.
"Hear me, my chiefs, I am tired.
My heart is sad and sick.
From where the sun now stands I will fight no more forever."
—Chief Joseph
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.s.
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Jack saw the stars disappear and night become dawn. It didn't feel horribly hot yet, though Jack could tell it would be another hellishly humid day. The crickets and cicadas were slow to start, but the young Guardian knew they would been soon squealing and chirping. Pitch had been quiet all night, even after North had left. He was an unmovable weight, a stone for all he moved.
When the Boogeyman began to squirm in irritated spasms Jack quickly turned his attentions elsewhere. The dark spirit settled. Balance returned. A fox slunk by. It paused long enough to flash the winter spirit a yellow-slitted glance before slinking off into the bushes. When Jack judged it was late enough he clung to a passing breeze and hitched a ride all the way to Jamie's house. Unlike other capricious winds, this one knew exactly where to bring the young Guardian. The suburban sprawl soon replaced the forests and fields as Jack flew over the rolling Pennsylvania landscape.
Jack felt his chest tighten at the sight of the familiar house. Pitch made a jarring clicking sound, a shard of hurtangerwhywhywhy lancing through him.
"Relax, Sunshine."
"Don't call me that."
"Well, stop acting like a big baby."
Jack landed on the trim white windowsill, balancing on the balls of his feet. It only took a few taps on the glass before a small hand unlatched it. The young Guardian felt his face stretch in an involuntary smile.
"Hey there, Jamie."
"Jack!" The boy regarded Jack from under a mop of unruly hair. The bridge of his nose was peeling from a slight sunburn. "You came! C'mon in!"
Jack entered the boy's room, naked feet hardly making a sound on the floorboards. Little had changed in a year. The bedspread and curtains were the same, as well as the eclectic mix of encyclopedias, historic monster guides, and storybooks heaping the shelves. Rollerblades, street hockey sticks, and a bent fishing pole filled one corner in a disorganized mess.
Despite the clutter the room smelled fresh, like clean laundry. There were more drawings on the wall, all of them including a crayon interpretation of Jack Frost. The immortal teenager took a moment to appreciate the childlike renditions of their friendship, chest aching. His smile softened into a rare contentment, deep and wide.
"I would've won if it weren't for him. I would've had everything." Pitch's frustration tasted like ash. He was sulking hard enough to give Jack a headache, but the young Guardian didn't was worth it. Jamie was worth it. He would be worth anything.
The house was quiet for another reason despite the early hour: Sophie was gone; she spent her days at a summer day camp, and wouldn't be back til five. Jack liked Sophie, but no child could replace the special connection he shared with Jamie Bennett. The boy believed in him when no others would, even when the Guardians abandoned him. The solace Jamie brought the the winter spirit was soul-aching. But Jack knew Pitch wasn't lying. He knew there'd be a day when Jamie wouldn't be there to open his window for him, wouldn't be there to say, Hi, J—
"Head feeling better today, Jack?"
Jack blinked. "Huh? Sorry, what?"
"You look sad. You okay?"
"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine." But his head wasn't. He felt warm as Pitch's growing anger tightened around his forehead. Even one of his eyes felt funny, like there was something hot lodged behind it, but he didn't want to worry the boy. "C'mon, show me what you've been raving about."
An infectious grin sprung across Jamie's face. "You have to check it out. Follow me!"
Jamie led the Guardian of Fun into the attic, but not before grabbing a pitcher of ice water and a glass. A sweltering heatwave met them as they climbed the ladder to the musty room. The heavy aroma of dust and moth balls was choking. It would've been unbearable had it not been for the windows. Unlatching them helped, the tiny breeze a bringing a balm to the unventilated attic. Pitch was a dark swirling mass. Jack's head was starting to feel as if a blade was lodged inside it, his right eye faintly aching. Quit it, Pitch! But the Boogeyman gave no answer, stewing in malcontent.
"What brought you up here?" Jack asked. He peered at the exposed rafters laddering above him, dimly reminded of ribs.
"I dunno. Exploring, I guess."
