The ride downtown the next morning was a quiet one. I tried to lighten the mood a couple of times, with jokes about woodworm, and how my Dad's thatched roof was looking increasingly sparse and got nothing back. They were both tense, and not because of the whole turning into a house thing.
“It’s going to be much better than last time, dear.” My mother's attempt to be reassuring got little more than a grim smile back from my father.
“Well it can’t be much worse, can it. Jesus. I wanted time with the boy first. Give him the basics, you know?”
“Um. I’m still here guys. If this undertone of panic is supposed to make me feel better, well, I have to say it’s working pretty well actually. Cos now, I’m more pissed off than worried!”
“Sorry Micks, I really am. It's just… this is a lot. Your mum and me have been planning for how we would handle today for a long time. We thought we had a little longer before you….”
“Put a deposit down? Broke earth? Abodified? Is there an actual word for turning into a house? I feel like I should probably know at least that before I meet the wise and ancient seer.”
My mother laughed.
“What?”, I asked. “What’s funny?”
Dad only shook his head in reply. The office of the Architect turned out to be a small accounting firm in a business park, just outside of town. Not somewhere I’d ever been, or even heard mentioned.
A bell rang on the door as we entered. A low budget place that couldn’t afford a full-time receptionist, and needed to call attention to anyone coming in. I looked quizzically at my mother as we stood in the empty waiting room. She shrugged. My Dad turned the ‘Open’ sign over on the door behind us, as a woman came to meet us. There was a long moment of silence. Long enough for me to shift awkwardly, under the even gaze of the pretty young receptionist.
“Hello Anne”, my mother spoke first. The girl broke into a smile, and I was lost. She was older than me, but not old enough to count me out of a chance, by my way of thinking. I affected my most nonchalant pose, as my mother and ‘Anne’ embraced.
As the clinch broke, I stepped forward. Like a man. With a sadly cracking voice on this occasion. “Hi. I’m Mik. We are here to see the Architect. Can you take us to her? I’m in a bit of hurry to find out what’s going on”.
“Mikdash Halpert I presume. And apparently you have taken your judgement of people and situations from your father.” She looked over my shoulder at the cringing shadow of a man behind me, with a glare. “I presume since you are here to see me, that things must have gone wrong.”
“My name is Mik. Wait, you’re the ancient seer?”
“Your full name is Mikdash. It means Sanctuary. I chose it myself when you were born into our world. And yes, I am the Architect, as our people have chosen to name me. You were expecting something else?”
“Well, I thought…”
“I would probably cut that down to a minimum if I were you, young man, based on the knowledge I have of men in your family. Given you know of our changing, is my appearance really unexpected? A well-maintained structure can last many many years, and I do so pride myself on my maintenance.”
“Botox or repointing for the cracks?” I muttered.
“Hmm. Quicker than he was at least.” Another glare behind me then she turned at walked back into the office. No instruction to follow, but follow we all did without hesitation.
“What did you do?”, I mouthed at my Dad as we followed her. He flushed and waved his hand vaguely at me.
“Same thing?”, he replied.
“And didn’t warn me?!”, I asked out loud.
“Shhhhh” admonished my mother. “If you two have quite finished embarrassing me. Honestly Mik, I didn’t warn you because I thought your attitude to women would be a bit better. Your father grew up in the 1800’s. What’s your excuse?”
I sheepishly trooped into Anne’s office and sat where I was bidden. I tried not to sulk. Unsuccessfully, my mother would tell me later.
“Now”, said Anne from behind a small cheap Ikea desk. “I suppose you would like to know what’s going on?”
“Is that a Linnmon?”, I asked, pointing to the desk.
My mother punched me in the arm. “Mikkey!”
I held a hand up in apology. “Sorry, serious question. Should I call you Anne? Or the Architect? I felt like The Architect had a lot more gravitas, but to be honest, I’m pretty off balance right now, and when I feel out of control I ramble and make jokes and sometimes that is unhelpful. How old are you? Cos I think my mum just said my 42-year-old father is like 200 years old, and earlier we were talking about Jericho, and stuff. So. Yeah.” I tailed off.
“You may call me Anne because that is my name. Your father is 186 years old. I am closing in on 1000 years old. A lady never gives her real ages, but you can assume I look fantastic for whatever the number is. And before you ask, yes, you are actually 16 years old.”
I mouthed nothing, so she continued.
“For obvious reasons, we can’t have a huge amount of written records, so like all the changelings, we really on oral history. That is my role in our community.” My mother kicked me before the smirk about her oral skills could turn into another black mark on the family name. Anne either didn’t notice or liked my mother enough to let it slide.
“We call that oral tradition, The Foundations”, The Architect continued. “All of us must learn it by heart before we change. It is crucial to understand the dangers and the power that comes with it. But it appears you have skipped straight to building without consulting an architect. And let me tell you, those buildings do rather tend to collapse.”
She dismissed my parents with a wave. “Leave us, now. We will begin at once.” My Dad gave me a flat smile that had probably started life as encouraging but had made some bad choices on its way to being at a pretty low point. The squeeze of my shoulder from my mother was somehow more worrying. This was serious business.
“In the beginning”, she began, “there was the dark. People made light in the dark, and things were attracted to the light, as things always are in the dark. We arose to protect the people, and their light.”
“What things?”, I interrupted.
“DO NOT INTERUPT ME, CHILD!” Anne shouted, and not even the Linnmon desk could disguise the 900+ years of fury in her tone. I suddenly felt very small.
“I will recount the history of our people. Not all of it is understood. Some we have forgotten, some will be filled in later in the recital. But you will not interrupt me again or you will need an RSJ putting in while they repair the hole I will knock into your impertinent head.”
She began to speak. I remained silent. It was nightfall before I spoke again.
