Chapter 4: The Cuckoo
"I can't run no more
With that lawless crowd
While the killers in high places
Say their prayers out loud"
LAST NIGHT
"Hello, Mother. Hello, Father."
Rumple's arm instinctively slipped around Belle's waist and he pulled her closer. She flinched, but whether that was a reaction to his touch or to the hooded figure's appearance in the pawnshop, he wasn't sure. Nor was he sure whether his intention was to protect her or comfort her: although they had both seen their son in her dream, to see him in the flesh, so close they could see his five o'clock shadow even in the dim lamplight, and just two days after he'd been taken away from them, was heart-breaking as well as shocking. All those years, stolen from the three of them, all the hugs and kisses, all the skinned knees and mud tracks, all the gold-star homework pages and the flat bicycle tires and the baseball-cracked windows and the juice spills and the "I hate you" slammed doors and the "Mommy, read me a story" and the "Daddy, there's a monster under my bed" (which, Rumple had no doubt, would be true). Wherever she took him, did Lanhyddel get to live any of those moments? Or did she pass the baby off onto someone else to rear? Or did she speed up his aging, bypassing all those moments altogether?
Why did she take him, anyway? Was she trying to compensate for the years of mothering she missed out on when she gave up her own baby? Rumple snorted at the thought. More likely, she took the baby to hurt Rumple in the worst way possible, but why? What had he ever done to her?
After centuries of facing down kings, knights, demons, witches and ex-wives, Rumple had learned how to shake off shock quickly and plaster on an unruffled façade. As Belle took a hesitant step forward—he could feel it in her muscles: she intended and needed to hug this stranger, though malice radiated from his very stance—he clutched her a little more tightly. Correctly, she interpreted the gesture as a warning and wisely, she stepped back, probably thinking Rumple had detected some sort of magic at work—a glamor spell, a controlled heart—on this person claiming to be their son. But oh how she longed to lunge forward into Gideon's arms.
As did Rumple. As did Rumple. Instead he drew in a chilly breath. "Identify yourself, please."
The stranger tilted his head but his eyes didn't widen; he must have expected this, but he pretended to be insulted. "Father, don't you know me? Mother, surely something in you recognizes your own child."
"There have been. . . many magical frauds coming through this town," Belle answered lowly. "Many impersonations. If you are mine, forgive me."
"Hmm, I suppose you'd feel better if I gave some sort of sign, some information from our past that only you and I would have shared." His lips curled. "Oh, yes, you and I don't have a shared past, do we, Mother? So I suppose we'll have to depend upon Dad's methods." He plucked a strand of hair from his head and held it out to Rumple with a cold smile. "Here, Dad. Test it. You'll find the DNA matches."
Rumple smelled a trick, but he conjured a vial of green fluid and into it he dropped the proffered hair. Then he contributed one from his own head and watched with bated breath as the fluid turned red. He could hear Belle at his elbow sighing "Gideon" in relief, but the match only made him more suspicious—and nervous. He'd hoped this stranger would prove a fraud, so he could toss him out the door and be done.
"A name?" The young man's eyes widened and his sneer flickered before taking its place back on his face. "You gave me a name? We assumed you hadn't. Most people don't bother to name a child they intend to abandon."
"You think we abandoned you?" This alarmed Belle more than anything else so far. "No, dear one, we never—we wanted you, both of us, with all our hearts. You were loved from the moment we first learned you existed, and we would have upended the earth to find you."
"Hard to believe that the most powerful sorcerer in history"—Gideon leaned in toward Rumple as he barked the latter phrase—"couldn't find one lost little boy after twenty-eight years of trying. Or is it that you never really tried, Papa? Or maybe you're just not the mage you claim to be. Which is it?"
"Twenty-eight years!" Belle gasped.
"No, no," Rumple held up his hands in a stop gesture. "You must understand, where she took you, time moves more slowly here. It may have been twenty-eight years for you, but for us—"
"'May have been'? Are you calling me a liar, Father?" He grunted. "It takes one to know one, I suppose, but as you can see"—he spread his hands wide—"you sent me away a newborn, and here I am, an adult."
