The King's Apprentice

Each laboured breath brought death closer to Camlore’s Grandmaster of Magic. Blood drained from deep gashes in the eighty year olds thighs, making his purple gown stick like a second skin. His ankles were broken to right angles and his haggard face was already pale, his eyes lost in despair at the attacker’s speed and strength. Saul Leighton, the twenty first century’s most powerful wizard, one of the most talented Grandmasters ever, cursed his weakness.

At Leighton’s shattered feet, Vesellion’s body lay still amongst the debris of her apartments. The dragon’s mahogany brown hide was marked along the spine and shoulder blades with the royal household’s vivid blue grooves. Her head was severed from her neck at the jaw line. The great and mighty Warder of Wingthrone had fought viciously, without quarter or fear.

Leighton’s thin pulse lurched as the wraith stepped over Vesellion’s neck. Leighton hoped he had done the right thing. Countless millions would die if his decision was wrong. It was too late now to change anything.

The wraith was an entity of magical script, tightly woven spells hidden in blocky yellow glyphs outlined in black, giving it a dirty yellow appearance. Screaming faces, contorted bodies and twisted buildings shifted constantly, though always creating a knight in full armour. This was not the loose fitting flexible armour a modern day knight wore, but olden, medieval armour. The flat-topped barrel helm had no eye slits, only script moving furiously like swarming bees.

The axe gripped by the being was ferocious. Its handle was three foot long and its head a curved triangle of shifting glyphs that sliced through walls as easily as through flesh.

Leighton couldn’t begin to decipher the script, but he had to try something. His hand shook as he raised it and spoke. Script, Leighton, Dissolve.

Nothing happened. The all-spell, which Leighton designed to delay even an exploding bomb spell, was no more than an old man’s useless words.

Leighton’s hand dropped. Coldness came over his body and his fear intensified. He forced a smile across his thin lips even as tears ran down his cheeks. Soon, soon, he told himself, his fear of death would end. The thought broke his fear and he found power within it. He shouted out a final spell.

Wingthrone, Recall, Leighton roared. Damn you, Mar’Morvyne.

The wraith swept its axe blade through Leighton’s neck, sending his torso dropping flat backwards, his head spinning across the floor to nestle beside Vesellion’s gaping jaws.

Camlore’s Grandmaster of Magic was dead, and seconds later, the yellow wraith knight was gone.

#

Lithop, the King’s Dragon, had known Vesellion and Saul Leighton almost from their births, almost to their deaths. The myriad lines on the ancient grey advisor’s head twisted further as he quoted the Grandmaster’s final words as recorded in Vesellion’s apartments.

For a long time, King Meridian II said nothing. After nearly seventeen years, he had hoped the name Mar’Morvyne would stay a distant nightmare. Now the name was here and real.

Retrieve the boy, Meridian said. We’ll put our plan into motion and hope, for his sake and ours, it’s enough.

1. Dark Shadows

In a few minutes time, my life would change forever. In a few short hours, I would know there was another Earth, a magical Earth, in a parallel universe, twinned with our own. In one week, throughout that world, people would know my name. I would be the famous Duncan Alexander.

Before that, I used to think I knew stuff, but looking back, at eight in the morning on the first day of March, all I really knew was the dream.

#

The shadow came from nowhere. I stopped walking and turned to my right, not alarmed exactly, but curious about the sudden shade playing at my peripheral vision. There was nothing except the moor beyond the derelict wall between the tower house and the old barn. There was a faint acrid smell, and I wondered if someone was burning plastic, though the closest neighbouring farm was seven miles away. The morning cold bit through my cargo pants and black body warmer. The sky was grey mush, like it had been all winter, and Northumberland looked like the bleakest place in England.

I walked across the yard on my way back from the stables after feeding old Bell. Her excitement for food put a smile on my face and took my mind off being stuck in Farnweir with Critch and Barry. It was eight in the morning, and I was hungry, my stomach as knotted as the cable behind Critch’s clapped out television.

The shadow snatched at my peripheral vision again. This time, I whirled straight away to my right to see...nothing, again. The burning smell was still around and it was stronger. I shook my hands loose, and started walking.

I told myself to stop being crazy. In less than six months, I would turn eighteen and leave here, a.k.a. the middle of nowhere, behind forever. The world beckoned, the world being college in Durham. Maybe that wasn’t the biggest ever adventure, but I would be free from Farnweir, and that was what was important.

