Chapter 14: Night Moves Grunnel had a few more (anti-climactic) things to show the four when they emerged from the treasure cellar, pockets stuffed with coins and Ringo sporting a matched set of three platinum-and-sapphire rings that fit him perfectly. In a corner of the kitchen stood what appeared to be a pink granite chopping block, about waist-high. Each Earthman had to lay his hand on the block’s cool smooth surface for five seconds, which, according to Grunnel, keyed them to the house’s protective spells so they could open the front door without being killed. Of course, the statement instantly made the four crazy, as none of them had felt anything special, any confirming tingle or surge of power, while touching the stone. They pestered Grunnel constantly with "Are you sure?" until, in an uncharacteristic display of impatience, he grabbed George’s hand (he was surprisingly strong) and slapped it against the front door, snapping "Are you dead?" George had to concede that he wasn’t. The old man next took the four down the forest path, showing them that it connected to a road that led "warm" (down the coast, presumably south) to farms and, eventually, Ta’akan, and "cold" (up the coast, presumably north) to wild-looking higher country. "If you don’t want to walk to Ta’akan," said Grunnel, "the naba-aban comes past and will take you there and bring you back for two golds each way. There it is now." He pointed to a four-horse wagon just visible on the "warm" end of the road. Walking about five miles to the city and back didn’t appeal to the four, but the naba-aban didn’t look terribly attractive either. "Can’t we use the boat, then?" Ringo asked. "After I’ve taught you how to use it," the old man promised. Suddenly he jerked his left hand up. One of the three rings he wore on it was faintly glowing on and off. He watched it for a moment, then nodded. "Olyrr-sars, I’m summoned back to the Temple of Ardav. I have to attend to my job—I help maintain the spells that make Ta’akan more comfortable." "You mean like the hot tubs in that gold hotel?" said Ringo. "The baths at the dead Golden Pillow? I don’t maintain those, but another of Ardav’s sansars does. I’m a wizard of illusion; I resurrect the lights on the deserted buildings when they begin to die." Grunnel made a face, then sighed. "It’s a dull task, but I’d rather perform it than sit endlessly in the Owner’s Head, waiting for rumors, or fight other skahs to no purpose. Er-h’o, have I forgotten to tell you anything? Hmmm…. Choose bedrooms for yourselves… don’t go into our bedrooms…." "Wouldn’t dream of it," said Paul. "Wouldn’t—that’s a pleasant expression, I must remember it. Hmmm…. You’re keyed to the house… you know where the money is…. ah! We have prepared food delivered from the Traveler’s Delight inn, warm the road. You can buy and cook your food, if you prefer, or you can stop at the Traveler’s and increase the amount they deliver." "Do they deliver vegetarian meals?" Paul asked eagerly. "What are those?" But the old man held up a hand as Paul started to explain. "Sar, tell me later. I could meet the year’s death speaking with you, but Ardav needs me now. I don’t know when I’ll return; if too many lights are dying and the task will take more time than I want to spend today, it’s easier to sleep in Ta’akan than to return here. But As’taris will be back by sundeath. You can ask sar any questions you might have." On that dubious note, Grunnel put his hand on his belt pouch, furrowed his brow in concentration—*pop*! He vanished, air rushing into the space he’d occupied and stirring up a little whirlwind of leaves. The four were still tyros enough to be startled by the old man’s abrupt disappearance, but they recovered pretty rapidly; they were all getting used to Ta’akan and its magical ways. "The hell with the boat!" said Ringo, admiring the empty space where Grunnel had been. "Let’s get ‘im to teach us that!" * Almost before Grunnel’s leaf litter had finished settling to the ground, the four were running for the naba-aban. No way were they going to be hanging around the house when they had a city of wonders to explore and unlimited funds to make it even more interesting! The wagon was much more comfortable than they’d expected, with cushioned seats along the sides and clean multicolored rugs on the floor. Either because of good suspension or good magic, it didn’t jounce at all but drove as smoothly as a Rolls-Royce on ice. Along the way to Ta’akan, they picked up half a dozen long-haired tirins armed with baskets for the day’s