"We didn't send you—we didn't—It wasn't like that," Belle pleaded. "For your own good. For your protection, I sent you with the Blue Fairy. Just for a little while, until I could figure out how to keep you safe from—" she clamped her lips shut.
"From what, Mother? Or whom?"
She shook her head, staring at the floor.
"Tell me, then, how it was for my 'protection' that you took me out into the woods and left me inside a hollowed out oak tree?"
"No!" She clutched at Gideon's sleeve. "No! I gave you to Blue!"
"Seems lying is a family trait." Gideon folded his arms tight against his chest. "Good thing I was raised by someone who cared enough to tell me the truth." Gideon came a little closer, but walking around the edge of the showroom space. Almost circling them, Rumple realized; he'd often used the movement himself to intimidate at the same time he'd kept the distance. "My grandmother, I mean. I don't call her that; she's hardly grandmotherly looking. . . ageless. . . and she prefers I call her by her name. Do you happen to know it, Father?" He inched a fraction of an inch closer so his sneer wouldn't be missed. "Her name? I don't suppose you bothered."
"What lies did she tell you?" Rumple felt Belle grab his hand and give it a squeeze, as she used to, as a silent signal for him to calm down. He accepted her counsel. He couldn't afford to let this stranger rattle him.
Rattle. The thought of the word sent a stab of regret through him. What should he have done, to convince Belle to let him back into her life? Which of his many mistakes had been the last one she could forgive? Rattle. Teething ring. Bottles. Talcum powder. Cribs.
"You're sidestepping the question, dearie." Gideon let the sarcastic endearment sink in. "Yes, I know that little verbal habit of yours. You'd be surprised what I know about you two, and how. But let's not waste time when you have so little of it left." He glanced at the cuckoo clock on the wall, pulling Rumple's gaze with him.
Belle brought them back to ground. "What do you mean?"
"Just what it sounds." Gideon lifted a shoulder casually and his heavy brown robe rippled. "One day. Well, one day and three hours, to be precise. Lanhyddel likes to do big things at midnight. She's kind of a traditionalist when it comes to magic. But make no mistake, she's a genius at thinking outside the box."
"What happens at midnight tomorrow?" Rumple's voice didn't shake, though his hand in Belle's did.
"We—Grandmother and I—make your prophesy come true, Father." Gideon raised his index finger and pitched his voice into a mad giggle. "'The final battle begins.'" He walked a few more steps. Behind them now, he forced them to keep him in their line of sight. "We know all sorts of things, Father. Or would you prefer 'Dad'?"
"What happens at midnight, son?" Belle pressed.
Gideon rolled his eyes. "And I thought you were an imaginative one. All right, let me spell it out." He ticked the items off on his fingers. "Number one: I kill the savior. That clears the path for Lanhyddel's arrival. Number two: I kill Regina. It will be the work of moment, with her better half already dispatched. Meanwhile, my grandmother pays a visit to the convent and—you'll enjoy this, Father; that's how we can be sure you'll stay out of the way. Number three: my grandmother demolishes each and every—what do you call them? 'Gnats'? As well as their hive, in case they have any magical implements tucked away there. Even if Mother begs and wrings her hands and cries, as we're sure she will, because she's so very soft-hearted, you won't interfere. It's just too delicious to watch those bugs get squashed. And then, the big finale of the night, number four: I'm killing you. With your dagger. And as the powers of all the Dark Ones fill me, my grandmother will knock off any other magic-user or plain old human who tries to act heroic. We're sure there won't be many. Most of the town will be busy fleeing. What's the result of the current curse on the town line, Father? There've been so many, I forget." He leaned forward to peer into Belle's horrified face, but he didn't touch her. "Which leaves you, Mumsy. We think you'll be malleable by then, so we'll give you the option of a quick death or working for us. We understand you have experience in castle cleaning; ours is filthy." He turned a triumphant smile onto his father. "Get the hint, dearie? We own the Dark Castle. Just to make you aware of how powerful my grandmother is, she created a portal between her realm—where she is Queen—and Misthaven, and through it she brought the Dark Castle, in its entirety, with not so much as a cracked window or loose door knocker. Brought it all, as my playpen and my schoolhouse: your laboratories. Your powders and potions and charms. Your journals. Thanks for keeping such detailed notes, by the way. Grandmother taught me sorcery out of them."
