Out of Spite, Out of Mind Page 9

  “None?”

  “None,” Sid said. “All misdirection and a trick padlock. We run an honest magic show, using the traditional methods of deception and trickery.”

  “That’s right,” Gilbert said. “Instead of cheating the audience by using real magic, like some people we could name.” He lightly kicked Martin in the shoulder for emphasis.

  “I don’t do a magic show.”

  “Yet,” Gilbert said.

  “Whatever. So I assume Phillip put you up to all this.”

  Sid nodded. “Correct.”

  “And he didn’t give you any information, other than that I should drop it?”

  “And that you’re embarrassing yourself,” Gilbert added, “which we could have seen for ourselves.”

  “Fine. I’ll just have to go find Phillip somewhere . . . and somewhen else, and talk to him there.” Martin stood up, pulled his ornate silver box out of his pocket, opened it, jabbed his finger angrily at the screen of his smartphone, and disappeared.

  Five seconds later, Martin reappeared in the exact spot he’d just left. “Damn it!”

  Sid smiled broadly. “Yes! Phillip’s set up a macro that will redirect you here if you try to contact him in the future. Now, if you’ll just turn your back for a second, we’ll reset the trick and do it again.”

  Martin glared at Sid, poked a few more times at his smartphone, and disappeared.

  After fifteen seconds of waiting, Gilbert said, “I think he’s gone for good this time.”

  One of the two assistants walked out onto the stage from the wings. He pulled off his mask, revealing that he was a teenage boy with sandy-brown hair.

  The crumpled mass of the rolling curtain shifted seemingly on its own, then slid to the side as a trapdoor hinged open and the other assistant, now wearing a red mask, climbed out. She removed the red mask, the white mask underneath it, and her hood. She looked close to the same age as the boy, and bore an undeniable family resemblance, although she sported a thick mass of wavy jet-black hair.

  “So that was him,” Sid said. “What did you think?”

  “He was so young,” the girl said.

  “And angry,” the boy added. “Really angry.”

  Sid nodded. “Indeed. I’m sure he’s mellowed with age. Most men do.”

  The boy said, “They get wiser, and stop letting things bother them?”

  “No,” Gilbert said. “Things bother them more. It’s just they don’t have the energy to act on it like they used to.”

  11.

  Phillip leaned around the door frame into Brit the Younger’s bedroom in a manner he had designed and mentally rehearsed to appear casual and spur of the moment. “Hey, I’m going to go for a walk.”

  Brit the Younger turned away from her yellowed original Macintosh computer and looked toward Phillip. “Okay.”

  Phillip’s eyes narrowed. “Okay?”

  “Yeah,” Brit said, turning back to her computer. “Okay. Whatever. Hey, before you go . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Can you think of an example of a way that people write down and communicate a series of physical movements so that they can teach them to another person?”

  “What, you mean like dance choreography?”

  “Yeah, that’s the example I came up with. I also thought of drills and square dancing, but those are still kinds of dance. I’m just wondering if there’s a better fit. Can you think of another?”

  Phillip thought for a moment. “I guess musical notation would fit that description. The musicians have to do the same things at the same time every time.”

  “Yeah. That’s not bad. It’s still music based, but interesting. Thanks. Have fun.”

  “What?”

  “On your walk. Have fun.”

  Phillip shrugged. “Okay.”

  Phillip walked through the living room, where Nik was doing the dusting.

  Phillip said, “I’m just popping out for a quick walk. Need me to grab a chicken for you? I promise, I’ll do it this time.”

  “I told you, don’t worry about the chicken, Phillip. It wasn’t a problem. If you like, you could get me some butter.”

  “Butter. Done.”

  Phillip stepped out the door.

  * * *

  Martin watched as Phillip emerged from Brit the Younger’s front door, looking distracted and in a hurry.

  Preoccupied as he was, Phillip didn’t notice the unusually light foot traffic. He had the entire section of path completely to himself. Phillip also failed to notice the fact that while it was a beautiful cloudless day, there was a dark shadow directly over him, blotting out the sun and growing larger. Had he noticed the shadow, he might have looked up and seen the large black trapezoid streaking down out of the sky directly toward him.

  The dark mass fell silently, then came to an instant stop thirty feet above Phillip’s head. He remained oblivious, walked down the path, stepped into a blind alley between two buildings, then teleported away.

  Martin stood motionless on the roof of a nearby building, his staff outstretched, projecting the force field holding the object in midair. He twirled the staff in tiny circles, causing the object to spin. As it did, Martin saw writing engraved into one side that said 16 TONS.

  Martin looked around and saw only one other person present, lurking in the alley between two buildings across the way. Luckily, it was the person Martin was hoping to find.

  “Pants dried out, I trust,” Martin said.

  The goblin stepped out of the shadows, looked up at Martin, and lowered his hood, revealing his bald head, pointed ears, and inhumanly sharp teeth. “I assume so. I took them off rather than letting them dry on me.”

  “I hear doing that with jeans makes them fit better.”

  “I was wearing slacks.”

  “A goblin in slacks?”

