Title: Sunday
Author: Jazz9star
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: The characters in this story are the property of Top Cow and Warner Brothers. No infringement of their rights is intended.
Note: Winner of Best Short Story in the CONvergence 2002 Fan Fiction Contest
Summary: This takes place shortly after "Truce". One hot summer day, young Ian asks a very important question of Kenneth Irons....
SUNDAY
It was Sunday.
It was the worst day of the week.
It was the day he ate breakfast with Irons.
Irons was not going into the city today. Instead of his usual suit, Irons was dressed casually in an open-necked knit shirt, and light-colored slacks, and soft Italian shoes with little tassels over the instep.
He was eating breakfast with Irons. He was required to wear a stiffly starched white shirt, and his best school pants and blazer. And a tie. And he was to make sure his shoe laces stayed tied, and his hair stayed brushed neatly back behind his ears, and his elbows stayed off the table. And that he remembered not to kick the chair, or hide food in his napkin, or do any of the half a hundred other things that never failed to irritate Irons.
He hated Sundays.
Irons was sorting through the Sunday Times, separating out the sections to be read as one of the serving staff waited to whisk the rest away. He sat diagonally across the damask-covered table from Irons, and tried not to fidget. Fidgeting was also forbidden. Finally, Irons gave a nod, and the staff began to serve breakfast. A basket of hot scones, and another of sliced brioche were placed upon the table, along with a silver turntable laden with butters, and jams, and conserves, all decanted into crystal serving crocks with tiny matching silver serving spoons and knives. Silver lids were lifted to reveal English-style bacon...shirred eggs...salmon quiche studded with caviar...and a selection of summer fruits and berries served in an elegantly carved melon, all tendered for Irons to make his choices.
Before him, they set a single dish of oatmeal.
Parsons, the only Briton on the security team, had explained the inequity. "It's nursery food. Toffs like Irons had to eat it, and they figure what was good enough for them is good enough for little buggers like you."
Every Sunday he wondered why bacon couldn't be nursery food.
Irons unfolded the business section and ignored him. Irons usually ignored him, unless he made too much noise with his silverware, or accidentally spilled his milk. On rare occasions, Irons would see something in the paper and fire questions at him, further tormenting him, but today Irons was engrossed in the Times. Shielded from Irons by a wall of newsprint, he picked up his spoon and thrust it into the center of the oatmeal like Excalibur into the stone.
Like Excalibur, the spoon remained upright.
He nudged the bowl, but the spoon did not even vibrate. He rested his head on his hands, and contemplated it. It wasn't really like Excalibur. It was more like the gun sight on a Spitfire. And he was Wing Commander Nottingham, hero of the Battle of Britain, coming down out of the sun to surprise a German Heinkel piloted by a tall, light-haired man in an impeccably tailored flight suit--
"Stop playing and eat your oatmeal."
He sighed. He wrenched free the spoon, and began to carve out miniature cannonballs of congealed cereal, which he stacked on the edge of the serving plate. Irons continued to read the paper, making no further comments, but from the amount of shirred eggs and salmon quiche consumed, he gauged that Irons was in a good mood.
He decided to strike before something accidentally spilled. "Sir? May I ask a question?"
"Have you not just done so?"
He swallowed. "Sir? When is my birthday?"
Irons reached for his coffee. "You don't have a birthday."
"Everyone has a birthday."
"You do not. I gave you life. I did not give you a birthday."
He presented his argument. "If you had to give me life, then I didn't have any before. So there was a time when I didn't exist. And then you gave it to me, and I did exist. So that was when I was born, and that would be my birthday. So I do have one."
Irons actually lowered the paper to look at him. "Has Professor Wattams added logic to your curriculum?"
"No. I figured it out all by myself."
"How commendable." Irons returned to the business section.
Wing Commander Nottingham was neither beaten nor bowed. "I know when I'll be ten."
"Are you studying higher mathematics as well?"
"I remember when you sent me away. It was August the twenty-sixth. And I remember that when we got off the plane, the man checking the bags asked Ellsworth how old I was, and Ellsworth told him I was six. So if I was six years old four years ago, I'll be ten this August the twenty-sixth."
Irons was unimpressed. "If you've already calculated this, what possible relevance would a birth date hold? And I've told you a hundred times not to kick your chair."
He tucked his feet safely behind the rungs. "I want to know if I'm nine, or if I'm ten."
Irons took a scone. "You know when you'll be ten. You just told me."
"But I want to know exactly when it will happen."
Irons spun the silver turntable. "Where are all the spoons?"
Reluctantly, he dismantled his air squadron and put them back.
Irons glared at him over the cherry conserves. "Why is the exact moment of your nativity so important to you?"
His nerve failed him. He took refuge in staring at the half-excavated oatmeal. "Because."
"Because?"
He risked a glance up under his eyelashes. And saw no signs that Irons was angry. Hesitantly, he began to explain. It was because he wanted....
He wanted balloons. Lots of them. Red ones, and blue ones, and green ones, and purple ones, all on bobbing strings with curlicues of ribbon and glittering streamers. And in the middle, a big silver one that said "Happy Birthday Ian". And a cake frosted in his favorite colors--black and purple-- with jelly beans, and candles, and a Spitfire in the center. And lots and lots of choculate ice cream.
Irons' expression was the same as if the salmon quiche had begun speaking. "Is that all?"
He went for it. "And a new bike?"
"So it can meet the same fate as your old one?"
His old bicycle had been eaten by Dr. Immo's Mercedes. "Dr. Immo said it was his fault he backed over it."
"Immo always says it's his fault if he thinks you're to be punished."
"If I promise to take better care of a new one, can I have a birthday?"
"No."
"But why?"
"You cannot have a birthday because they do not make balloons that say 'Happy Birthday Ian'. It is too uncommon a name."
"You could change it," he offered helpfully. "I could be Jason instead. They have lots of balloons for Jason. I've seen them."
"I am not changing your name to Jason, or to anything else." Irons suddenly lowered the Times. "Did I not just tell you to stop kicking your chair?"
"I forgot."
"You can also forget this nonsense about your birthday."
"But, sir--"
"Are you defying me?"
He quickly lowered his eyes. "No, sir."
Irons returned to his article. "There will be no more talk of balloons, or cake. Or a new bicycle. I gave you life. It is for me to decide how to shape that life."
"Yes, sir."
"I created you to serve me, and through me, the Witchblade. To that end, I have provided you with academic tutors and weapons instruction. I have even allowed you the privilege of residing with me instead of being sent away to school."
On Sundays, it didn't feel much like a privilege. "Yes, sir."
"Do you want to serve me, Nottingham?"
"Yes, sir."
"Are you sure you would not prefer that I send you away again, this time to a school where they will allow you all the balloons and cake you want, while neglecting your mind and your special talents?"
"No, sir."
Irons sipped his coffee.
"I just want to know when my birthday is," he explained.
Irons set the cup down. Then set down the Times as well. He shrank under the icy stare, trying at the same time not to slouch. Slouching too was forbidden.
"Show me your plate."
He tilted up the now-empty oatmeal bowl, then the serving plate beneath.
"Show me your napkin."
He shook it out over the tablecloth.
Irons looked under the table to check the chair seat next to him. And discovered no illicit stashes of uneaten cereal. "You may go. And do NOT run in the house."
With carefully measured strides, he crossed the patterned rug to freedom. Once he was out of Irons' eye and earshot, he exploded up two flights of stairs and down the third floor corridor to his room. The door slammed behind him. The hated school clothes and his Sunday shoes marked a trail to the bathroom; there, he took off his socks and shook out all the little cannonballs of oatmeal into the toilet, and flushed them down.
Sundays were his free days. Aside from the dreaded breakfast ritual. When he still had a bicycle, he would ride it furiously around and around the grounds, compelling everyone in his path--the guards, the drivers, the household staff-- to jump out of his way. But he no longer had a bicycle. He did, however, have a mission. He pulled on a t-shirt and shorts, and flew back down the stairs at twice the rate of his ascent. Only to skid to a halt at the entrance to the long gallery.
Irons blocked his path. "I thought I heard a boy running on the stairs."
He clasped his hands behind his back to keep them from shaking. "It wasn't me, sir."
The blue eyes were merciless. "Do not ever lie to me, Ian. I always know when you are not being truthful."
"Yes, sir." He stared down at the floor, and waited for the pronouncement of his punishment. But to his surprise, Irons chose exasperation over anger.
"I have enjoyed your company quite enough for one morning. Go. Slowly."
