In the morning, Tommy was up before his father and sister. He figured it was almost dawn. He went into the living room and opened all the windows that looked out to the sea. He looked around for an unbroken chair. None. He went into the kitchen and found one and he brought it back and sat down at the piano.
He looked outside at the ocean.
The chain was warm on his chest.
He turned back to the piano and held out his hands.
He played “Sleepers Wake!” The Bach piece.
He played the song beautifully.
He played as if the music were coming out of his fingers.
He played as if the music were coming out of his heart.
And when he finished, he turned and saw his father and Patty standing, watching him.
They were crying.
And he looked outside and felt the lonely eyes in the water.
At breakfast, he tried to tell his father.
“I think I know who’s breaking into the houses,” he said.
“Tommy, Mrs. Lumpkin wouldn’t break into all the houses in Plymouth just to get our house for her condominiums. Even I know that.”
“It’s not Mrs. Lumpkin. It’s the O’Mondim from the beach.”
Patty put down her orange juice.
“The O’Mondim?” said their father.
Tommy nodded.
“What is an O’Mondim?”
“A race that the Valorim made come alive with their Art,” said Tommy.
“A race that the Valorim made come alive with their art.”
“Yes,” said Tommy. “He’s all alone. And he wants to go home.”
“Probably he would,” said his father. “And home is ... where?”
“No one knows. Far beneath the sea, in a place only the Elders of the Valorim knew when they first gave life to the O’Mondim. But they’re all gone now. And only the O’Mondim know where it is.”
“Maybe if we found it, it would be filled with dinosaur bones, and we could collect them and sell them all to the Museum of Science.”
“I know it sounds crazy, but I think there really is an O’Mondim, and I think he’s lonely and maybe afraid, and he’s trying to find whatever it was that made him come to life, and maybe if he finds it—”
“Tommy, this is serious vandalism. This isn’t something to make up stories about.”
“I’m not making up stories.”
“It sure sounds like one.” His father sipped at his tea.
A long moment.
“Mom would have believed me,” said Tommy.
Tommy’s father stopped sipping. Finally: “Okay. What will he do if he finds whatever it is that made him come to life?”
“I don’t know. Go home, maybe. So he’s not alone.”
Tommy’s father took another sip of tea.
That night—a soft and quiet night—Tommy Pepper played “Sleepers Wake!” and then he went outside onto the dune and listened for the O’Mondim. But he did not hear him, and his father told him to come inside. It was getting late.
Later still, when he was sure his father was asleep, Tommy got out of bed. It was cold, and he held his arms around himself. He went outside onto the dune again, and since the bright moon was up, he could see all the waves. They rolled in smoothly and gently, one after another, singing their own song.
Then Tommy Pepper saw something happen.
Not far out into the water, it was as if a rock had risen. The low waves parted themselves around it.
Tommy watched.
And then he heard it: the Bach piece, coming from the water, low like the waves, gentle like the sea breeze, bright like the moon.
He listened.
The Bach piece.
Lonely. Like missing someone you loved.
Then it stopped. And instantly, the chain was hot. So hot, Tommy had to gather his shirt around it.
And a star streaked across the sky, staggered for a moment, then plummeted straight downward in white heat before it winked out.
When Tommy looked by the shore again, whatever had risen was gone and the waves rolled in again unhindered. The song was over.
But the chain was still hot, and Tommy knew that everything had changed.
NINE
A Journey Across the Dark
In the Tower of the Reced, the Lord Mondus rekindled the Forge of the Valorim, and for eight days and eight nights, as the Twin Suns rose and fell and burned their light into the fire of that Forge, the Lord Mondus fed the flames, and terrible they were to see, so that the Lord Mondus himself would have perished in them, but for his Art.
And on the eighth day, between the rising of Hnaef and the rising of Hengest, the Lord Mondus forged an arm ring from the orluo of Yolim and Taeglim, and Calorim the Greedy, and Belim and Belalim the Scarred, and dark it was and filled with the Silence. When the Lord Mondus beheld that ring’s terrible shining, he was glad-hearted.
