The Magic Cottage

A breeze stirred around us.

'They're faint, but they're here.' Midge opened her eyes again.

I noticed Mycroft's were boring into hers. Then he turned his attention to me and his pupils were like tiny black holes, bottomless but not empty.

There was a shadow behind him. Gray and wispy, and moving forward. Another behind that one, appearing just beyond his left shoulder. Both taking on shimmering form.

Voices, an eternity away. So faint. From another dimension. Yet not voices at all. Thoughts that pressed into ours.

'Father?' said Midge.

One of the flimsy clouds at Mycroft's shoulder shifted as if stirred by an air current. And the thought in my mind answered her.

The breeze became a gust.

'Show Mike that you're really here.' It was a plea from Midge.

The nebula took on more form: a vaporous head, a line of a shoulder. It became almost liquid, rippling as features shaped themselves. Those features slowly grew familiar to me, although they remained wavery and indistinct.

A word insinuated itself into my mind:

'. . . Trust . . .'

But I didn't want to trust, because it was telling me to put my faith in Mycroft, this hazy spirit of Midge's dead father was telling me to believe in the Synergist, and I didn't want to because I knew he was a charlatan, that he had a purpose for Midge, but I didn't know what that purpose was, and I was going to resist, resist, I was going . . .

My incredulous gaze was drawn to the second fluid shape hovering there by Mycroft's other shoulder and it, too, was familiar, a face from photographs shown to me by Midge many times in the past, and she, this ghost of a woman, told me the same:

'. . . trust . . . in . . . him . . .'

Midge was on her knees, reaching toward them, her upturned face fresh with its own glow despite the surrounding dimness, and I held her back, one arm around her shoulder, my other hand clenching her wrist; but still she shuffled forward, and it was toward Mycroft that she moved, on her knees, a cripple toward a faith healer, a follower toward her high priest.

For one fleeting moment his concealing mask fell away, his resolve failing as he indulged in the pleasure of triumph.

I caught that jubilant glint and something clicked inside my head, like a fingernail tapping on the window of my brain, warning me to accept none of this. These ghosts were just vapors, with no form and no thoughts.

'It's a trick!' I yelled at Midge, dragging her down so that we both sprawled at Mycroft's feet. 'That isn't your parents! He's making us see them!'

She cried aloud, refuting my words, struggling against me.

The gust had steadily risen to a gale, ruffling our clothes, dispersing the mists so that they were spread thinly, eventually to be whipped into nothing.

Mycroft looked around as if startled, and that puzzled me. I wondered what new game he was playing. He suddenly seemed as confused as me. The Synergist half rose, but the wind tore at him so that he stumbled back. He raised the cane to beat at the storm, but then his eyes caught mine.

On another occasion I might have laughed, seeing his mouth drop open the way it-tfid. Right then, though, the situation wasn't conducive to humor. He was staring disbelievingly at me and I didn't understand why.

Until I became conscious of the cloud dribbling from my mouth like cigarette smoke.

It came from my fingers too, snaking out in tendrils, curling into the air to be torn away by the wind that now howled, drawn from me into the room. It was as if my innards were burning and my mouth and fingertips were the points through which the smoke could escape; yet there was no pain, only a feathery lightness inside me.

The mist billowed into the room, more and more extracted from me so that it gathered force, revolved in the air like a miniature whirlwind, with us at its center.

And in it, there were other voices.

They may have been as those before, sounds in our minds alone, but they seemed to come from around us. These had nothing to do with Mycroft, because he was cowering behind his cane as if it were a shield.

When the voices became coherent their message was different:

'. . . Leave this place . . . leave this house . . .'

Two voices, two mental sounds; and they howled together with the wind.

Midge watched the storming mists and her face was sodden with tears.

Her voice was like a child's, a five-year-old's: 'Mummy . . . Daddy . . .'

I was scared shitless.

'Mumeeee. . . Daddeeee . . .!'

Now she looked like a child.

I clambered to my feet, relieved at least that the cloudy flow had stopped trailing from me. Midge's eyes were wide and imploring. Mycroft was still crouching on the floor, his eyes wide too, but with fear. That suited me fine.

'Come on, Midge.' I reached for her.

She focused on me instantly. 'Yes,' she cried. 'Yes!'

As she rose, so the winds quickly died, and the vapors were soon drifting, then hanging, in the air. They began to dissolve.

I didn't wait any longer. I dragged Midge to the door, scraping my back as we entered the squared section of the sloping wall. I yanked the door open and there were Kinsella and Bone Man waiting, a couple of other Synergists with them. They looked anxious enough.

I bunched my fist. 'Keep away from us! Just fucking keep away!'

Kinsella looked uncertain, but he had the muscle. He began crowding me.

'No!' came Mycroft's voice from within the pyramid room. 'Not here! Let them go.' Then weaker: 'Let them go . . .'

We went. We went like bats out of hell.

FLIGHT

THAT SLOPING field to the woods might not have seemed so steep on the descent, but going up was different: I had the feeling we were climbing a down escalator. My thigh muscles were soon aching, the weight of Midge clinging to me making the ascent even more awkward. The first line of trees seemed a long way off.

But we'd been frightened, and there's nothing like a good scare to get the adrenalin pumping. Our flight may have lacked style, but it wasn't short of effort.

Midge stumbled once, about halfway up the incline, and as I hauled her to her feet again I glanced back at the house. It stood as a huge monolith, brooding gray and tomb-cold; it looked about ready to uproot and lumber after us. Although I couldn't see into those dark window eyes, I knew the Synergists were watching from them.

Midge was already breathing hard and there was a fragility about her that was worrying.

'What. . . what happened in there, Mike?' she managed to gasp.

'Mycroft,' was all I said.

Gripping her elbow, I pulled her onward, keeping her upright and moving, keen to be under cover, away from those eyes. Progress seemed bad-dream slow, as though mud was sucking our feet; yet the soil beneath the grass was summer-dry and firm. Eventually I had to slip an arm around Midge's waist and support her against my hip to keep her going.

The light was poor, the sun no more than a florid dome on the horizon. Night was sinking in. And the forest would soon be a dark place.