Hands still clasped behind his back, he traversed the gallery under the eyes of both Irons and the portraits of the previous Wielders. All of them seemed to regard him with the same disapproval, and it was with a sigh of relief that he escaped through the service door.
The area behind the garages was used for staff parking. He found Parsons' car there, the hood up, and Parsons' back end sticking out from under it. A portable radio was tuned to what the other guards called the "moldy oldie" station, but Parsons was not humming along, a bad sign. Just as he peered over Parsons' elbow, something pinged, then sparked.
Parsons swore fluently, and whacked it with his screwdriver.
"What're you doing?"
"Piss off. I'm busy."
He watched Parsons' large, grease-smeared hands manipulate the bowels of the vehicle. And asked,
"Do I seem like I'm nine, or do I seem like I'm ten?"
"You seem like a pesky little bugger. Which is what you are."
He tried another angle. "You look like you could use a cup of tea."
"It's too bloody hot." Then Parsons looked over at him. "Oh, right. It's Sunday, isn't it?"
He nodded.
Parsons returned to the mass of cables. "We can't have tea because there aren't any more Twinkies."
"What about the ones in the secret hiding place I'm not supposed to know about?"
After a moment, Parsons admitted, "That was futile, wasn't it?"
He waited expectantly.
"All right. You can have a cuppa. And some Twinkies. But leave the cupcakes alone. And don't touch anything else."
As Parsons slammed down the hood, he sped ahead to the kitchen of the staff quarters to fill the battered kettle. One of the first things Parsons had taught him had been how to make a proper pot of tea. Mr. Yakusho, his martial arts instructor, had once taken him to a Japanese tea ceremony, but English tea was much better. The Japanese made you sit still, and they did not have Twinkies. Or even Lorna Doones. He set out the rest of the tea things, then went into Parsons' room and into the closet to open the box pushed way in the back. A treasure-trove of small cellophane-wrapped packages met his eager eyes. He chose Twinkies for himself, and Snowballs for Parsons. Parsons' six-foot-four-inch frame existed on fried meat and potatoes, and junk food, and he existed largely on Parsons' scraps and the occasional tidbit, like a half-starved raven hopping around a feeding grizzly bear.
Next to the closet was a large chest containing Parsons' old SAS uniform and boots. He had been told never, ever, to even open it, so he was always very careful to put the boots back in their place after trying them on. They were high and black, with black laces and a glossy shine, and he coveted them almost as much as a new bicycle. As he sat across the table from Parsons, he wondered if Irons would let him join the SAS so that he too could wear boots, and go on missions, and use a sniper rifle like the one Parsons kept in the weapons locker. He prepped his mug with milk and four heaping teaspoons of sugar, and imagined himself leading his squad against impossible odds to save the world and Mr. Irons. Then coming back to the barracks and sitting down with his mates to a celebratory round of tea and Twinkies.
Once again, he was ignored across the table, but this was a companionable ignoring. Parsons leafed through an auto magazine while he busied himself putting even more sugar in his tea, and swinging one foot against the plastic tablecloth. When they were done, Parsons cleared everything into the sink and said,
"Now piss off. I've got to go on shift early."
All the security schedules had been rearranged due to a reported threat against Irons. He didn't know who had made it-it was hard to hear much from his hiding place behind the big Chinese vase-but he knew Mustafa, Irons' chief of security, was concerned. Mustafa had wanted Irons to cancel today's luncheon at the polo club, but Irons had insisted on attending. Dr. Immo was to accompany Irons to the luncheon.
He never accompanied Irons anywhere.
As he kicked a stone along the curb of the front drive, he looked up to see Immo's Mercedes weaving toward him. He darted into the safety of the rhododendron bushes, and Immo drove obliviously past. The doctor pulled up in front of the mansion with one tire resting in a flower bed and its mate sinking into the lawn.
He was brushing off rhododendron leaves when it occurred to him that Irons wasn't the only one who knew his birthday.
He stalked the unsuspecting Immo through the halls as the doctor was escorted to the conservatory. Adept at remaining unseen, he flitted from shadow to hiding place to shadow again, focused on his prey. Immo settled into a chair with a drink and his ever-present notebook to wait for Irons. He emerged from behind the drapes and positioned himself silently in front of the doctor, hands clasped behind his back and brows leveled over his eyes. And waited for Immo to take a sip before saying,
"Good morning, Doctor."
Immo jumped, and spilled his drink. The doctor pulled out a handkerchief to blot the stain from his slacks. "Good morning, Ian. I didn't see you there."
He smiled.
Immo looked nervous. "You aren't going to show me your shuriken-throwing skills again, are you?"
"No, sir."
Immo looked relieved. "How are your other studies coming?"
"Very well, sir." None of his instructors had quit in almost two months.
"Have you seen Mr. Irons today?"
"Yes, sir. I had breakfast with him. We talked about my birthday."
He had special gifts, given him by the Witchblade. One of them was the ability to see pictures in his head about what other people were thinking. It did not work with Irons, except on the rare occasions Irons allowed him that contact. But Immo's mind was clear, and logical, and totally defenseless before him. He got very quiet inside, and waited. And suggested helpfully, "Mr. Irons was comparing that day to this one."
Quick images: white, sterile rooms; a dark-haired woman lying on a table, a mask over her face as green-clad people hovered over her; Irons, coldly watching a monitor...then gazing down at something cradled by another green- clad woman; Irons again, smiling, holding up a glass against a panorama of mountains glowing pink, and purple, and gold.
Immo was reminiscing. "It was hot that day, too." Then something occurred to the doctor. "As a matter of fact, it was --"
He yelped as Irons grabbed him by the ear.
Irons marched him out of the conservatory and down the long gallery, past the great room, and the breakfast room, and all the other rooms, until they reached the foot of the main staircase. There, Irons released him.
One hand to his aching ear, he protested, "I was only talking to him!"
Irons loomed over him. "I know exactly what you were doing. You were trying to extract information about your birthday from the unsuspecting doctor. Did I not tell you to forget the entire subject?"
He would not answer.
"You are not a common boy. Common boys have birthdays. You have the gifts given you by the Witchblade. You do not need balloons, or cake, or any of this other nonsense because you are not a common boy, you are Ian Nottingham!"
"Then I'm not going to be Ian Nottingham anymore!"
Irons countered with cold contempt. "And who will you be?"
The name sprang from his lips. "Jason! I'm going to be Jason!"
Irons leaned down until all he could see was the paralyzing ice of Irons' stare. "It is just as easy to cane a boy named Jason as it is one named Ian."
He stood trembling as Irons continued. "You will not trouble Dr. Immo again with questions about your birth, either directly or indirectly. And you will not again trouble me. You will go back up these stairs, and you will not come down them again until you have written five hundred words on the uselessness of birthdays!"
It wasn't fair. Today was his free day. As he stomped up each step, he muttered--but not loudly enough for Irons to hear--"I'M--NOT--IAN! I'M--NOT- -IAN!" When he got to his room, he slammed the door again, then threw himself into his desk chair and pulled out pens and a writing pad, and slammed them down as well. It wasn't fair. He wasn't Ian any more. He was Jason.
Jasons had birthdays. Jasons had balloons, and presents, not just a bicycle, but lots of them, all wrapped in shiny paper. Jasons had parties, and ponies, and they got to leave the grounds and play baseball, and ride their bike all the way to the expressway and back. Jasons had friends.
Jasons had fathers.
Instead of the five hundred words Irons had assigned him, he began filling the writing pad with his new name, first in block letters, then in cursive writing. After several pages, he realized that merely "Jason" wasn't enough, so he began adding second names, trying "Jason Nottingham", then "Jason Smith", and even "Jason Parsons".
JASON IRONS.
It sprang from the pen of its own volition. He stared down at it. And felt the utter impossibility of being that person rise up into his throat. As the name blurred, he scribbled over it, driving the pen into the paper until the furrows began to rip and all signs of heresy were obliterated. When he was done, he crumpled up the paper and hurled it into the wastebasket. Followed by the pen, and then the notepad.
He got up from the desk.
Irons had told him not to descend the stairs again until he had written five hundred words. But Irons had said nothing about using the service elevator.
Parsons was on duty at the main gate, peering out through the electrified bars and talking into his radio. When he saw him, Parsons said,
"I thought you were sent to your room."
"Ian got sent to his room. I'm Jason."
"Good luck trying that one on Irons."