So at the last light of the day, the Lord Mondus called Verlim the Destroyer and Ouslim the Liar to him in the Tower of the Reced, and he said to them, “Mighty are you both. So you shall go find the Art of the Valorim and bring it back, that we may rule forever.”
Verlim the Destroyer and Ouslim the Liar bowed low.
“The Art of the Valorim cannot be taken by strength of hand. It must be given. Remember this. ”
“It must be given,” said Ouslim the Liar.
“And remember this too: When it has been given, destroy those who have learned even the least of its secrets. ”
Verlim the Destroyer and Ouslim the Liar bowed low again.
“Bring the Chain back and put it around my neck, so your deeds and bravery shall be known from generation to generation,” said the Lord Mondus.
The Lord Mondus lifted the dark arm ring and clasped it around the arm of Verlim the Destroyer. In the torch-lit room, it gleamed brilliant as the jewels of Harneuf, and greater. “Let this be a sign to all who see it, that Verlim the Destroyer is my favored one, to whom I entrust this greatest task in all our world. ”
And Verlim the Destroyer bowed to the floor, smiling.
And Ouslim the Liar burned in his heart.
But the Lord Mondus turned to the Tower window, where Second Sunset was swiftly growing darker and darker.
Then the Lord Mondus held up his hand into the red light of Second Sunset, and he sang out into the light, a song loud and long and terrible, and they felt the Silence rush into the room as a great wind. And the Lord Mondus commanded Verlim the Destroyer and Ouslim the Liar to stand close, and he sang again, and his song drew pale fire from the ring around the arm of Verlim the Destroyer, and the pale fire came around them both, and lifted them, slowly, slowly, until with sudden swiftness they flew from the warm air of their world into outer darkness, where the cry of a faraway O’Mondim still sounded in that cold space.
Blithe was the heart of the Lord Mondus.
So the faithless Valorim followed the cry of the faraway O’Mondim, hearts beating, Verlim the Destroyer holding fast to the arm ring of the Lord Mondus as they hurtled past familiar stars, and then stars they had never known or imagined.
But the time came that even as the O’Mondim’s cry grew louder, Verlim the Destroyer and Ouslim the Liar found that the stars were passing less quickly, and the pale fire around them both was growing less, and they knew that the Art of the Lord Mondus was not the Art of the Valorim, but weaker, and their hearts feared that the pale fire would fall away and they would be cast down utterly. And so it seemed, for the stars stopped their rushing, and the fire sputtered as if it would go out, and they cursed the Lord Mondus for his weakness and for their downfall.
But not for honor had Verlim the Destroyer been given the arm ring forged by the Lord Mondus.
He felt the ring warm, and he reached to pull at it— but it would not yield for all his strength. Then it grew hot, and Verlim the Destroyer sought to tear it from his arm, but he could not, and the arm ring ignited, and with it, the pale fire around them, and so
they were sent on again, speeding past galaxies after the echoes of the O’Mondim’s cries, speeding with the death despair of Verlim the Destroyer singing in the ears of Ouslim the Liar, whose heart was blithe.
They flew and flew, their flight made swift with the burning life of Verlim the Destroyer. They flew and flew, until they came to a blue world on the edge of a small galaxy, and they followed the O’Mondim echoes down and down, the fire of the arm ring brighter and brighter and brighter against the darkness of that world’s night, and with one last burst, they dropped straight down to a dark and cold shore, where the pale fire fell away from them, and where an O’Mondim waited in the water sightlessly.
So Ouslim the Liar came to the world of the Art of the Valorim. But Verlim the Destroyer was only ashes that floated away in the waves.
And when it was known that Verlim the Destroyer would return no more to the Reced, the wuduo were hung for twenty-four days, and the hearts of those who still sat in the Seats quivered with fear of the Lord Mondus—but none would speak of it, for there was none to trust.