shopping. Every one of these individuals asked the four the usual question, and every one ignored them when they admitted to having nothing for sale. For an extra couple of coins, the female tirin driver waited for the four when they reached the Traveler’s Delight, which was about two miles down the road from Grunnel’s house. To Paul and George’s relief there were plenty of nonmeat items available, though Paul and John had a brief tiff when Paul tried to place an all-vegetarian order and John insisted that his triple portions contain lots of meat. John had become an omnivore with a vengeance, and the why of it was too touchy an issue to bring up, so Paul backed down. Still, they didn’t talk to one another much until they got to Ta’akan. The naba-aban dropped its passengers off right at the boundary between Almost and Old, in an area with many inhabited buildings and the Stomach nearby. Reexerting his authority, Paul insisted that before they did anything else, they had to check out some taverns and see what the message boards were like. They turned out to be cork bulletin boards with tacks, paper, and "writing sticks" (skinny crayons that stayed perpetually sharp) on hand for anyone who needed them. So the next place the four went was a writing store, where they purchased writing sticks and vaguely magical paper that sparkled when viewed at an angle. And after that they went shopping for… other things. They left a number of shop owners dazed by the speed at which they could spend money on clothing, shoes, candy, magic, magic, and magic. They all but cleaned out "La’etar's Tirin Magic Shop"; spoons that reddened on contact with poison, fire- and extinguish- stones, always-warm bowls, always-cool cups, healing potions... if it had a spell on it, they bought it. And the others had to pry George out of a gardening store, cradling a bag of mixed flower seeds and babbling "They're totally new kinds! I'll be the only one in the whole world to have them!" During their peregrinations they encountered As’taris, watching street fights. As two women feinted and lunged and never quite hit each other, the teenage elf squatted close by, watching their feet with complete concentration. When the four drew closer, they saw his lips moving, though whether he was providing himself a running commentary on the fight, taunting the combatants, or just twitching his mouth in excitement, they couldn’t tell. When the fight ended after one woman pinked the other in the arm, As’taris stood up and glared around, looking into every skahs’s eyes. But everyone who met his glance said "No," or "Not this day," or just ignored him as they turned away from him and moved to another fight that was just starting up. It was easy enough to figure out that the elf had been trying to get someone to fight him, but it was hard to understand why the other skahs were refusing him; no one seemed angry, mocking, or condescending, just uninterested. As’taris stood where he was for a few moments, staring at the ground, hands clenched, body trembling from the effort of that clenching. Then he relaxed slowly, and his gaze traveled up to meet those of the four. Again, he said nothing, and his face contorted in anger for a moment, then softened to desperation and loneliness, then hardened into pride as he spun on his heel as gracefully as a ballet dancer and trotted over to watch the new fight. "I bet he does this every day," said Ringo. Oh, well, he was none of their concern; and they resumed their shopping, though by this time their money had mostly run out and they were reduced to looking, which was all right with them, because the sun was beginning to set, and as yet they weren’t comfortable enough in Ta’akan to want to prowl around at night. They used the last of the day’s funds to buy prepared food at the Stomach, and they ate it on the leisurely naba-aban ride back to the house, feeling relaxed for the first time since they’d come to C’hou. Their mood was almost spoiled, though when they emerged from the forest into the clearing around the house, they saw As’taris shoot an arrow into the breast of a large black bird that was flying over the lawn. Paul and George cried out at this horror, then fell silent as the "bird" kept flitting about as if nothing had happened. Two more arrows thunked into it in rapid succession, and still it flew, and it became clear that the thing was a magically animated target. The four were still pretty shaken over it, though, and none of them could bring themselves to greet the elf. For his part, As’taris gave the