He peered out through the bars as well. And saw the familiar road and a passing black limo, and beyond them, the walls of the estate facing Irons'. And beyond these, an entire world that was forbidden to him. His infrequent forays through the gates were always accompanied by one of his minders, and were always for some specific part of his training. The brief glimpse he was allowed of the outside both intrigued and frightened him. Here, behind the gates, he had a place and a purpose, a part of a greater destiny serving Irons and the Witchblade. Outside, there was neither family nor future, only a vague and unnamed darkness. But sometimes he daydreamed of riding his bike through the gates and down the road, past the expressway, past the city, until he was east of the sun and west of the moon, and too far away for even Irons to find him.
"Get away from there," Parsons ordered. "It'll fry a little bugger named Jason just as fast as one named Ian."
He followed Parsons back to the gatehouse. "Can I talk on the radio?"
"No." Parsons suddenly pointed. "Oh, look! Irons is back!"
He wasn't fooled. He darted under Parsons' arm and into the gatehouse before Parsons could stop him, and hopped into the big wooden swivel chair.
"Can I open the gates?"
"No."
He spun the chair around. "Can I have some gum?"
"No."
"Can I order a pizza?"
"You just ate half my bloody Twinkies."
He didn't want to eat the pizza. He just wanted to order it. He liked to talk on the phone. Then he noticed the new stapler. He tried it out on the desk pad, then on all the fast food menus in the bottom drawer.
Parsons' radio sounded. It was Ellis, one of the other guards.
"The Menace isn't in his room."
"Yes, he is." Parsons grabbed away the stapler as he was stapling all the calendar pages together. "He's just hiding. He wouldn't dare disobey Irons." Parsons looked down pointedly. "The last time he did, he had to sit on a pillow for the next two weeks."
It had only been for a week and a half. He made a face at Parsons and spun the chair around again. And asked, "Can I call the radio station?"
"No."
"Can I make some coffee?"
"No."
Parsons had left his uniform cap on the desk; he put it on his own head. "Can I go sit in your car?"
"No. But you can leave." Parsons retrieved his cap, then tilted the back of the chair and tipped him out of the seat. With the skill of long practice, Parsons seized him and tucked him under one arm. As he kicked futilely, Parsons carried him out of the gatehouse, then locked the door behind them both.
He recovered quickly. "Can I help you do the perimeter check?"
"No. And there had better not be any little bugger shooting crab apples at me, either."
He pulled his t-shirt down over the slingshot in his back pocket. "It was the squirrels."
"If it was, it was a pesky one named Ian."
"I'm Jason," he reminded Parsons.
Parsons towered over him. "Jason, Ian, whatever-if anything comes flying at me, you will find out just how fast seventeen stone can move."
He didn't know about moving seventeen stone. He did know how fast Parsons could move when someone was shooting paint balls at Parsons' car. Parsons emphasized the point by scowling and taking a step toward him; he turned and ran for one of the big oaks that flanked the estate entrance, and scrambled up the gnarled limbs to safety. Below, he saw Parsons confirm the first checkpoint into his radio. He pulled out his slingshot and loaded it with a crab apple, and took aim at Parsons' broad back. Then, he reconsidered.
There were rumors it was to be smashed pea soup for lunch. He might need more Twinkies later.
He settled himself against the trunk and looked over at the estate across the road. From up here, he could see the entire front lawn. It was deserted today, but last week it had been filled with a big tent, and people, and balloons, and a pony. There had been a party. He had watched as cars pulled up and disgorged women in flowery dresses and hats, and caterers with a big cake. And then a man arrived with a little boy in short pants. It was the little boy's birthday. The man held the little boy's hand, and took him around for everyone to exclaim over, and then the man lifted the little boy onto the pony. And all the other adults clustered around to take pictures.
They took pictures of him. Every few months, he was summoned to the rooms below the mansion, where Dr. Immo had all his medical equipment. There, he had to take off everything except his underpants, and stand in front of a big measuring chart while Immo's assistant photographed him from various angles, and Immo took notes. It was always cold down there, and they would stand in their lab coats and sweaters, discussing him and taking measurements, as he shivered. Sometimes he would be there for over an hour before they let him dress again. The photographs went into his file, and no one ever looked at them except Immo.
It had been different at the party. The little boy was photographed as he blew out the candles on his cake, and as he opened his presents. And then at the end, everyone gathered for a family portrait, with the little boy in the center holding his father's hand as the father smiled proudly. When they finally left, the little boy was sleeping on his father's shoulder, one of his balloons tied securely to his wrist.
He leaned his face against the cool bark.
He had watched the party through the entire afternoon. When he had finally come down from the tree, he had been required to make a kneeling apology to Mr. Yakusho for missing his lesson. And he had been assigned double his usual number of lines by his Latin teacher for the same offense. He had not cared. That night, all he had been able to see before going to sleep had been the multicolored balloons. And the little boy.
A black limousine drove by.
He leaned out from the tree limb, and watched it pass.
Limousines were as common as the small birds that flitted through the oak's branches. Irons' neighbors were the elite of the metropolitan area. Yet there was something about this one.. He watched it make the turn around the corner of the estate, and waited. Irons' property occupied the tip of a narrow peninsula that was broken into estates and an exclusive country club. A single road bisected the peninsula, leading from a turn-around on the bluffs overlooking the Sound past the gates of the various properties until it made a dog-leg around the club's golf course. There, it passed a thick stand of trees, then crested a hill before winding down into the more heavily populated part of the community. From his perch, he could see the entire length of the road until the country club, and then the hill beyond, enabling him to watch anyone leaving, and more importantly, anyone returning. He should be able to see the limousine again in a few moments. But no black limousine reappeared to climb the hill.
Instead, it came back from the country club, driving slowly past the gate.
Like a cloud crossing the sun, everything went cold, colors bleeding, sound fading.
The Witchblade took him.
He knew he was still perched on the tree limb, a small form in shorts and a striped shirt. But another part of him was frozen before visions that flashed through the darkness: banners, a white cross on black; the black limousine slowing to emit men in groundskeepers' coveralls, weapons half- hidden; the white cross again, this time on a ring worn by a man he had never seen before; Irons' car, slowing to enter the gate as one of the men aimed a strange silver tube from his shoulder; fire and twisted metal; Parsons falling under a hail of bullets; Irons screaming as the strange man smiled; the black banners flying triumphant above a grim, gray castle--
The blade released him.
He clutched the branch, cold and shaking in the summer heat. Slowly, the world righted itself, but he could not rid himself of the images, or the sick, twisting knot just below his breastbone. This had never happened before, not during the day. Always, the Witchblade insinuated itself into his dreams, turning them into nightmares as it showed him scenes and possible futures he could neither fully remember nor understand. He would relate them as best he could to Irons, and then Irons would lay a palm against his temple, and speak to him in a language he had never been taught, and the images would go away. And he would sleep again. But Irons was not here. There was only the limousine, disappearing once more around the corner of the estate wall toward the turnaround. The sick feeling grew. Something was very wrong.
He looked to the drive below, expecting to see Parsons sprawled across the curb. But Parsons was just coming back from the perimeter check. He watched Parsons wipe his face with a handkerchief and enter the gatehouse, moving slowly and without alarm. Confused, he tried yet again to make the images go away. And saw them all the more clearly, the face of the man with the white cross superimposed on the green leaves. He tried not to panic. Irons would know what it meant, would explain it to him. Irons would be returning soon; he had heard Irons tell Mustafa the luncheon would not be a long one. He climbed higher into the tree, and looked out toward the road. And waited.
After what seemed an eternity, a long white car came over the crest of the hill, and began to descend toward the country club. A shock of relief went through him. It was Irons. He would be punished for leaving his rooms, but he did not care. He wanted Irons to take away what the Witchblade had shown him. He did not want this gift. He did not want to see people on fire, or the man with the white cross. Or Parsons die. He watched anxiously as the car slipped behind the copse of trees, needing the reassurance of even that slight contact. And edged farther out on the branch to see its return.
For some reason, he looked down.
Three men in coveralls worked their way along the wall of the estate across the road, appearing to trim the vines that spilled over its top. Two wielded long-handled cutters; as he watched, the third knelt and pulled something from the foliage, a long tube that glinted silver.
All the pieces of the vision came together.
It would happen in a moment: Irons' car slowing as it turned into the gate, the fire, the deaths. A different cold seized him, one of icy intent that pushed all aside but the need to save Irons.
Parsons had a radio. He had to alert Parsons and have Parsons radio the car, but he could not get down from the tree in time. And if he simply shouted, Parsons would ignore him. He had played too many tricks on Parsons.
