Dylan & the Book He's Not Reading (Director's Cut)
Ripped. Ripped wide open. That's what the past had been. Torn in two. And Wyatt had torn it, with his good intentions on a South-bound road. No one blamed him, much, and those who did would reconcile it by sunrise (Benevolent magic runs best through the emotionally available; it's a powerful incentive to maintain fraternal harmony). Rowan's ghost was alive again; memory made it so. He was a timeless thing, moving in the walls, invisible but present in the family photos. A seven year-old boy, dead on the oak planked floor.
"There shoulda been blood," Shane would someday tell Dylan, or was he speaking to himself? "If there'd been blood, I coulda believed he was dead." He shook his head, as if the memory had let him down somehow. "There shoulda been blood."
Dylan knew he had memories of the night Rowan was murdered, but he couldn't be certain which ones his five senses had formed and which ones were made real by his imagination filling in the gaps. Shane's scream, though. That shrill, otherworldly hollering that lasted for what must have been hours and shredded his six year-old throat until he coughed blood. That scream, he remembered. The memory of it still scraped his eardrums.
Memories are one thing when they're rolling around in your mind, but for a Halliwell witch, the past was never more than a rhyme away.
And this particular night in the past presented its own set of challenges.
There's a Charlie Brown character (BTW, if anyone knows why Charlie Brown is bald, if you would be kind enough to inform Steven Halliwell; he'd be ever so grateful).
As I was saying...
There's a Charlie Brown character named Linus – brother to Lucy, prepubescent love-interest to Sally (whose hairstyle Steve would also like an explanation of) – who had a security blanket which he would (and did) literally cross oceans to retrieve; such was the degree of the comfort it gave him. There's a nineteen year old Gemini half-witch/half-whitelighter named Dylan Halliwell who, instead of a blanket, had his generation's Book of Shadows, which he was darned tempted to cross decades to retrieve; ever since Shane's little news nugget that their book had basically refused to join them on their sojourn into the past, Dylan had hit a metaphorical oil patch and was now skidding towards becoming a Wiccan on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
While some folks can panic with dignity – Tristan comes to mind – Dylan was no such creature, having ever counted his boldness among his greatest virtues (or biggest vises, situation depending). Without it, he didn't recognize himself. Truth be told, no one else did either.
Once, after a long evening of posthumous babysitting, his Aunt Prue said to his mother, "That boy's a little spitfire," with equal parts affection and exhaustion. "Pistol" was Grams' word for him, a sly admiration in her eyes as she said it.
As for his brothers, they had unanimously dubbed Dylan the 'Supernatural Server of Sass'. Whether he was recommending 'The Bosley Institute for Hair Restoration' to the Cleaners, or asking Elder Odin how life on the big rigs had been treating him, or telling the Tribunal he thought they were great in Superman and they should bring back those two spinning hoola hoops...
The boy was fearless.
Except when he wasn't.
Now, for instance, as his insecurities swarmed him like mosquitoes; each one he swatted, five more took its place. "C'mon, Dylan, get a grip. This isn't your first day as a witch." But in truth, he was relieved to be alone, so he could panic properly in private.
Missing was the Dylan whose walk was a series of bow-legged shuffles with a smooth glide between them – you couldn't mimic it slowly; you'd fall over if you tried. Nowhere to be seen was the young man whose careless toss of his hair out of his eyes made you wonder if he could toss any cares about you aside just as easily (The answer was resounding 'no').
Being the biggest contributor to and primary scholar of his generation's Book of Shadows, he relied on it far more than the others. Just having it nearby was its own comfort. Not having it at all was its own hell.
Dylan literally hit the ground running (It was really more of a brisk walk, but still...) as he arrived in the kitchen in a swirling funnel cloud of orbs.
"Hey Ror! Your fetus just hijacked Mom's voice and now Tristan's makin' like Ice Man in the attic – long story – and Steve got caught in the blast in his nightgown – long story – and..." He stopped his pacing. "And who the heck am I talking to?"
