They nodded.
“Sure,” said Sullivan.
And as it turned out, Tommy was right about the first thing: they didn’t know what exactly they were going to do. But he was wrong about the second thing.
They didn’t have to wait.
It was a familiar sound—or one that felt familiar: the sound of two orluo, clashing.
Tommy ran behind the house, and there, in the pine woods, he saw them: Mr. PilgrimWay and a shirtless boy who looked as if he might be his own age. Maybe just a little older, but almost the same height, and weight, and—well, almost everything. And the orluo were flashing between them, faster than Tommy could have imagined, and Tommy couldn’t help but, with a pang, feel amazed and even a little jealous at how skilled the boy was.
“Tommy,” yelled Alice Winslow, “we should call the police.”
But Tommy ran into his house, and when he came out, he was shirtless too, and he carried his orlu.
“Tommy?” said Alice Winslow.
And suddenly, Mr. PilgrimWay was pressing the boy back down the dune, and the blows of his orlu were stronger and more powerful than those of the boy, who gave way, and gave way, back and back, falling once in the sand, and saved only when Tommy cried out and Mr. PilgrimWay looked up and Tommy swung at him with his orlu and Mr. PilgrimWay had to parry it and the boy scrambled away.
Mr. PilgrimWay smiled.
“Gumena weardas!” the boy yelled, and he pointed to the ground beyond the house—where the flags were blowing their little selves straight in with the sea breeze, and where the blocks of the thrygeth wall lay scattered.
Together, Tommy and the boy ran to the flags, with Mr. PilgrimWay only a few steps behind them, and there, they turned and stood beside each other, shoulder to shoulder.
The boy looked at James Sullivan and Patrick Belknap. He pulled his gyldn from his belt and threw it to them.
“I think he meant you to take it,” said Patrick Belknap.
“It’s closer to you,” said James Sullivan.
“I’m not taking my shirt off. It’s freezing.”
“Oh my goodness,” said Alice Winslow.
Mr. PilgrimWay ignored them, and smiled again at Tommy Pepper and the boy.
“Two boys against one who sits in the Seats of the Reced?” he said. “And only one of them Ethelim?”
Tommy figured that this was where they were supposed to say something noble and heroic, but the boy, who was holding his orlu out in front of him, said nothing. Tommy decided to shut up. But he held his orlu out in front of him too.
He wasn’t exactly sure if he was holding it correctly—or if it was upside down.
Mr. PilgrimWay took a step closer.
And then he was upon them.
Tommy was sure that he was holding the orlu upside down.
If it had not been for the boy, Tommy Pepper would have been overwhelmed immediately; the rush forward was that quick. He tried to be a part of the battle, but really, the most he could do was to circle behind Mr. PilgrimWay and pretend he was a threat—at least he could keep Mr. PilgrimWay a little bit distracted. And maybe it worked, because even though the clash of his orlu did not come as loudly as the boy’s, Mr. PilgrimWay did have to keep turning his head to see where Tommy was, and those were the moments—brief though they were—when the boy could let down his orlu and breathe.
“You know, Sullivan,” Tommy called out, “I could use a little help.”
“How do you hold this thing?” said James Sullivan.
“It’s a gyldn,” hollered Tommy.
“Oh, thanks,” said Patrick Belknap. “That tells us a whole lot.”
And then the three orluo clashed together and, in sparks and shrieks, locked, and Mr. PilgrimWay struck the boy in the face with his open hand, and the boy fell back to the sand, dazed. And Mr. PilgrimWay turned to Tommy.
He drew his own gyldn from behind him.
“See! That’s how you hold it,” said Alice Winslow.
Mr. PilgrimWay smiled again.
“Your orlu is upside down,” he said.
Tommy turned it in his hands.
“Give me the chain.”
Tommy looked behind Mr. PilgrimWay. The boy was shaking his head, trying to stand up, but still dazed.
“He will be no help to you. Give me the chain.”
“Where’s Patty?” said Tommy. “Where’s my father?”
Mr. PilgrimWay took a step closer. He shook his head. “The chain first.”
So did Tommim Pepper draw out again the Art of the Valorim, and show Ouslim the Liar the chain of the Art of the Valorim. And the boy Ealgar looked, and cried against the faithless Ouslim, who would take the Art of the Valorim and subdue his world.
