Nirusha through the Doors of Magic

By Michael Cairns

Nirusha has never felt more alone. Now dad’s gone and mum’s become a zombie, all she has is a bedroom in a house she barely knows, and her books.
Until, that is, a man appears at the back of the garden, offering her a present and a message from her dead father.
Nirusha is still alone, but now she has something to live for, something that will change her life forever.
Magic...
And talking rats.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Cairns
• Release date: Mar 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9781909699816

Michael Cairns

Michael Cairns was born at a young age and could write even before he could play the drums, but that was long ago, in the glory days - when he actually had hair. He loves chocolate, pineapple, playing gigs and outwitting his young daughter (the scores are about level but she's getting smarter every day). Michael is currently working hard on writing, getting enough sleep and keeping his hair. The first is going well, the other two...not so much. His current novels include: > Young adult, science fiction adventure series, 'A Game of War' 1. Childhood dreams 2. The end of innocence 3. Playing God 4. Breathing in space 5. Escape 6. Gateway to earth > Urban fantasy super-hero series, 'The Planets' 1. The spirit room 2. The story of Erie 3. The long way home >Paranormal horror post apocalyptic zombie series, 'Thirteen Roses' 1. Before (Books 2-6 due for release in spring)

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Nirusha through the Doors of Magic

By

Michael Cairns

Published by Cairns Publishing

Copyright © Michael Cairns (2020)

All rights reserved. No part of this publication

may be reproduced, distributed, or

transmitted in any form or by any means without the

prior written permission of the publisher.

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For Pickle

Chapter One

Nirusha came from everywhere and nowhere. Mother said she was born on the road and never left, but Nirusha, who had the kind of mind that liked things to make sense, knew this was nonsense. What she did know was that she’d rarely had time to memorise her postcode before they were off again, chasing her father’s dream.

At least, they did before he died.

Mother called it a freak accident. Nirusha wondered what the difference between a freak accident and a normal one was. Maybe the freak accident had a funny eye, like the boy she’d sat next to in… three towns ago, or maybe four. He’d had an eye that couldn’t go where the other one went. She no longer remembered his name, but she did remember sharing crisps with him one lunch time, and the way his face lit up when he smiled.

He’d been one of the nice ones. Maybe it was the eye. He’d been used to being alone, much like her, so hadn’t felt the need to point out how different she was. Most of the people she’d met in the many schools she’d attended seemed to take great pleasure in doing exactly that.

She was good at ignoring them. It was nice not to have to ignore the boy with the funny eye. It was bad that she couldn’t remember his name but then, she’d never been good with names. Her father hadn’t either. Sometimes he’d forgotten her name. Sometimes, he’d forgotten mother’s name. Mother used to say it was because he was too smart to waste time on trivial things.

Of all the things Nirusha wished she could capture, it was the look on her mother’s face when she’d talked about father. Before he died, that is. Nowadays, she didn’t talk about much of anything, and never about him. But before, when he was dream chasing and they, washing along in his wake, mother’s face would light up from the inside. Her whole self would come alive and sing.

It was, Nirusha knew, the most wonderful sight she’d ever see. She had an inkling, albeit a silent one, that what she was seeing was love. But mother had never looked like that when talking to her and Nirusha knew that mother loved her, so maybe it wasn’t. At eleven, well, nearly twelve, Nirusha was on the cusp of deciding that maybe there were different kinds of love. So maybe that explained it.

On the morning that Nirusha’s life changed, again, it rained. It often rained in England, so there was nothing remarkable about that morning. But it came at the end of a long, dry summer holiday, when the tiny scrap of grass out back of their even tinier house had turned first brown, and then grey, and when Nirusha had taken to stalking around in her pants, growling at anything that came near. Admittedly, nothing ever did, since mother was happy to confine herself to the kitchen in front of the only fan they owned, and neither of them wanted pets. Actually, Nirusha would have liked a pet, but since it was illegal to keep polar bears in England, she remained pet-less and, as was the natural order of things, friendless.