  “Eh, dress for the job you want, not the one you have. I see you haven’t repaired your robe after my feathered friends used you as a seed bell.”

  “Yeah, I kind of like it this way,” Martin said. “It feels more broken in. So, look, about this sixteen-ton weight you just tried to drop on Phillip. I gotta say, I’m not happy with you about it, although you do score some points for the Monty Python reference.”

  “Thanks. I considered going with a giant foot, but I found the little fart sound distasteful.”

  Martin nodded and flicked his staff upward. The sixteen-ton weight flew back up into the sky, disappearing over the city’s edge and splashing down in the ocean. “I sort of expected you to stick with the board-game motif. I worried we’d find Phillip dead with a wishbone-shaped hole in his sternum and a glowing, buzzing nose.”

  “I’m not trying to kill him, Martin. I don’t want to kill anybody. That’s why I blocked this section of the path off today, so there’d be no bystanders. We both know Phillip’s invulnerable. The only danger your friend is in is danger of getting distracted. That’s what I’m trying to do, and in the end I’d be doing him a favor.”

  “If that’s true, tell me what you’re distracting him from. If you’re telling the truth, maybe I can help.”

  “No, Martin, I have to handle this on my own.”

  The goblin started waving his arms in the same showy manner he had when he made the ravens attack Martin. “I’m not accomplishing anything standing here arguing with you, so—”

  Martin thrust the head of his staff toward the goblin and said, “Pika pulvoro,” cutting him off midsentence. A sparkling white light radiated from the bust of Santo at the top of Martin’s staff, illuminating the goblin. He stopped swinging his arms, stood still for half a second, then let out a high, anguished moan, and started furiously scratching himself. “What did you do?”

  Martin smiled. “I learned from our last encou
nter. I decided to forget embarrassment as a weapon and start using discomfort. You’re the first person to experience my new itch ray. Now, tell me what’s going on or it’s about to get real humid. I’m talkin’ Florida-in-July humid.”

  “You’re clever, Martin, but you forgot one thing.”

  “What?”

  “Just because I’m itchy doesn’t mean I can’t do magic.” The goblin whipped his arms around in a series of wide gestures, then went back to furiously scratching himself.

  Martin heard a strange noise, more an assortment of noises that combined oddly. There was a base layer of scrabbling, scraping noises, with a counterpoint of squeaking, and a dull undertone of rustling, all of which got louder with each passing second. It was like a combination of the sound of nails on a chalkboard and two pieces of Styrofoam rubbing against each other. It seemed to come from below the building on which he was standing. As it grew louder, Martin couldn’t help but step closer to the edge to see what was making the awful noise. He saw nothing on the ground below, but as he looked, a wave of brown and gray lumps poured over the roof’s front edge and advanced toward him. His primitive instincts identified what they were well before he got a good look at them. They were rats. Hundreds of rats, surging toward him.

  As the rats formed a swirling pool around his feet, Martin fought down the urge to flee and indulged his urge to talk smack.

  “You just gonna try swarming me with different animals until something works? Not a great plan.”

  “I agree,” the goblin said. “Luckily, that’s not what I’m doing.”

  “Really? That’s what it looks like from here.”

  “Is it? Then why haven’t the rats climbed up your legs yet?”

  Martin looked down at the rats, which, as the goblin said, had yet to make any effort to climb onto him. Instead, they remained in a writhing heap, crowded all around his feet, their wiry pink tails stuck in the air as they gnawed on the surface beneath them.

  The roof on which Martin was standing gave way, weakened by the chewing and broken by the combined weight of him and the rats. As he fell into the shop beneath, he had only a fraction of a second to register that the Atlanteans inside already stood on any furniture they could as a swirling circle of rodents gnawed at the floor.

  Martin landed on the rats, crashed through the floor, and fell to another pool of rats below. He broke through that floor, landed on more rats, crashed through again, landed on more rats, crashed through again, and finally came to a rest where Atlantis’s solid diamond outer wall finally curved inward enough for him and the rats to land on it and slide to a stop.

  Martin sat, growling for a second, then held his staff out above him and flew straight up, through all of the holes he’d just created, until he erupted back out into the open air, a cloud of rats flying in all directions. He flew through the air in a graceful arc, landing in front of the goblin with enough force to crack the paving stones beneath his feet.

  “Oh, you’re back,” the goblin said. “I probably should have just split, but I kinda wanted to see the look on your face. Anyway, you were gone just long enough for me to call a friend.”

  Far above the city, up in the sky, Martin heard an eardrum-shattering shriek.

  Martin looked up and saw an eagle. At first he thought the eagle was quite close to him, but then he realized it only looked close because it was the size of a small airplane. It almost seemed to flap its wings in slow motion as it descended, still screeching at an ear-splitting volume. As it drew near, it thrust out talons, each the size of a small child wielding kitchen knives, beckoning for a hug.

  Martin hunched down, held his staff above him with one arm, and produced a hemispherical force field he hoped would keep him safe. He squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the attack. He heard the screeching and felt the subsonic beating of the giant wings draw closer, sail directly overhead, then recede, as if the bird had merely passed over him. He opened his eyes to follow the immense eagle and watched as it gently plucked the goblin up in its talons before climbing back into the sky.