And Tommim Pepper spoke. “No.”
So did Ouslim the Liar come upon him again, and though his companions did rush to him—even unto Ealgar—they were thrown down, and Ouslim the Liar stood above him, and terrible was the speed of his orlu.
Then, in the battle’s greatest need, did Tommim Pepper fight as did Elder Waeglim himself at Brogum Sorg Cynna, who, disdaining all armor and weaponry, did go out against his enemies with a gyldn, and only a gyldn, and his hands flew before his enemies like flighted birds, and none could pierce him, or wound him, so quickly and easily did the gyldn fly in front of him, and it seemed there were many more than one.
And Tommim Pepper laughed in his heart and swung his orlu, and glad was his mind when Ouslim stepped back before him, and back again, and back, until finally his feet were in the sea.
And Ouslim the Liar cried out to the O’Mondim, and again.
And the O’Mondim came.
And the O’Mondim went to Tommim Pepper and he took the orlu from his hand and threw it far under the waves, where none will see it again. Then he gripped the shoulder locks of Tommim Pepper and did drive him to the ground, and Ouslim the Liar held his bright orlu above his face and did say that there were none to save him now. And who was he, to challenge one who sat in the Seats of the Reced?
And it seemed to Tommim Pepper that he looked upon the setting sun for the last time in his days.
“Byrgum barut,” said Tommim Pepper. “Su byrgum barut!”
Mr. PilgrimWay smiled. He pulled his orlu away and rested it on the sand. He looked around at Alice, and Belknap and Sullivan, at the young Ethelim, and then again at Tommy.
“This is pointless,” he said. “You will give me the chain. You must give it to me, for the sleep that closes the eyes of your sister and your father will be only sleep for another day. Then it will be sleep no more. It will be death.”
“I don’t believe anything you say.”
“Then you will live with the consequences of your unbelief.” He looked over his shoulder. The sun had set not long ago and the darkness was coming quickly. “It isn’t a long time, and when I come back, you will give me the chain of your own will.” He pointed to the boy. “Remember, he will want the chain for his own purposes—but those are not your purposes.”
Tommy shook his head. “Liar,” he said.
Mr. PilgrimWay smiled. “A sign, then, of good faith.” He looked at the O’Mondim, and suddenly his orlu whirled and hit the O’Mondim across the chest, who fell on the sand and lay still. Mr. PilgrimWay turned back to Tommy. “The Art of the Valorim gave him life. So it can take it away.” He pointed. “There is the mark you drew across his face. Use the chain now to erase it and this clod will dissolve into the grains from which he was made. That is my act of good faith.” He stepped back.
Tommy got up, slowly. He watched Mr. PilgrimWay, and watched the O’Mondim, who did not move as he came closer. Who did not move as he gripped his chain. Who did not move as Tommy looked at the mark he could erase—already harder to see in the darkening light.
The O’Mondim.
“Ferr,” said the boy.
But Tommy Pepper whispered, “What is your name?”
“The O’Mondim have no names,” said Mr. PilgrimWay.
Tommy looked at Mr. P
ilgrimWay. “They used to,” he said. He looked back at the O’Mondim. “What is your name?”
“Tommy Pepper,” said Mr. PilgrimWay, “you speak to sand.”
But Tommy knew this was a terrible lie.
Tommy stepped back from the O’Mondim. He took his hand from the chain and shook his head again. “I won’t,” he said. He looked at Mr. PilgrimWay. “We’re not the same.”
Mr. PilgrimWay laughed, suddenly, harshly. He motioned to the O’Mondim, who stood up, slowly, awkwardly without his right hand.
“A day, Tommy Pepper. And then you will give me the chain.”
Another motion to the O’Mondim, who turned and walked toward the sea. Tommy watched him pass through the blocks of clear thrygeth ice and into the waves. And in that light he could not be sure, but before the O’Mondim sank beneath the water, it seemed that he turned back to Tommy for a moment—only a moment—and then he was gone.
And Mr. PilgrimWay walked away along the beach down toward Plymouth, and was covered in the gathering darkness.
“I still don’t think I’m holding this right,” said James Sullivan.