TEN
The Plymouth Fall Festival
A few days after the Peppers’ house had been wrecked, Mrs. Charlene Cabot Lumpkin drove over in her yellow Mazda. Tommy saw her park on the dune grass, saw her check the alignment of the yellow flags as she came toward the house, saw her pause for a long moment to survey the view of the Atlantic that the inhabitants of PilgrimWay Condominiums would enjoy as soon as she could get their condos built. The sea fog was thick that afternoon, lying on the beach in big clumps, and Tommy watched Mrs. Lumpkin wonder if there was anything she could do to eliminate the nuisance of it for future PilgrimWay-ers. But finally she turned and climbed up the railroad-tie steps and knocked at the plywood across what was left of their front door.
Mrs. Lumpkin was very, very sorry to hear of their trouble. It must have been awful to come home to such a disaster. She could see why they might have wanted to blame her, since in such a crisis, victims need someone to blame. She did not hold it against them. She was here to be of assistance. She could see that they hadn’t even been able to sweep up all the glass yet. And clearly the damage to the hall wall was catastrophic. She doubted it could be repaired without tearing everything out and beginning again. And just look at the living room! She put her hand on the old center beam of the house. It felt a little shaky to her—and she had a Realtor’s touch, you know.
Mrs. Lumpkin shook her head. She had seen less damaged houses condemned by the town and torn down.
Whoever could have done such a thing?
Mrs. Lumpkin pointed out, however, that lemonade can be made from lemons, that every cloud has a silver lining, that the brightest morning comes after the darkest night. She was prepared with the same offer, even though the house was clearly devastated. She had the papers out in her car. If Mr. Pepper...
Mrs. Lumpkin said that Mr. Pepper did not need to take that tone.
Mrs. Lumpkin said that her only purpose had been to come—in good faith—to lend a helping hand.
Mrs. Lumpkin said that no one had ever used such words in her presence before.
Mrs. Lumpkin said that she had never been treated so rudely.
Mrs. Lumpkin said that business was business but she would be glad to see the end of the Peppers in Plymouth and he could whistle for the payment on her portrait.
Mrs. Lumpkin opened her eyes very wide and half walked, half ran down the railroad-tie steps toward her yellow Mazda.
Tommy stepped onto the dune. His fingers spread out and his hand curved around the sea fog.
He felt Patty beside him. She was shaking her head.
Tommy uncurved his hand and let the fog go.
Mrs. Lumpkin drove away very quickly.
The Peppers went back to cleaning their house.
By the end of the week, the Peppers had replaced the smashed windows—no need to fit the new screens until next summer—and cleared out the broken furniture and brought in new beds and dressers for Tommy and Patty and repaired the kitchen table and three of the chairs, and they were only a little tippy. They’d hung a new front door and the wall in the hall had new sheetrock and was spackled and primed and ready for painting. Tommy asked for pale yellow—his mother’s favorite color. And there was a new chair in the empty living room and their father had guessed they needed some paintings for the walls since they looked pretty bare and Patty had nodded and smiled and he had set up his easel. He had gotten one or two ideas after he saw Tommy’s chain, he said, but in three days he finished seven seascapes—with lots of green and lots of silver—four for their walls, three for the Plymouth Fall Festival. One of them had two suns. “Just a crazy idea,” said Tommy’s father.
Tommy smiled. They weren’t thrimble, he thought—but pretty close.
They were illil.
On Saturday, Tommy’s father bought the pale yellow paint. He did the close brushwork around all the edges in the hall while Tommy watched, fingering the warm chain. Walls are supposed to be flat, but this was an old house and Tommy could see this wall wasn’t even close to flat. It leaned in a little bit at the top and leaned out a little bit at the bottom. And there were ten, twenty, a hundred places where the wall bumped up, a thousand places where it nicked in. And Tommy had never noticed before, but there was a curve to it. If he looked with his head cocked to one side, the wall had a horizon.
His father poured the pale yellow paint into a pan and gave Tommy a roller to finish the hall while he went into the kitchen to see what could be done about the ruined cabinets. Tommy stepped back and looked at the bumps and nicks arranging themselves together across the horizon. He thought he might ... Well, he wasn’t sure what he might do.