Jamie was somewhere deeper in the murk, hidden except for the dry sound of moving boxes. Jack tapped his staff's hook against his shoulder as he slowly made his way toward the boy, avoiding the odd mountain of old toys, Christmas decorations, and winter clothes. He paused by a large, full-length antique mirror. A piece of sheer material half-covered it, but he could still make out his own face staring back, pale and eternal. When he pressed his hand against the glass and withdrew it, a handprint remained in the dust. Jack made a soft sound, then wiped himself clean on the seat of his pants.
"Hey, do you know when that thunderstorm is coming in?" Jack asked the murk. Even his voice was muffled.
"I think Sunday or Monday," was the answer. "S'posed to be a big one. Why?"
"Oh, no reason."
He found Jamie working steadily, doggedly, sweating worse than the pitcher of water by his feet. His breathing was soft and heavy. The tiny labored gasps pulled at Jack's heart, and though his fingers itched to create some snow, he knew it was useless. He could sense Pitch stirring, but made a conscious effort to ignore him. Jamie made a triumphant noise and rocked back on his knees, lifting an old photograph.
It was large, maybe seventeen inches long, twelve inches wide. It had been professionally mounted over a hundred years ago, but the years had not been kind to it. UV damage and humidity had done its best to scour the image off the paper, the sepia degraded to a mottled yellow. All what remained was a washed out row of soldiers on identical white horses. The soldiers were clearly in an exotic environment. Muskets adorned their shoulders. Jamie stroked one soldier in particular with reverent fingers, eyes soft.
"It's the only picture of my great granddad," he said. "See?"
He shuffled forward on his knees, positioning so Jack could see. Jack crouched besides him, mirroring his stance. There was an inscription at the bottom: BRITISH ARMY, ROYAL IRISH FUSILIERS. THE MOUNTED INFANTRY. 1908 AT AMBALA, INDIA. Then, in neat typewriter letters: Sir Arthur Benedict Bennett.
"He died terrified his life was meaningless." The voice was vicious. "Bled out for five hours through a bullet in his stomach. Sniveled the whole time."
"I'm sure he was very brave," Jack said, maybe a trifle too loudly. Stop it. You're being cruel.
"I am the Boogeyman," was the snarled reply. "Cruel is what I do."
No, what you do is— But Jack didn't want an argument. Not now, not here. You have to let go.
". . . to be an explorer like him," Jamie was saying, oblivious of Jack's inner struggle. "Not with the guns and stuff, not to hurt anything, but going to Africa and the jungles, y'know? Finding Bigfoot and the Loch Ness monster and dragon bones. Whaddya think?"
Jack kneeled down and looked Jamie dead in the eyes. "That sounds great, kiddo," he said. "Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
Jamie frowned, staring hard at Jack's right eye, the same one which had been bothering the winter spirit since stepping in the boy's room.
"Uh, Jack? Um, your eye. It's . . . it's like—" Jamie didn't finish, biting his lower lip.
It was Jack's turn to frown. He stood up and went to the antique full length mirror. He gasped, stumbling back. His left was the same blue as always, but his right now looked as if Pitch was staring back at him. Metallic, golden, it was a monster's eye, and the longer Jack stared at it, the more horrified he became.
"No." It was hardly more than a whisper. Jack wouldn't've been capable of anything louder.
"I don't know what you're complaining about." The Boogeyman was purring. "I think it's quite an improvement."
Jack slapped a hand over it. "Jamie, I have to go. I'll be back, promise!" Not even waiting for a response, he fled through one of the windows, launching himself high in the air. He was not fifteen meters away before he hurled North's globe. Instead of falling to the ground it exploded into a bright, swirling vortex. The winter spirit threw himself into the centre, experiencing the stomachdropsluurrrrp sensation before appearing right in the middle of North's globe room.
Jack skidded to a halt before the massive globe, face full of Australia. Within seconds jingling bells coalesced all around him as elves ran into each other like bumper cars. Yetis stopped what they were doing, peering curiously at him. Jack kept his hand plastered over his offending eye, breathing hard.
"Jack? What's wrong?" It was North, without cape or hat, dressed as he was the day Jack was kidnapped to the Pole. There were fruitcake crumbs in his beard. Behind him were Bunnymund, Tooth and her girls, and Sandy, all in various stages of surprise. Jack's stomach clenched. He wanted to tell North in secrecy. Now they were all hurrying over, getting too close. They'd see what he was becoming.
