Swan Knight's Son by John C. Wright
Gil stood. He inserted the key in the keyhole. It fit. He twisted.
The key did not move. It seemed to be jammed.
Gil licked his lips, not sure what he should do. He looked over his shoulder at the window behind him. The full moon was very near the dark horizon and would soon set. It would be another month at the earliest before the door appeared again. And there were months when it did not appear at all.
Gil applied more pressure to the key, trying to turn it. It stubbornly did not move. He twisted even harder.
The glass key exploded into tiny fragments. The loop cracked beneath his fingers. Glass dust fell from the keyhole.
An agony of grief jarred his body, like a hammer blow running from his spine to his skull. His disbelieving eyes were filled with a torment of frustration. He shouted, “NO!” at the top of his lungs and then, a moment later, whispered a little sob of noise that was the same word again, very softly, “…no….”
He slumped, banging his forehead against the door.
It opened.
Gil was up the stairs in the moment. The upper door was also arched at the top, but it had no doorknob, merely a sliding bar with a peg in it. Gil yanked it impatiently open.
The attic beyond was filled with sunlight. Gil blinked, blinded, waiting for his eyes to adjust.
Facing him across a dusty floor was an oblong box. It looked like a coffin standing upright on its end.
Chapter Eight: Attic in Elsewhere
1. Cabinet
Gil stepped forward nervously. Bright sunlight was pouring in through a set of small holes piercing the closed shutters of two dormer windows to his left. To his right were empty shelves and a pile of broken barrel staves. The floorboards were bare and covered with dust and prints of mouse tracks. Overhead was a main roof beam, with naked beams sloping down to the left and right. Gil noticed the boards were hammered into place with spikes, not carpenter’s nails.
He turned first to the windows and found a simple brass hook to flip to open the wooden shutters. There was no glass in the window. He looked out upon the treetops of a rolling, hilly landscape. Below was a valley and a line of mist hinted that a river ran through. The trees were half leafless, half covered with green fur or tender leaves of early spring. Some patches of lingering snow could be glimpsed on the ground beneath the tree canopy. The sun was in the sky, and it was the same size and hue as the sun he knew, so he supposed he was still on Earth.
In the distance was a tower made of a material and set in an architectural style he did not recognize; the blue-green substance of the tower’s conical top shined like metal, but there was also a sail or cowl that rose above the tower top to overshadow it, as if the architect were impersonating the look of a Jack-in-the-Pulpit.
Of the house he stood in, he could see nothing but the tiles of the roof, which were painted in a zigzag pattern of white, green, and blue. He saw a bronze roof ornament shaped like an owl at one corner of the eaves and at the other, a falcon carved of black stone.
Gil resisted the temptation to climb through the window and to explore this strange landscape. He did not know how long he had before the glass-knobbed door vanished or what would happen to him if he were trapped on this side when it did.
With both window shutters open to let the sunlight in, he turned back toward the attic room.
He was startled when he saw a man at the door. But no, there was no man. It was only his own reflection in a full-length mirror attached to the back of the upper door. This was not a glass mirror; it looked like a sheet of silver foil, laboriously hammered flat and polished.
The cabinet loomed large in the otherwise empty room. The disturbing impression that it was just the right proportion to hold a man’s body did not leave him. It was brightly painted in silver and black, green and gold, with images of white swans swimming in green waters amid tall, thin reeds or flying though the night sky among waxing and waning moons, seven-pointed stars, or silver clouds where an angel bearing shield and spear stood watch.
In the four corners of the doors of the cabinet were carved and painted images: a sword surrounded with fire, a ring in the clouds, a chalice floating on the waters of a fountain, a wand standing upright on a mountain peak. Midmost in the carving, where the two leaves of the lid met at the latch, was an image he had seen before of a golden cup with wings.
Along the bottom of the panels, between the images of the cup and the wand, was a picture of a hairy apelike monster carrying off a screaming maiden by the hair. The hair was silver.
Gil touched the latch. The doors of the cabinet fell open.
2. Armor
Inside was a suit of armor made of a silvery-white metal that shined like starlight-shine on snow. There was a hauberk of closely-woven rings, hasped and clasped at the joints with clews of dark blue. Over this was a solid breastplate, with straps leading to the vambraces, pauldrons, and gorget. Gauntlets hung by the sides. These were made of white metal chased with tracery of black, tiny chips of diamond, and set with gems of jacinth. Beneath the skirts of mail were greaves of jointed metal, likewise adorned with ruddy jacinth stones and tiny diamond chips.
