“You’re testing me, aren’t you?” said Hood. His voice had never been melodious, but it was now uglier than ever: like the rumble of the Devil’s belly. “Admit it, thief.” he said.
Harvey took a deep breath, then said: “If I’m going to be your apprentice, I need to know how powerful you are.”
“Are you satisfied?” the decaying House demanded.
“Almost,” Harvey said.
“What more do you want?” it roared.
What more indeed, Harvey thought. His mind was reeling with these ridiculous lists; he had little left in the way of demands.
“You may have one final gift.” the Hood-House said, “one final proof of my power. Then you must accept me as your Master forever and ever. Agreed?”
Harvey felt a trickle of cold sweat run down his spine. He stared at the teetering House, his mind racing. What was left to demand?
“Agreed?” the House boomed.
“Agreed,” he said.
“So tell me,” it went on. “What do you want?”
He looked at the tiny animals around the ark, and at the flowers, and at the food spewing through the door. What should he demand? One final request, to break Hood’s back. But what? What?
A gust of chilly wind came from the direction of the lake. Autumn could not be far off: The season of dying things.
“I know!” he said suddenly.
“Tell me,” the House replied, “tell me and let’s have this game over owe and fur all. I want your bright soul under my wing, little thief.”
“And I want the seasons,” Harvey said. “All the seasons at once.”
“At once?”
“Yes, at once!”
“That’s nonsensical!”
“It’s what I want.”
“Stupid! Imbecilic!”
“It’s what I want! You said one more wish and that’s it!”
“Very well,” said the House. “I will give it to you. And when you have it, little thief, your soul is mine!”
XXIII. The War of Seasons
Hood didn’t waste any time. He’d no sooner made his final offer to Harvey than the balmy wind grew gusty, carrying off the lamb’s wool clouds that had been drifting through the summer sky. In their place came a juggernaut: a thunderhead the size of a mountain, which loomed over the House like a shadow thrown against Heaven.
It had more than lightning at its dark heart. It had the light rains that came at early morning to coax forth the seeds of another spring; it had the drooping fogs of autumn, and the spiraling snows that had brought so many midnight Christmases to the House. Now all three fell at once—rains, snows and fogs—as a chilly sleet that all but covered the sun. It would have killed the flowers on the slope with cold, had the wind not reached them first, tearing through the blossoms with such vehemence that every petal and leaf was snatched up into the air.
Standing between this fragrant tide and the plummeting curtain of ice and cloud, Harvey was barely able to stay upright. But he planted his feet wide apart, and resisted every blast and buffet, determined not to take shelter. This spectacle might be the last he set eyes upon as a free spirit; indeed as a living spirit. He intended to enjoy it.
It was a sight to behold; a battle the likes of which the planet had never seen.
To his left, shafts of sunlight pierced the storm clouds in the name of Summer, only to be smothered by Autumn’s fogs, while to his right Spring coaxed its legions out of bough and earth, then saw its buds murdered by Winter’s frosts before they could show their colors.
Attack after attack was mounted and repulsed, reveille and retreat sounded a hundred times, but no one season was able to carry the day. It was soon impossible to distinguish defeats from victories. The rallies and the feints, the diversions and encirclements all became one confusion. Snows melted into rains as they fell; rains were boiled into vapor; and sweated new shoots out through the rot of their brothers.
And somewhere in the midst of this chaos, the power that had brought it about raised its voice in a rage, demanding that it cease.
“Enough!” the Hood-House yelled. “Enough!”
But its voice—which had once carried such terrible authority had grown weak. Its orders went unnoticed; or if noticed, then disobeyed.
The seasons raged on, throwing themselves against each other with rare abandon, and in passing tearing at the House which stood in the midst of their battlefield.
The walls, which had begun to teeter as Hood’s power diminished, were thrown over by the raging wind. The chimneys were wracked by thunder, and toppled; the lightning rods struck so many times they melted, and fell through the slateless roof in a burning rain, setting fire to every floorboard, banister and stick of furniture they touched. The porch, pummeled by hail, was reduced to matchwood. The staircase, rocked to its foundations by the growth in the dirt around it, collapsed like a tower of cards.
Squinting against the face of the storm, Harvey witnessed all of this, and rejoiced. He’d come to the House hoping to steal back the years that Hood had tricked from him, but he’d never dared believe he could bring the whole edifice down. Yet here it was, falling as he watched. Loud though the dins of wind and thunder were, they couldn’t drown out the sound of the House as it perished and went to dust. Every nail and sill and brick seemed to shriek at once, a cry of pain that only oblivion could comfort.
Harvey was denied a glimpse of Hood’s last moments. A cloud of dirt rose like a veil to cover the sight. But he knew the moment his battle with the Vampire King was over, because the warring seasons suddenly turned to peace. The thunderhead softened its furies, and dispersed; the wind dropped to an idling breeze; the fierce sun grew watery, and veiled itself in mist.
There was debris in the air, of course: petals and leaves, dust and ash. They fell like a dream rain, though their fall marked the end of a dream.
“Oh, child…” said Mrs. Griffin.
Harvey turned to her. She was standing just a few yards from him, gazing up at the sky. There was a little patch of blue above their heads; the first glimpse of real sky these few acres of ground had seen since Hood had founded his empire of illusions. But it was not the patch she was watching, it was a congregation of floating lights —the same that Harvey had seen Hood feeding upon in the attic—which had been freed by the collapse of the House. They were now moving in a steady stream toward the lake.
“The children’s souls,” she said, her voice growing thinner as she spoke the word. “Beautiful.”
Her body was no longer solid, Harvey saw; she was fading away in front of him.
“Oh no,” he murmured.
She took her eyes off the sky and stared down at her arms, and the cat she was carrying in them. It too was growing insubstantial.
“Look at us,” Mrs. Griffin said, with a smile upon her weary face. “It feels so wonderful.”
“But you’re disappearing.”
“I’ve lingered here far too long, sweet boy,” she said. There were tears glistening on her face, but they were tears of joy, not of sadness. “It’s time to go…” She kept stroking Stew-Cat as they both
faded from sight. “You are the brightest soul I ever met, Harvey Swick,” she said. “Keep shining, won’t you?”