four a brief, annoyed glance, then resumed his shooting. He was quite good; nine arrows shot found a spot on the target, with a tenth arcing past the thing and burying itself in the grass near the edge of the forest. At this point As’taris whistled, and all the arrows fell out of the target, which now sped up a little, flew a little more erratically. Wishing only to avoid the young elf, the four half-ran behind him to the front door of the house, bumping each other with their packages in their haste. As’taris shot one more arrow into the target before pivoting to watch as John reached for the doorknob. His face fell when John didn’t drop dead; with a sullen growl of "Don’t go into my bedroom," he resumed his archery. Glad to be alone again, the four chose their bedrooms from the five remaining and spent the evening talking and playing with their magical toys. Eventually they went to bed feeling comfortable and hopeful; things were going very nicely. After a good night’s sleep—except John, who hadn’t slept much—and an awakening to a gorgeous morning, they donned their new Ta’akanian clothes, colorful and silky—except John, who came down in the same drawstring pants and magic cloak he’d worn for several days. To their considerable pleasure, As’taris had already left for the day, but Grunnel had come home. The old man was eager to chat, but Paul insisted they work on the notices for the taverns before getting thus distracted. They sat around the dining table and made copies of a notice that Paul had worked up before going to bed: *+_________________________________________________________+ | @; ATTENTION! | | /!\ WE ARE LOOKING FOR ANYONE WHO KNOWS | | / ! \ LYNDESS | | / \ A FEMALE HUMAN EXILED TO KETAFA | | _/ \_ CONTACT US AT BROX FUNNY’S HOUSE | +_________________________________________________________+ Grunnel helped with the wording and the spelling and even wrote notices himself, making up for John. Gobbling down ham and bread delivered earlier that morning, John added perfunctory sketches of Lyndess along the sides of the notices, but he couldn’t otherwise be persuaded to help make copies. He seemed unusually quiet that morning, even abstracted, with his gaze settling on some imaginary far point every few minutes. When they had about fifty copies, Paul pronounced their work good, and with Grunnel in the lead they made the long and rather nerve-wracking climb down to the boat. John went last and stood on the first step for a few minutes, staring out at the horizon, then clattering down to catch up with the others. As soon as the boat had pulled away from the beach and started on its journey to Ta’akan, Grunnel began chattering with the four. Rather, with the three; John stared into the sky a lot and replied to anything said to him with short sentences or even monosyllables. He didn’t seem to be in a bad mood—a faint smile played about his lips most of the time—so the others let him alone as they filled the old man in on everything he wanted to know (and vice versa). They conversed nonstop through a succession of taverns and shops on such subjects as technology, music, human rights, animal rights, religion, politics, sports, entertainment, even transportation. Grunnel was fascinated by what he termed "Earth magic," such as planes and radio, but he couldn’t grasp how more than five or six people could work together toward the same goal; he understood the concept of government, but he was convinced that it took mind control to force people to obey laws and orders; elections and politics were such foreign concepts to him that the Earthmen had to give up trying to find the words to explain them; and nothing Paul could say to him could make him believe that animals, and by extension monsters, were deserving of respect and had as much a right to life as sars did. This last conversation they had during lunch, when Grunnel took them to a restaurant where the only things Paul and George could eat were bread and corn. In return, Grunnel told them more about Baravadan culture and ethics: no skahs would ever bother to harm a tirin, because no tirin could put up enough of a fight to make the conflict entertaining; any sar who needed money or shelter could go to any temple and find work; and nothing was forbidden, taboo, or sinful, though if you did harm to someone you could expect retaliation from that person’s friends. There was no government in Ta’akan or anywhere on Baravada; any sar who tried to order others around would be a laughingstock. Even the gods’ authority was limited to those who