  The goblin smiled broadly and waved at Martin, shouting, “You thought the eagle was here for you? Jeez, self-absorbed much?”

  Just seconds before, Martin had been cowering, dreading the giant eagle’s attack. Now Martin took off, flying after the eagle, trying to catch up as quickly as possible. As he gained, he kept his eyes on the goblin clinging to the eagle’s claws, nothing but blue sky and the sea behind him, looking at Martin with a mixture of amusement and confusion on his face, still scratching the small of his back with his free hand.

  As Martin drew within shouting range, the goblin asked, “How long is this itching going to last?”

  “An hour or so.”

  “Why? What do you think it accomplishes? It didn’t stop me from doing anything.”

  “Not yet, but you’ll think twice about messing with me again knowing that there’s an hour of itching in it for you.”

  “I wasn’t messing with you to begin with!”

  “You were messing with Phillip. Anyone who messes with Phillip gets messed with by me.”

  The goblin laughed.

  “I know,” Martin said, “passive voice. I’m working off the top of my head here.”

  The goblin kept laughing. “It’s not that. Bad style is the least of what’s making you sound stupid right now.”

  “Whatever. Hey, if you can do magic, and you wanted to get away, why not just teleport out? Why mess around with the whole giant eagle thing?”

  “Showmanship is very important. But if it’s all wasted on you . . .”

  Martin shouted, “No, wait,” but it was too late. The goblin teleported away. The giant eagle faded out of existence, leaving Martin flying alone. He slowed to a stop, hovered in empty space above the Mediterranean Sea, then teleported himself back to Atlantis.

  12.

  Phillip materialized in Brit the Elder’s home and found her sitting at the exact same Macintosh he’d left Brit the Younger sitting at before, although now it was an even darker shade of yellow.

  “How are your feet?”

  “The same, and it’s spread up my calves.”

  “Sorry to hear that. Look, I’m happy to help you,” Phillip said, “but I must say, I really don’t like lying to Brit about it.”

  “It’s only lying if you tell her something that’s not true. I suggest you don’t tell her anything at all unless she asks.”

  “So you want me to act aloof and mysterious?”

  “Is it worse than being dishonest?”

  “Either way, if she ever finds out that I’m sneaking around behind her back, especially to go meet with you, I’m afraid it’ll be the end of my relationship.”

  Brit the Elder stood up. “I know. I’ve given that some thought. We need to move our activities somewhere other than Atlantis. Even though we’re staying holed up in my home, there’s still too much of a chance that we’ll slip up and tip our hand. We need to go somewhere there are resources and people who can help us, but where nobody would think to look for us.”

  “I assume you have a place in mind?”

  “Of course. Come along. I’ll show you.” Brit the Elder put her left hand on Phillip’s shoulder, then, with her right, swiped through several menus in a floating interface that only she could see and made a selection.

  Brit the Elder’s home faded away, replaced by a single unkempt room. Unpainted, unplastered Sheetrock lined the walls, and thin, well-worn carpeting covered what felt like a concrete slab floor with no carpet padding. In one corner, two folding lawn chairs flanked a card table with a bent leg. The opposite corner was filled with a set of bunk beds made from unfinished two-by-fours and sheets of splintery plywood. Phillip inhaled, and instantly regretted it. He reeled as his lungs struggled to separate what usable oxygen they could from th
e combined aromas of pipe smoke, fish guts, and stale body odor.

  “Where are we?” he gasped.

  “A hunting shack in Alaska, 1984.” She had to speak up to be heard over the wind rushing through the forest outside.

  Phillip ran to the window, but all he saw through it were trees and snow. He opened the window, hoping to get some fresh air, which he did. Fresh, freezing cold air. The offensive smell of the cabin flushed out of his nasal cavity, replaced by the searing pain of an instant brain freeze. He tried to slam the window closed, but the ancient and ill-maintained sash jammed in the frame and only came unstuck with great effort.

  Brit the Elder said, “I bought the shack and all of the land in a ten-mile radius from two guys who called themselves Pinky and Spud. I put up force fields so that nobody can get anywhere near here, even if they had any reason to want to, which they don’t.”

  Once he’d wrestled the window closed, Phillip inhaled again, grimacing. He looked around the interior of the shack a second time. “When you said we were going somewhere with resources, this isn’t what I pictured.”

  “This isn’t our final destination, just a way station. We’re going to the year 2018.”

  “I can’t,” Phillip said. “I’m from 1986, and we can only travel forward in time as far as the latest point we’ve already been to.”

  “Yes. I know. Please come here.”

  Phillip stepped away from the window toward the middle of the room. “The only way to go any further ahead is to go back to your original time and let history flow forward on its own. That’s why we aren’t all visiting the future all the time.”

  Brit the Elder said, “Yes, I know all of that. We all know that. We know it so well that we never bother to question it, or try to think of a way around it.”

  “A way around it? Like what?”

  Brit smiled. “Like this.” She placed a hand on Phillip’s forehead and swiped her other hand through a floating menu only she could see.