Jack held up his staff. "Stay back!"
Everyone stopped. The Yetis exchanged looks, their heavy mustachios bristling as they shrugged at each other.
"What's the matter? Are you okay?" Tooth asked. Her girls chirruped concern.
"You were right, Bunny," Jack said. It's come to this. Oh, man, it's bad.
"Oh, don't be so glum!" Pitch was vibrating with glee.
"Not sure what you mean, mate," Bunnymund said, ears twitching. He stood alongside North, every inch the warrior Guardian Jack had come to trust.
Jack exhaled hard, steeling himself for the reactions he knew would follow. He took his hand away and looked North dead in the face. Jack was prepared for horror. What he wasn't prepared for was North's calm sigh, and the relaxed slump of the others' shoulders.
"It's happening as expected," the Guardian of Wonder said. He stared unabashed at the gold eye, stroking his chin beneath his beard.
Jack blinked and stood tall, letting his staff drop. "Happening? What's happening? How d'you know?"
"We found the book, Jack," Tooth said. She flew closer, but still kept her distance, as if trying not too spook him. Though it appeared she wanted to look at his transformed iris, her gaze remained steady on his blue one. "The one that explains everything. We were about to find you, but it looks like you got to us first."
"Okay, then tell me! And why are you guys acting so calm about it? Am I turning into Pitch?"
Sandy shook his head.
"Nope," Bunnymund said.
"No?" Jack's shoulders relaxed further. His spine straightened. "So, I'll be fine?"
They all nodded. It looked like they all had hours to digest this, whereas Jack wanted to run and dance a jig and fly. He wanted to go in so many directions his body vibrated in place, humming with relieved energy. He felt a Whoop! building in his throat. Why weren't they all as happy as he was?
"Then why does my eye look like Pitch's?" he asked. He didn't want to see another mirror until this nightmare was over. Gold looked horrible on him, anyway.
His friends exchanged odd looks. Tooth took charge, saying, "The way the book explains it, it's Pitch's essence's last attempt to regain a body. But it will lose. You see, you're not in danger, Jack. He is."
The urge to run around congealed. Suddenly what the youngest Guardian had taken for calmness was actually graveness.
Jack and Pitch said at the same time: "What?"
Tooth mistook Jack's sharp tone for anger. She hurried to say, "If we do nothing, you'll be unaffected. As for Pitch . . . well, two spirits weren't meant to inhabit the same body. Eventually the host rejects the symbiote. If we don't return Pitch to his body, he'll . . ."
"Die," Bunnymund said. There was no sadness in the giant rabbit's voice, just a soldier's coolness.
"How long does he have?" Jack asked, trying to talk over the increasing agitation in his head.
The Big Four kept looking at each other like they didn't know how to break the news. Pitch's mounting irritation and fear tasted like iron on Jack's tongue.
Finally North admitted: "Not long."
"What? What does he mean? What does he mean, 'not long'? Ask him what he means!"
Jack did. North scratched his chin, squinting. "Two days? Three at most?"
"What!" Pitch's distress was an electrical shock. "That's not specific. Where are the specifics? Show me the book! I demand to read the passage!"
Jack relayed as much. Without a word the Guardians brought Jack to a nearby table where a inconspicuous book was open seemingly at random. As Jack neared it, he could smell its age. SPIRIT ILLNESSES was scrawled over its cover. He read where he was directed. As the others had said, it wasn't specific. Pitch kept squawking for more information, convinced they were hiding the answers.
"I'm sorry," North said when Jack passed the Nightmare King's message. "That is only book we find. In every example of this happening, unless spirit is returned to its body, it will wither and die. Never have two coexisted beyond several days."
"Well, we woke up stuck on Wednesday," Jack said. The hairs on his neck stiffened in response to Pitch's fear-anger. "Today's Friday. You just need to hold on for a few more days."
"A few more days? I could be dead by then!"
"There's nothing we can do until Sunday's thunderstorm. Right, guys?"