He'd made a quick trek around the kitchen, poked his head in the pantry, the adjoining Laundry Room and the Butler's Pantry.
No Rory.
The kitchen was empty. Or so functioning eyes would suggest. And why was he in the kitchen anyway? He'd expected Rory's bedroom, seeing as how most people with five broken ribs tend not to mosey into the kitchen for a midnight snack. But the kitchen was without a doubt where he'd sensed him.
"Okay, I might be a little off tonight, but I'm pretty sure I wouldn't miss Rory's bedroom by three floors." He sighed, embarrassed in front of his own self. "Otherwise, 'Remedial Orbing', here I come."
A lifetime of training took over, his mind already using the crime scene assessment "tricks" Chris had taught him.
There were signs of recent activity in the room: the two chairs that faced each other, the what-looked-to-be a velvety blue-grey journal at one corner of the table, and then of course the potion left simmering on the center island cook top. "And Rory's the last person who should be left alone in the kitchen… and I'm pretty sure the San Francisco fire department would back me up on that." He stepped up to the simmering brew. "Then again, his potions are freakishly tasty."
The abandoned potion made the room look more deserted than empty. But since the stirring spoon had been placed to the right of the pot, Dylan deduced it had been tended by someone else; Rory was left-handed.
Again, nothing pointed to Rory.
Deciding to sense again, Dylan closed his eyes, took a lung-stretching breath, and sent his whitelighter "feelers" out into the cosmos. But his every magical instinct told him that Rory was standing right in front of him.
As with all of Piper's boys, Rory's presence was unmistakable. This being the case, and since they weren't technically each others' charges, they had taken to sensing for the presence itself. First you sought the element: the bold expansiveness of the fire. The reliable solidarity of the earth. The enlightened breeziness of the air. The deep, soft timelessness of the water. Then you sought the individual: for Wyatt, you searched for a powerful spirit, one that craved even more power, owned by a mind who convinced himself otherwise. For Chris, you would seek out living lighter fluid: a spirit ignited by sense of purpose, tireless in its razor sharp certainty and hunger for truth. For Shane, you searched for a rough and tumble daredevil, full of compassion, whose feelings were easily hurt, but the hurt fairly well-hidden. For Steven, you would seek a spirit whose energy tickled with dizzying enthusiasm, but strangely it was this tickling and dizzying that nurtured a wise sort of clarity and understanding; Jared's energy stilled, soothed, and centered, effortlessly clearing a path for the free flow of benevolent magic; for Tristan, you'd seek a sweet but nervous little spirit that cradled and nurtured, but which had the strength and support of the earth itself. For Lee, you'd search for a spirit whose energy breathed fresh life into the mundane, and unobtrusively - almost shyly - re-enchanted the everyday-ness of living.
Point of interest: To search for Dylan, all one need do was to sense for a unique, creative sort of courage that was ever in motion; a spirit who would sooner call God himself a liar (if he thought God was pulling his leg) while holding a ticket for the fastest train to Hell in one hand and a suitcase full of bathing suits in the other, rather than reap Heaven's luxuries by kissing dishonest omnipotent ass.
And finally, to seek Rory you sensed for the soul who couldn't use ebay because he felt sorry for whoever he outbid; the one whose favorite word was 'caramel' because it sounded like what it was; the one who called his cat, Muffin, his "roommate" because he didn't like thinking of animals as property; the one who felt sorry for the characters who survived horror movies, because though their bodies got away, their minds did not; the one who hid his eyes and announced "mercy killing" before smooshing a fly that he'd accidentally drenched in dish water and tried unsuccessfully to blow dry with his own breath.
That's who Dylan searched for and that's who Dylan felt now, right in front of him. The presence as palpable as a candle flame.
"Rory?" No answer.
Has the kitchen always had an echo?
"Ror, I know you're in here somewhere." That is, unless his ability to sense his charges (and relatives) was as skewed as his nerves. "So unless you've been reincarnated as a kitchen appliance I should be lookin' at a six-foot, browned-eyed, statuesque, fuzzy-headed Halliwell right about now."