The shadow crept into my field of vision a third time. I kept walking, but now I was sure something was there, or somebody. After all, shadows were caused. As fast as I could I stuck my hand out to my right, turning my head at the same time. I grabbed a fistful of air.

Thump. Two thick hands shoved me from behind over a toe-capped boot. I landed on the dusty cobble stones, not even managing to roll with the fall, the wind knocked straight from my chest. Stupid, complacent, ill-disciplined. I could almost hear Dr. Furnace tut. At least I knew what caused the shadow.

I rolled onto my back. Barry’s fat grinning face was like an overgrown toddler’s. We were both seventeen, but very different. Barry was topping six four, half a foot taller than me and most other people I ever met. I had black hair down to my shoulders. Barry’s blonde thatch was cropped to nothing.

This time, Barry said.

He swung his boot at my right thigh. Dead legs a la toecap were a Barry speciality. This one hit with full force. My nerves shivered and my eyes watered, though I kept them open. Barry was ready for a second kick. This time I rolled with the kick and grabbed his ankle using Barry’s own momentum to topple him backwards. His arms flailed as he hit the ground hard. I held his ankle and twisted it as I stood. I knelt forwards, pinning his free leg and ignoring the throbbing numbness in my own. Another difference about us, I was learning ju-jitsu, Barry wasn’t.

Let me go, Barry whimpered.

I didn’t ask what you wanted, I said, calmly.

It hurts.

Probably an understatement. I let him go and stood up, limping as I took the weight on my sore leg. Barry clasped his ankle and moaned as he looked at me with undisguised hatred. That look was why I released his leg. If I started to enjoy hurting Barry, I could see my own face going that way. My eighteenth birthday couldn’t come fast enough. I needed away from Farnweir. I needed out.

You nearly broke my ankle. Barry still held his leg up to his chest.

Stop attacking me and I’ll stop nearly breaking your ankle.

I dusted down my body warmer, waiting for Barry’s usual reply, I was only messing. The burning plastic smell worsened. I looked up, about to ask Barry if he was turning to pyromania, but he stared past my shoulder, his slack-jawed expression exaggerated by his stillness.

What’s wrong with you? I asked.

Barry continued to stare past my shoulder, transfixed. It could have been the, look behind you, ploy, he still tried occasionally, except his lips trembled. I never saw anyone’s lips actually tremble. I looked behind me.

In an instant, my heartbeat doubled. It was, beyond a doubt, the most incredible thing I ever saw in my life.

Its body was matt black. Only sleek silver lines at its joints and mouth gave any detail. Without these, it would have been pure shadow. Its ears were pulled back on a sleek upper head like a greyhound’s, but with bone crushing jaws and crocodile teeth. The whole head balanced on a three-foot long neck. At the other end, a tail slinked from side to side like a cats but with a single fishhook barb at the end. If it wasn’t for the moving tail it could have been a painting such was its absolute stillness. That stillness scared me the most.

What, what, is it? Barry asked.

Good, he saw it too, I wasn’t going mad, or we both were. I suddenly smiled. It was a nervous smile caused by the ridiculous answer popping into my mind unbidden. It was a dragon. A shadow dragon.

I thought the name as if it was the most natural thought in the world. With the long neck and barbed tail, those teeth, the shadow looked like, well, it looked like a dragon, but without any wings. It looked like a small, jet-black dragon, with thin slit eyes of trapped mercury, and small meant six feet at the shoulder blades. I wished it would move, but at the same time, if it moved it was real and dragons couldn’t be real. I knew it was real.

And still it remained perfectly composed, like a statue with an animated tail. Barry whined, like he needed to go to the toilet. I wasn’t smiling anymore. The melting plastic stink coming from it burned my eyes. What the hell was going on? What was it going to do?

It cocked its head to one side and every muscle in my body tensed at once. It looked past me, at Barry.

Stand up.

There was a sharp pain in my stomach. I saw a volcano spewing rivers of tar and silver fire. Those two words, spoken slowly, almost slurred caused both the sensation and the vision. How was that possible?

I bent forwards against the receding pain. I blinked away the tar and fire mountain. They were real. Barry was standing like a private on parade who forgot his uniform. His eyes were blanker than usual. His doughy chin was in the air, his neck with its half-formed beard cruelly exposed. The claws on the shadow’s feet were long and sharp as paring knives.