A pair of black leather boots was there with silvery shin-guards or greaves running from knee to ankle. There were straps around the boots to hold a set of spurs in place, but no spurs.
On a mushroom-shaped orb of wood sitting on a shelf directly above the armor rack was the coif and helm. The helm was a single piece without a visor, with eyeholes and noseguard set so close to the cheek-pieces that they nearly touched. The empty Y-shape where the soldier’s face was supposed to peer forth seemed spooky, and it gave a grim and frowning aspect to the helm.
An ivory swan with eyes of jet and a bill of gold peered regally from the crest of the helm. From the earpieces of the helm rose silvery swan-wings. Gil could not tell if these were real wings or if a blacksmith had formed each and every separate feather from black and white metal strands. A fan of metal like the tail of a lobster hung down the back of the helm to protect the neck.
Hanging on two pegs on the inside lefthand door of the cabinet was an azure surcoat. On the chest was dazzling needlework. Here was the image of a gold-beaked and gold-footed silver swan with wings outspread, and above the sleek head of the bird hovered a gold crown.
Hanging on two pegs on the inside righthand door was a shield, flat at the top and pointed at the bottom, large enough to cover a tall man from shoulder to knee. The shield was painted blue, made of curved boards over a metal frame, and bore the same image of the crowned and silver winged swan as the surcoat.
Gil had studied in school as a matter of duty but had no love for books. He knew snatches and glimpses of history but not enough to put a name to armor in this style. It seemed half Norman and half Greek. The helm seemed Corinthian, decorated as if by Norsemen but with craftsmanship more like that found in Renaissance Italy.
Finally, in the highest place, hanging on two pegs above the helm, was a belt of silver studs. The buckles were of an unearthly blue-green alloy that shined like a polished aquamarine stone. The leather was tooled with images of flying swans and shooting stars.
He found the linen leggings and tunic quilted with padding folding in a drawer in the foot of the cabinet, and woolen stockings. In another drawer were a set of hammers and studs and pliers, a tin of polish, a shoehorn, and a set of spare buckles, rings, and straps as well as brushes and paint. A small box contained a jeweler’s kit.
Gil did not remember deciding to try the mail suit on. Usually, making a decision requires some sort of debate or looking at options, weighing the urge to do something against the reasons not to. In this case, since every part of this mind was unanimous, there was no debate. He took off his pants and shoes and put on the leggings, breeches, and padded tunic first.
He knew that in times of old, knights need squires to help them get into their gear. But whoever had designed this seemed to have wanted to make it possible for a man to dress himself. The back of the mail shirt was drawn to
gether across his spine by a clever system of straps he could yank from his shoulders, something like the straps on a backpack. The mail coif had a leather cap for padding. It went over his head and rested on his chest, shoulders, and upper back. The breastplate and backplate went over the head like the two halves of a clam and likewise tightened with two straps near the waist something like how a lifejacket is donned.
The helm was heavy and buckled with a chin-strap, and he could not turn his head very far left and right. But the weight somehow, in his heart, made him feel taller.
He took up the shield and inspected his reflection in the silver mirror. Both the mere mirth of wearing a masquerade get-up bloomed in him and a much more sober sensation of coming at last to see what it was he was born to do.
A weird feeling troubled him. He was sure he had seen a man dressed like this, the Swan Knight, earlier in his life. It had not been during the battle on Brown Mountain. It had not been in any movie or cartoon about King Arthur. Perhaps it had been in a colored plate in an old story book? Perhaps in a dream?
3. Arms
The sword harness was heavy with studs and buckles, and consisted of a baldric running from shoulder to hip and a belt that wound three times around his waist. He took off the metal-plated leather gauntlets because he needed his fingers free to work the buckles.
He drew the sword. It rested easily in his hand, weighty but well balanced. The heft of it sent a rush of sensation up his arm, as if his nerves and muscles from shoulder to fingertip suddenly were more serious and alert. Gil felt now, looking at this sword, the way he felt looking at the claws of a bear or the jaws of a wolf: this blade was the fang of man.
The pommel was a node of milky aventurine, the leather grip was white and set with silver nails, and the cross-guards were silver plated. The sword itself was a strange material, blue-white and mirror-bright, clear as silver and hard as titanium.
