The Loblolly Boy and the Sorcerer (5 page)

‘You have your own wings,’ said Lucinda, ‘but the birds have our wings. They’re the only thing we have to guide you.’

‘So?’ asked the loblolly boy.

‘So if the birds know where you should be headed, then they’ll take you there,’ said Marianne.

‘I see,’ said the loblolly boy. He felt a welling disappointment.

This all seemed highly unlikely. He looked again at the fluffed up doves. They were all clucking crossly now. He imagined all they wanted to do was roost for the night, not be flung up in the air. The more he looked at them the grumpier they seemed. More than that, apart from one extremely baleful glance, they appeared to be completely and utterly uninterested in him.

Perhaps that was because they couldn’t see him at all. If so, the only place they were likely to lead him was up and down the garden path. All in all he was probably in for a wild goose chase, or rather a tame dove chase.

Still, he was grateful to the Jugglers for trying. It was good of them to get up in the middle of the night on the slim off-chance that this performance with their
bad-tempered
birds might help him.

‘Why would the Captain have said you might not be this kind?’ he asked Miriam. ‘He said I should seek your help but that I shouldn’t trust you. You could be dangerous.’

Miriam placed the bird-cage on the grass.

‘Oh, I think that’s understandable,’ she said.

‘Is it?’

‘I think so.’

‘I don’t think it is.’

‘It’s not us you shouldn’t trust,’ said Lucinda. ‘It’s you.’

‘Or, rather, your wishes, your desires,’ said Marianne.

‘I still don’t follow,’ said the loblolly boy.

‘We could simply be the means of granting your desire,’ said Miriam.

‘Just an instrument,’ added Marianne. ‘Neither here nor there.’

‘So?’

‘So we help you achieve your desire.’

‘So how is that dangerous?’

‘Isn’t it obvious?’ asked Marianne.

‘Your desire might come true,’ said Miriam.

There was little to say to that and, sensing that the
conversation
was over, the three Jugglers readied themselves for their performance. Each released her doves from the cage, some needing encouragement or admonition. For a short time the birds lurched about on the grass in an ungainly way while the three sisters assumed their performance position, back to back as they had on their big bass-drum podium: each facing a different direction, with arms outstretched not unlike the logo of a Mercedes Benz. Only when the Jugglers
were in position and one gave a low whistle did the birds all at once ascend into the air.

They only climbed a few metres, however, before taking up their own positions. The loblolly boy marvelled at the discipline. One dove landed on each outstretched wrist while the remaining three hovered overhead. Then, at a signal, the Jugglers first lifted one hand then the other — each time a hand was raised a bird would lift into the air and hover briefly and each time a hand was lowered a bird would land on that wrist. At each movement the birds would change positions so that there was a constant circular movement of dove landing, dove lifting, dove hovering, dove landing; and orchestrating this wheeling dance was arm lifting, arm falling, all in perfect rhythm. White wings, white sleeves, rising, falling, all in a starry moonlit darkness.

The loblolly boy was enchanted. The scene was utterly captivating. Whereas the juggling with flaming torches had been gripping drama, this juggling with doves was more like poetry.

The movement was gentle, lyrical, quite hypnotic in its beauty.

When Miriam called to him it was so unexpected he jumped.

‘Are you ready, loblolly boy?’

Ready for what? he wondered. What more could there be?

Then, all at once, all three sisters raised their arms
simultaneously
and Miriam cried ‘Fly!’

At this command the doves all lifted into the air and wheeled high above the domain in a small phalanx.

‘Follow them, loblolly boy,’ cried Miriam.

The loblolly boy needed no second bidding. In an instant he, too, had leapt into the air, shouting ‘Thank you!’ as he climbed higher and higher in pursuit of the doves.

The doves were not waiting for him. Already the tight little group had veered left and away from the domain and the town beyond. They had decided to track the river and, high above, echoed its meandering course for some kilometres. The loblolly boy followed in their wake. The night was still bright with moonlight and the doves were easy to see. All the same it might have been a different story had the birds been dark. The loblolly boy was grateful that the sisters did not juggle blackbirds.

Far below the silver line of the river came and went between its tree-lined banks. The countryside below was rolling farmland, and the river was definitely narrowing as it tracked towards its source in the low foothills ahead.

As if bored with their pursuit of the river, the doves abruptly veered left again and followed a wavy line where the patchwork of fields met the gathering hills. This direction disconcerted the loblolly boy as he understood his father and Janice had shifted north. These grumpy doves were leading him in the opposite direction. Perhaps it was the birds who were fickle, not the Jugglers. If they weren’t fickle,
they seemed to be making a pretty good imitation of it.

