The House of Power Read online

  The sensation of being chilled to the bone woke Edgar up. A blanket had been placed over him, but he was still shivering quietly. The cold air in the Flatlands radiated from the ground and held firm until mid-morning, when the rocky land finally warmed up, and one could walk barefoot and almost enjoy the coolness.

  The ache in Edgar’s shoulder had passed from sharp pain into a dull soreness. But his finger—or the place where his finger used to be—was another matter. It radiated a striking hot pain. Edgar felt the place where the finger had been. Someone had put a bit of worn cloth around the stump.

  Edgar let his eyes dart back and forth across the rock ceiling above, certain that he was underground. He felt a panic rising in his throat. He’d slept in the open of the grove under a canopy of trees his entire life, but this new place was like being in a black coffin that he could not escape. He would gladly listen to Mr. Ratikan yell at him if only he could go home. For the first time in his life, he regretted that he’d learned to climb.

  Edgar knew that lying on his back was the worst place to be when he was about to start crying. Even the tiniest tear that escaped his eye would run straight and fast down the side of his face right into his ear. Edgar remembered this from the days when, as a young boy, he would sometimes feel lonely after the others had gone home. He had made a rhyme for himself that he would say, looking up at the night sky with thousands of leaves dangling overhead.

  There’s nobody here, only me and the trees.

  I can swing if I want, as much as I please.

  There’s no one to see me, no one is near.

  No need to cry, no reason to fear.

  He would grab hold of a limb over his head, swinging back and forth and saying the words until the wind dried his eyes and he grew tired once more. By the time he lay back down, he’d usually forgotten what was bothering him.

  And so as he lay there with his hand throbbing and his head full of dark thoughts, he began to whisper the old rhyme as he turned his head slowly in the gathering light of the room.

  Edgar was not underground, as he had supposed. He was in a large cave, and the light he saw streaming ever-brighter into the space was morning coming on in the Flatlands. The cave was a place of natural earth and stone with a high ceiling, sloping down to a long tunnel at one end, and it was shaped, Edgar thought, much like a ripe fig cut lengthwise and laid flat. Edgar was lying in the wide end. He was looking toward a round circle of light at the narrow end of the room, wondering how he might escape, when there came a black figure into the distant entryway. It moved slowly closer to him.

  Edgar stared at the ceiling once more, his heart racing, and felt the odd tickle of water inside his ears. By that time, the figure had found his way to the foot of Edgar’s bed.

  “You’re not used to the cold,” the voice said, unrolling another blanket over Edgar.

  Edgar risked opening his eyes, the way children do when they want others to think they’re asleep. It was just enough to see through the forest of his eyelashes and the watery blur of his tears.

  The man was standing just above Edgar. Edgar couldn’t make out the features of the face before him, but he was oddly comforted by the man’s presence. Edgar had long been able to sense danger when it was close, and though he still trembled, he felt reassured.

  Edgar blinked two or three times and then looked directly into the face of the man hovering over him.

  “So you’ve decided to wake, then, have you?” said the man. “I was beginning to wonder if that fall had put an end to you after all.”

  “Who are you?” whispered Edgar.

  “I’m Vincent. We met last night, though I can see how you might not remember. You were, shall we say, in a bit of a predicament.”

  Edgar had a vision of himself plummeting to the ground, and now recognized the man who had been there when he awoke.

  “What is this place you’ve taken me to?”

  Vincent craned his neck about the stone room and looked back at Edgar apologetically.

  “I’m afraid this is where I live. It’s the only place I’m aware of where the Cleaners can’t get in. Nasty creatures.”

  Cleaners. Edgar recalled the awful monsters he’d seen in the darkness. He’d thought they were only in his nightmares.

  “What are those things?”

  “You have a lot of questions! But I have one for you, and I believe it’s well past my turn.” He had his concerns about anyone visiting the Flatlands.

  “Why have you come here?” Vincent’s brows slanted downward. “And how have you come here?”