Foolishly, he tested his thumb against the edge, and found it as sharp as a scalpel. This drew a drop of blood from his thumb, but the blade was so keen he did not, at first, feel the cut. He jerked his thumb back in surprise, annoyed at himself. Would he have stuck his thumb into the mouth of a bear to test the sharpness of his tooth? He reminded himself never to take this blade lightly, never to draw it save in some cause grave enough to kill for or to die for.
Then, he saw a wonder. The drop of blood clinging to the very edge of the glassy blade changed color from red to black, hissed, and burst into flame. There was a flash like magnesium burning, too bright to look at, and an angular shape in some strange alphabet appeared in the depth of the blade, burning with blue-white light, and part of a second letter.
He only saw the letters when he blinked and beheld their after-image like ghosts behind his eyelids: The first letter was two triangles kissing, and the second looked like an N with two diagonal strokes instead of one.
The fire was white, not red, and was spreading slowly up and down the shining edge of the blade. The flames did not hiss or roar but made a low whistling noise, almost like a musical note, like what Gil had often heard putting too green wood on a campfire.
Holding off panic, Gil peered in the closet frantically. Surely anyone who owned a fire-hazard would always keep method to douse it close at hand? He saw nothing like a fire extinguisher among the jeweled gear and mystical elfin carvings. Then, his eye fell upon the scabbard. He saw that there was some sort of dark substance, shining like glass but gray as lead, coating the inside of the leather scabbard. He quickly slipped the sword back in place. The hilts slammed against the mouth of the scabbard as he drove it home. The blinding white fire was gone. The deep-toned whistling hum stopped.
In the sudden silence, he heard a noise behind him: a cry of surprise or pain. He spun. There was his mother, her face pale with shock, having come to the top of the stair while he was staring at the sword. She took two steps into the room, her eyes looking odd and unfocused, her pupils like pinpoints, and she swayed and started to fall.
4. Downstairs
Gil shouted in alarm and leaped forward, worried that his mother would fall backward and plunge down the stairs and break her skull. Instead, she slumped forward, and he caught her and eased her to the floor. But now he could see down the stairs the doorway leading into their apartment above the garage, where it was night, was beginning to fade and look blurry.
Taking up his mother gently in his arms, Gil rushed downstairs. The door was wavering like an image seen through water, but it was still real. Across the hall, through the door of his bedroom, he could see his bedroom window. The moon was touching the treetops to the west, but it was not yet out of sight. Was their time for more? He decided to risk it.
Up the stairs he ran. The cabinet itself was too heavy to move, but he yanked out the lower drawer containing the tools and cleaning polish, threw the gauntlets into the drawer, put the shield atop it to act as a lid, and leaped back downstairs three at a time, with the drawer and shield hugged to his chest. The sword and scabbard barked against his legs unmercifully, but the boots, greaves, and long mail skirt saved him.
He leaped back into the hallway just as the glass-knobbed door slammed shut, turned pale and ghostlike, and grew invisible, leaving the familiar blank spot on the wall behind.
Gil sighed. His shoes and pants, complete with his favorite knife and his latchkey, were still in the impossible attic in the other world. And the glass key to open that door was gone forever.
5. Church
Gil laid his mother on the couch, wrapped her in a blanket, and tucked a pillow under her feet. Only then did he remove the winged helm, which he placed atop the standing radio. He wanted to sit on the couch and take his mother’s hand in his but found the sword was in the way. He did off his war belt, hung a strap over the nose of one of the cherub faces carved into the old radio, and propped up the shield next to it.
A sigh from behind made him turn. Ygraine had her eyes open, and she was looking at the helm and shield draped over the radio box.
She said softly, “Never lay your sword aside, except only to sleep, and even then, let it be within the reach of your hands.”
He stood and stepped over to her. “Mother, how are you?”
She said, “I would be better if my son would heed my words. Never lay your sword aside, except at your lord’s command. Keep your blade with you at all times, keep it with you when you sit down to ea,t or when you dance, and even in the bathroom when you take a shower. You drew it, and you have seen the fire of the blade. It is part of you now.”
She closed her eyes. Her expression was one of great grief, and a sob escaped her lips.
Gil knelt by the couch and took her hands in his. “Mother! What is wrong? I am here. Everything will be all right. I will protect you.”
She spoke without opening her eyes. “I would be more comforted if my son opened his ears. If you love me, then do as I say.”