Leave him alone, I said, and immediately wondered why I said that, not leave us alone, or even, leave me alone. I was the one with major indigestion.

The shadow dragon turned its gaze onto me, its head moving so slowly it glided.

This one's mind is strong, but why does he defend the weak one?

I doubled over against the pain. It was like razors cutting me from inside. The burning plastic smell surrounded me and thick black volcanic rivers and silver flames again threatened to blot out reality. The shadow dragon stared straight at me.

Was this the one he, Farrow, last of the Sillac Slee, was sent for? All these humans looked alike.

The blades inside me sharpened against each other. I collapsed to the ground. Only my one hand outstretched stopped my falling forwards into a black sea. The silver flames licked over my arms. The words rolled around me adding to my disorientation. The words made no sense. Who or what was Farrow? Sillac what? Why sent?

The stench of burning plastic was overpowering. I was going to pass out if I didn’t get some oxygen. Was I hallucinating? Was there a toxic accident? None of this made sense. It was impossible.

I forced myself to look at the shadow. It was smiling. It couldn’t be real. Dragons weren’t real. Its teeth were gleaming silver shards ready to rip off my head. What was it?

Right before my eyes, it vanished. It didn’t fly away, turn into smoke, or disintegrate to dust; it just wasn’t there anymore. Neither was the pain, or the visions or the noxious smell. I breathed out then sucked in fresh air. Air never tasted so good.

I started to stand, and looked around at Barry. He was limping, taking the weight off his sore ankle. His hand balled into a fist, and his face screwed up in disgust.

This time, Barry said.

What are you talking about?

It was a stupid question and Barry gave me the answer with a full punch aimed at my head but only landed on my arm when I moved. He swung again, but I backed up enough to avoid contact.

Barry, hold up. I held up my hands, trying to get him to keep his distance. Instead, he punched my hands. It was a long time since I tried to reason with the big idiot, but we just came into contact with, with what? A dragon, a dragon, a dragon, my racing mind told me and at the same time I tried to counter with some more rational explanation, like, it was an alien. That was as rational as I could get.

I’ll be so glad when you’re gone, Barry said. You don’t even like it here.

At a time like this, why beat that old drum? Even if I never admitted it to anyone, I didn’t have to like Farnweir.

I wish you’d just go, now, Barry said. Except then you would break your little promise and we couldn’t have that, the world might come to a standstill if Duncan broke his promise.

I stopped backing away, my feet shifting into a fighting stance automatically. He shouldn’t have said that. Barry swung a meaty fist and I grabbed his wrist, stepped back and twisted his hand clockwise, forcing him to bend forwards. I gripped his hand with both of mine and applied pressure. He cried out. It would have been so easy to break his wrist. Didn’t he just see what I saw?

Did you see the alien, the shadow dragon? I spoke fast, through gritted teeth.

He cried out. What are you talking about?

Did you see it?

Let me go.

You’re lying, I said. Why are you lying?

I’m not lying.

You heard it speak, you heard what it said?

You’re crazy, Barry squealed.

Why was he lying? I pressed harder, but what if he didn’t hear it speak? I tried to remember the alien’s jaws moving. They didn’t move. The jaws never moved.

I let Barry go. He slumped onto his knees, and then sideways, holding his wrist and moaning.

You’ve broken my wrist, you’ve broken my bloody wrist.

I was miles away. What just happened? Had I eves-dropped on an alien’s thought processes? An alien paralysing humans at will and wiping their memories clean afterwards. So why did I remember? And if that thing wasn’t an alien, what was it?

Shadow dragon. Sillac Slee.

My mind whispered those words. I could almost smell the burning plastic and feel the knives sharpen inside.

Sillac Slee. Shadow dragon.

Why had it come here? Where had it gone? And, was it coming back?

2. A Perfect Death

But you must let me speak to him, Andre, you must, you see, you must, I beg of your indulgence, Peol spluttered.

Peol floated backwards and forwards in the cavernous foyer. A born prince of Wingthrone, his golden hide was so bloated the royal blue lines running down his back were closed over in places. His limbs, neck and tail were like growths. Fifteen feet at the shoulders, he was tall, but with madly fluttering wings more suited to a dragon a quarter his size.

