THE CRYSTAL THRONE by Bert McKenzie Copyright 2010
Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any real person alive or dead is coincidental and unintentional.
CHAPTER II
"I've killed it!" the thought raced through Scott's mind. He felt filled with a sense of relief as he reached over and turned on the kitchen light. "I've killed him!" now flashed through his thoughts, and the feeling of relief was gradually replaced by a feeling of dread.
Stretched face down on the floor was the still body of a young man. Under the glare of the kitchen light the statue-man had become an almost ordinary human being. The skin on his arms, legs and back was very pale, not quite as white as an albino, but more like a person who had not seen the sun in a very long time. "Probably been in prison," was Scott's thought. The head was covered with shoulder length, curly hair, so extremely blonde as to almost appear white. The face was turned to the side, hidden from his view by the long hair. Tattered white shorts that appeared to have once been long pants chopped off at the knees, were the only sign of clothing on the man.
Scott reached for the wall phone and started to dial 911, but something made him stop. The police weren't exactly happy with him at the moment. Now he had a dead man on his kitchen floor. He dialed a different number.
"Hello?"
"Jennifer, can you get right over here?"
"Scott, what's wrong?" she asked.
"My ghost turned out to be a real person," he explained, "and I think I've just killed him."
"Did you call the police?" Jennifer quickly questioned.
"Not yet, but I will."
"Call them now," she instructed. "I'm on my way."
Hanging up the phone, Scott again turned to the body. He reached out and nudged it with his toe. "I guess I shouldn't touch anything till the cops get here," he thought. That reminded him about calling the police. But instead he stepped over and knelt next to the body. He felt the back pockets of the pants for a wallet or ID. Nothing. Screwing up his courage, Scott shoved and rolled the intruder over onto his back.
The pale curls fell away revealing a delicately handsome face. No, handsome wasn't the word. Beautiful. It was a singularly beautiful face, not in the least bit feminine, yet still delicate, with perfect features and smooth, pale skin like marble or ivory. The broad shoulders and chest were of a matching beauty tapering to a thin stomach, all of the same smooth, pale skin. "No wonder I thought he was a statue," Scott mused. "I've never seen such a perfect body, and so smooth." He couldn't resist the impulse to touch the chest, and gently run his hand down over the stomach. He could feel the warmth of the tissue, and the tight muscles corded across the young man's gut. And something else! Movement! The chest and stomach moved ever so slightly.
Scott dropped his ear to the man's naked chest. He could hear the steady pounding of a strong heart. "So I didn't kill him after all." For some strange reason the feeling of relief returned. Scott shoved and pulled, and managed to get his arms under the pale body. As he stood he marveled at the weight. The body was fairly well muscled and he probably stood about 6 feet tall. Scott would have guessed the man weighed around 160 to 180, but he felt extremely light, no more than 100 pounds at the most. Scott took him into the drawing room and laid him on the couch. Then turning on a table lamp, he sat down and examined his uninvited guest.
The room itself was a combination of library and study. Two of the walls were lined with built in bookcases broken by large bay windows looking to the north and east. A small, brick fireplace was located on the south wall, decorated with a polished hardwood mantle piece. Scott had added a large old desk and some comfortable, overstuffed furniture so that he could use the space both as his office and as a living room. It was a very masculine, yet homey setting, which made the stranger appear even more out of place, sprawled on the heavy furniture.
The pale skin of the intruder's arms and legs appeared to be lightly dusted with fine hair, so pale as to appear translucent. It gave him an almost sparkling quality as the light reflected off of it. The legs and arms both showed evidence of strong muscles. The hands were thin and delicate with extremely long, thin fingers. Scott noticed that the bare feet also ended in almost unnaturally long toes. Again, his eyes returned to the slightly moving stomach. He remembered the feel of the firm skin under his fingers. There was a warm stirring in the pit of Scott's own stomach. "What's going on here?" he thought. He had felt that stirring before, always as a prelude to sex. "I know it's been a while, but come on." He pulled his eyes up, away from the intruder's navel, up to the face.
Scott jumped. There were two piercingly bright green eyes looking back at him. He suddenly felt very vulnerable and began wishing he had called the police.
The mouth moved slowly. "Tuatha da kronen," it said in a faint whisper. Scott only shook his head. The green eyes appeared to cloud over. The lids slowly fluttered shut.
"Hey," Scott said. "Hey, wake up." He reached out and gently shook the bare shoulder. In the back of his mind he remembered something about keeping people awake who have had head injuries.
The unnaturally long, sparkling lashes fluttered again, and again the mouth whispered. "Tuatha . . . tuatha de dannan." The head then fell to the side. Scott dropped to his knees beside the couch and again put his ear to the man's chest. He could still hear the steady beating of the heart inside.