Reluctantly, he released her hand. Impatiently, he jumped over the end of the couch to where the radio stood, grabbed the sword and scabbard, and jumped back.
She sat up. “I will bind the sword on. It is the custom.”
“Whose custom?”
“Our custom. The civilized custom. A mother who does not buckle a weapon onto her son never knows the day and hour when he was a child no longer. Stand and spread your arms.” With practiced hand she wound the belts around his waist, and the strap over his shoulder. The weight rested more comfortably and more snugly than it had before.
He put his hands on her shoulders and looked steadily into her eyes. He said, “Mother, if I am no longer a child, now you must tell me.”
She sighed. “Walk with me to the church. We will talk there.”
Gil thought it was too late in the evening, or too early in the morning, for the church to be opened, but he did not object. He took up the shield in one hand and the helmet in the other and then stared mournfully at the doorknob. “How did people in the old days get around in all this gear?”
“They had servants,” she said. “Men were more willing to serve those who protected them in those days.” She showed him how to sling the shield properly on his back so that it sat comfortably but could be taken up quickly.
Then she stepped away into her room. He heard her moving boxes in her closet. Out she came again. In her hands was a long gray cloak or mantle with a hood. There were tiny strands of silver and little beads like dew woven into the gray substance of the cloak, and shadows clung to it in a fashion that was baffling to the eye. She threw it over his shoulders and told him to draw the hood up.
They walked in the gloom toward the little church on Westerfield road, less than a mile away. The birds were awake and singing, negotiating territorial claims and gossiping about where the juiciest bugs and worms could be found, but there was no sign of pink in the eastern sky.
Ygraine walked to the main doors of the church, which were not locked, and let herself in nonchalantly. Gil followed uncomfortably.
There was no light in the sanctuary and only starlight in the eastern windows. For the first time, he wondered if his mother had night vision as sharp as his because she did not stumble or hesitate. She knelt facing the altar, made the sign of the cross, rose, and went to sit in the back pew. She undid the scarf around her hair, shaking out the silver tresses, and then took a small lace veil like a doily and laid it across the crown of her head.
Gil followed and stood next to her. “Mom, this is a Baptist church. They don’t do those things here.”
She said, “If they will forgive me for remembering the old ways, I will forgive them for forgetting them, and heaven will be pleased with both.”
“Aren’t we trespassing?”
“The day any town where we have sojourned learns the habit of locking the doors to its church, it is time to depart to find one that has not. There is no trespass where all are welcome.”
The key did not move. It seemed to be jammed.
Gil licked his lips, not sure what he should do. He looked over his shoulder at the window behind him. The full moon was very near the dark horizon and would soon set. It would be another month at the earliest before the door appeared again. And there were months when it did not appear at all.
Gil applied more pressure to the key, trying to turn it. It stubbornly did not move. He twisted even harder.
The glass key exploded into tiny fragments. The loop cracked beneath his fingers. Glass dust fell from the keyhole.
An agony of grief jarred his body, like a hammer blow running from his spine to his skull. His disbelieving eyes were filled with a torment of frustration. He shouted, “NO!” at the top of his lungs and then, a moment later, whispered a little sob of noise that was the same word again, very softly, “…no….”
He slumped, banging his forehead against the door.
It opened.
Gil was up the stairs in the moment. The upper door was also arched at the top, but it had no doorknob, merely a sliding bar with a peg in it. Gil yanked it impatiently open.
The attic beyond was filled with sunlight. Gil blinked, blinded, waiting for his eyes to adjust.
Facing him across a dusty floor was an oblong box. It looked like a coffin standing upright on its end.
Chapter Eight: Attic in Elsewhere
1. Cabinet
Gil stepped forward nervously. Bright sunlight was pouring in through a set of small holes piercing the closed shutters of two dormer windows to his left. To his right were empty shelves and a pile of broken barrel staves. The floorboards were bare and covered with dust and prints of mouse tracks. Overhead was a main roof beam, with naked beams sloping down to the left and right. Gil noticed the boards were hammered into place with spikes, not carpenter’s nails.
He turned first to the windows and found a simple brass hook to flip to open the wooden shutters. There was no glass in the window. He looked out upon the treetops of a rolling, hilly landscape. Below was a valley and a line of mist hinted that a river ran through. The trees were half leafless, half covered with green fur or tender leaves of early spring. Some patches of lingering snow could be glimpsed on the ground beneath the tree canopy. The sun was in the sky, and it was the same size and hue as the sun he knew, so he supposed he was still on Earth.