When after a few more kilometres, the doves veered left yet again the loblolly boy was in no doubt that they were fickle: fickle, wriggly and mischievous. One more veer to the left he realised and they would have been doing little more than describing a huge square and heading back to their start-off point.

Sure enough, ten minutes later, as if as one, the small formation of doves veered left and were clearly returning to the domain.
Why am I surprised?
the loblolly boy thought as the domain eventually came into view and the doves began their descent. They are blasted homing doves, after all.

The three sisters were waiting, sitting on the steps of the campervan, with the dove cages sitting on the grass before them.

The doves fluttered down the last few metres and then strode in their lurching but purposeful way towards their homes. Clearly, flying was over for the night.

The loblolly boy landed lightly and walked slowly over to the sisters.

‘No good,’ he said shortly. ‘They’ve all come back.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Miriam. ‘I’d sort of hoped you wouldn’t be back. I mean … you know what I mean.’

‘What happened?’ asked Marianne.

‘Nothing much. Just did a great square and then came back.’

They sat there in the half-light for some time, pondering the situation in silence.

‘Thanks for trying, anyway,’ said the loblolly boy at
length. ‘It was really good of you. I appreciate it. And the juggling, I mean the way you juggled with the birds … that was magic.’

‘Thank you,’ said Miriam.

Again there was a silence. Far away in the distance, the loblolly boy could hear the unmistakable sound of a train speeding somewhere through the darkness.

‘Are all the doves back in their cages?’ asked Lucinda.

The loblolly boy checked the grass. ‘Looks like it,’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘We’ll need to shut their doors of course,’ said Lucinda. Then she added, ‘Are you sure?’

‘Sure?’

‘Are you sure all the birds are in their cages?’

The loblolly boy checked again. ‘Well, there’s none on the grass. They must be.’

Lucinda had her arms in her cage soothing the breasts of the doves with little finger strokes. ‘That’s odd,’ she said, ‘because there are only two birds in my cage.’

At that, the other two checked their cages.

‘I have three,’ said Miriam.

‘Three in mine,’ said Marianne.

‘And you say there are no birds on the grass?’ asked Lucinda.

The loblolly boy checked yet again, this time more thoroughly. ‘Definitely not,’ he said finally. ‘Not a trace.’

‘Then if it’s not on the grass, and it’s not in the cage,’ said Lucinda.

‘It must be still in the air,’ said Marianne.

Instinctively, the loblolly boy raised his eyes to the sky.

‘Go look for it, loblolly boy,’ whispered Miriam. ‘This could be how the prophecy is worked out after all. Chase that dove — it could grant you your desire.’

CHAPTER THREE

T
HE MAN IN THE COFFEE SHOP

‘C
hase that dove!’ muttered the loblolly boy to himself as he sailed higher and higher. ‘Chase that dove! Easy! Where is the bloody thing anyway? It could be anywhere. It’s only got the entire sky to hide in!’

He did not share Miriam’s belief that the missing dove was the answer. He had no confidence that the prodigal dove would be any more helpful than the rest of the grumpy dove crew.

He still had grave doubts that a dove could see him, anyway.

Given this rather negative state of mind, he was thus surprised to find a little white shape still hovering back and forth high above the mast of the marquee almost as if awaiting his arrival.

To his even greater surprise, the dove was aware of him. It dipped its wings in salute and flew towards him. Bird and boy circled each other for a few seconds, and then the
dove rose again and turned to the north, half turning to see whether the loblolly boy was following.

‘Okay, dove,’ murmured the loblolly boy, ‘I’ve got nothing better to do. I’m happy enough with another wild and pointless chase.’

All the same, he was intrigued that this time the bird was leading him in what he understood to be the right direction.

As they flew through the night, his intrigue turned increasingly to confidence. This time there was no veering around in a great circle. Instead they followed what looked to be a deliberate path ever northwards.

Through the night towards morning they flew, over fields, small twinkling towns, sodium-lit motorways, black swathes of forest and every so often the gleaming dark mirror of a lake or the ribbon of a serpentine river.

As dawn broke with a glorious flush of pink grey which ripened into a scarlet to the now cloudy east, they were crossing a stretch of ocean, grey and streaked with orange beneath them.

Then, in ever-brighter daylight, over land once more. A large city fingering its way into valleys and gulleys, and then giving way to rough forested hills flung like shovel-loads of black plaster over the land, then patchworked plains again and now the coastline, the long line of the sea, sand and rolling whitecaps.

The dove seemed tireless. The loblolly boy had never flown so far nor so continuously, but he was not tired himself. His growing confidence had turned to an energising certainty that he was being led to the destination he sought.