Merchant Holden, the founder and CEO of Holden Construction wore his Andre appearance, a head mask of living flesh acquired over two decades earlier from a bureaucrat with a hair lip. Hunched over, lisping, and wearing a dark gown, the disguise was perfect.

Mar’Morvyne has requested absolute solitude, Prince. Can I assist?

No. Peol huffed and stared at the huge security doors that led to the portal.

Bitterness suits him, Holden thought. Peol has spent too many years living as an heir to a kingdom he has no hope of ever ruling.

You are aware our plans are in motion? Holden asked. With Peol, it was always best to check.

Of course I am! Though you really should have told me exactly when the business was to be done. Peol puffed out his torso. The sentinels turned, Wingthrone went buzz, buzz, buzz, and I knew why, but in many ways I was as surprised as the next dragon.

Holden said, No suspicions must be laid upon Peol’s already burdened shoulders.

Peol’s red rimmed eyes widened and he rolled his huge shoulder blades as if he hadn’t considered how burdened they had become lately.

Yes well, I suppose so. I have many, many worries. But when the day comes, and I am crowned the glorious and rightful Emperor of Wingthrone, this will all be in the past. Andre, I shall personally commission a palace for you to rival any ever built by our kind.

Holden’s smile stretched Andre’s hair lip. Peol was an oaf who lied so pathetically it was hard to keep from laughing. When the time came to remove that head from its blubbery neck, Holden would be first in line.

Which is my mission to Mar’Morvyne. The day has come, yes? Peol asked.

The day is close. The new Warder is installing himself and as you state, the sentinels have turned and so Wingthrone is shut for the first time in a hundred years. The new Warder has used Vesellion’s death as an excuse to close the hub. But, he acts only on your father’s orders.

A false father! Peol interrupted.

Whose true motive is to delay the Camlore Hub.

He has disgraced us by allowing such an abomination of our history and rights to progress this far. I shall eat his heart, when the time comes. As Peol spoke, globules of black spit dribbled from his yellowing fangs. We must act, today, this very day and seize the opportunity.

Your desire is righteous, but we must let your father,

A false father!

Holden cleared his throat. Indeed, and one who will play for whatever advantage he can glean. Shutting all trade through Wingthrone Hub is the very card we expected played, and in his playing it, we must not shuffle the deck, set out so beautifully by us, for us. The game has just begun.

Peol hummed low in his throat and his tail twitched impatiently like an overgrown pussycat. Holden had patience enough, but he wished the fat gold idiot would hurry up and leave, or Holden would be late for his own meeting with Mar’Morvyne. He resisted the urge to look at the two arched exits to the right, one where Peol came in and one where he would leave.

I am impatient as a hatchling, Peol said. My dear Andre, I will be happy to play our game as the great Mar’Morvyne wishes, though I hope not for too, too long, I think, because games can become tiring. He said the last in a singsong voice as if telling off a child.

You are wise, Holden lisped.

So many have said it, it must be true! Peol flicked his fore claws. Now, which way leads back to my ship?

Holden escorted Peol to the archway behind his right shoulder and watched a moment as the gaudy figure ambled into the darkness, and with a crackle of electric green light, disappeared. He straightened up and removed his gown revealing a sharply cut business suit and handmade Italian leather shoes. When he had changed, Holden wore the face everyone recognised as Merchant Holden, CEO. His dark hair, grey at the temples, was cropped short, receding only so much as to emphasise the strong cheekbones and square chin. Holden found it harder and harder to remember this was his true face, the skin he was born with. Soon, that wouldn’t matter.

The huge black marble doors to the portal in the Great Hall were criss-crossed with a hidden titanium script. At Holden’s command, the script shimmered violet and the doors swung outward. Beyond, Holden House’s original Great Hall was long gone.

The hall’s exterior windows were elaborate fakes. Inside, the walls were solid and lined with an intricate network of rusting pipes. Some of these pipes were thick as pillars, others finger thin. Spider web matting connected the pipes to the structure holding centre stage — Mar’Morvyne’s portal.

Like many older gateway portals on Earth, it was a triumphal arch, but there the resemblance stopped. Two armless oak trees formed the pillars, their roots splayed out on the bare floor, and their upper branches forced to grow into each other, causing the arch. The leaves on these upper branches glistened unnaturally, even those buried in the spider web shroud clinging to the portal, and sealing it to the exterior wall. There was a high, sweet smell, approaching petroleum. Under the arch stood an ancient man, his skin so wrinkled it was more like a corpse’s than a living human’s flesh.