But the chain was very warm.
He ran the roller into the pan with the pale yellow paint.
He looked at the wall again.
Then he began to roll the paint across the hallway wall. He finished quickly so that the whole hall was a pale yellow.
Then he began again—his chain was almost hot. He felt the way the wall curved, its bumps, its nicks. He pushed harder on the roller, lighter, then along the roller’s edges, quickly, slowly, and then barely touching at all—the lightest whisper of pale yellow paint.
When Patty came out into the hall—she’d been sorting all the books that hadn’t been stained green back onto the shelves their father had put up again—she looked at the pale yellow walls. She squinted a little, then tilted her head, then leaned back. Then she smiled, smiled, smiled.
“Do you like it?”
Patty put her arms around Tommy’s waist.
Their father glanced into the hall as he was carrying out the last box of shattered dishware.
It was a good thing that it was only shattered dishware in the box.
“Tommy,” he said. He squinted a little, then tilted his head. “Tommy, how did you do this?”
“I remembered,” said Tommy.
His father put his hand to his face. He reached up and almost touched the wall. Then he stood back. “You remembered,” he whispered.
He went outside. Tommy and Patty followed him.
They sat on the dune, a surprisingly warm breeze coming up from the sea. The long grasses were bobbing back and forth to each other, carrying the day’s news as they do. Quiet seagulls hove to, their faces in the breeze, their eyes half closed, dropping down suddenly onto the planet when it suited them. Some jellyfish washed up and shimmering eerily beyond the sea reach. The salty wind. The cool, clean damp everywhere.
And on the sandy dune, the three Peppers sitting close, crying a little—a good crying. Remembering the way she held her head, the way she moved her hands, how easily she cried, how easily she laughed.
And inside, in the hall, pictures of Tommy Pepper’s mother in pale yellow hints on pale yellow walls.
Thrimble and illil.
It hardly seemed that anyone in Plymouth should have been in the mood for the Plymouth Fall Festival. But as the farmers’ market
brought in yellow gourds and gallons of apple cider, and as the winds turned and the first frosts of the season laced the windowpanes, Plymouth felt that autumn would be lost if folks never had a chance to walk the 4-H stalls and smear cotton candy over their faces and cheer the tractor pulls and ride the Tilt-a-Whirl and eat footlong boiled hot dogs and elephant ears.
So on the last Saturday of October, Tommy and Patty and their father—who was carrying three of the seascapes—weren’t the only ones who got to the fairgrounds early to watch the sows get their pre-judging milk baths, to see the great horses have their manes braided before the parades, to whistle as the giant pumpkins got weighed, to walk between the cages of the quick-eyed rabbits and the scatterbrained chickens and the white ducks with their startling orange bills. Everywhere there was the smell of sawdust and frying oil and good clean manure—except in the Big Tent, where the pies and jams scented the closed air with nutmeg and cinnamon—and everywhere the barkers were calling out, inviting them to try their luck on the Wheel of Chance, to have their fortunes read, to choose from among the Oriental glass beads brought back from deepest Asia, to win a giant panda by making three only three that’s right just three baskets in a row, to see the one the only the original Cardiff Giant, the greatest hoax of all time!
They met Alice Winslow around ten o’clock and she hugged Patty and told her that she would braid her hair if she wanted and Patty nodded and they found a bench near to the Musical Stage and close enough to the food booths that they could get a hot elephant ear and watch the acts while Mr. Pepper went to the seascape painting exhibit. Mr. Pepper gave them a bunch of tokens and said they’d meet again right at noon, okay? By the apple pie booth? Patty would stay close to her brother? Promise? Good.
Alice Winslow and Tommy and Patty had eaten five elephant ears between them—which they figured was probably more than they should have—and heard the Foxboro Fiddlers perform with their star fiddler fiddling behind his back, and the Andrews Sisters Redux sing a medley of World War II top hits, before James Sullivan found them.