In the distance was a tower made of a material and set in an architectural style he did not recognize; the blue-green substance of the tower’s conical top shined like metal, but there was also a sail or cowl that rose above the tower top to overshadow it, as if the architect were impersonating the look of a Jack-in-the-Pulpit.
Of the house he stood in, he could see nothing but the tiles of the roof, which were painted in a zigzag pattern of white, green, and blue. He saw a bronze roof ornament shaped like an owl at one corner of the eaves and at the other, a falcon carved of black stone.
Gil resisted the temptation to climb through the window and to explore this strange landscape. He did not know how long he had before the glass-knobbed door vanished or what would happen to him if he were trapped on this side when it did.
With both window shutters open to let the sunlight in, he turned back toward the attic room.
He was startled when he saw a man at the door. But no, there was no man. It was only his own reflection in a full-length mirror attached to the back of the upper door. This was not a glass mirror; it looked like a sheet of silver foil, laboriously hammered flat and polished.
The cabinet loomed large in the otherwise empty room. The disturbing impression that it was just the right proportion to hold a man’s body did not leave him. It was brightly painted in silver and black, green and gold, with images of white swans swimming in green waters amid tall, thin reeds or flying though the night sky among waxing and waning moons, seven-pointed stars, or silver clouds where an angel bearing shield and spear stood watch.
In the four corners of the doors of the cabinet were carved and painted images: a sword surrounded with fire, a ring in the clouds, a chalice floating on the waters of a fountain, a wand standing upright on a mountain peak. Midmost in the carving, where the two leaves of the lid met at the latch, was an image he had seen before of a golden cup with wings.
Along the bottom of the panels, between the images of the cup and the wand, was a picture of a hairy apelike monster carrying off a screaming maiden by the hair. The hair was silver.
Gil touched the latch. The doors of the cabinet fell open.
2. Armor
Inside was a suit of armor made of a silvery-white metal that shined like starlight-shine on snow. There was a hauberk of closely-woven rings, hasped and clasped at the joints with clews of dark blue. Over this was a solid breastplate, with straps leading to the vambraces, pauldrons, and gorget. Gauntlets hung by the sides. These were made of white metal chased with tracery of black, tiny chips of diamond, and set with gems of jacinth. Beneath the skirts of mail were greaves of jointed metal, likewise adorned with ruddy jacinth stones and tiny diamond chips.
A pair of black leather boots was there with silvery shin-guards or greaves running from knee to ankle. There were straps around the boots to hold a set of spurs in place, but no spurs.
On a mushroom-shaped orb of wood sitting on a shelf directly above the armor rack was the coif and helm. The helm was a single piece without a visor, with eyeholes and noseguard set so close to the cheek-pieces that they nearly touched. The empty Y-shape where the soldier’s face was supposed to peer forth seemed spooky, and it gave a grim and frowning aspect to the helm.
An ivory swan with eyes of jet and a bill of gold peered regally from the crest of the helm. From the earpieces of the helm rose silvery swan-wings. Gil could not tell if these were real wings or if a blacksmith had formed each and every separate feather from black and white metal strands. A fan of metal like the tail of a lobster hung down the back of the helm to protect the neck.
Hanging on two pegs on the inside lefthand door of the cabinet was an azure surcoat. On the chest was dazzling needlework. Here was the image of a gold-beaked and gold-footed silver swan with wings outspread, and above the sleek head of the bird hovered a gold crown.
Hanging on two pegs on the inside righthand door was a shield, flat at the top and pointed at the bottom, large enough to cover a tall man from shoulder to knee. The shield was painted blue, made of curved boards over a metal frame, and bore the same image of the crowned and silver winged swan as the surcoat.
Gil had studied in school as a matter of duty but had no love for books. He knew snatches and glimpses of history but not enough to put a name to armor in this style. It seemed half Norman and half Greek. The helm seemed Corinthian, decorated as if by Norsemen but with craftsmanship more like that found in Renaissance Italy.
Finally, in the highest place, hanging on two pegs above the helm, was a belt of silver studs. The buckles were of an unearthly blue-green alloy that shined like a polished aquamarine stone. The leather was tooled with images of flying swans and shooting stars.