He had a slingshot.
He pulled it from his pocket, and shot a crabapple at the gatehouse window. It banged off the glass, but Parsons did not emerge. Feeling seconds flee with each heartbeat, he fished out a rock saved for more dire mischief, and shot that.
The window shattered. Parsons came roiling out, swearing; he stood out on the branch and shouted,
"It's a ambush! Three men! And the car's coming!!"
Even as he uttered it, Irons' car reappeared and began to drive past the golf course.
Parsons shouted into the radio, and drew his gun. Just as in the vision. And just as in the vision, it was too late. The third man lifted the tube to his shoulder as the others dropped the cutters for their own weapons. It was too late.
He did not think. He did not aim. He did as Mr. Yakusho had trained him. Between one breath and the next, he pulled out a second rock and hit the third man squarely on the temple.
The third man jerked backwards, and dropped the silver tube.
He had no rocks left. Only crabapples. He shot them anyway, pelting the second man as he tried to retrieve the tube. The men shouted to each other in German; he heard something about a boy. And then he saw the first man aim his weapon, not at Irons' car, but up at him. Bullets ripped through the leaves above and around him. His training took over. He did a back flip off his perch, and caught a lower branch.
The branch split away from the trunk, and he fell.
"****"
He was in his bedroom.
It was early evening. A breeze had come up; it blew the curtains into the room with a promise of rain. He was lying on his bed, one ankle packed in ice and propped on a pillow. And hurting. Dr. Immo had x-rayed the ankle, and declared it was only sprained, but that had not made him feel better. When they brought him up to his rooms, they put him into his new pajamas, the ones with the airplanes on them, but that did not make him feel better either.
Then Immo gave him a shot. That made him feel better.
He lay there, and watched the billowing curtains, and waited. One of Immo's nurses brought a tray, and he discovered the rumors were true. It had been smashed pea soup for lunch, and they had saved him some. Only the shot and the ankle kept him from sending the coagulated mass of green goop down the toilet after the oatmeal. The untouched bowl was still on the bed table, but even if it had not been evil, hideous smashed pea soup, he could not have managed to eat it. The bed seemed to be weaving back and forth with the curtains. Or maybe it was just him.
He remembered talking to Mustafa. Mustafa had questioned him about the black banners with the white cross, and the man with the ring. Mustafa seemed to know who it was even before he described him. Mustafa told him that Alvord had turned the car and driven across part of the country club golf course, and that Irons had merely inquired coolly if Alvord had been taking lessons from Dr. Immo. When he asked Mustafa if Irons was coming to see him, Mustafa told him that Irons was busy. It seemed everyone was busy, except for him. He was lying on his back watching the ceiling spin. Alone. And his ankle still hurt.
Irons was probably mad at him. Irons had gotten mad the other time he had tumbled out of a tree, and had refused to see him until all his cuts and scratches were healed. Now he was not only covered with Band-Aids once more, but his ankle was sprained. Irons would never see him again. He would be sent away as Irons always threatened, to a school where all they ever served was smashed pea soup, and where he would be confined to an attic and made to translate miles and miles of Latin texts. He shut his eyes, and tried not to keep seeing musty volumes of Ovid and Livy swirling above him.
When he opened them again, Irons was gazing down at him.
He squinted up at Irons. "You're floating."
"I think it is you who are floating."
Irons had changed into a suit, the ever-present watch chain glinting in the late light. Irons eyed the bowl of smashed pea soup with disgust, and told the nurse, "Take this away, and bring him something more suitable. And turn on the air-it's stifling in here."
He tried to sit up, but the pillow defeated him. "Please, sir-it's just right." Summer was the only time he was ever warm inside Irons' mansion.
To his surprise, Irons waved the woman away when she went to close the windows. With trepidation, he offered, "I'm sorry I fell again."
"Does your ankle hurt?"
"Yes." Then he changed that. A warrior did not admit pain. "No."
Irons regarded him enigmatically. "Parsons told me what you did. It is quite possible that you saved my life."
"I'm supposed to save your life."
"Eventually, yes. But your actions today exceeded my expectations for you."
"Maybe that's because I wasn't nine anymore when I did them, I was ten?"
"Perhaps it is." Irons continued to study him. "I have given some thought to the subject of your birthday. I seem to recall it was right around this time of year-in fact, I believe it is today."
"Today?" He frowned. "It can't be today. There's no balloons."
Irons lifted a questioning eyebrow. "Aren't there?"
He followed Irons' gaze.
And saw balloons. Reds ones, and blue ones, and green ones, and purple ones, drifting in the breeze from the windows. All tied to the handle of a brand-new bicycle. He bolted up--
And found himself flat on his back once more, staring at the spinning ceiling.
Irons resettled his ankle on the pillow. "I suspect that you are somewhat overmedicated. As for the bicycle..." Irons paused, "that bicycle and the balloons are for a boy named Ian Nottingham."
"That's me."
"Are you sure? You told me your name is Jason."
He was sure. He was Ian. He levered himself up on one elbow, and tried to see behind Irons. "Where's the cake? If it's my birthday, there's supposed to be a cake. With purple and black frosting, and red jelly beans."
"Now I know you are overmedicated." Irons relented. "Perhaps tomorrow, when you have recovered somewhat, there will be a belated white cake, with white icing."
"And choculate ice cream."
"Yes, and choculate-" Irons caught himself. "Chocolate ice cream."
He was not too overmedicated to press another issue. "If I'm ten, am I old enough to have bacon at Sunday breakfast?"
"Are you old enough to stop hiding oatmeal in your socks?"
"How did you know?"
"I know everything."
In a moment of panic, he wondered if Irons knew he had peed in the pool. "Did you see me?"
"I did not have to. Let us just say, it is a great deal more difficult to hide oatmeal successfully while wearing short pants."
Quick images: another boy, sitting stiffly at another table as a man with a large moustache shouted at him; the man again, lying in a massive carved bed as the boy gazed down, cold-eyed.
Irons was speaking. "Your injury will restrict you to your room for the next few days. Instead of the five hundred words I assigned you on the futility of birthdays, you will give me five hundred on the subject of disobedience. In Latin."
It wasn't as bad as when he had been sentenced to write five hundred words on why he must not hide in the clothes dryer. In Greek. He sighed. "Yes, sir."
Irons studied him once more. "Do you still see the images from the Witchblade?"
He nodded. And felt his body continue to go up and down even when his head stopped.
Irons tucked the hair back from his forehead. Then laid a well-manicured hand across it. He felt the touch of Irons' mind, the cold force of will that bent his before it. The images flared, then were gone, excised by words he could neither understand nor remember.
Irons took his hand away.
"Sir?" He tried to sit up once more. "Now that I'm ten, will the Witchblade come for me in the daytime, too?"
"Lie still before you injure your ankle further." Then Irons continued, less sternly. "The visions are one of the gifts of the Blade. They will enable you to serve me as you did today. Until now, the Witchblade has given you this precognition only in your dreams because your conscious mind was not capable of accepting it otherwise. Now, it will begin to use you for your intended purpose."
"To serve you," he finished.
"Yes. To serve me."
He knew there was no other reason for his existence. It was a fate he accepted. Someday, he would be the sword of Irons' will, sworn to give his life if necessary. Now, he stared longingly at the bicycle sitting across the room.
"Sir? May I at least have one of my balloons?"
Irons detached the entire bunch from the handlebar, and looped the strings over the handle of the bed table, close enough for him to reach. He pulled down on the cords, then released them, and watched the balloons pop back up to stop just short of the ceiling.
He smiled as the bed faded beneath him. "Am I up there with them?"
"Yes, I think you are." Irons straightened his pajama collar, then laid a hand on his cheek for a moment. He wondered if this would be the day Irons uttered the words he could always sense underlying each punishment and instruction and, most rarely, each moment of praise. The words he had waited his entire existence to hear. He waited. But he did not hope.
"Goodnight, Ian." Irons turned to go.
"Sir?"
Irons stopped.
"About today being my birthday. Is it true?"
A smile played across Irons' features. "Possibly." Irons left.
He had a possible birthday. And a new bike. And tomorrow, there would be cake and ice cream, and perhaps tomorrow after that, his ankle would be well enough to let him ride his bicycle. He watched the balloons bob and turn, and dreamed of riding with them out of the gate and down the road, past the country club and up the hill, riding on until he was east of the sun and west of the moon.
Riding until it would never be Sunday anymore.
He floated happily away with the balloons.