Just then the doorbell rang, followed by loud, pounding knocks. "Jennifer," he realized. Scott rose and headed for the front door. He closed the double doors to the drawing room, took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and headed into the foyer. He opened the door to reveal his friend, dressed in an old housecoat with fuzzy slippers and a somewhat frantic look on her face.
"Where are the police?" she demanded. "You mean they didn't get here yet?"
Scott tried to block the opening, but she barged into the house. "I didn't call them," he replied quietly. Scott's mind was whirling. What could he possibly tell her? Why didn't he want to tell her the truth? "I'm sorry I upset you," he stammered. "I had this dream and it seemed so real. I guess I woke up and called you before I realized it was a dream."
She eyed him suspiciously. She wasn't buying it. "You didn't kill somebody?"
"No," he replied and tried to grin.
"I'll fix you some tea," she said and turned toward the drawing room, on her way to his kitchen.
"NO!" he shouted as she placed her hand on the door knob. "No, it's alright. You go on home and I'll call you tomorrow."
"Scott, are you alright?" she asked, not moving from the drawing room door.
"Of course," he replied, inching back toward the front door, hoping she would follow. It was no use. Jennifer quickly turned, opened the doors and headed into the room. Taking another deep breath, Scott rushed after her.
She was already in the kitchen running water into a kettle. She didn't see the pale man. Scott looked over to behold an empty couch. There was no one there. He looked all around, but the room appeared to be empty. Maybe it really was all a dream. Just then Jennifer came back in to ask about the tea. She noticed him looking around. "Lose something?" she questioned.
"No, no, I guess not." She turned back into the kitchen as he walked over to look out the window. Crossing over to the far side of the room, he turned and saw a bare foot sticking out from behind the couch. The intruder must have gotten up and collapsed again falling behind the big piece of overstuffed furniture.
Scott went quickly into the kitchen and thanked Jennifer for her consideration, but he professed to be really exhausted and just wanted to go to bed. After a few weak protests, she allowed him to escort her out of the kitchen and finally out the front door. He had to promise to go right to bed and call her in the morning before she would agree to head off the front porch toward her car. He watched her drive off down the street before quickly returning to the drawing room.
The stranger was still lying in a heap behind the couch. "So it wasn't just a dream," Scott muttered, and bent to pick him up again. And again he marveled at how light weight a man of this size could be. This time he turned and headed out of the room and up the stairs with his burden.
Scott gently placed the unconscious stranger in his own bed. He pulled a light sheet up over the man, partly because of the cool breeze now blowing in through the window, and partly to cover that beautiful body that was beginning to get to him, and then he sat in the chair in the corner. Why did he bring the intruder up here? Why didn't he call the police? Why did he lie to Jennifer and rush her off so quickly? What was going on? These were the questions buzzing through his brain as he sat in the gloom and looked at that beautiful face on his pillow. Slowly, his own eyes began to close.
He had no idea how long he had been asleep. It was still dark outside, but several hours must have passed. Scott could hear the first faint stirring of birds through the window. It must be nearly dawn. He looked over to see that his bed was empty. The stranger had gone in the night while he slept.
"I'm lucky he wasn't a psychopathic killer," Scott mumbled as he stood and headed downstairs to check the rest of the house. As he turned the corner to go through the drawing room he froze. Someone or something was moving around in there. Scott quietly tiptoed to the door and peeked in. The pale man was looking at the nick nacks in the antique breakfront beside the mantle. He picked up each item and examined it carefully, then put it back.
He suddenly froze as if again turning into a statue. Then just as suddenly, he turned to look directly at where Scott was hiding in the shadows of the doorway. He didn't move again, and appeared to be waiting. Scott, not knowing what else to do, entered the room. "Who are you?" he asked, then remembering the strange language from the night before, wondered if the intruder would even understand him.
The green eyes looked to the window, as if contemplating escape, then back again. But Scott never took his eyes off the man. He didn't even blink, remembering how the intruder vanished on previous nights. A smile lit the pale face, making the stranger appear even more beautiful than before. He spoke in a light, almost musical voice. "You learn very quickly. One blink and I shall be gone." The man had read his mind. There was a faint, foreign accent to his speech, but Scott couldn't place it.
"Who are you?" Scott repeated.
"A name is only a word, and yet a name is power." The voice had a soft, warm quality. Scott felt warm and fuzzy. He realized that the stranger seemed to be almost hypnotizing him with the vocal sounds. He had to concentrate to keep from blinking, or looking away. "You are very strong of will, too. I have not met one like you before."
"I'll call the cops!" Scott insisted as he took a step toward the desk.
"Cops? Others? Why? There is just you and me. We need no others." The warm music was almost overpowering.