He found the linen leggings and tunic quilted with padding folding in a drawer in the foot of the cabinet, and woolen stockings. In another drawer were a set of hammers and studs and pliers, a tin of polish, a shoehorn, and a set of spare buckles, rings, and straps as well as brushes and paint. A small box contained a jeweler’s kit.
Gil did not remember deciding to try the mail suit on. Usually, making a decision requires some sort of debate or looking at options, weighing the urge to do something against the reasons not to. In this case, since every part of this mind was unanimous, there was no debate. He took off his pants and shoes and put on the leggings, breeches, and padded tunic first.
He knew that in times of old, knights need squires to help them get into their gear. But whoever had designed this seemed to have wanted to make it possible for a man to dress himself. The back of the mail shirt was drawn to
The helm was heavy and buckled with a chin-strap, and he could not turn his head very far left and right. But the weight somehow, in his heart, made him feel taller.
He took up the shield and inspected his reflection in the silver mirror. Both the mere mirth of wearing a masquerade get-up bloomed in him and a much more sober sensation of coming at last to see what it was he was born to do.
A weird feeling troubled him. He was sure he had seen a man dressed like this, the Swan Knight, earlier in his life. It had not been during the battle on Brown Mountain. It had not been in any movie or cartoon about King Arthur. Perhaps it had been in a colored plate in an old story book? Perhaps in a dream?
3. Arms
The sword harness was heavy with studs and buckles, and consisted of a baldric running from shoulder to hip and a belt that wound three times around his waist. He took off the metal-plated leather gauntlets because he needed his fingers free to work the buckles.
He drew the sword. It rested easily in his hand, weighty but well balanced. The heft of it sent a rush of sensation up his arm, as if his nerves and muscles from shoulder to fingertip suddenly were more serious and alert. Gil felt now, looking at this sword, the way he felt looking at the claws of a bear or the jaws of a wolf: this blade was the fang of man.
The pommel was a node of milky aventurine, the leather grip was white and set with silver nails, and the cross-guards were silver plated. The sword itself was a strange material, blue-white and mirror-bright, clear as silver and hard as titanium.
Foolishly, he tested his thumb against the edge, and found it as sharp as a scalpel. This drew a drop of blood from his thumb, but the blade was so keen he did not, at first, feel the cut. He jerked his thumb back in surprise, annoyed at himself. Would he have stuck his thumb into the mouth of a bear to test the sharpness of his tooth? He reminded himself never to take this blade lightly, never to draw it save in some cause grave enough to kill for or to die for.
Then, he saw a wonder. The drop of blood clinging to the very edge of the glassy blade changed color from red to black, hissed, and burst into flame. There was a flash like magnesium burning, too bright to look at, and an angular shape in some strange alphabet appeared in the depth of the blade, burning with blue-white light, and part of a second letter.
He only saw the letters when he blinked and beheld their after-image like ghosts behind his eyelids: The first letter was two triangles kissing, and the second looked like an N with two diagonal strokes instead of one.
The fire was white, not red, and was spreading slowly up and down the shining edge of the blade. The flames did not hiss or roar but made a low whistling noise, almost like a musical note, like what Gil had often heard putting too green wood on a campfire.
Holding off panic, Gil peered in the closet frantically. Surely anyone who owned a fire-hazard would always keep method to douse it close at hand? He saw nothing like a fire extinguisher among the jeweled gear and mystical elfin carvings. Then, his eye fell upon the scabbard. He saw that there was some sort of dark substance, shining like glass but gray as lead, coating the inside of the leather scabbard. He quickly slipped the sword back in place. The hilts slammed against the mouth of the scabbard as he drove it home. The blinding white fire was gone. The deep-toned whistling hum stopped.
In the sudden silence, he heard a noise behind him: a cry of surprise or pain. He spun. There was his mother, her face pale with shock, having come to the top of the stair while he was staring at the sword. She took two steps into the room, her eyes looking odd and unfocused, her pupils like pinpoints, and she swayed and started to fall.
4. Downstairs
Gil shouted in alarm and leaped forward, worried that his mother would fall backward and plunge down the stairs and break her skull. Instead, she slumped forward, and he caught her and eased her to the floor. But now he could see down the stairs the doorway leading into their apartment above the garage, where it was night, was beginning to fade and look blurry.