Tooth shrugged. "Though it doesn't say, we still need to limit all the variables. The less we change, the better."
Bunnymund scoffed. "If, of course, we want to go through with it."
Tooth's mouth thinned, but didn't argue. Sandy puffed his cheeks and looked away. Jack stared at them, suddenly understanding why he'd found them so serious. They were talking about this before I came, Jack thought. Deciding whether or not to save Pitch.
The giant rabbit looked around, ears flattening. "Why do we need him, anyway? I mean, all he does is cause misery and trouble."
A strange gleam entered Pitch's emotions, like light leaking from a bullet hole. When the dark spirit spoke again, it sounded like he was shaking head. "Ohhh, no. Ohhhh, no. We made a deal, remember? Or has your craven nature forgotten that? If you go back on your promise, I'll tear your mind apart. Go on. Dare me. Give me a reason to."
The threat hung like a guillotine blade. The others picked up Jack's haunted expression and crowed around closer.
"Jack?" Tooth said. "You alright? You look like you're in pain."
"Sorry. He's upset. He says he'll crush my mind if you don't try to save him."
"He can't," Bunnymund said, tossing a boomerang up and catching it with lazy ease. "The book says once the host—that'd be you, Snowflake— 'exhibits traits' of the symbiote, blah blah, then it's all downhill for poor little Pitch. Go on. Have him try."
Jack flashed the rabbit a look of intense consternation. They weren't there that horrible day. They didn't hear his mindless screaming. Bunnymund caught his expression and stopped throwing the boomerang. He faced the winter spirit and, face softening, said, "Believe me, mate. You're safe. Pitch can't hurt you anymore."
Jack bowed his head a little, unwilling to hope. Almost to himself, he asked, "Pitch, is this true?"
Pitch watched with the caged patience of one who hates, and hates utterly. Jack could feel his rage as if he'd drank whisky, his throat and belly burning.
"Pitch?" the immortal teenager asked again, prodding. He was morbidly curious despite himself.
Instead of answering, the Boogeyman began to shrill, "I've always known this was a ploy to kill me. Ever since my defeat, you've all been plotting to get rid of me for good!"
Jack pinched the bridge of his nose. "No one's been plotting. That lightening storm was an accident."
"Oh? Oh? Tell that to all your friends! They're the ones who want me to die!"
"No one is going to stop getting you to your body," Jack replied, weary.
"No? D'ya need a reminder with whom we're dealing with?" Bunnymund said. "You didn't see him in the Dark Ages, mate, but we did. You don't know who you're dealing with." He then speared North a heavy, significant look. "Are we gonna forget what he did during the Dark Ages? Remember 1348?"
The Guardian of Wonder leveled the lanky rabbit a heavy look of his own. "We're not murderers," North said, reminding Jack once more why he was the true leader of the Guardians. "I will not sit back knowing we could've tried."
"Neither will I," Jack quickly said. He moved to stand besides North and Sandy and crossed his arms over his chest. "I'll be there for the thunderstorm."
Bunnymund's whiskers fluffed out. Unlike the others, he had no problem looking at Jack's metallic eye. "You realize if we do this, it's no longer about saving you, but saving Pitch. Pitch. The Boogeyman, remember? The one who tried to kill us last year? The one who actually did with Sandy? Cover the world in darkness? Helloooooooo? Ring a bell anyone?"
"It's alright, Bunny," Tooth said, though her voice also held a soldier's coolness. There was no pity. "There's no guarantee it would work, anyway."
Sometimes it was hard for Jack to remember how much the Tooth Fairy had suffered under Pitch's short reign of terror. And that was only last year. Pitch and the Big Four shared a history he never had, and it showed in their less-than-friendly expressions. 1348 was almost a thousand years ago. What battles have they fought together? What friends, lost?
In that moment Jack felt his youth and inexperience as keenly as a slap. But he'd meant what he'd said. Deep down, he knew the world needed the Boogeyman. Fear played a role in a child's development, and though he didn't really know why yet, he latched onto it with singleminded focus. Since being shackled to the Nightmare King, Jack learned more about the dark spirit than ever before, and what he'd gleaned resonated throughout his being.
Pitch needed to be saved.
…
TBC