Author: Jazz9star
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: The characters in this story are the property of Top Cow and Warner Brothers. No infringement of their rights is intended.
Note: Winner of Best Short Story in the CONvergence 2002 Fan Fiction Contest
Summary: This takes place shortly after "Truce". One hot summer day, young Ian asks a very important question of Kenneth Irons....
SUNDAY
It was Sunday.
It was the worst day of the week.
It was the day he ate breakfast with Irons.
Irons was not going into the city today. Instead of his usual suit, Irons was dressed casually in an open-necked knit shirt, and light-colored slacks, and soft Italian shoes with little tassels over the instep.
He was eating breakfast with Irons. He was required to wear a stiffly starched white shirt, and his best school pants and blazer. And a tie. And he was to make sure his shoe laces stayed tied, and his hair stayed brushed neatly back behind his ears, and his elbows stayed off the table. And that he remembered not to kick the chair, or hide food in his napkin, or do any of the half a hundred other things that never failed to irritate Irons.
He hated Sundays.
Irons was sorting through the Sunday Times, separating out the sections to be read as one of the serving staff waited to whisk the rest away. He sat diagonally across the damask-covered table from Irons, and tried not to fidget. Fidgeting was also forbidden. Finally, Irons gave a nod, and the staff began to serve breakfast. A basket of hot scones, and another of sliced brioche were placed upon the table, along with a silver turntable laden with butters, and jams, and conserves, all decanted into crystal serving crocks with tiny matching silver serving spoons and knives. Silver lids were lifted to reveal English-style bacon...shirred eggs...salmon quiche studded with caviar...and a selection of summer fruits and berries served in an elegantly carved melon, all tendered for Irons to make his choices.
Before him, they set a single dish of oatmeal.
Parsons, the only Briton on the security team, had explained the inequity. "It's nursery food. Toffs like Irons had to eat it, and they figure what was good enough for them is good enough for little buggers like you."
Every Sunday he wondered why bacon couldn't be nursery food.
Irons unfolded the business section and ignored him. Irons usually ignored him, unless he made too much noise with his silverware, or accidentally spilled his milk. On rare occasions, Irons would see something in the paper and fire questions at him, further tormenting him, but today Irons was engrossed in the Times. Shielded from Irons by a wall of newsprint, he picked up his spoon and thrust it into the center of the oatmeal like Excalibur into the stone.
Like Excalibur, the spoon remained upright.
He nudged the bowl, but the spoon did not even vibrate. He rested his head on his hands, and contemplated it. It wasn't really like Excalibur. It was more like the gun sight on a Spitfire. And he was Wing Commander Nottingham, hero of the Battle of Britain, coming down out of the sun to surprise a German Heinkel piloted by a tall, light-haired man in an impeccably tailored flight suit--
"Stop playing and eat your oatmeal."
He sighed. He wrenched free the spoon, and began to carve out miniature cannonballs of congealed cereal, which he stacked on the edge of the serving plate. Irons continued to read the paper, making no further comments, but from the amount of shirred eggs and salmon quiche consumed, he gauged that Irons was in a good mood.
He decided to strike before something accidentally spilled. "Sir? May I ask a question?"
"Have you not just done so?"
He swallowed. "Sir? When is my birthday?"
Irons reached for his coffee. "You don't have a birthday."
"Everyone has a birthday."
"You do not. I gave you life. I did not give you a birthday."
He presented his argument. "If you had to give me life, then I didn't have any before. So there was a time when I didn't exist. And then you gave it to me, and I did exist. So that was when I was born, and that would be my birthday. So I do have one."
Irons actually lowered the paper to look at him. "Has Professor Wattams added logic to your curriculum?"
"No. I figured it out all by myself."
"How commendable." Irons returned to the business section.
Wing Commander Nottingham was neither beaten nor bowed. "I know when I'll be ten."
"Are you studying higher mathematics as well?"
"I remember when you sent me away. It was August the twenty-sixth. And I remember that when we got off the plane, the man checking the bags asked Ellsworth how old I was, and Ellsworth told him I was six. So if I was six years old four years ago, I'll be ten this August the twenty-sixth."
Irons was unimpressed. "If you've already calculated this, what possible relevance would a birth date hold? And I've told you a hundred times not to kick your chair."
He tucked his feet safely behind the rungs. "I want to know if I'm nine, or if I'm ten."
Irons took a scone. "You know when you'll be ten. You just told me."
"But I want to know exactly when it will happen."
Irons spun the silver turntable. "Where are all the spoons?"
Reluctantly, he dismantled his air squadron and put them back.
Irons glared at him over the cherry conserves. "Why is the exact moment of your nativity so important to you?"
His nerve failed him. He took refuge in staring at the half-excavated oatmeal. "Because."
"Because?"
He risked a glance up under his eyelashes. And saw no signs that Irons was angry. Hesitantly, he began to explain. It was because he wanted....
He wanted balloons. Lots of them. Red ones, and blue ones, and green ones, and purple ones, all on bobbing strings with curlicues of ribbon and glittering streamers. And in the middle, a big silver one that said "Happy Birthday Ian". And a cake frosted in his favorite colors--black and purple-- with jelly beans, and candles, and a Spitfire in the center. And lots and lots of choculate ice cream.
Irons' expression was the same as if the salmon quiche had begun speaking. "Is that all?"
He went for it. "And a new bike?"
"So it can meet the same fate as your old one?"
His old bicycle had been eaten by Dr. Immo's Mercedes. "Dr. Immo said it was his fault he backed over it."
"Immo always says it's his fault if he thinks you're to be punished."
"If I promise to take better care of a new one, can I have a birthday?"
"No."
"But why?"
"You cannot have a birthday because they do not make balloons that say 'Happy Birthday Ian'. It is too uncommon a name."
"You could change it," he offered helpfully. "I could be Jason instead. They have lots of balloons for Jason. I've seen them."
"I am not changing your name to Jason, or to anything else." Irons suddenly lowered the Times. "Did I not just tell you to stop kicking your chair?"
"I forgot."
"You can also forget this nonsense about your birthday."
"But, sir--"
"Are you defying me?"
He quickly lowered his eyes. "No, sir."
Irons returned to his article. "There will be no more talk of balloons, or cake. Or a new bicycle. I gave you life. It is for me to decide how to shape that life."
"Yes, sir."
"I created you to serve me, and through me, the Witchblade. To that end, I have provided you with academic tutors and weapons instruction. I have even allowed you the privilege of residing with me instead of being sent away to school."
On Sundays, it didn't feel much like a privilege. "Yes, sir."
"Do you want to serve me, Nottingham?"
"Yes, sir."
"Are you sure you would not prefer that I send you away again, this time to a school where they will allow you all the balloons and cake you want, while neglecting your mind and your special talents?"
"No, sir."
Irons sipped his coffee.
"I just want to know when my birthday is," he explained.
Irons set the cup down. Then set down the Times as well. He shrank under the icy stare, trying at the same time not to slouch. Slouching too was forbidden.
"Show me your plate."
He tilted up the now-empty oatmeal bowl, then the serving plate beneath.
"Show me your napkin."
He shook it out over the tablecloth.
Irons looked under the table to check the chair seat next to him. And discovered no illicit stashes of uneaten cereal. "You may go. And do NOT run in the house."
With carefully measured strides, he crossed the patterned rug to freedom. Once he was out of Irons' eye and earshot, he exploded up two flights of stairs and down the third floor corridor to his room. The door slammed behind him. The hated school clothes and his Sunday shoes marked a trail to the bathroom; there, he took off his socks and shook out all the little cannonballs of oatmeal into the toilet, and flushed them down.
Sundays were his free days. Aside from the dreaded breakfast ritual. When he still had a bicycle, he would ride it furiously around and around the grounds, compelling everyone in his path--the guards, the drivers, the household staff-- to jump out of his way. But he no longer had a bicycle. He did, however, have a mission. He pulled on a t-shirt and shorts, and flew back down the stairs at twice the rate of his ascent. Only to skid to a halt at the entrance to the long gallery.
Irons blocked his path. "I thought I heard a boy running on the stairs."
He clasped his hands behind his back to keep them from shaking. "It wasn't me, sir."
The blue eyes were merciless. "Do not ever lie to me, Ian. I always know when you are not being truthful."
"Yes, sir." He stared down at the floor, and waited for the pronouncement of his punishment. But to his surprise, Irons chose exasperation over anger.
"I have enjoyed your company quite enough for one morning. Go. Slowly."