Tommy looked at him. “It doesn’t look like it.”
The O’Mondim had turned his sightless face back toward him.
They helped the boy up to the house, and Tommy got one of his sweatshirts for him. It fit pretty well. Then he went into the kitchen and he and Sullivan made peanut butter sandwiches—which turned out to be something the boy had never seen before, but he was hungry enough that it didn’t matter—while Belknap worked at building a fire, and the living room filled first with smoke and then with the wood’s dry heat. The boy could not understand anything that Alice Winslow or James Sullivan or Patrick Belknap said, and they couldn’t understand anything he said, but Tommy translated as he brought peanut butter sandwiches and kindling back and forth down the yellow hall, his mother’s image walking beside him each time.
And when Tommy finally sat down, Patrick Belknap pointed at the boy and said, “Who is he?”
The boy touched his face and said, “Ealgar.” He waited, then said, “Ealgar Ethelim.”
There was a long pause.
“He’s not from our world,” said Tommy Pepper.
Another very long pause.
“No kidding,” said James Sullivan.
And Alice Winslow said, “Tell us everything.”
So Tommy did. And when he finished, Alice and Sullivan and Belknap called home to let their folks know they were sleeping over at the Peppers’ house that night—it being a Friday—and the five, with one orlu and one gyldn, prepared to guard themselves through the dark hours.
Tommy and Alice made some more peanut butter sandwiches. Then they found enough sleeping bags and blankets and pillows while Ealgar tried to teach Sullivan and Belknap how to handle a gyldn. He was shivering, so they stayed close to the fire. “Dur, weard,” said Ealgar, his arms clasped around himself. Tommy brought him his woolen blanket, and he wrapped it around his shoulders. Then Tommy brought more wood inside and they built up the fire to a roar.
The night was dead dark, so they all decided to stay awake to keep the fire lit and to watch. But a battle with one of the faithless Valorim will take its toll, and one by one they fell into deep sleep. None of them made it to midnight.
Except Tommy Pepper.
Tommy pushed back his blankets and got up. He looked around: they were all still asleep. He threw two logs on the fire, then went to the windows and looked out at the dark night, the dark sea, the dark clouds so thick that he could barely see where the moon was shining behind them. No stars at all.
Patty. His father.
His mother.
He looked back at the boy from another world. If he gave Mr. PilgrimWay the chain...
But Patty. His father.
Tommy took the chain off. He twisted it around his hand.
He had had enough.
He had had enough.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered to Ealgar.
Patty. His father.
Holding the chain in his fist, he pressed it against his heart. Then, carefully, he opened the front door, and carefully he closed it behind him. Tommy sat down on the stoop and waited in the cold dark, holding out the chain in the palm of his hand.
He sang the song of Githil—though he hardly knew he was singing it. Or maybe it was the Bach.
Whichever one it was, it did not take long.
Tommy did not see the O’Mondim walk out of the water, but he knew he was on the beach. When the waves burst to whiteness behind him, Tommy saw the O’Mondim’s outline, a slash against the white.
Tommy walked down to the shore, through the field of yellow flags. He may have been crying. He was near enough now that even in the dark, he could see the O’Mondim clearly. And Tommy held out his hand, where the Art of the Valorim rested in his palm, the chain dur.
He waited for the O’Mondim to come take it.
But he didn’t.
Tommy waited.
The O’Mondim did not move.
The O’Mondim did not move.
Tommy could smell the fah smell of the O’Mondim in the air.
“Here it is,” he said. “You wanted it, so here it is.” He held his hand out even farther.
The O’Mondim did not move.
“Here it is,” Tommy screamed. And he closed his hand on the Art of the Valorim, the chain that had traveled through unimaginable reaches of space, faster than light itself, and he threw it across the yellow flags, and it landed in the dark sand at the feet of the O’Mondim.
The O’Mondim did not move.
“Take it!” screamed Tommy. “Take it! Take it!”
Slowly, slowly the O’Mondim bent down to the sand, his long left arm reaching. Slowly, slowly he scooped it from the sand. Slowly, slowly he straightened himself.
And then, and then, he held the chain out to Tommy Pepper, and he raised his other, ruined hand, and he held that out too.