This morning she was growling at a particularly aggressive shadow when she saw him. He stood at the back of their garden, where the low fence revealed waste ground, complete with a broken slide, empty swing frame and lots of rubbish, and the forest beyond. There were plans for more houses there. Normally Nirusha wouldn’t have cared, since she’d not be there long enough to see them. But things were different now. Father was gone, which meant no dream chasing, which meant no moving.

She knew the things it didn’t mean. What she had no idea about was what it did mean. Maybe the man, peering intently through their back window, was here to tell her.

‘Mum, there’s a man at the back of the garden.’

No answer. In the days and weeks since father’s death, Nirusha thought she could have  screamed ‘FIRE!’ and received the same response. The temptation to do so had been strong on more than one occasion.

‘MUM?’

‘What.’ It wasn’t really a question. Questions had to sound, well, questionny, and this just sounded tired. But then, mother always sounded tired these days.

‘There’s a man at the back of the garden.’

‘Where?’

‘At the back of the garden.’ Nirusha entered the kitchen. There was… Nirusha didn’t really know what it was. Someone a little older might have described it as a truce, between her and mother. So long as neither of them mentioned ‘him’, or asked any questions that might lead to thoughts of him, they got on just fine. Well, not fine, not like before, but okay. Nirusha was just coming to understand that in the world inside her mother’s head, anything, or anyone, who wasn’t father, was less than real. Certainly, Nirusha had been left in more shopping centres that most children. It wasn’t that her mother didn’t love her, it was just that she loved father more. In fact, she loved father to the exclusion of all else. Not that Nirusha really understood that, not quite, not completely. But she got the gist. Most children, if left to their own devices, get the gist pretty quick.

Upon entering the kitchen, she didn’t try to speak, or look at mother. Instead, she sidled past her and pulled up the blind. Mother hissed, squinting, then blinked a few times, as though only just realising that the bright sunshine had been replaced by dark clouds and a steady, heavy downpour.

Somewhat strangely, the man at the back of the garden didn’t seem to be very wet. In fact, he barely seemed to notice the rain at all. As Nirusha and her mother stood, side by side for the first time since throwing dirt into the big dark hole into which her father had been lowered three months earlier, he waved.

It was a cheerful wave, the sort normally reserved by old people, for other old people. But he wasn’t old and neither was Nirusha.

‘Should I invite him in?’ Nirusha asked her mother.

‘He didn’t knock.’

‘No, but he obviously wants to talk to us.’

‘He might be a nutjob.’

‘A what?’

‘He might be dangerous.’

‘Oh. He doesn’t look dangerous.’

‘They’re the ones to watch out for.’ With that final judgment, mother sat back in her chair and scooped a magazine off the table. It was a cooking magazine, which was funny since they’d eaten little but baked potatoes and fish fingers for… well, at least twelve weeks.

Nirusha shrugged at the man, trying to encapsulate both regret and powerlessness into the gesture. The man responded by crooking his fingers into a cup and using it to beckon her. She looked up at the sky, wrinkled up her nose, then tried another shrug. The man smiled, raised an umbrella from behind his back, and beckoned again.

‘Mum?’

‘Mmmm.’

‘Nothing.’ She sloped out of the kitchen, turned left, opened the under stairs cupboard, and then the box within. It hadn’t been opened in the four months they’d been living in this particular house, but luckily neither moths nor jacket gnomes had found their way in. Nirusha pulled her raincoat out and pressed it to her nose. As with so many of her things, this carried just a tiny whiff of him, the smell when she pressed her face into his tummy and wrapped her legs around his. She smelled and smelled, until the smell was gone, or she’d gotten used to it. Then she wiped her eyes, pulled her jacket on, and peered out of the back door.

What if he is a nutjob, she thought. The idea of the strange man with the happy wave kidnapping her and taking her away wasn’t nearly as bad as it should have been. But her stomach still tightened as she opened the door and stepped outside.

