clear his field of vision—he could have made them transparent if he had thought about it, since he knew the capacities of Orlando's 'cot almost as well as its creator did—Orlando looked him over. Fredericks' sim seemed a little less spectacularly muscle-bound than usual. Maybe after hearing about Orlando's disease, he thought that looking so healthy might be offensive.

  "Los Monos Volandos!" shouted one of the Tribe, buzzing Fredericks' face. "We Supremo Bigdaddy culture club! Happy Flappy Trails!"

  "Jesus, Orlando, this is fun," grumped Fredericks as he flicked away a tiny ape who had been swinging from his simulated earlobe. "I'm utterly glad I didn't miss this."

  "Yeah. I'm glad you didn't miss it, too."

  A moment of awkward silence—silence except for the chattering and aimless noisemaking of the Tribe—ended when Orlando clapped his hands. The yellow cloud split apart into simian particles which settled down on various virtual surfaces. "I wanted to ask you guys for a favor." He tried to look like the kind of person a flock of feral children should want to help. "I need help really badly."

  "You cred us?" squealed some of the monkeys. "Spree-ky? Toyz-n-gear?" But Kaspar—Orlando was beginning to recognize a few of their voices—shushed them.

  "What favor you need?"

  "I'm trying to find somebody. The name is Melchior, and it's something to do with TreeHouse. He or she—or maybe it's more than one person—did some software work, some gear, for a Red Gryphon in the Middle Country simworld."

  "Melchior?" said Zunni, rising to hover in the air like a particularly homely little fairy. "Easy! Dog, Dog, Dog!"

  "And Doggie-friends!" said another monkey.

  "Wait a minute. What do you mean?"