The sea quieted. The wind dropped. The moon opened the clouds and shone a single silver beam upon the two of them, Tommy Pepper and the O’Mondim, Tommy with his arms folded around himself, shivering in the dark, and the O’Mondim with his arms out, holding the Art of the Valorim.
Tommy heard the door to his house open behind him, and he knew that the boy—Ealgar Ethelim—had come out.
And he didn’t want Ealgar to see, but he couldn’t help it: Tommy really was crying.
The O’Mondim stepped into the field of yellow flags, his long legs shuffling across the beach. The moon came out more as he came closer, both arms still before him, the chain shining brightly in the O’Mondim’s palm, Tommy still crying, and crying, and crying, and the smell of the seaweed strong around them, until the O’Mondim stood close, almost touching Tommy.
And he held out the chain to him.
“What do you want me to do?” said Tommy.
The O’Mondim held out his ruined hand.
“I never meant...”
Tommy felt Ealgar beside him. “He knows you,” he whispered.
The O’Mondim’s ruined hand touched Tommy’s chest.
So cold, so cold, so cold.
So lonely.
“You are Valorim,” said Ealgar, and he bowed his head.
Tommy reached out to the O’Mondim and took the chain. He put it back around his neck. Immediately the chain was hot on his chest.
And as if he were in a dream, Tommy Pepper took the good hand of the O’Mondim, and looked up to his sightless face, and said, “We need to go where the sand is wetter.”
Hand in hand, Ealgar following, Tommy Pepper and the O’Mondim walked back through the yellow flags to the sand where the tide was rising. There the O’Mondim lay down and stretched out his ruined arm. And Tommy formed the wet sand into a hand around the ruin, shaping the fingers and the wrist, and bringing sand to flesh until it was connected, all the while the tide rising and the O’Mondim lying as still as lifeless stone.
And when he was fi
nished with the hand, Tommy—quickly because the water was breaking so near—Tommy took sand in his own hand, and reached to the O’Mondim’s face. And with the sand, he formed two eyes, and a nose, and two ears, all below the line he had formed on the O’Mondim’s forehead with the Art of the Valorim.
And still the O’Mondim lay without moving.
Tommy stepped back when the first wave reached them. It came up against the O’Mondim’s body and Tommy could only imagine the chill of the dark water. The next wave was a little less, but then the next came in higher and splashed against the O’Mondim, who lay on the sand, still unmoving.
Tommy backed away as more and more waves came up against the O’Mondim, and then over the O’Mondim, until the water from the spent wave rushing back over the O’Mondim was not gone before the next wave came upon him. And so the tide came in, and though the moon now threw aside the clouds and shone fully down upon the beach, Tommy could no longer see the O’Mondim in the waves.
Gone.
Tommy and Ealgar walked back up to the house, opened the front door, closed it against the cold, and fell at the bottom of the stairs, dead asleep.
NINETEEN
The Last Battle of Young Waeglim
For many, many winters will the battle between Young Waeglim the Noble and the Lord Mondus be remembered. Long may it be told to honor the last of the Valorim of that world.
When the door to the Forge of the Valorim was breached, and when the Lord Mondus and Saphim were upon him, orluo drawn, then did Young Waeglim the Noble laugh, glad-hearted, at their confusion. “So has the boy gone out of this world, ” said Young Waeglim, “and so none may follow. ” And with a blow of his orlu, he struck the Forge of the Valorim, and the white heat of it filled the Tower Room, and he struck it again, and the Forge of the Valorim fell to ruin around his feet.
Then did Saphim the Cruel cry out against Young Waeglim, and rush upon him, and thrust his orlu through the shoulder of Young Waeglim. But short was his triumph. Young Waeglim drew the orlu of Saphim from his shoulder and turned it upon the Councilman, so that Saphim the Cruel fell among the ruins of the Forge of the Valorim, and moved no more.
Then did the Lord Mondus, the last of the rulers of the O’Mondim save Ouslim the Liar, who had left that world, cry out upon Young Waeglim, and move against him, attacking the wounded shoulder of the warrior. Grim was the face of the Lord Mondus, and his orlu flashed down again and again. But bold was the face of Young Waeglim, and though sore wounded and hard-pressed, and with little hope, he fought on against the attack of the Lord Mondus.