The man was barefoot, and dressed in a loose fitting, ivory shirt and trousers. Under his control, three automan drones carved black glyphs onto an enormous suit of deep green medieval armour. Other drones ate the spider web surrounding the portal, and then spewed a gooey paste into the oak tree arch, feeding it.

The drones’ stick limbs and twig digits were held together by copper wire and silkworm threads. They copied and applied as the man drew figures in the air. As they carved the glyphs into the armour, the metal would disappear then reappear as the same ever shifting glyphs that made up the yellow wraith knight only now in green and black. Its barrel helm was the same as its yellow brother’s.

The drones’ oval faces, with their dumb glass eyes, checked regularly with their master for his approval. The man nodded his head gently, but then held his hand flat. His eyelids, closed in meditation, opened to reveal stone black pupils in bloodless white balls. He turned his head and the drones followed his gaze.

Holden, good. Come closer, I am almost finished.

Holden swallowed and moved closer. The green wraith knight was two feet taller than Holden, who was six foot and rarely found the need to crane his neck. Mar’Morvyne was shorter again, though his presence, his palpable connection to the knight and the portal and everything in the enormous room made Holden feel small as a child.

Completed green and black figurative script created armoured legs and arms. In the wraith’s right hand, the glyphs made a Bremen style spellsword hilt with a guard of curved spikes. It was bigger than for any human hand. The four feet long blade was itself a bar of tightly packed writhing green and black glyphs the same as those on the monster’s armour. These blade glyphs were smaller. They moved quickly, interlocking and biting each other like caged animals. Holden strained to focus.

Magnificent, yes? Mar’Morvyne’s mouth stretched to a smile.

Holden nodded. Magnificent.

Is everything ready?

The Sillac Slee is there now.

Good. But the Sillac Slee is an impatient breed, it needs close control. Bring the boy to me alive, Holden, his end is mine alone to bear. Do you understand?

Yes, Holden spoke clearly.

Mar’Morvyne closed his eyes and resumed his directions. The drones began to carve again. Holden rubbed his cheeks. His lingering torment, a torment earthly pleasures did nothing to ease, would soon end. Mar’Morvyne brought peace.

#

Mar’Morvyne shrank back from the world, letting his surface consciousness complete the wraith’s construction. In some ways, he would be sorry to relinquish this state of half-life. It was always beguilingly comfortable between worlds. Still, he scolded gently, his own pleasure was secondary.

He thought about Camlore and this Earth, and the millions who would perish to bring him permanently and completely as a whole man through the portal. He regretted that they would die without understanding why their sacrifice was necessary. Yet, it was necessary and worthy. Millions would die to bring eternal peace to billions. The boy would die as well.

The boy’s death should have been nothing beside those millions, and yet his death would allow so much good to spread through the many universes. Only Mar’Morvyne could save humanity from its endless conflicts, and Duncan’s death was so necessary, so fated, that in a way, it became wondrous.

It would be, Mar’Morvyne realised, a perfect death.

3. Dr. Furnace’s Day Off

You broke my wrist, you broke my bloody wrist, Barry shouted.

I turned from staring around, searching for the shadow dragon. Can you move your fingers?

Barry was lying on his back holding his arm to his chest and hissing through his clamped shut mouth. He looked confused.

Move them where?

Wriggle them, I said. I wriggled my own fingers.

If he could do that, his wrist wasn’t broken. Maybe it was sprained, but I doubted it. There was no way I pressed hard enough. At most, it was bruised.

Barry sat up awkwardly, staring at his swollen hand. He wriggled his fingers and although he groaned with the effort, they moved fine. He looked disappointed.

I’m sorry, Barry, I said. I didn’t mean to hurt you.

Piss off, Barry said.

He moved onto his knees. I reached out to help him but he turned away as he stood.

Piss off.

I stared into his eyes trying to detect, what, an elaborate lie? You really don’t remember the shadow thing, the dragon?

You’re mental.

Barry pushed past and stumbled across the yard towards the old tower house. The small square tower was one of Northumberland’s many Peel towers, and four hundred years ago, it was the height of modern living. Now, it was a disorganised farmhouse with bad plumbing and rusty hinges.