Hands still clasped behind his back, he traversed the gallery under the eyes of both Irons and the portraits of the previous Wielders. All of them seemed to regard him with the same disapproval, and it was with a sigh of relief that he escaped through the service door.
The area behind the garages was used for staff parking. He found Parsons' car there, the hood up, and Parsons' back end sticking out from under it. A portable radio was tuned to what the other guards called the "moldy oldie" station, but Parsons was not humming along, a bad sign. Just as he peered over Parsons' elbow, something pinged, then sparked.
Parsons swore fluently, and whacked it with his screwdriver.
"What're you doing?"
"Piss off. I'm busy."
He watched Parsons' large, grease-smeared hands manipulate the bowels of the vehicle. And asked,
"Do I seem like I'm nine, or do I seem like I'm ten?"
"You seem like a pesky little bugger. Which is what you are."
He tried another angle. "You look like you could use a cup of tea."
"It's too bloody hot." Then Parsons looked over at him. "Oh, right. It's Sunday, isn't it?"
He nodded.
Parsons returned to the mass of cables. "We can't have tea because there aren't any more Twinkies."
"What about the ones in the secret hiding place I'm not supposed to know about?"
After a moment, Parsons admitted, "That was futile, wasn't it?"
He waited expectantly.
"All right. You can have a cuppa. And some Twinkies. But leave the cupcakes alone. And don't touch anything else."
As Parsons slammed down the hood, he sped ahead to the kitchen of the staff quarters to fill the battered kettle. One of the first things Parsons had taught him had been how to make a proper pot of tea. Mr. Yakusho, his martial arts instructor, had once taken him to a Japanese tea ceremony, but English tea was much better. The Japanese made you sit still, and they did not have Twinkies. Or even Lorna Doones. He set out the rest of the tea things, then went into Parsons' room and into the closet to open the box pushed way in the back. A treasure-trove of small cellophane-wrapped packages met his eager eyes. He chose Twinkies for himself, and Snowballs for Parsons. Parsons' six-foot-four-inch frame existed on fried meat and potatoes, and junk food, and he existed largely on Parsons' scraps and the occasional tidbit, like a half-starved raven hopping around a feeding grizzly bear.
Next to the closet was a large chest containing Parsons' old SAS uniform and boots. He had been told never, ever, to even open it, so he was always very careful to put the boots back in their place after trying them on. They were high and black, with black laces and a glossy shine, and he coveted them almost as much as a new bicycle. As he sat across the table from Parsons, he wondered if Irons would let him join the SAS so that he too could wear boots, and go on missions, and use a sniper rifle like the one Parsons kept in the weapons locker. He prepped his mug with milk and four heaping teaspoons of sugar, and imagined himself leading his squad against impossible odds to save the world and Mr. Irons. Then coming back to the barracks and sitting down with his mates to a celebratory round of tea and Twinkies.
Once again, he was ignored across the table, but this was a companionable ignoring. Parsons leafed through an auto magazine while he busied himself putting even more sugar in his tea, and swinging one foot against the plastic tablecloth. When they were done, Parsons cleared everything into the sink and said,
"Now piss off. I've got to go on shift early."
All the security schedules had been rearranged due to a reported threat against Irons. He didn't know who had made it-it was hard to hear much from his hiding place behind the big Chinese vase-but he knew Mustafa, Irons' chief of security, was concerned. Mustafa had wanted Irons to cancel today's luncheon at the polo club, but Irons had insisted on attending. Dr. Immo was to accompany Irons to the luncheon.
He never accompanied Irons anywhere.
As he kicked a stone along the curb of the front drive, he looked up to see Immo's Mercedes weaving toward him. He darted into the safety of the rhododendron bushes, and Immo drove obliviously past. The doctor pulled up in front of the mansion with one tire resting in a flower bed and its mate sinking into the lawn.
He was brushing off rhododendron leaves when it occurred to him that Irons wasn't the only one who knew his birthday.
He stalked the unsuspecting Immo through the halls as the doctor was escorted to the conservatory. Adept at remaining unseen, he flitted from shadow to hiding place to shadow again, focused on his prey. Immo settled into a chair with a drink and his ever-present notebook to wait for Irons. He emerged from behind the drapes and positioned himself silently in front of the doctor, hands clasped behind his back and brows leveled over his eyes. And waited for Immo to take a sip before saying,
"Good morning, Doctor."
Immo jumped, and spilled his drink. The doctor pulled out a handkerchief to blot the stain from his slacks. "Good morning, Ian. I didn't see you there."
He smiled.
Immo looked nervous. "You aren't going to show me your shuriken-throwing skills again, are you?"
"No, sir."
Immo looked relieved. "How are your other studies coming?"
"Very well, sir." None of his instructors had quit in almost two months.
"Have you seen Mr. Irons today?"
"Yes, sir. I had breakfast with him. We talked about my birthday."
He had special gifts, given him by the Witchblade. One of them was the ability to see pictures in his head about what other people were thinking. It did not work with Irons, except on the rare occasions Irons allowed him that contact. But Immo's mind was clear, and logical, and totally defenseless before him. He got very quiet inside, and waited. And suggested helpfully, "Mr. Irons was comparing that day to this one."
Quick images: white, sterile rooms; a dark-haired woman lying on a table, a mask over her face as green-clad people hovered over her; Irons, coldly watching a monitor...then gazing down at something cradled by another green- clad woman; Irons again, smiling, holding up a glass against a panorama of mountains glowing pink, and purple, and gold.
Immo was reminiscing. "It was hot that day, too." Then something occurred to the doctor. "As a matter of fact, it was --"
He yelped as Irons grabbed him by the ear.
Irons marched him out of the conservatory and down the long gallery, past the great room, and the breakfast room, and all the other rooms, until they reached the foot of the main staircase. There, Irons released him.
One hand to his aching ear, he protested, "I was only talking to him!"
Irons loomed over him. "I know exactly what you were doing. You were trying to extract information about your birthday from the unsuspecting doctor. Did I not tell you to forget the entire subject?"
He would not answer.
"You are not a common boy. Common boys have birthdays. You have the gifts given you by the Witchblade. You do not need balloons, or cake, or any of this other nonsense because you are not a common boy, you are Ian Nottingham!"
"Then I'm not going to be Ian Nottingham anymore!"
Irons countered with cold contempt. "And who will you be?"
The name sprang from his lips. "Jason! I'm going to be Jason!"
Irons leaned down until all he could see was the paralyzing ice of Irons' stare. "It is just as easy to cane a boy named Jason as it is one named Ian."
He stood trembling as Irons continued. "You will not trouble Dr. Immo again with questions about your birth, either directly or indirectly. And you will not again trouble me. You will go back up these stairs, and you will not come down them again until you have written five hundred words on the uselessness of birthdays!"
It wasn't fair. Today was his free day. As he stomped up each step, he muttered--but not loudly enough for Irons to hear--"I'M--NOT--IAN! I'M--NOT- -IAN!" When he got to his room, he slammed the door again, then threw himself into his desk chair and pulled out pens and a writing pad, and slammed them down as well. It wasn't fair. He wasn't Ian any more. He was Jason.
Jasons had birthdays. Jasons had balloons, and presents, not just a bicycle, but lots of them, all wrapped in shiny paper. Jasons had parties, and ponies, and they got to leave the grounds and play baseball, and ride their bike all the way to the expressway and back. Jasons had friends.
Jasons had fathers.
Instead of the five hundred words Irons had assigned him, he began filling the writing pad with his new name, first in block letters, then in cursive writing. After several pages, he realized that merely "Jason" wasn't enough, so he began adding second names, trying "Jason Nottingham", then "Jason Smith", and even "Jason Parsons".
JASON IRONS.
It sprang from the pen of its own volition. He stared down at it. And felt the utter impossibility of being that person rise up into his throat. As the name blurred, he scribbled over it, driving the pen into the paper until the furrows began to rip and all signs of heresy were obliterated. When he was done, he crumpled up the paper and hurled it into the wastebasket. Followed by the pen, and then the notepad.
He got up from the desk.
Irons had told him not to descend the stairs again until he had written five hundred words. But Irons had said nothing about using the service elevator.
Parsons was on duty at the main gate, peering out through the electrified bars and talking into his radio. When he saw him, Parsons said,
"I thought you were sent to your room."
"Ian got sent to his room. I'm Jason."
"Good luck trying that one on Irons."