  Edgar was about to answer when both he and Vincent were distracted by the sound of someone—or something—moving outside the cave. Shadows snaked on the wall near the light at the opening of the cave, and Edgar instantly became alarmed.

  “I thought you said those creatures couldn’t get in here!” Edgar tried to sit up, wincing in pain as he pushed down on the injured hand. But to his relief, it turned out to be a human figure that was approaching.

  “Ah, Vincent! Where have you been all night?” the figure called out. “I was worried about you. I do hope you managed to bring us something to eat. I’ve been out walking since before dawn and I’m feeling sure of it now, I just—”

  The man broke off suddenly when he came close enough to notice Edgar lying on the bed. There was a deep and long silence as the man stared at the boy in wonder. He was old, older than anyone Edgar had ever known, and as he stood there gazing into Edgar’s eyes Vincent broke the silence.

  “I found him on the hunt, coming down the side of the cliff.”

  The old man had a big round nose and prominent ears that hung low from a head covered in gray hair. When Vincent spoke, the old man looked at him, quickly and incredulously, and his ears flopped back and forth. He looked back at Edgar with sparkling hazel eyes too young for the face that contained them.

  “What is your name?” asked the man. He was keenly interested in both the person before him and the way in which he’d arrived in the Flatlands.

  “My name is Edgar.”

  Only a deeply drawn breath penetrated the silence. The old man reached his hand out and placed it on Vincent’s arm.

  “Leave us,” he said. Vincent went without protest, and when he reached the entrance to the cave the old man called to him. “And bring two plates of Black and Green.”

  When Vincent was gone, the old man crossed the room and returned to the side of the bed with a stool to sit upon. He was visibly moved as he beheld the fragile boy before him: the swollen eye, the missing finger, a body so thin it made him embarrassed of his own comparatively normal weight.

  “I simply cannot imagine how you’ve come to find your way here,” he said, his voice full of compassion. He was a fidgety man full of energy that he liked to expend most of all by talking. And so he blurted out his next surprising words in his usual manner—quickly and clumsily, bursting with emotion.

  “It’s me, Edgar. Don’t you remember? I brought you here all those years ago. It’s me, Luther—Dr. Luther Kincaid.”

  The two looked at one another, both of them feeling conflicted for entirely different reasons. Edgar could not bring himself to believe it was possible. Could this really be the man Edgar had lodged in his memory for so long? What was he doing in the Flatlands? Why did seeing him stir such a strange mix of emotions? Anger: How could he be so close and leave me alone for so long? How could he lead me down such a treacherous path? Uncertainty: Not only does he not love me, but it seems he wants to kill me! Joy: I’ve found him at last. He cares for me; he must care for me.

  And as for our complicated and brilliant Dr. Kincaid, a whole different set of feelings and questions pressed upon him: Wonder: How could this boy have come here? It’s absolutely impossible and yet here he is. Happiness: He is alive (injured for certain and far too skinny, but alive). Guilt: He will hate me for what I’ve done. He should hate me. How can I possibly explain?

  “Come with me, Edgar,” said Dr. Kincaid. �
��Let’s go outside where it’s warm and you can get something to eat. We can talk all day if we want to.”

  Edgar sat up with some help from Dr. Kincaid. He wobbled back and forth as he tried to escape his blankets.

  “Put this on, won’t you?” Luther had quickly fashioned a sling for Edgar’s arm, and the two of them had an awkward time getting it on, for the shoulder still ached. It felt better in the sling, though the relief only served to remind him that his hand hurt even worse. Dr. Kincaid tried to refocus Edgar’s attention on more positive changes.

  “You’ve grown!” he said, seeing that Edgar was now nearly as tall as he was, and realizing for the millionth time that he himself was a very short old man.

  “Is it really you?” asked Edgar, tears welling up again as he tried to comprehend the man who had reentered his life.

  Dr. Kincaid put his arm around Edgar to steady him and was at once overcome with emotion. He really was a blubbering old fool, the truth be told, and so he hugged Edgar as a grandfather might a grandson he hasn’t seen in a year or two or three.