And then, in an instant he knew they had arrived. They had been flying over the outskirts of a small city for some time, when the dove suddenly plunged downwards and landed on a little flagpole rising from a curious church tower, a red-brick tower with eight small spires, the corner spires somewhat taller than the inner spires. The loblolly boy, following the dove’s descent, found he was able to land safely on the small walled platform from which the spires rose.

This was an interesting vantage point from which to view the central square of the city, the spreading lawns, the flower beds, the clock tower, the war memorial and the uneven rectangle of shops and office buildings surrounding this green centre stage.

I’m here, he thought. He couldn’t have explained how he knew that this was the place. He didn’t even know its name or where it was. All he knew was that this must be the place. Every part of his being told him so. He glanced up at the flagpole above him and waved at the dove.

Thank you
, he thought.
Clever dove … I’m sorry I doubted you. Rest for a while, then hurry back to Lucinda. She’ll tell the others you’re back and they’ll know …

Would they know?

He shrugged. Probably, he thought. Or possibly. They’ll guess, he thought. Miriam will know, anyway, and she’ll tell the others. Then he looked up again to wave once more to the dove.

But the dove had already disappeared.

Somehow the departure of that link, his guiding light as he’d journeyed to this city, deflated him a little. He spent some time gazing over the little balustrade to get his bearings, first east, then north, then west and finally south. Buildings stretched as far as he could see until they were swallowed up by the trees of the suburbs. Down below, the streets were full of cars, the footpaths full of pedestrians. Everybody — drivers, cyclists, people on foot — seemed to have something to do, all on a mission of some sort and busy, busy, busy. There was noise and bustle, engines, brakes and the occasional horn.

How would he possibly find his father, Janice and the boy who stole his life among all this busyness, among all this traffic, these streets, these buildings?

While he was with the Captain his only thought was of finding the city they’d gone to. He hadn’t considered the possibility that once he’d found the city there would be any problems. Now he sensed that this approach was like: first find the haystack, then the needle will be easy.

I don’t think so
, he thought.

This was the time for more help. The three Jugglers had certainly been helpful. Perhaps now he needed to look out for the Sorcerer — was it? — and the Gadget Man.

He wasn’t sure about the Sorcerer, though. The Captain warned him specifically against the Sorcerer. Wasn’t he the most fickle of all?

And then all at once he realised he didn’t need the Sorcerer or the Gadget Man.

He was looking south across the square. The biggest building in that direction looked to be the post office because it had a row of telephone boxes outside.

How obvious, and how stupid of him.

The loblolly boy clambered up onto the small balustrade and leapt off the church tower. Swiftly he flew across the park and landed in front of the post office.

He hurried down the line of telephone booths until he found one unoccupied. Quickly, he scurried inside and grabbed the phone book. He found the page with his father’s surname, and scanned down the names. Nothing. He double checked. Still nothing. Then, on an impulse, he tried Janice’s surname. Nothing again.

Hugely disappointed, he returned to the footpath and flew less enthusiastically this time back to his little eyrie in the church tower.

There were a number of possibilities, some of them depressing but any one of them likely.

Firstly, perhaps they hadn’t bothered with getting a landline. Janice was an enthusiastic mobile user. He could hardly remember her ever using an ordinary old-fashioned phone. She could well have persuaded his father not to bother with one.

Or, secondly, they may have only recently hooked up and were too late for the phone book.

Or, thirdly, they could have decided on an unlisted number.

The final possibility was one he didn’t even want to think about. This was that his confidence had been completely misplaced, that this wasn’t the city his father and Janice had moved to, that he was utterly in the wrong place, perhaps even deliberately misled by the seeming confidence of a malicious dove.

What to do now?

Plan B perhaps?

As usual, there was no Plan B though. There hadn’t even really been a Plan A.

He stared hopelessly about the city. He could, he supposed, fly up and down every street, road and leafy lane until he found them. That would probably take only a few years.

Perhaps, after all, he should look for this Sorcerer or Gadget Man.

But why should he find them here?

They, like his father, could be anywhere.

He had no real reason to suppose that they’d be found in this place at all.

Or even that they existed.

The Jugglers had been real, though.

Just at that moment, a huge clanging sound almost knocked him right over the balustrade.

The sound continued. DING! DONG! BOING! BANG! DONG! DING!

Bells!

It was a bell tower.

The bellringers were practising.

Ringing the changes.

He needed a change himself. His head ringing and reeling, the loblolly boy escaped from the clanging tower. He flew again across the square but then rose higher to get a better sense of the place. To the east he saw a large park with spreading trees and this promised a lot more peace and perhaps a place to better consider his position.