He paused just a second for breath and locked his gaze on Rumple, who felt a cold shudder shoot up his spine. Journals— lab notes—then Gideon must know about Rumple's greatest achievements, the True Love potion and the Storybrooke Curse. And if he knew about those, he must know then why they had been created.
Gideon was pressuring his mother now. "Your library. Your bed chambers." He cocked an eyebrow. "His bed chambers, on the opposite wing. We found that. . .interesting. A respecter of old virtues, Father? Or did you simply fear True Love's Kiss? Lanhyddel and I have speculated on that."
Beneath his hand, Rumple could feel Belle shake as anger heated her cheeks. But she clenched her fists and said nothing; she realized Gideon was attempting to goad them. For a second, Rumple thought he'd like to take their son over his knee for a sound spanking.
Staring at his six-foot-tall two-day-year-old, the only comfort he could offer himself was his fall-back promise of getting even with the villain who'd robbed him, Belle and Gideon of those small but life-changing enjoyments.
"Another thing we wondered about." Gideon tapped his chin. "The other bedchambers were completely empty, except one in the east wing, overlooking an orchard. A spacious room with a big bed and a closet filled with rich clothing styled for a young man, and sporting equipment, and art supplies. Yet it's well known the Dark Castle was closed to visitors." He scratched his head. "So we never did figure that one out."
He cast a hasty glance at Rumple, too quick to be read, but Rumple thought he saw something human in it—warmth, sympathy, humor? The emotion vanished too quickly for Rumple to be certain it had existed at all. But if they had read his journals, then they knew about Bae, which falsified Gideon's claim of ignorance. But why would Gideon pretend not to know he had a half-brother?
Gideon tossed his hand carelessly in the air—with a flair for the dramatic that Rumple assumed had to be genetic, because how else would the boy know his father's mannerisms? "Well, perhaps I'll take the time tomorrow night to ask you to solve these little mysteries—before I kill you."
"And why would you want to do that, dearie?" Rumple managed to fake a sneer.
"Oh, it's nothing personal, Dad. I hardly know you, after all. Come to think of it, I don't know you in the slightest. Your journals really weren't that revealing. I just want your powers. Yours and every Dark One's currently residing in your shriveled black heart." He paused to reconsider. "I take it back: it is personal. Chew on that tonight as you. . . . do whatever you do to prepare for battle. Cast your protection spells or whatever. By the way, what will you be doing, Mumsy? Under the circumstances, I'm curious: will you pray for him, or will you go tavern-hopping with the girls? You and your pool cue and your little blue dress, Lacey."
Belle began to sputter, though she couldn't deny the implied accusation. Rumple held her shoulder back to calm her. "So you've been spying on us, apparently for quite some time. Gathering battle intelligence, or were you curious about us?"
"There are quite a few of us orphans in the Blacklands. It's common for us to be curious. I use the term 'orphan' loosely. What we abandoned ones call ourselves is 'grass orphans.' Isn't that clever, Mumsy? You're a logophile. I thought you'd appreciate it."
Rumple had to gain the upper hand quickly, before either he or Belle broke down. "Does Lanhyddel know you're here?" He couldn't bring himself to say your grandmother; the Black Fairy didn't deserve that title. Nor could he bring himself to say son or even Gideon, because he saw nothing familiar in this man.
"She sent me ahead, to prepare the way. Reconnaissance, for the war to come." His words were hard and cruel, but there was something in his eyes, almost a pleading in the way he looked at each of them, that made Rumple think he was asking to been seen through.
Or maybe that was just transference on Rumple's part.
"Does she know you're here?" He pressed, hoping the question would give Gideon an opening through which a hint could be slipped through. "With us."
A muscle in the young man's cheek twitched. "Weren't you listening, Dad? I just finished telling you how powerful Lanhyddel is. Do you think there's anything she doesn't know? Any secrets I could keep from her—or would want to?"
Yes. Rumple allowed the smallest smile to steal across his face, so Gideon could see it. One more tiny push, to be sure that what he thought he was seeing was real. "What does she call you? What name did she give you?"