freely chose to work for them, and even then the gods didn’t punish anyone who didn’t push their patience to the limit. According to Grunnel, Lyndess had likely been exiled for reneging on a promise or stubborn refusal to pay back a loan. With the conversation taking this turn to his liking, George was eager to begin explaining Krishna Consciousness and Christianity. But before he could really get started, Grunnel was again summoned to the Temple of Ardav, and in great frustration George watched the man’s back dwindle into the distance. But Ringo reminded him that there would be plenty of time to consult with the man in the near future, and George cheered up. The same couldn’t be said for John, however. Eating lunch had perked him up somewhat, but as time dragged on while the others sat, deep in conversation with their benefactor, he became even quieter than before. He had smiled when Grunnel demonstrated his skills at illusion by making a shadowy tree grow in the center of their table, but otherwise he seemed not to pay much attention to anything. After the old man left, John excused himself to go take a pee, but he was gone for a long time; and the others finally went to go look for him, only to discover that he’d been pacing back and forth at the back of the restaurant, staring up at the sky. When they asked what the matter was, he merely said, "I feel premenstrual." Although this got a laugh, it wasn’t much of an answer. "D’ye wanna go back to the house, then?" asked Paul. John contemplated a fat, fluffy cloud. "Yeah. You lads stay here—didn’t mean to spoil your day." But they were all worried about him now, and they insisted on accompanying him back, which only seemed to annoy him further, though he didn’t say anything about it. So they went in search of the naba-aban and hopped on when they found it. By unspoken agreement, Paul, George, and Ringo left John to his own devices, knowing that to force the issue was to assure no answer (and, by now, guessing at what was wrong but not wanting to go there). Instead, hoping to draw him out by talking about interesting stuff, they discussed the things they’d learned from Grunnel that day, especially the public works performed by the Temple of Ardav. Despite the god’s professed altruism, the temple occasionally sent out collectors to request money from the populace. If enough cash came in, the "municipal" spells continued to be cast. If the amount wasn’t sufficient, the skahs and tirin suffered through dark nights, befouled wells, and mounting dung on the streets until they got tired of the inconvenience and paid to restore "services." They were still discussing the implications of this system when they were dropped off. "The thing is, I don't think voluntary taxation’ud work on Earth," Paul said as they walked through the forest to the house. "There's just too many people who don't look far enough ahead and see the problems that'd come up if they didn't pay." "But if they stopped the schools and the hospitals and everything else for a month, people would start to realize it," argued George. "Wouldn't you rather pick and choose what you pay taxes into? We could make all the crap vanish just by not paying for it. We could get rid of armies and useless government rubbish and -" "I would, but the trouble is, there's lots of good stuff that needs money, and what happens to the poor if the rich decide not to pay that month?" Paul looked at John to see if he had anything to add, but John didn’t seem to have been listening. He was walking a few paces ahead of the others. Ringo, whose interest in this topic had been exhausted some miles back, took a glowstone from his canvas shopping bag and closed his fist around it so that light sprayed from between his fingers. "I wouldn’t’ve believed I’d’ve been bored by magic, but man, this stuff is trivial. It’s really not much different from technology stuff. Just the power source is different. Still, d'ye think we can take any of it back with us?" Paul shrugged. "I dunno. You read stories where a chap brings technology to a magic place and it doesn't work, and vice versa—but wouldn't it be smashing if we could?" He grinned. John stopped suddenly, forcing the others to stop as well or plow into him. He turned to face them and said, with a tiny smile, "I'll have to." There it was. The tension level among the four skyrocketed. Paul attempted to bring it down with a little chuckle. "Don’t worry, I'm sure you'll find some way to get fixed up. They've got just about everything here, y’know." John’s smile faded away. "I