The rain told her to go back inside. It did this with insistent, constant battering on the head and shoulders, mingled with occasional flurries right in her face. Nirusha narrowed her eyes, like she was still stalking shadows, and crept out into the ‘garden’. She had a sudden vision of her father, like he’d sprung to life, fully formed, in her mind. He was ruffling her hair as she complained about the rain, telling her that she’d had her fun and now it was time for the grass to get some too. He did it with that smile on his face, the one that made her smile, even if she was sad.

Her throat grew a lump, as though rather than seeing her father in her mind, she’d swallowed him and he’d stuck halfway down.

She tipped her head back and let the rain strike her full in the face. It struck her open mouth and ran down her throat, easing the lump until she could breath again. The rain no longer told her to go back inside. Instead, it invited her out to play. As she stepped onto the garden path, she noticed she’d forgotten to zip her jacket up. She left it that way as she hurried to the back.

The fence was constructed of flat planks, four feet high and stained dark brown. Years had worn away the dark brown in places, leaving the tops, corners and sides of the planks so pale they were almost grey. But in the rain, it was all dark brown again, new even.

Nirusha eyed the man. He wore no hat and very little hair. The stuff that was there sat right on top of his head, pale brown and still, somehow, dry. Beneath it, his face was warm, and friendly, and open. Nirusha would never have used at least two of those words to describe someone before now, but she’d not seen anyone who looked like this man. His nose was slightly too large for his face and seemed to have squashed itself in, as if in apology for its size. Beneath it, his mouth was wide and smiling and above, his pale brown eyes did the same. He had what might once have been a smart suit, but was rumpled and stained on one lapel and reminded her of what father would put on upon getting home from work.

‘Hello,’ Nirusha said. She wanted desperately to invite the man in, that being the polite thing to do, but she couldn’t, so she said, ‘I’d really love to ask you in but mum says you might be a nutjob. Sorry.’

The man’s smile widened and he nodded. ‘Your mother is wise.’

‘Why? Are you a nutjob?’

‘Not at all. But it’s the ones who say they aren’t who so often are.’

‘Really?’

‘I’m not sure, to be honest, I’ve not met many nutjobs.’

‘Oh.’

‘How are you, Nirusha?’

‘How do you know my name?’ Nirusha had been described by one teacher, a few schools back, as sharp enough to injure both herself and her classmates. In a display of rare awareness, she’d been entirely right.

‘I know a great many things.’

‘Are you here about father?’

‘I’m not. Although, I know you don’t know me so it means little, but can I say how sad I am about his recent departure?’

Departure sounded to Nirusha like her father had just jumped in the car and driven away, rather than been hit by a falling tree, but she didn’t say so, because she was looking into the man’s eyes and he looked like he really meant it. She sniffed, wiped rain off her forehead, and said, ‘thank you,’ because she’d learned that that was what you said. It made no difference if the person really was sorry or not, or that the sorry made no difference to how Nirusha felt. You just nodded, said thank you, and moved on.

Only, this time, there was nothing to move on to.

‘I’m here about you, actually.’

‘Oh. Is it school?’

‘Not at all. Do you like school?’

‘Not really.’

‘Why is that?’

‘I don’t know anyone there, my teachers don’t know me, and I can’t stand maths.’

‘Maths is the language of our world, Nirusha.’

She frowned, deep memories bubbling to the surface. ‘Father used to say that.’

‘Your father was at least as wise as your mother.’

‘Yes he was.’

They stood a moment, letting the rain fill the silence. Though she wasn’t really aware of it, for the first time in the last three months, Nirusha’s soul enjoyed a few precious seconds of peace. Then a particularly large drop of rain splashed into her eye and she screwed up her face, wiping it with the back of her equally wet hand.

‘Why aren’t you wet?’