Was that pain in the boy's eyes? "Vharcan. My name is Vharcan d' Ra'ton." He bared his teeth, another gesture he'd somehow copied from his father. "In case your Fairy is rusty, it means 'the orphan's revenge.'"
"You can't want that. I named you for a hero," Belle insisted, "Gideon the strong and brave."
"Too bad you weren't hero enough to keep me, eh, Mumsy?" He reached into his chest and with a twist of his wrist that mocked the Imp's exaggerated gestures, he hauled out his heart to show them. "There's your strong and brave hero." He held it close to Belle's face, though she turned her head away to avoid seeing it; then he thrust it under Rumple's nose. "See what you made of me?"
The heart was small, underdeveloped, and black as soot. After Rumple had a long look, Gideon poked at the organ, flipping it over. "Look closely, Dad. I want you to remember this."
On the underside glowed a red spot, no bigger than a penny. But there nonetheless, and Rumple let a grin flash across his face before erasing it. "I will remember. . . son."
Slapping the heart back into his chest, Gideon stepped back, a bit closer to the door, but Belle was reluctant to let him leave.
"Wait, don't go. Let's sit down and talk. We have a hotplate in the back; I can make tea. . . ." But her sentence trailed off into the ether as Gideon chuckled.
"Tea, Mumsy? I cross time and space to come here. I tell you I'm going to destroy this town, kill my father, become the Dark One—and you offer me tea?" He shook his head, still chuckling. "You have been warned. Sharpen your swords, pray to your gods, say goodbye to your friends, get drunk off your ass. I don't care, just as long as you spread the word. When I return tomorrow night, I want be able to smell the fear." He waved his hand as if drawing in a wine bouquet to his nose. "Go out now and talk me up. Oh, and in the street you'll find a birdcage containing a cobra. Best bring it inside; that's your Evil Queen." He wrinkled his nose. "I already took her powers. They were delicious." He came forward a step, causing Belle to step back to avoid him. Rumple forced himself to hold still, his hands quietly folded in front. But when Gideon placed his hands on Belle's elbows, the magic jumped to Rumple's fingers.
"Don't worry, Dad. I said I'd let Mumsy live and I meant it. This is a goodnight kiss. That's what parents and kids do in this realm, isn't it?" He bent to press his lips against Belle's forehead, just the slightest pressure before pulling back. "Goodnight, Mum." He shifted to his left but kept his hands down. "Now you, Dad? A goodnight kiss for your little boy? Or maybe a mobster's kiss, like yours for my grandfather."
Rumple wanted to shove him away at the same time he longed to embrace him. This hurt as hard as the horrific threats that had flown out of Gideon's mouth. In the last moment, as Gideon bent down to him, he retracted his magic and raised his face, accepting the kiss.
But as he pressed his lips lightly to Rumple's rough cheek, Gideon whispered in his ear, "Help me." His face was stony as he drew back. "Goodnight." Rumple didn't catch him summoning his magic, but in a blink, Gideon—Vharcan d' Ra'ton—vanished.
Stunned, Rumple stood frozen, touching his cheek. Belle was quicker to recover. She bent and retrieved a gray feather that had appeared where Gideon had stood. "A bird's feather. What does it mean?"
"A cuckoo." Rumple didn't have to look at it to know. "It symbolizes a new fate."
"Was this feather meant he trying to warn us of our doom or ask for help? How did he know who we were, where to find us? I know he saw us in my dream, but how did he know who I was, when he entered my dream? And why, when he came into my dream, did he call himself Morpheus? There is only one Morpheus, isn't there? And why does he look so much older and harder now than he did in my dreams?" When Rumple didn't answer, she seized his sleeve. "Rumple? What are we going to do? How do we stop him?"
Rumple smiled strangely, shocking her. "Belle, his heart. It's not completely hers. He wants us to save him."
Her lips parted to form a question, but he flicked his hand and transported them both to the pink house, to the living room, where her books still lay. Where she would feel comfortable and safe.
He should have asked her first, but his mind was elsewhere, and apparently, so was hers. She flopped on the sofa, shoving her lap blanket aside.
"I'm sorry. . . my bad manners," he mumbled. "Would you like some tea, or brandy—"
A little calmer, she urged, "You must have a plan. You always have a plan." Then her head jerked up. "Oh, Rumple, you're not thinking of—!"