"Who are you?" Scott again demanded.
The pale man turned and looked out the east window. The first rays of the morning sun broke through and bathed him in golden light. His ivory skin seemed to change color, and he appeared again to be a statue, but this time a statue of polished gold. He heaved a sigh. "Robin. You may call me Robin, wise man."
Scott thought he was being taunted, and yet there was no sarcasm in the voice. "Is that your name?" he questioned.
"One of them. Worry not; it will hold me." The golden statue turned away from the window and back toward Scott. "I am weary, and my head hurts. May I sit?" he asked, and walked to the couch, not waiting for a reply.
Still fearing to take his eyes from the stranger, Scott sat on the edge of the desk. He rested his hand on the phone, not knowing who to call, or what to do next. The stranger sat and looked at him, then leaned back with a moan. "Why does my head hurt? What happened to me?" he asked.
"You broke into my house, so I hit you," Scott answered matter-of-factly.
"You did this?" the stranger asked looking again at him. "Such strength and violence combined with strong will. It is an unusual combination in one such as you." He stood up, apparently too quickly, and began to fall. Scott jumped to catch him. As the stranger reached, Scott positioned himself to take the weight of his fall. With cat like agility the intruder had placed a muscled arm around Scott's throat, all but shutting off the air, and immobilized him by twisting his arm behind his back.
"Now my young friend," he said, "I will have your name. If I am to be bound, so will you be." Scott's vision swam, he tried to move but the stranger only exerted more pressure as he struggled. "Your name!" the stranger demanded.
"Scott . . ." he gasped.
"I know you have more than one. Your other names, quickly!" He tightened his grip for emphasis.
"Quartermain . . . Scott David Quartermain . . ." The stranger just as quickly released him. Scott gasped for breath and looked up, rubbing his throat.
The golden man was standing tall, looking down at him. "Now I bind you, as you have bound me," he said quietly.
"What do you want here?" Scott asked as he drew in deep breaths.
"I am searching," the young man replied and sat again on the couch.
"Searching for what?"
The man jerked his head up to look into Scott's eyes. "For a key . . . and a door," he said. He then smiled again, showing pearly white teeth.
"I don't have any key," Scott said, not really knowing what the man meant.
"But it is here. The sign shows it."
"What sign?"
"The circle behind your dwelling, Scott Quartermain." The man had a satisfied look on his face as if everything made sense.
Scott had lost all his patience with this mysterious stranger. His house had been broken into, and he had been attacked by this maniac. He would put up with no more. He picked up the phone and reached to dial the number. "Do not communicate with the others!" the man commanded, rising from the couch.
"This is crazy!" Scott cried. "What do you want? Who are you?"
The stranger spread his legs in a firm stance and placed his hands on his hips. "I know you not to be a fool. Can it be that you recognize me not for who I am? I be not just one of the fair folk!" As he spoke the golden stranger's voice grew deeper and stronger. His entire frame seemed to grow with his voice until he stood, filling the room and looking down on Scott as an adult might look down on a naughty child. His body seemed to glow and pulse with an inner light and Scott thought he saw sparks of blue static electricity running along the muscles of the man's chest and arms. "I am ruler of the Tuatha, Rightful Holder of the Crystal Throne of Esbereth! I am the Dagda, Oberon the Mighty, son of Oberon the Stalwart! I have been secluded and exiled, but I shall be avenged!"
As he finished, the golden man seemed to collapse in on himself and shrink back to normal proportions. He no longer appeared larger than life, or even particularly strong and healthy. Now before Scott stood a slender man, his middle aged face lined with care worn wrinkles, his shoulders slumped, and his pallid complexion adding to the look of a very sick person. He dropped back onto the couch.
Scott got up and sat behind the desk, visibly shaken by what had just transpired in his own home. "Are you some sort of magician?" he finally managed to ask the pale man who was slumped across from him.
"Magician?" the man snorted derisively. "I reveal my power and you think I a human charlatan." He slowly shook his head. "I have told you. I am king of the Tuatha, the fair folk."
"Fair folk?"
"In your language we have many names. The most common are elves and fairies."
Scott's jaw dropped. "And you broke into my house looking for a key?" he questioned, somewhat skeptically.
"The key to my home. I have been away for too long. I must return, but tonight is my last chance. I have grown old and weak in your world." And then, as if to change the subject the guest made a strange request. "Have you any food? I require sustenance."
Scott felt as though he were still living in a dream from which he could not waken. He went into the kitchen with his strange guest following close behind. Scott fixed them breakfast of eggs, bacon, toast and coffee. Robin, as he preferred to be called ate voraciously.
"I really don't understand any of this," Scott said as they sat, sipping coffee. The stranger then began to talk, telling a strange tale of a different world.