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He turned and hurried back to the ferry.
A month passed. Then two. Then three and four and five. He did not despair. He knew it was only a matter of time before they got a response.
Then on a cool autumn day, the doorbell chimed.
A man stood on the porch, suitcase in one hand, the other holding a briefcase. He was younger than Arthur expected—thirty or thereabouts, and handsome, too, his wavy dark hair slightly mussed from the trip over on the ferry. His black suit was tailored to his thin frame, his tie a furious shade of red, his dress shoes coated in dust from the road.
He said, “Greetings! I’m looking for a Mr. Arthur Parnassus.”
Arthur held out his hand. A minor test. “You’ve found him.”
The man only hesitated briefly before shaking the proffered hand. His grip was solid, skin warm. When they let go, he smiled. “Ah! How wonderful. I come as a representative on behalf of Extremely Upper Management for the Department in Charge of Magical Youth. My name is Charles Werner. I’m here to discuss your proposal, and we have a proposal of our own. It’s a bit … unorthodox, but I think it’s something you’ll be interested in.”
Bait on a hook. Arthur knew that. And yet, he did the only thing he could: he stepped aside and invited Charles Werner in.
Later, Arthur Parnassus stood on the dock as the ferry approached. On board, a child. The first, but not the last. The sun lowered toward the sea, turning the waves into small, rushing mountains of fire.
Next to him, Zoe asked, “Are you afraid?”
“Ah,” he said. “I suppose I am, of many things. But this? No. Never this. I have no reason to be afraid.”
And in his head, a seductive whisper: They’re the ones who should be afraid.
He banished the voice to the depths of his mind, and as the ferry grew closer, Arthur Parnassus began to sing quietly under his breath. “Somewhere … beyond the sea … somewhere, waiting for me…”
My lover stands on golden sands
and watches the ships that go sailin’.
SOMEWHERE BEYOND THE SEA
TJ KLUNE
ONE
Years later, on a warm morning in June, Arthur Parnassus opened his eyes and frowned. The sun filtering in through the window was too bright. His sleep-addled mind put forth drowsy, terrifying thoughts that a certain son of the Devil might have something to do with it. Last week, he’d threatened to crash the sun into Earth after he’d gotten in trouble for attempting to give life to a mud man he’d made after a fierce storm. Arthur had discovered him covered head to toe in filth, the mud man half-formed. When Arthur reminded him that it would not do to give sentience to mud, the boy had promised vengeance in the form of planetary annihilation, as per his usual.
So, when Arthur shot up in his bed, he was sure he couldn’t be blamed. It wasn’t as if he thought Lucy would really merge the sun and Earth, but then he’d really seemed fixated on the mud man, who was now nothing more than a mud puddle.
When he glanced at the alarm clock sitting next to the bed, Arthur realized it wasn’t the sun bringing the end times: no, it was something far, far worse.
It was eight thirty-two in the morning on a Saturday, and the house was silent.
When one had six children of varying shapes, sizes, and magical abilities, one knew that having a lie-in was nothing more than a fanciful dream. Children—especially these children—didn’t seem to understand the concept of time. Why, just the day before, an amorphous green blob had entered their bedroom at half past five in the morning, his squishy voice loud with glee, shouting that he’d accidentally squirted ink from his nose, something that he didn’t know he could do. “I didn’t shove a pen up there or anything. Why am I inking all over the place? Oh my goodness, do you think I’m becoming a man? Also, how do you get ink off the ceiling?”
This, of course, had led to a discussion in which the ink was decided to be a mark of puberty, something the blobby boy had grimaced over before pivoting to how he’d look with a mustache or a mat of chest hair. By the time he’d settled back down, three more children had wandered in, and it’d been barely six in the morning.
Arthur had noticed—now that he was in his midforties—that six in the morning came far sooner than it used to. Joints grumbled and cracked as he stretched, his light-colored hair (with shots of gray that seemed to spread daily) sticking up every which way. His back popped deliciously as he flexed his bare toes. Muddled thoughts became clearer as the last vestiges of sleep fell away.
Where were the children?
He turned toward the lump in the bed next to him, comforter pulled up high, leaving only a mop of thinning brown hair visible along with the sound of small snores. He shook the lump, glancing toward the door to the small room attached to theirs. It was open. The occupant—the destroyer of suns—was gone, leaving only a half-made bed, discarded socks on the floor (mismatched), and cracked records hanging from the walls.
“Whazzit?” the lump muttered. “No, Grandmother, I don’t want to help you find the yams.”
“Linus,” Arthur said, giving the lump another shake. “Wake up. Something’s wrong.”
He almost fell out of bed when Linus Baker shot up, pajamas a wrinkled mess, hair and eyes wild as he looked around. “Who is it?” he demanded. “Who stole the yams from Grandmother’s cellar?” He blinked. “I don’t know why I just said that.” He patted the thick slope of his stomach. “Must have been a dream. That’s what I get for having cake before going to bed.” His hand dropped as he frowned. “Arthur? Why are you staring at me like that?”
“I adore you,” Arthur said, and meant every word.
“Oh,” Linus said, face flushing. “Yes, well. I happen to feel the same. Is that why you woke me up? That’s lovely, but—why is the sun so bright? What time is it?”
“Half past eight.”
Linus’s eyes bulged. “In the morning? That’s impossible! We’ve never been allowed to sleep this late. The closest we got was six forty-two, but that was only because the children were staying with Zoe. And even then, they still came back and woke us up.” He hurried toward the door, snatching their matching blue robes that hung from a hook. “What on earth are you still doing in bed? We have to find them!”
Arthur rose and moved swiftly. But instead of taking the robe from Linus, Arthur cupped his face and kissed him soundly, morning breath be damned. Linus blinked slowly, dazed, and Arthur hoped it would always be this way.
“What was that for?” Linus asked.
“Because I could.”
“I see. You could do it again if you wanted.”