don't need fixin' up, Paul," he said softly, dangerously. Dismay crept into Paul’s voice. "Oh, come on, you're never going back like that." "I am." Leaf-shadows bobbed on John’s reddening face. His hands tightened on the bag he was carrying. Paul was definitely alarmed now. "Be reasonable, man. If you show up on Earth like that, a hundred scientists'll take you apart. They'll put you in a bloody jar. You've got to have them removed." "The fuck I do!" John erupted, throwing his bag at Paul’s chest. Luckily it was full of clothes and didn't hurt, though Paul staggered back a few steps as the bag slid down his body and softly plopped to the ground. "How dare you even suggest such a thing!" John screamed at him. "Jesus fucking Christ! You can't stand it that you can't fly, so you try to fix it so I can't! Well, piss off! Leave me alone!" John tore his cloak off and flung it on the ground at Paul’s feet, then turned around, waggled his wings, and stomped towards the cliff. The others watched in mounting horror as the bizarre body with John's head on it, which had been kept safely out of their minds by the black cloak but was now back to torment them, approached the edge—and sat, kerplunk! on the ground, hugging his knees, staring at the water and the sky. Paul mopped his forehead with a shaking hand. "Oh God, God, I thought he might really jump off." "I don't want to see him fly," said George, looking at the ground. "I really don't." "If I thought he could I wouldn't have been so scared." Paul picked up John's package and, after some hesitation, the cloak. "You don't think he can?" asked Ringo. "Uh-uh. You can't put wings on a man and expect him to fly. He's balanced wrong. That's why that deal with Lyndess didn't work out. He probably cracked when he first got the wings—can't blame him—and decided he could fly. He led Lyndess on as long as he could, but she figured it out in the end. And deep down he knows they're useless," Paul added. "That's why he wasn't crazy enough to jump off now." Ringo gazed at the still, exotic figure, dark against the blue of the sky and ocean. "Should we do anything?" "No, let him come to us. That'll mean he's ready for some help." * John was listening, and if he hadn't been speechless with rage and longing he would have explained that no, he wasn't crazy enough to jump off the cliff, not for any of Paul's dumb reasons, but because it was too low. How far had he fallen that night before he caught the wind? A quarter of a mile at least. And this cliff was probably no more than a hundred feet high. He wanted very badly to fly—all day the desire had been building, the claustrophobia mounting, until he couldn’t keep up the pretense of civility any longer—but he was not suicidal. Not yet. He also hadn’t slept much in three days, because the same ears that allowed him to hear the conversation a hundred yards away were also real good at picking up and magnifying every stupid trivial sound into a cacophonous choir that woke him every time he started to doze off. When awake, he could regulate the noises somewhat, focus on the important ones and tune out the trash, but this ability fled as soon as his consciousness did. Healing potions removed the physical discomfort but left him with a pervasive exhaustion and emotional fragility that had probably contributed to his current flight-fever. Anyway, he would never forgive Paul, never stop hating him for what he'd tried to take away and for being so right, so damnably, painfully right; he could not return to Earth with wings. *** -CLICK- [I can't look. Is it working?] ~Course it is. It wasn't a fatal bug, just a glitch in the program. It'll take a moment for the picture to come up, but all the indicators are on, see?~ [Phew. How much time passed? Oh, Gods, almost two C'hovite days. Are they all right?] +All alive and uninjured.+ [I know, but mental trauma doesn't show on the status board.] +Shag, would you watch your tail? You keep whapping my legs.+ [Sorry. Oh, why doesn't that picture hurry up?] +Really, you worry too much about them. They're pretty competent, at least to the extent of staying out of fights.+ ~Here comes the picture!~ [Get your head out of the way, Je—oh! oh, Oh, OH, OH! What from the Seven Holes of Hell is THAT?] ~Ta dah!