I followed Barry. Was the shadow dragon a hallucination? Had I flipped my lid? No. What I saw was real, but somehow Barry forgot it. It was real, however hard to believe. I hadn’t just started to hallucinate and I hadn’t eaten any dodgy mushrooms or mouldy bread.

The tower’s back door creaked open and Critch stepped out. He hadn’t notice us, and wiped his mouth with his shirt, then smoothed back his remaining strands of greasy hair. When he saw us, his eyes narrowed immediately upon Barry.

What have you done now? He jabbed a finger in his son’s direction. I told you to stop being such an idiot.

Duncan attacked me, Barry said.

Why did Barry have to walk right into his father’s traps? It was like he had a sign on his back saying, Kick me.

He went crazy, Barry said. I think he sprained my wrist, I can’t hardly move it.

Let me see. Critch went to grab Barry’s wrist but Barry pulled back.

Looks like you can move it fine, Critch said. He turned to me and smiled.

I hated Critch’s smile. There was nothing genuine about it. That smile wasn’t happy, it wasn’t sad, it wasn’t glad or gleeful, and it was pasted on like bad wallpaper.

Duncan, I appreciate your silence. I know you would never intentionally hurt Barry, and yet you keep silent, while he jabbers on and shows me his guilt. Once more, you are attempting to set an example for my deluded boy to follow.

Why don’t you leave him alone, Critch, I said. Even by Critch’s standards, that speech was cruel. I wished Barry would fight back, but he never did. That made me angrier with them both.

Dad, Barry moaned, sounding ten years old and looking it with his slumped shoulders. He could have broken my wrist.

Critch’s hand balled into a fist. Shut up! Critch took a deep breath, let it out, and on came the smile.

I’m going inside. As I walked past them both, Critch clapped a beefy hand onto my shoulder, forcing me to stop.

It has been my privilege, Critch said, to be your Guardian and when you leave Farnweir, which I know you will, and soon, this lonely place will be truly lonely. But I know your parents would be so proud of you.

I was uncomfortable enough when anyone mentioned my parents, but when Critch spoke about them it was as if he sullied my memories. My memories were precious.

I went into the musty hall and turned right into the kitchen, grabbed a decent sized pan and started to fill it at the sink. Maybe it was petulant to walk away without saying anything but there was altogether too much going on in my head. With the shadow dragon, and Barry acting weird, the last thing I needed was Critch throwing my dead parents into the mix.

Why did that bother me? Because I was thinking how maybe if this dump at least had an internet connection, I could look up the shadow dragon and those other words, Sillac Slee and Farrow. My parents never had the internet or even a phone, and before they died, they made Critch promise never to install either. Worse, they made me promise to stay disconnected, and until my eighteenth birthday, to spend every night at Farnweir. Those promises were easier to keep when I was eleven.

Ice-cold spring water soaked my hands as the pan overflowed. I stopped the tap and tipped out half the water. No internet, no mobile, and just to make me contender for biggest dork in Britain, a private tutor. I must have been the only student in the country to have three complete sets of the encyclopaedia Britannica, one each from the last three centuries, lining my bedroom shelves. I loved those books, but I would have swapped the lot for iTunes and an ISP.

As Barry entered, I set the pan on the kitchen table.

What you doing? Barry asked.

Stick your hand in the water, I said. Where’s Critch?

Barry looked suspiciously at the water then slumped down on a rickety chair. He’s gone to check the sheep.

Barry stuck his hand in the water. At first, he hissed from the cold. Then his face relaxed. I started to fix myself some toast. I wondered if it wasn’t for Critch, could Barry and me have been friends. Maybe, maybe not. Barry loved the farm, he loved the isolation and he hated learning and books. Maybe we would always have argued and fought. I felt uncomfortable. Barry belonged here more than I did. After my parents died, I always thought I should have left Farnweir. Except, I promised them I would stay.

I see Furnace is on his way, Barry said. You can’t get enough, can you?

He never comes on a Monday.

Suit yourself. Barry started flicking through last week’s paper. His car must be driving itself then.

I looked out the grimy kitchen window. Dr. Furnace’s sky blue 1935 Rolls Royce Phantom was leaving behind a dust cloud as it roared up the lane. My private tutor since I was seven years old, Dr.