He peered out through the bars as well. And saw the familiar road and a passing black limo, and beyond them, the walls of the estate facing Irons'. And beyond these, an entire world that was forbidden to him. His infrequent forays through the gates were always accompanied by one of his minders, and were always for some specific part of his training. The brief glimpse he was allowed of the outside both intrigued and frightened him. Here, behind the gates, he had a place and a purpose, a part of a greater destiny serving Irons and the Witchblade. Outside, there was neither family nor future, only a vague and unnamed darkness. But sometimes he daydreamed of riding his bike through the gates and down the road, past the expressway, past the city, until he was east of the sun and west of the moon, and too far away for even Irons to find him.
"Get away from there," Parsons ordered. "It'll fry a little bugger named Jason just as fast as one named Ian."
He followed Parsons back to the gatehouse. "Can I talk on the radio?"
"No." Parsons suddenly pointed. "Oh, look! Irons is back!"
He wasn't fooled. He darted under Parsons' arm and into the gatehouse before Parsons could stop him, and hopped into the big wooden swivel chair.
"Can I open the gates?"
"No."
He spun the chair around. "Can I have some gum?"
"No."
"Can I order a pizza?"
"You just ate half my bloody Twinkies."
He didn't want to eat the pizza. He just wanted to order it. He liked to talk on the phone. Then he noticed the new stapler. He tried it out on the desk pad, then on all the fast food menus in the bottom drawer.
Parsons' radio sounded. It was Ellis, one of the other guards.
"The Menace isn't in his room."
"Yes, he is." Parsons grabbed away the stapler as he was stapling all the calendar pages together. "He's just hiding. He wouldn't dare disobey Irons." Parsons looked down pointedly. "The last time he did, he had to sit on a pillow for the next two weeks."
It had only been for a week and a half. He made a face at Parsons and spun the chair around again. And asked, "Can I call the radio station?"
"No."
"Can I make some coffee?"
"No."
Parsons had left his uniform cap on the desk; he put it on his own head. "Can I go sit in your car?"
"No. But you can leave." Parsons retrieved his cap, then tilted the back of the chair and tipped him out of the seat. With the skill of long practice, Parsons seized him and tucked him under one arm. As he kicked futilely, Parsons carried him out of the gatehouse, then locked the door behind them both.
He recovered quickly. "Can I help you do the perimeter check?"
"No. And there had better not be any little bugger shooting crab apples at me, either."
He pulled his t-shirt down over the slingshot in his back pocket. "It was the squirrels."
"If it was, it was a pesky one named Ian."
"I'm Jason," he reminded Parsons.
Parsons towered over him. "Jason, Ian, whatever-if anything comes flying at me, you will find out just how fast seventeen stone can move."
He didn't know about moving seventeen stone. He did know how fast Parsons could move when someone was shooting paint balls at Parsons' car. Parsons emphasized the point by scowling and taking a step toward him; he turned and ran for one of the big oaks that flanked the estate entrance, and scrambled up the gnarled limbs to safety. Below, he saw Parsons confirm the first checkpoint into his radio. He pulled out his slingshot and loaded it with a crab apple, and took aim at Parsons' broad back. Then, he reconsidered.
There were rumors it was to be smashed pea soup for lunch. He might need more Twinkies later.
He settled himself against the trunk and looked over at the estate across the road. From up here, he could see the entire front lawn. It was deserted today, but last week it had been filled with a big tent, and people, and balloons, and a pony. There had been a party. He had watched as cars pulled up and disgorged women in flowery dresses and hats, and caterers with a big cake. And then a man arrived with a little boy in short pants. It was the little boy's birthday. The man held the little boy's hand, and took him around for everyone to exclaim over, and then the man lifted the little boy onto the pony. And all the other adults clustered around to take pictures.
They took pictures of him. Every few months, he was summoned to the rooms below the mansion, where Dr. Immo had all his medical equipment. There, he had to take off everything except his underpants, and stand in front of a big measuring chart while Immo's assistant photographed him from various angles, and Immo took notes. It was always cold down there, and they would stand in their lab coats and sweaters, discussing him and taking measurements, as he shivered. Sometimes he would be there for over an hour before they let him dress again. The photographs went into his file, and no one ever looked at them except Immo.
It had been different at the party. The little boy was photographed as he blew out the candles on his cake, and as he opened his presents. And then at the end, everyone gathered for a family portrait, with the little boy in the center holding his father's hand as the father smiled proudly. When they finally left, the little boy was sleeping on his father's shoulder, one of his balloons tied securely to his wrist.
He leaned his face against the cool bark.
He had watched the party through the entire afternoon. When he had finally come down from the tree, he had been required to make a kneeling apology to Mr. Yakusho for missing his lesson. And he had been assigned double his usual number of lines by his Latin teacher for the same offense. He had not cared. That night, all he had been able to see before going to sleep had been the multicolored balloons. And the little boy.
A black limousine drove by.
He leaned out from the tree limb, and watched it pass.
Limousines were as common as the small birds that flitted through the oak's branches. Irons' neighbors were the elite of the metropolitan area. Yet there was something about this one.. He watched it make the turn around the corner of the estate, and waited. Irons' property occupied the tip of a narrow peninsula that was broken into estates and an exclusive country club. A single road bisected the peninsula, leading from a turn-around on the bluffs overlooking the Sound past the gates of the various properties until it made a dog-leg around the club's golf course. There, it passed a thick stand of trees, then crested a hill before winding down into the more heavily populated part of the community. From his perch, he could see the entire length of the road until the country club, and then the hill beyond, enabling him to watch anyone leaving, and more importantly, anyone returning. He should be able to see the limousine again in a few moments. But no black limousine reappeared to climb the hill.
Instead, it came back from the country club, driving slowly past the gate.
Like a cloud crossing the sun, everything went cold, colors bleeding, sound fading.
The Witchblade took him.
He knew he was still perched on the tree limb, a small form in shorts and a striped shirt. But another part of him was frozen before visions that flashed through the darkness: banners, a white cross on black; the black limousine slowing to emit men in groundskeepers' coveralls, weapons half- hidden; the white cross again, this time on a ring worn by a man he had never seen before; Irons' car, slowing to enter the gate as one of the men aimed a strange silver tube from his shoulder; fire and twisted metal; Parsons falling under a hail of bullets; Irons screaming as the strange man smiled; the black banners flying triumphant above a grim, gray castle--
The blade released him.
He clutched the branch, cold and shaking in the summer heat. Slowly, the world righted itself, but he could not rid himself of the images, or the sick, twisting knot just below his breastbone. This had never happened before, not during the day. Always, the Witchblade insinuated itself into his dreams, turning them into nightmares as it showed him scenes and possible futures he could neither fully remember nor understand. He would relate them as best he could to Irons, and then Irons would lay a palm against his temple, and speak to him in a language he had never been taught, and the images would go away. And he would sleep again. But Irons was not here. There was only the limousine, disappearing once more around the corner of the estate wall toward the turnaround. The sick feeling grew. Something was very wrong.
He looked to the drive below, expecting to see Parsons sprawled across the curb. But Parsons was just coming back from the perimeter check. He watched Parsons wipe his face with a handkerchief and enter the gatehouse, moving slowly and without alarm. Confused, he tried yet again to make the images go away. And saw them all the more clearly, the face of the man with the white cross superimposed on the green leaves. He tried not to panic. Irons would know what it meant, would explain it to him. Irons would be returning soon; he had heard Irons tell Mustafa the luncheon would not be a long one. He climbed higher into the tree, and looked out toward the road. And waited.
After what seemed an eternity, a long white car came over the crest of the hill, and began to descend toward the country club. A shock of relief went through him. It was Irons. He would be punished for leaving his rooms, but he did not care. He wanted Irons to take away what the Witchblade had shown him. He did not want this gift. He did not want to see people on fire, or the man with the white cross. Or Parsons die. He watched anxiously as the car slipped behind the copse of trees, needing the reassurance of even that slight contact. And edged farther out on the branch to see its return.
For some reason, he looked down.
Three men in coveralls worked their way along the wall of the estate across the road, appearing to trim the vines that spilled over its top. Two wielded long-handled cutters; as he watched, the third knelt and pulled something from the foliage, a long tube that glinted silver.
All the pieces of the vision came together.
It would happen in a moment: Irons' car slowing as it turned into the gate, the fire, the deaths. A different cold seized him, one of icy intent that pushed all aside but the need to save Irons.
Parsons had a radio. He had to alert Parsons and have Parsons radio the car, but he could not get down from the tree in time. And if he simply shouted, Parsons would ignore him. He had played too many tricks on Parsons.