Nothing. Nothing at all. Even the echo seemed to have grown longer. He took another look around the kitchen, his gaze slow and steady as a lighthouse's torch. But not a creature was stirring, mouse or otherwise. "So what am I supposed to do now? Check the oven? The dishwasher? Who knows, maybe somebody shrunk him and put him in the..." – then his eyes fell on it: "the cookie jar." And bless his heart, he even took a step towards it, then stopped and enthusiastically he shook his head.
"Nnnope. Uhn-uh. No way. Not gonna happen. A witch has got to draw the line somewhere." But standing still proved more stressful than jar inspection. "Oh honest to God!" he snapped and stomped towards the jar. "Only in my family would it make sense to see if my brother had been shrunk and stashed in a friggin' cookie jar!"
Surprise, surprise. No mini-Rory.
Dylan clamped the lid down, folded his arms and turned back around. Upping the sass, he quipped, "Ya know, Ror, for someone who hates to be the center of attention, you sure are wracking up some serious air time today."
The lights blew out.
"Jeez!" He jerked, nearly lost his balance, but righting himself, his body naturally snapped into a defensive stance, his muscles ready for combat.
"So... does that mean I've got your attention?"
And yet again, nothing.
"Come on, Rory. Sprinkle some fairy dust – No offense - or knock over a cookbook! Rattle a teapot! Cook an omelet... (On second thought...) Okay, skip the omelet!" Dylan forced a sharp exhale as if to remind his body that breathing worked in its favor. "Come on, Ror. You gotta give me something! Anything!"
He had at best expected the usual Halliwell Haunted House phenomena: an astral chill or a swarm of golden lights. Anything but this... nothingness. But a heapin' helping of nothingness is what he got.
The way his heart was thumping, he felt there was too much blood and not enough vein.
Though not a frequent panicker, he'd been trained to calm himself with self-talk. He imagined the most determined voice he knew: his Mama. No contest: (Just remember, Babycakes:) she'd said, (That mouth of yours could take down the whole underworld by itself, with or without magic). It was enough to inspire a grin – no small feat, considering his mood, and the fact that he felt particularly small at the moment prompted another of Piper's past "pep talks": (Listen, Buster, don't go playin' the 'Everybody's-bigger-than-me' card with this witch, 'cause guess which one of us is gonna win that hand every time.)
He sighed with something like relief. "She's right. Five-foot-nine doesn't exactly guarantee citizenship in Munchkin Land." He clopped a heel on the wood floor. "Five-eleven with my 'Matrix' boots on."
In the dark, he heard a sound from across the room. Soft and crisp. The turning of pages. Slowly. Very slowly. One page at a time.
He cast a handful of shimmering orbs in the sound's direction, just to get a look. His hands were in blast/freeze position before the orbs had even reached their destination.
Then, a determined sliver of moonlight sliced through the kitchen window, casting a ghostly glow across the dim, orb-lit room.
But Dylan's eyes were clamped on the slowly turning pages. "Ror?" He cringed at the tentative tone of his voice; it was just so unlike him. "Rory, if that's you, close the book so I'll know."
Then, as if drawn to the moonlight, the book flew from the table and smashed against the window, but instead of falling like a bird with a broken neck, it hung there, its open face pressed against the glass like a child outside a toy store.
"Uh... Okay, somebody somewhere is definitely trying to tell me something." Then he made a feeble attempt at a joke. "What's the matter, girl? Did Rory fall in a well?"
If he only knew.
Then, as if in reply, the book slid slowly, slowly, slowly down the glass until it finally settled flat on the counter.
Dylan was surprised to find himself inching forward. "Okay book," he said, "what's your story?"
The book stood up on its spine and opened its face to him.
Dylan froze.
The thing looked downright eager, like a paper bull with velvet skin, ready to mow him down.
Dylan gulped, heard himself whisper, "Oh this is soooo gonna suck."
~ End of Chapter ~