  It was a strange and confusing reunion of two souls, and it would take the better part of the morning for them to understand what had happened and why.

  CHAPTER

  23

  A PLATE OF BLACK AND GREEN

  “Come on now, Edgar—you can’t imagine how good the food is down here. And there’s water—as much as you like! There’s only me and Vincent to use it, so we have more than we could ever drink. How does that sound?”

  Needless to say, it all sounded very good to Edgar. When they arrived outside, Dr. Kincaid wasted no time in getting them settled at a table. Edgar had never seen dark wood like what had been used to make the table and chairs, and Dr. Kincaid picked up on his curiosity.

  “It’s not like what you’re used to,” he offered, not sure how or when to explain all of the newness and strangeness of the lowest world of Atherton. “You will find there are a few other oddities in the Flatlands that I can clarify for you, but it’s perhaps not the best place to start our conversation.”

  Dr. Kincaid followed Edgar’s gaze to the cliffs beyond, which rose high into the air.

  “I always take my breakfast outside, where I can look and wonder about all that’s happening up there.”

  The table and chairs stood on a flat surface surrounded by huge rocks—each at least the size of Mr. Ratikan’s house—which towered around Edgar like misshapen eggs tipping into the sky this way and that. He could see through the gaps between these boulders, as if a lopsided stone fence had been put there by giants without much care. A pathway led around the mass of rocks and over the edge, for Dr. Kincaid’s home was high off the ground. Behind them the entrance to his cave looked dark now, as if it were sleeping and wanted to be left alone.

  A bowl filled with water sat in the middle of the table, and two big wooden cups were placed in front of Edgar and Dr. Kincaid. Edgar began by sipping the water. It was wonderful—so cold and clean and plentiful. It instantly awakened all of his senses. He gulped, slurped, and even put his finger inside the cup, swish ing it around luxuriously. He entertained himself this way for a while—Edgar lost in a dream of water—until he was surprised to find the cup empty, and he returned his attention to Dr. Kincaid.

  There was a tangled mess of questions brewing uncontrolled inside Edgar’s head, and it was difficult to know where to begin. Dr. Kincaid seemed to be having the same problem as he reached across the table and dipped Edgar’s cup in the bowl, setting it back down in front of the boy.

  “I suppose I should tell you how I got here and why I came,” said Edgar hesitantly. “It started with a memory I had of something hidden in the cliffs, something I had tried to find for a long time.”

  “The notebook I left for you!” said Dr. Kincaid. “You remembered our little conversation and retrieved it when it came to you, just as I’d hoped.”

  Dr. Kincaid was feeling rather proud of himself at that moment, and then realized the implications. “So then it’s true, the Highlands have moved down?”

  Edgar nodded. “They have, but I found the book before that. I climbed up the cliffs every day, searching for it.”

  This information was like a blow to the head for Dr. Luther Kincaid. He had never imagined the boy would risk his life to find the book he’d hidden.

  “So you climbed up and got the book, then you climbed down here?”

  “First I had to climb into the Highlands to find someone who could read it to me. Then I came down here to find the second book of secret things.”

  Dr. Kincaid was devastated. He had sent a mere child down a treacherous path. “I expected you to wait for Atherton to come to you, not for you to go to Atherton! When the Highlands came down—it was then that you were to find the notebook hidden where the symbol was, not before. Hiding that book was a foolish whim to begin with. I see now it was a terrible mistake to have left it for you….”

  Dr. Kincaid’s voice trailed off and he rubbed his big earlobe between his thumb and finger.

  “I brought you to Atherton because I care about you, Edgar, and because it was the safest place for you. I’ve never stopped thinking about you while we’ve been apart, and I’ve always known that someday we would reunite. I just never thought it would be so soon.”

  “What about the second book of secrets? Do you have it?” asked Edgar.

  “I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about. I made no mention of such a thing.”

  Edgar pulled the last page of the book out of his front pocket. It was crumpled and torn but legible.