~ *** Midnight, or thereabouts. Paul lay on his bed, hands clasped behind his head, knees thrust into the air. He couldn't sleep for thinking; a nasty idea nagged at him. He might not go back with us. If he has to choose between Earth and those wings—Paul was going to change the name of his band the second he got home—would he stay? He propped himself higher on the pillows. If he does stay, how will we explain it to Yoko and everyone? (For that matter, they were going to have fun explaining where they'd been and why they were young. But that was irrelevant right now.) ‘Oh, sorry, he grew wings and stayed behind.’ Right. God, they might think we killed him or something. I know I would. -scrape- At least that crazy elf didn’t freak out when he saw John. Indeed, As’taris had given John one long look and gone about his own business. That would’ve been all we needed—getting kicked out of here, or worse, them thinking John was a monster and attacking him. -scrape- A glimmer of hope: Maybe John'll come to. Maybe we can get someone to convince him he can't fly, like Grunnel, who ought to know—wish he’d come home tonight—or maybe we could slip him a mickey and have the wings removed while he's under. -scrape- Paul shifted guiltily. He'd hate me for the rest of his life. But which is worse, that or him getting carved up in a laboratory? Or worshipped? Now there's a splendid idea! Some religious fanatic - -scrape- #Twang# That one he heard. What the hell was that? He sat up and peered into the gloom, right hand fumbling for the always-lantern by his bed. Sounds like my guitar is sliding down the wall. He got the cover off the lantern. Light flooded the room. The guitar wasn’t sliding down the wall; it was three feet from the wall, straight up, and sliding along the floor. He stared at it, rubbed his eyes, stared at it again. No, the angle wasn't deceiving him. The damned thing was coming towards his bed! Paul froze, barely breathing. What the fuck? Is it haunted? Jesus, it’s haunted! His hands gripped the blanket tighter and tighter as the instrument approached. It stopped and rotated, bobbing back and forth as if looking for something. When it faced Paul it snapped straight up, then jerked to a start again, approaching the bed purposefully. Help, thought Paul, too frightened to scream. He began to inch to the other side of the bed. Closer and closer it came, three feet from the bed—two feet—one foot—half a foot—(Paul teetered on the edge of the bed now) and it halted, apparently confused by the height of the bed. Paul held his breath. Noiselessly the guitar rose into the air, glided over the mattress, and settled itself next to Paul. "Yaagh!" Paul toppled off the bed, yanking the cover with him. The guitar slid across with the cover and jutted over the side of the bed, looming over Paul like the fist of God. Unparalyzed, Paul scrambled away on hands and knees, then sprang up and wrenched his door open and lurched out of the room. Was it following him? He dared a peek back. It hadn't moved from the bed. "Jesus!" he panted, leaning against the wall as he shuddered with fear and nervous laughter. "What a crazy thing. Jesus!" A door creaked. Paul twisted round violently, but it was only Ringo standing in his doorway, clad in a silky brown nightshirt that reached to his knees. "Paul?" he whispered. "Are you okay? I heard you fall - " "The guitar jumped into bed with me," Paul said, and he outlined what happened. Ringo listened sleepily. "You sure it wasn't a nightmare?" "It's in me bed now, if you'd care to look." So Ringo looked, and there it was, and he scratched his stubbly chin and said "Well, that's weird." "I know," Paul snapped, testy now that the shock had passed. "Did it try to hit you, then?" "I didn't stay long enough to find out." Cautiously Paul poked the instrument, but it was as inert as it was supposed to be. Ringo yawned. "Maybe that crazy elf is playin’ a joke on you." "Why? He doesn’t seem to give a shit about us." "Maybe he’s tryin’ to scare us away. Look, Paul, I'm real tired, I can't deal with this right now, can we discuss it in the morning?" "What if it starts up again?" "Go tell Ass to stop it, I guess. And wake me up. I’d like to see it." Ringo shuffled back to his room while Paul wondered if As’taris really had been responsible for the whole episode. It was such a crazy, pointless thing to do—but then, the Baravadans definitely had different criteria for sanity. Still, the elf’s bedroom door was shut; and when Paul crept over to listen at it, he could hear lusty snoring. Unless As’taris’s prank was really elaborate, he likely wasn’t responsible. So. What was going on? Still tense, Paul hovered in the hallway outside his room for a while, trying either to get up the nerve to go back in or to spend the night on the couch in the big, empty, shadowy, drafty main