‘If I tell you, truthfully, do you promise not to laugh?’ he said, leaning closer. There should have been something creepy about this strange man, who knew her name, leaning over the fence towards her, but there wasn’t. Instead, a strange electricity seemed to grip her, from her toes to her hair, making both curl up as she leaned nearer to him, until she could smell him. He smelled not unlike father, just a little more… herby, or spicey maybe. Something she didn’t recognise, but definitely something natural.

He smiled, then said,

‘Magic.’

Nirusha didn’t laugh. She didn’t even have to try not to. She just sniffed and shook her head. ‘You know I’m nearly twelve, right?’

‘I do.’ She didn’t ask how he knew that.

‘So you know I’m not stupid or gullible, right?’

‘I’m well aware of how un-stupid you are. You couldn’t be your parents’ daughter and be anything other than very smart, could you?’

‘How come you know my parents?’

‘I know them from a long time ago. Now, I have something very important to sa—’

‘Will it be stupid, like the magic thing?’

‘You don’t believe in magic.’

‘Of course not. No one does.’

‘No one?’

‘No one. Everyone reads Harry Potter and all that, but no one actually believes in it.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘…’ she opened her mouth to explain to him just how sure she was, then closed it again. She could see it in his eyes.

He believes!

‘If you believe in magic, show me. Prove it.’

‘I’m not one for parlour tricks, young lady.’ He drew himself up, moving away from her. She had to stop herself grabbing his sleeve to keep him close. The smell was near enough her father for the aching in her chest to have a perfectly sensible explanation, but her reaction was anything but sensible. She just didn’t want him to go away. He’d stopped smiling, too.

‘I’m sorry,’ she blurted out, not entirely sure what she was sorry for.

‘That’s okay.’ His face softened and he cleared his throat. ‘Really, it’s fine. Here, take this.’ He handed her his handkerchief. It was white, with tiny red pictures of rabbits, very soft, and entirely dry. Entirely.

She took it, stared at it, then held it up in the air. In the rain. The water didn’t bounce off it; instead it somehow missed it. The rain missed the handkerchief, despite hundreds of desperate attempts, hundreds of desperate drops. Every one of them missed it. A lot of it went down her sleeve instead.

‘How?’ she asked. The rest of the sentence wasn’t really necessary. He smiled at her again, but this time the smile held secrets.

‘Practice,’ he said, patting her shoulder. ‘Lots and lots of practice. Now, I came here to give you something. Something your father found a long time ago and asked me to keep for you.’

‘What? Why?’

‘I’m sure he had his reasons. I’m sure they will become clear to you in time. For now, though, I must simply pass on the gift and the message.’

‘Oh.’ Questions were popping up in Nirusha’s mind like weeds after the rain, but the look on his face kept them hidden. She could ask them, but he didn’t want to answer and would somehow find a way not to. Adults were, for the most part, sneaky like that.

The man’s hand slipped into his jacket and pulled out an envelope. He handed it to her, so she took it with her left hand, the right still occupied by his handkerchief. Her well developed manners told her to give the handkerchief back, but the rest of her refused, point blank, and instead stuffed it into her pocket. She had no idea why. It was very unlike her, but since the man showed no interest in having it, the unease that accompanied such a move passed by and was forgotten.

‘Your father wanted you to have this. He said you’d know where it was for if he told you to remember the church yard. Does that mean anything?’

Nirusha nodded. She couldn’t reply because her lip was wobbling far too much. She bit down on it and swallowed the fresh lump in her throat.

‘Alright then.’ The man cleared his throat, nodded, then began to turn away.

‘Wait,’ she pleaded. ‘Hang on. Is that really all the message?’

‘That’s everything. I’m sorry there isn’t more.’

‘Can I ask a question, please? Just one?’

‘You can always ask.’

‘What was my father searching for?’

‘Searching? He wasn’t searching.’

‘What?’

‘Your father wasn’t searching for anything, Nirusha.’

‘What was he doing, then?’

‘He was running. Now, good luck. We’re very sorry about Howard, he really was the best of us.’