Taking up his mother gently in his arms, Gil rushed downstairs. The door was wavering like an image seen through water, but it was still real. Across the hall, through the door of his bedroom, he could see his bedroom window. The moon was touching the treetops to the west, but it was not yet out of sight. Was their time for more? He decided to risk it.
Up the stairs he ran. The cabinet itself was too heavy to move, but he yanked out the lower drawer containing the tools and cleaning polish, threw the gauntlets into the drawer, put the shield atop it to act as a lid, and leaped back downstairs three at a time, with the drawer and shield hugged to his chest. The sword and scabbard barked against his legs unmercifully, but the boots, greaves, and long mail skirt saved him.
He leaped back into the hallway just as the glass-knobbed door slammed shut, turned pale and ghostlike, and grew invisible, leaving the familiar blank spot on the wall behind.
Gil sighed. His shoes and pants, complete with his favorite knife and his latchkey, were still in the impossible attic in the other world. And the glass key to open that door was gone forever.
5. Church
Gil laid his mother on the couch, wrapped her in a blanket, and tucked a pillow under her feet. Only then did he remove the winged helm, which he placed atop the standing radio. He wanted to sit on the couch and take his mother’s hand in his but found the sword was in the way. He did off his war belt, hung a strap over the nose of one of the cherub faces carved into the old radio, and propped up the shield next to it.
A sigh from behind made him turn. Ygraine had her eyes open, and she was looking at the helm and shield draped over the radio box.
She said softly, “Never lay your sword aside, except only to sleep, and even then, let it be within the reach of your hands.”
He stood and stepped over to her. “Mother, how are you?”
She said, “I would be better if my son would heed my words. Never lay your sword aside, except at your lord’s command. Keep your blade with you at all times, keep it with you when you sit down to ea,t or when you dance, and even in the bathroom when you take a shower. You drew it, and you have seen the fire of the blade. It is part of you now.”
She closed her eyes. Her expression was one of great grief, and a sob escaped her lips.
Gil knelt by the couch and took her hands in his. “Mother! What is wrong? I am here. Everything will be all right. I will protect you.”
She spoke without opening her eyes. “I would be more comforted if my son opened his ears. If you love me, then do as I say.”
Reluctantly, he released her hand. Impatiently, he jumped over the end of the couch to where the radio stood, grabbed the sword and scabbard, and jumped back.
She sat up. “I will bind the sword on. It is the custom.”
“Whose custom?”
“Our custom. The civilized custom. A mother who does not buckle a weapon onto her son never knows the day and hour when he was a child no longer. Stand and spread your arms.” With practiced hand she wound the belts around his waist, and the strap over his shoulder. The weight rested more comfortably and more snugly than it had before.
He put his hands on her shoulders and looked steadily into her eyes. He said, “Mother, if I am no longer a child, now you must tell me.”
She sighed. “Walk with me to the church. We will talk there.”
Gil thought it was too late in the evening, or too early in the morning, for the church to be opened, but he did not object. He took up the shield in one hand and the helmet in the other and then stared mournfully at the doorknob. “How did people in the old days get around in all this gear?”
Then she stepped away into her room. He heard her moving boxes in her closet. Out she came again. In her hands was a long gray cloak or mantle with a hood. There were tiny strands of silver and little beads like dew woven into the gray substance of the cloak, and shadows clung to it in a fashion that was baffling to the eye. She threw it over his shoulders and told him to draw the hood up.
They walked in the gloom toward the little church on Westerfield road, less than a mile away. The birds were awake and singing, negotiating territorial claims and gossiping about where the juiciest bugs and worms could be found, but there was no sign of pink in the eastern sky.
Ygraine walked to the main doors of the church, which were not locked, and let herself in nonchalantly. Gil followed uncomfortably.
There was no light in the sanctuary and only starlight in the eastern windows. For the first time, he wondered if his mother had night vision as sharp as his because she did not stumble or hesitate. She knelt facing the altar, made the sign of the cross, rose, and went to sit in the back pew. She undid the scarf around her hair, shaking out the silver tresses, and then took a small lace veil like a doily and laid it across the crown of her head.
Gil followed and stood next to her. “Mom, this is a Baptist church. They don’t do those things here.”
She said, “If they will forgive me for remembering the old ways, I will forgive them for forgetting them, and heaven will be pleased with both.”
“Aren’t we trespassing?”
“The day any town where we have sojourned learns the habit of locking the doors to its church, it is time to depart to find one that has not. There is no trespass where all are welcome.”