room downstairs. Dammit, why didn’t he ask Ringo if he could stay in his room? He really, really wished Grunnel had come home for the evening, but the old man’s room was silent and empty. Finally he forced himself back into his room. However, there was no way he was falling asleep or even getting back into bed. Grimly, he sat himself down in a chair and stared at the bed. If that guitar moved so much as a millimeter, he was going to yell loud enough for them to hear him back on Earth. * Some hours later, as the first feeble smear of dawn lit the sky, a gentle internal tugging awakened George, lying with his face buried in the pillow. "Mmph," he mumbled. "Damn." He had to pee. And the house didn’t have a toilet, or even an outhouse. Chamber pots, even magic ones—ugh! Think I'll just pee out the window, he thought sleepily. He pushed himself - No, he did not push himself up. He pushed through empty air, his arm going straight down. Startled into more wakefulness, he drew it back up. Man, I'm close to the edge of the bed. He slid his right leg off the side of the - Where's the side of the bed? His leg jutted out as far as he could stretch it, and it wouldn't fall. George groped for the bed's edge, and his hand slid under his thigh and dangled loosely. There was nothing under his leg except air. But his leg wasn't falling.… With his other hand George pushed on the pillow. That seemed solid enough; what was going on? He propped himself up, elbows on the pillow, and clunk! "Ow!" He rubbed his head, looking angrily at the ceiling. The ceiling? Refusing to comprehend, George goggled at it… and then he felt his blanket slip off him and -plooomph- fall down.… His eyes were going to stay exactly where they were, he was going to look at the ceiling until everything became normal again, his head turned, nonono, stopitstopit, look down there the floor and the night table and the blanket and the bed he was floating six feet above the bed.… George yipped and tried to hurl all of himself on the pillow, but his legs flailed about, finding no purchase. In a panic he thrust his knees down, something stopped existing, and his lower half dropped! "Aaaaah!" he shrieked, clutching the pillow for dear life as he swung down like Tarzan on a vine. His feet slammed into the wall, pain lanced up his ankles, and he swung back, shuddered to a stop. For one timeless moment George hung from a pillow suspended in mid-air. Then: "GET ME DOWWWN!" Urine ran down his legs, soaking his underpants and dripping on the bed, but he hardly noticed as he thrashed, a hooked fish on an invisible line. "GET ME DOWWWN!" The pillow gave way! George dropped, landed on the bed on the balls of his feet, and bounced forward into the wall; only the pillow saved him from a bloody nose. Stunned, he slid down the wall on the pillow, landing on his knees. His door burst open and people rushed in, crowded round, turned on the light. "What happened? Are you hurt?" (Ringo) "Did something get into bed with you?" (Paul) "Why’re you so noisy, tirin?" (As’taris) George couldn't answer; he knelt pressed against the wall with his face buried in the pillow. "I'm down," he whispered, looking slowly back at the mass of people, the naked elf and the other two in their nightshirts. His marbles, scattered but not lost, began rolling back to their assigned places. "Did you see?" he said to the air. "I was floating." "There’s something in this house!" Paul said triumphantly to Ringo as they helped George into a chair. "It had to’ve been the same thing that moved the guitar!" Before Ringo could reply, As’taris swung around to them. For once he was animated. "Something else happened?" he demanded. "Was that why you made noise before? Tirin, tell me everything that happened!" As Paul and, shakily, George told their stories, the elf smiled for the first time since they'd met him. Suddenly he started jumping around the room, waving his arms and shrieking like he'd scored the winning goal at the World Cup. The three gaped. There wasn't a whole lot that could have turned their minds from the bizarre events of the night, but Ast'aris had found a way. "Is what happened tonight good?" Paul asked when there was a lull in the noise. "We'd rather like to know what's going on." "Brox has returned!" Ast'aris laughed as he danced into the hall. "And aren’t we just looking forward to that," said George, wet, unhappy, embarrassed, and mystified. Better than something else, thought Paul, abruptly suffering from an obnoxious idea in which John played a central and terrible role.…