"No, no, no," he broke in, leaning forward urgently. "I swear to you, Belle, I will do anything to save him. I love him as much as I love you and. . . ."
"Bae." She finished for him. A thought flashed into her eyes. "We never really mourned for him, did we? If we had—"
"If we'd talked out our pain—" he agreed. "But I failed. Three hundred years, Belle, no one to talk to—Milah, she thought a man should be strong. The first time I tried to talk to her about my worries was the last time. The shame she felt, that her husband was weak. . . . Then it was just me and Bae, and I had to pretend everything would be all right. . . then there was nobody. . . ."
"We both failed." She allowed tears to slide down her cheeks. "After all you'd gone through, with Hook, then Cora, then Zelena—I should have realized, no one could come out of all that unscathed. I should have seen you were in pain, but I failed you. We failed each other. And our son bears the burden of our failure." She swallowed hard. "I'm sorry, Rumple. I know you love us. I remember everything you sacrificed for Bae, and I know you'd do no less for Gideon. I don't know what's become of me lately, that I'm so suspicious and . . . paranoid."
"I haven't given you much cause to believe in me, I'm afraid."
"We have to be upfront with each other now. No matter how we feel about each other, no matter what either of us is afraid of, we have no choice but to trust each other and tell the truth. Rumple, you have a plan. I'll support you in it, if I can. Tell me what you're thinking." She scooted forward on the couch, her eyes bright with both tears and hope.
"The Shears." With a flick of his wrist, he produced them. "They're the answer."
Belle's eyes darted back and forth as she sought an excuse. "Even if you could cut him away from his fate, It's too late now, isn't it? He's here, full grown."
"Not to us. I don't think so. Not in our time. He's violated the laws of time to come here. In our time, he's a two-day-old infant, secreted away in a land we can't find. But the fates know where he is."
Nearly frantic, she jumped up and knelt at his feet, grasping his hands. "You've never used this kind of magic before. You don't know what you're tinkering with. If you cut the thread of his fate, you may kill him."
"It's not his thread I intend to cut."
"Then whose? The Black Fairy's?"
"I know so little about her, and nothing about what she did to him. If I . . .removed her from the equation, I would be endangering Gideon."
"Then who?"
"Belle, you have to trust me. You have to believe that I'm doing the right thing, for his sake. " He pleaded with his eyes; his words seemed so flimsy.
Her voice elevated. "Who, Rumple? Whose fate are you going to interrupt?"
"Don't try to stop me, Belle. There's no time to try anything less." He rose, holding onto her hands until he couldn't any more.
"No!" She scrambled awkwardly to her feet. "Rumple, don't do this! Let me—let me go for help." She followed him to the dining room. "Blue. Or Regina and Emma. Let me get them. We'll find another way! There's always another way." She reached for her phone, but with a sad shake of his head, he transmuted it into a cup of tea. Huffing, she set the tea on the dining table and rushed into the kitchen, to the bar upon which they kept a bowl for their car keys. He transmuted them too, to another cup of tea.
"Rumple! Be reasonable!" Not waiting for his answer, she ran out onto the porch and started down the stairs. She had to move carefully: she'd just today gone back to wearing high heels.
"Belle, please. . . ." On the porch, he called out to her, but now she was darting across the lawn. "You're not going looking for Emma, are you? Belle, the sheriff's station is more than a mile away!" She didn't slow down; she was in the street now, running to a house whose lights were on. The owner of her favorite shop, Purbeck Shoes, lived there.
It gave him an idea. He snapped his fingers and her high heels vanished.
"You think that'll stop me?" She shouted back at him, hopping on one foot.
"No," he replied, his voice full of regret. "But this will. I'm sorry, sweetheart. Forgive me." A toss of his hand and she was transported to the town line. She'd have five miles to walk before she came to the first building, the city dump. Until then, there would be no traffic with which to catch a ride.
He knew from experience how bumpy that road was, and how dark. He waved his hand again, giving her a flashlight and a sweater, and putting a pair of sneakers on her feet. Then he transported himself to the bedroom that used to be theirs, to dress for the journey to come.