He had a slingshot.
He pulled it from his pocket, and shot a crabapple at the gatehouse window. It banged off the glass, but Parsons did not emerge. Feeling seconds flee with each heartbeat, he fished out a rock saved for more dire mischief, and shot that.
The window shattered. Parsons came roiling out, swearing; he stood out on the branch and shouted,
"It's a ambush! Three men! And the car's coming!!"
Even as he uttered it, Irons' car reappeared and began to drive past the golf course.
Parsons shouted into the radio, and drew his gun. Just as in the vision. And just as in the vision, it was too late. The third man lifted the tube to his shoulder as the others dropped the cutters for their own weapons. It was too late.
He did not think. He did not aim. He did as Mr. Yakusho had trained him. Between one breath and the next, he pulled out a second rock and hit the third man squarely on the temple.
The third man jerked backwards, and dropped the silver tube.
He had no rocks left. Only crabapples. He shot them anyway, pelting the second man as he tried to retrieve the tube. The men shouted to each other in German; he heard something about a boy. And then he saw the first man aim his weapon, not at Irons' car, but up at him. Bullets ripped through the leaves above and around him. His training took over. He did a back flip off his perch, and caught a lower branch.
The branch split away from the trunk, and he fell.
"****"
He was in his bedroom.
It was early evening. A breeze had come up; it blew the curtains into the room with a promise of rain. He was lying on his bed, one ankle packed in ice and propped on a pillow. And hurting. Dr. Immo had x-rayed the ankle, and declared it was only sprained, but that had not made him feel better. When they brought him up to his rooms, they put him into his new pajamas, the ones with the airplanes on them, but that did not make him feel better either.
Then Immo gave him a shot. That made him feel better.
He lay there, and watched the billowing curtains, and waited. One of Immo's nurses brought a tray, and he discovered the rumors were true. It had been smashed pea soup for lunch, and they had saved him some. Only the shot and the ankle kept him from sending the coagulated mass of green goop down the toilet after the oatmeal. The untouched bowl was still on the bed table, but even if it had not been evil, hideous smashed pea soup, he could not have managed to eat it. The bed seemed to be weaving back and forth with the curtains. Or maybe it was just him.
He remembered talking to Mustafa. Mustafa had questioned him about the black banners with the white cross, and the man with the ring. Mustafa seemed to know who it was even before he described him. Mustafa told him that Alvord had turned the car and driven across part of the country club golf course, and that Irons had merely inquired coolly if Alvord had been taking lessons from Dr. Immo. When he asked Mustafa if Irons was coming to see him, Mustafa told him that Irons was busy. It seemed everyone was busy, except for him. He was lying on his back watching the ceiling spin. Alone. And his ankle still hurt.
Irons was probably mad at him. Irons had gotten mad the other time he had tumbled out of a tree, and had refused to see him until all his cuts and scratches were healed. Now he was not only covered with Band-Aids once more, but his ankle was sprained. Irons would never see him again. He would be sent away as Irons always threatened, to a school where all they ever served was smashed pea soup, and where he would be confined to an attic and made to translate miles and miles of Latin texts. He shut his eyes, and tried not to keep seeing musty volumes of Ovid and Livy swirling above him.
When he opened them again, Irons was gazing down at him.
He squinted up at Irons. "You're floating."
"I think it is you who are floating."
Irons had changed into a suit, the ever-present watch chain glinting in the late light. Irons eyed the bowl of smashed pea soup with disgust, and told the nurse, "Take this away, and bring him something more suitable. And turn on the air-it's stifling in here."
He tried to sit up, but the pillow defeated him. "Please, sir-it's just right." Summer was the only time he was ever warm inside Irons' mansion.
To his surprise, Irons waved the woman away when she went to close the windows. With trepidation, he offered, "I'm sorry I fell again."
"Does your ankle hurt?"
"Yes." Then he changed that. A warrior did not admit pain. "No."
Irons regarded him enigmatically. "Parsons told me what you did. It is quite possible that you saved my life."
"I'm supposed to save your life."
"Eventually, yes. But your actions today exceeded my expectations for you."
"Maybe that's because I wasn't nine anymore when I did them, I was ten?"
"Perhaps it is." Irons continued to study him. "I have given some thought to the subject of your birthday. I seem to recall it was right around this time of year-in fact, I believe it is today."
"Today?" He frowned. "It can't be today. There's no balloons."
Irons lifted a questioning eyebrow. "Aren't there?"
He followed Irons' gaze.
And saw balloons. Reds ones, and blue ones, and green ones, and purple ones, drifting in the breeze from the windows. All tied to the handle of a brand-new bicycle. He bolted up--
And found himself flat on his back once more, staring at the spinning ceiling.
Irons resettled his ankle on the pillow. "I suspect that you are somewhat overmedicated. As for the bicycle..." Irons paused, "that bicycle and the balloons are for a boy named Ian Nottingham."
"That's me."
"Are you sure? You told me your name is Jason."
He was sure. He was Ian. He levered himself up on one elbow, and tried to see behind Irons. "Where's the cake? If it's my birthday, there's supposed to be a cake. With purple and black frosting, and red jelly beans."
"Now I know you are overmedicated." Irons relented. "Perhaps tomorrow, when you have recovered somewhat, there will be a belated white cake, with white icing."
"And choculate ice cream."
"Yes, and choculate-" Irons caught himself. "Chocolate ice cream."
He was not too overmedicated to press another issue. "If I'm ten, am I old enough to have bacon at Sunday breakfast?"
"Are you old enough to stop hiding oatmeal in your socks?"
"How did you know?"
"I know everything."
In a moment of panic, he wondered if Irons knew he had peed in the pool. "Did you see me?"
"I did not have to. Let us just say, it is a great deal more difficult to hide oatmeal successfully while wearing short pants."
Quick images: another boy, sitting stiffly at another table as a man with a large moustache shouted at him; the man again, lying in a massive carved bed as the boy gazed down, cold-eyed.
Irons was speaking. "Your injury will restrict you to your room for the next few days. Instead of the five hundred words I assigned you on the futility of birthdays, you will give me five hundred on the subject of disobedience. In Latin."
It wasn't as bad as when he had been sentenced to write five hundred words on why he must not hide in the clothes dryer. In Greek. He sighed. "Yes, sir."
Irons studied him once more. "Do you still see the images from the Witchblade?"
He nodded. And felt his body continue to go up and down even when his head stopped.
Irons tucked the hair back from his forehead. Then laid a well-manicured hand across it. He felt the touch of Irons' mind, the cold force of will that bent his before it. The images flared, then were gone, excised by words he could neither understand nor remember.
Irons took his hand away.
"Sir?" He tried to sit up once more. "Now that I'm ten, will the Witchblade come for me in the daytime, too?"
"Lie still before you injure your ankle further." Then Irons continued, less sternly. "The visions are one of the gifts of the Blade. They will enable you to serve me as you did today. Until now, the Witchblade has given you this precognition only in your dreams because your conscious mind was not capable of accepting it otherwise. Now, it will begin to use you for your intended purpose."
"To serve you," he finished.
"Yes. To serve me."
He knew there was no other reason for his existence. It was a fate he accepted. Someday, he would be the sword of Irons' will, sworn to give his life if necessary. Now, he stared longingly at the bicycle sitting across the room.
"Sir? May I at least have one of my balloons?"
Irons detached the entire bunch from the handlebar, and looped the strings over the handle of the bed table, close enough for him to reach. He pulled down on the cords, then released them, and watched the balloons pop back up to stop just short of the ceiling.
He smiled as the bed faded beneath him. "Am I up there with them?"
"Yes, I think you are." Irons straightened his pajama collar, then laid a hand on his cheek for a moment. He wondered if this would be the day Irons uttered the words he could always sense underlying each punishment and instruction and, most rarely, each moment of praise. The words he had waited his entire existence to hear. He waited. But he did not hope.
"Goodnight, Ian." Irons turned to go.
"Sir?"
Irons stopped.
"About today being my birthday. Is it true?"
A smile played across Irons' features. "Possibly." Irons left.
He had a possible birthday. And a new bike. And tomorrow, there would be cake and ice cream, and perhaps tomorrow after that, his ankle would be well enough to let him ride his bicycle. He watched the balloons bob and turn, and dreamed of riding with them out of the gate and down the road, past the country club and up the hill, riding on until he was east of the sun and west of the moon.
Riding until it would never be Sunday anymore.
He floated happily away with the balloons.