The man turned and strolled away into the rain. Nirusha watched him, envelope clutched in one hand, the other stretched out towards him. It was only as the water ran down her sleeve that she realised what she was doing and drew it back into her body. Her brain, befuddled by what had just happened, finally worked out that Howard was her father.

But who was ‘we’? The man had said we’re sorry about Howard. So there were more of them.

The rain thickened, driving down at her, making a mockery of her somewhat flimsy raincoat. As the water seeped through and down her neck, Nirusha turned away from the distant figure and dashed back to the house. She paused on the doorstep and looked back, but he was gone, hidden by the rain. Or just gone. She looked at the envelope grasped in her wet, shivering fingers, then slipped inside.

Chapter Two

Hair wrapped in a towel, jogging trousers and butterfly t-shirt on, Nirusha plonked herself down on her bed. Her room was a mess. Mother had told her this at least five times already this week. That was one of the worst things about the last three months. Prior to the death of her father, Nirusha’s mother would have come into her room, made a huge fuss about the state of it, then helped Nirusha tidy it. They would have started with Nirusha grumpy and complaining, and mother going on and on about the importance of a tidy room and all the assorted wondrous things that came with it, but inevitably finished laughing about something.

Now, Nirusha’s mother came in, told her the room was a mess, and walked out. She didn’t even ask her to tidy it. Nirusha thought mother wanted her to, but just couldn’t summon up the energy to ask her. A worse, far worse thought was that Mother simply didn’t care anymore. She’d lived her whole life being tidy and look what it had done for her, for her husband. But Nirusha didn’t think about that, because if mother no longer cared about her room being tidy, then what else did she no longer care about?

So avoiding those thoughts as best she could, she slipped her hand under her mattress. First it touched her diary. She’d heard other people call them journals, though she didn’t really know why. When Grandma had given her her first diary a few years back, she’d explained how it worked.

‘My flower, this is your friend. Sometimes, you will not want to see her, not want to go through her pages. You will not want to write anything. But she is your friend, so that will be okay. Sometimes, she will be the only one you can talk to. You will spill out everything, your fears and your loves to her, and be unable to stop. And that is okay too, because she is your friend. She will always be there, she will never let you down, never not want to talk, or simply listen. Look after her.’

That was it. She’d not said anything else about it and they’d only talked about it once, since.

‘Niru, my flower, have you used your diary at all?’

‘Yes Granny, I’ve nearly finished it.’ Granny had patted her on the head, beamed her great, saucer of milk smile at her, and a week later, a new diary had arrived in the post. Since then, another three had come, all around the time Nirusha was about to finish the previous. It was impressive and slightly weird, but not at all scary, because Granny had always been a bit strange like that.

This time, though, Nirusha slid the diary to one side and plunged deeper. And her fingers closed around the key.

She pulled it out carefully, like it might break, and examined it. The first thing that struck her was the weight, for it was both surprisingly heavy and yet easy to lift. She’d not have been able to explain how it could be both to anyone, but it was. It was made of a dark metal that glinted where it curved and caught the light, yet offered no reflection of her face when she raised it to her eyes. One end was a circle, a band nearly as thick as her little finger. From it thrust a pole, thicker than her thumb, at the end of which, teeth the size of real teeth jutted out.

She had questions. Nirusha was good with questions, good at finding out answers, too, much like her father. But she had no idea where to start with these.

How did you find out what lock a key fitted, when you had no idea where it came from, or what it might open? It could be a huge sea chest, one of those grandfather clocks, or even a door. But she’d never seen a door that was big enough to have a lock to take a key like this. It was the sort of door they had in castles, maybe. Or perhaps the houses of Parliament.

That momentarily excited her and she jumped on her computer, googling frantically. But even the best resolution photos of the Houses of Parliament didn’t focus on the locks.

And anyway, it seemed unlikely. What possible good could it do her to have a way into them? The man had said she’d know what the church