  “But it says right there!” Edgar insisted. “That’s why I came—there’s another secret book down here. You must have forgotten….”

  Dr. Kincaid took the page from Edgar and flattened it against his knee. He examined it carefully and then handed it back to Edgar.

  “You see there!” said Edgar. “It’s why I came—to get the book.”

  Dr. Kincaid knew that what he was about to say might harm the boy, and he hesitated to tell him.

  “Edgar, who read that page to you?”

  “Why do you ask?” It had never occurred to Edgar that the man at the inn might have lied to him.

  “I’m sorry,” said Dr. Kincaid. “I never would have brought you down here in search of a book. It’s far too dangerous. I can scarcely believe you made a go of it. But you should be very proud of yourself! You did something I didn’t think anyone could ever do—nor did Dr. Harding! You climbed down. You found me!”

  Dr. Kincaid smiled at the boy and waved his hand through the air. “Anyway, I’m full of secrets. I’ll tell them all to you. We have all the time in the world now that we’re together.”

  Edgar was stunned. He’d banished himself to the Flatlands forever and had lost a finger in the process. He would never see the grove again, nor Isabel or Samuel, Briney or Maude. Tears welled up again in his eyes.

  “What does the page say?”

  Dr. Kincaid had been thinking all the while about a good answer, and he’d come up with the best response he felt he could offer.

  “I promise you, Edgar, you shall know what the page says. But please trust me—it will be better if we wait a little longer. I believe it will be better if I show you what the page said, and I can’t do that just yet.”

  Edgar wiped the tears from his eyes. Letting himself cry had actually made him feel better, and it crossed his mind that things could have been a lot worse. He might have lost his entire arm in the fall or ended up in the mouth of one of those nasty creatures. And he was talking to the man who’d written the book for him. In many ways the journey he’d begun so long ago had come to a good end.

  He sniffed and rubbed his nose with the sling, then asked the question he’d been afraid to ask until this moment. “Dr. Kincaid, are you my father?”

  Dr. Kincaid knew the question was bound to arise, but hearing it now didn’t make it any easier to answer.

  “I’m afraid not, Edgar,” he s
aid. “But I have tried to act as a father would. I know it seems as though I’ve put you in enormous danger, but you have to believe me when I tell you it was not my intention. I only wanted to protect you. You were safer in the care of Mr. Ratikan in the grove than you would have been here in the Flatlands with Cleaners at every turn. I had hoped to solve the Cleaner problem by now, but my efforts to control them have failed. I’m sorry, Edgar.”

  Edgar saw how regretful the old man was. It was true that the hidden book had unintentionally sent Edgar on a perilous journey, but to his great surprise, Edgar was beginning to feel a growing comfort with Dr. Kincaid and a certain contentment with these twists of fate.

  “No one else can climb like I do,” boasted Edgar. “I’m the only one.”

  This seemed to revive Dr. Kincaid, and he prodded Edgar to go on.

  “If you hadn’t left the book, I would have spent all my life in the grove, tormented by Mr. Ratikan. I love to climb. I would go straight to the wall and do it right now if not for those creatures and this,” said Edgar, giving his own hand a wistful glance. “It was an odd gift you gave me, and it didn’t get used the way you might have thought it would, but it has given me an adventure others could only dream of.”

  A smile of relief spread across Dr. Kincaid’s face, as if a great weight had been lifted from him. Edgar told him what had happened in the world above, and the old man listened with enormous interest. He told of Lord Phineus, the bag of poison, the grove, the Village of Rabbits, and on and on until his memory met with the second book of secrets—at which point Vincent came up the path carrying a tray.

  “Ahhh—here’s our breakfast, then,” remarked Dr. Kincaid. “I think you’re going to enjoy this very much.”

  “Getting acquainted, are we?” asked Vincent as he set on the table two plates covered with pieces of cloth. Vincent turned to Dr. Kincaid.

  “I see you haven’t told him yet,” he said.

  “Told me what?” asked Edgar.