He strained to remember the song and its threats and promises. It had mentioned Jugglers, the Gadget Man and the Sorcerer. At the same time, he had to seek these, trust them and fear them. Well, he had met the Jugglers, had trusted them and found no reason to fear them. Would it be worse with the others? He thought of that old sick joke about the man jumping out of the thirty storey building, saying to himself,
all right so far
as he fell past the twentieth storey …

He landed deftly in the branches of a flowering chestnut tree, and then Tarzan-fashion swung down from branch to branch until he landed on the grass. He skipped over to a nearby park bench, and sat down.

The first thing he saw was a girl about his age, gaping at him with astonishment.

‘Oh, wow,’ she exclaimed. ‘That was amazing. How did you do that? I didn’t even see you climb that tree.’

‘I didn’t climb it,’ said the loblolly boy.

‘Oh, yeah? I suppose you flew into it?’

‘That’s right,’ said the loblolly boy. ‘Any more questions?’

He didn’t really want to be smart with the girl, but
he couldn’t help himself. She looked to be everything he disliked in other kids. She looked grubby, was wearing homey-type overalls and had a baseball cap on backwards, like something from ten years ago. Worst of all, she had a skateboard under one arm.

The girl didn’t seem at all fazed by his smart aleck reply. On the contrary she came over to him and said, ‘Go on, tell me. How long were you sitting up there?’

‘I wasn’t sitting up there.’

‘You must’ve been. What were you doing? Perving at me?’

‘Why would I want to do that?’

‘You’re weird. What’s with the funny outfit?’

As if noticing for the first time, the girl stopped to consider the loblolly boy’s filmy green garments and then, her eyes widening, she peered round the side and saw his folded green wings.

‘Oh wow, they look so real!’

‘They are real.’

‘Pull the other one, it’s got bananas on it!’

‘No it hasn’t.’

‘They look so cool. Where’d you get them?’

‘I’ve always had them.’

‘Don’t go there. Can’t you be sensible?’

‘I am being sensible. I’ve always had them.’

‘Are you going to some sort of party?’

‘No.’

‘You in some sort of TV thing?’ She looked about her as if expecting to see cameras.

‘No.’

‘Well, I give up. You tell me.’

‘I’ve already told you.’

The girl looked at him with irritation. ‘You’re weird. Know that? You’re really, really weird.’

The loblolly boy looked at her pouting face and smiled inwardly at the thought that she didn’t know the half of it. Nor could she possibly know, given she was looking at him, and chatting to him, she was a Sensitive. He remembered one of his last conversations with the Captain and the Captain’s asking why he didn’t just find another Sensitive and Exchange. Well, he had found one now, but looking at her dishevelled overalls and grubby appearance he felt not the remotest inclination to Exchange. Quite the contrary. He would be very sure not even to let her know of the possibility.

‘You’re not going to tell me, are you, weirdo?’

‘Oh, well,’ sighed the loblolly boy, ‘if you’re not going to believe me …’

At that he climbed up on to the park bench, and leapt into the air. His outstretched wings tensed and the feathers trembled as the breeze caught them and then in an instant he was flying, working his wings up and down in a slow, easy rhythm. He soared up beyond the highest branch of the chestnut tree and then wheeled even higher: a hundred, two hundred, three hundred metres and then curved and swallow-dived down again. To make his point abundantly clear he once more landed expertly in the upper branches of the chestnut tree and Tarzanned down as he had the first time, jumping the final few metres to land neatly balanced
right in front of the astonished girl.

Her mouth opened and shut like a gasping fish as she tried to find something to say. However, all she could manage in the end was ‘Oh wow!’ again.

‘Convinced?’ asked the loblolly boy, returning to his seat.

She nodded, eyes round with wonder.

‘Who are you?’ she whispered.

‘Seriously weird,’ he grinned.

‘I know that,’ she whispered, ‘but who are you really?’

‘I’m the loblolly boy.’

‘The blob belly what?’

‘Loblolly boy.’

‘Never heard of it.’

‘Not many people have, and even fewer people can see me or talk to me. Only very special people.’

‘I’m very special?’

‘In this way, yes.’

‘How?’

‘You’re a Sensitive.’

‘I am?’

‘Yes, you are. Only a handful of people are Sensitives. You must be one.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. Why am I the loblolly boy?’

The girl stared at him. She didn’t know the answer to that. I do, though, thought the loblolly boy. I’m the loblolly boy because I Exchanged with the boy who became me. Or rather the me I used to be.