by J G Smith
Half a cape falls from his right shoulder, also roughly handled, while elegant vambraces and shredded sleeves add to his threatening demeanour. And there I see it. On his right forearm, seen through the cut-up garment, is a symbol; the same symbol I have tattooed on my right forearm. I lift my sleeve, confirming what I already know.
There has to be something here, as uncomfortable as it makes me feel. Then, like an aha-moment, I remember the burning sensation over my tattoo as we opened the door. I have to ask the girl if she felt the same. It may be our way through the trapdoor.
My heart almost stops as I turn to face the girl. She’s watching me, without blinking.
“Remember…” she mutters. I can’t tell if she’s asking or saying.
“What?” I ask, waving my hand to break her trance.
It doesn’t help. She’s looking at something. The statue? The reflections? Does she see them?
“Hey!” I call, vying for her attention. No response.
She appears to be overcome by sullen emotions. “Remember what?” she asks.
Who’s she speaking to? I look behind me and back at the girl. It’s a little unnerving.
“Rex!” she shouts, visibly shaken. There’s that name again. What is she seeing? Her voice goes soft as she adds, “Don’t leave me.” There’s an unmistakeable fear exuding from her frame, touched with an aura of loneliness. I can only imagine how she must feel.
Her eyes are now fixed on the ground. Her left knee is slightly bent and her foot is just off the ground. Similar to her stance the first time I laid eyes upon her. Though, her hand is on her chest (not her shoulder), gripping her shirt with a clear sense of vulnerability. I give her a moment.
“I want to go home,” breaks her voice, fighting the tears. It triggers a memory of Lighkame in my mind; of him uttering the same words. “But I have no idea where it is,” she adds. Her arm shifts from her chest to her shoulder as she curls inwards. “I don’t remember it; but I feel it. And all I’m seeing is these vague as anything visions.” She’s willing to do whatever it takes, she tells me. That’s why she came here. That’s why she needs to find Oliver Curie’s tomb.
“What did you see?” I ask, approaching her slowly.
“Rex,” she tells me. Her arm drops and she resumes normal posture. “I don’t know who he is, but it feels like I used to.”
“Yeah?” I probe.
“He looks like you,” she tells me. “A little different, but a lot the same.”
Could he be the one I’ve been seeing in place of my reflection? Not counting the new ones. I share my thoughts with the girl. She shrugs and says, “Maybe.” Add that to the list of questions.
“Look,” I tell her, desiring to win her confidence, “I know it’s hard to swallow all this new information. I mean, two days ago I didn’t even think other worlds existed. I’m still struggling with the idea. And that thing with the electricity…”
Her eyes lock on mine. I almost place my hand on her shoulder, then jerk it back as soon as I realise what I’m doing.
“We’ve got to work with what we’ve got,” I say, now stoic. I start my list. “My friend is dead.” There’s a bit of a pause. “Lighkame could come back. I can’t lose anyone else. Then there’s us. We both have strange abilities and unexplained tattoos. Whatever’s happening, we’re smack bang in the middle of it. And I hate to say it, but these statues may just be our way forward. It cannot be a coincidence.”
She’s quiet. I can’t tell what she’s thinking.
“I have to ask,” I begin, breaking our gaze. “When we opened the door, did your ankle feel like it was burning?”
An expression! Her face twists. “How did you know?” she asks.
“Mine did too.”
“Did yours turn teal as well?” There’s a spark of excitement in her eyes. It, in turn, bubbles my mood.
“No,” I reply. I’m not even sure I know what teal is. “But I saw a bit of crimson.”
With our spirits now lifted, I mention my theory. Insane as it is. “What if the same thing happens with that door in the floor?”
“Like we both touch it and it opens?” she asks, not convinced.
“I don’t know,” I say, moving to the statue with my same tattoo—symbol—thing. “What if…” I start thumb-sucking. I scan the statue. “What if we—” I touch his arm and, in instant, feel the same burning sensation. I pull away. “Go to yours,” I tell her, suggesting she does the same.
I do it again. This time, as I keep hold, my tattoo turns crimson (same as before). I look to the girl and notice hers change colour as well. That’s what teal is. Not even a second later I see the markings on the statues change colour as well. They glow – the same respective colours. Another second passes and their eyes mirror the effect.
That’s cool, I think.
The girl shakes her head and smiles, the biggest I’ve seen from her. It’s a thrilling sensation, a nervous excitement, which quickly dissipates at the onset of a terrible grinding din. It’s the sound of stone scraping against stone, deafening my ears and reverberating through my bones.
“The floor door,” says the girl, running over to the trapdoor. It’s open. I notice the teal has faded and so too does the crimson as I let go of my statue.
It makes me think of Lighkame, briefly, and his red glow. It can’t be the same, I tell myself. It has to be different.
I take one last look at the statues before going down the apparent abyss. They all have markings. They all seem noble in their standing; from a winged warrior and a hardy nomad (alongside the girl’s statue) to a sorcerer and a priestly general (alongside mine). How the girl and I fit in, though, remains a mystery. Is this what Lighkame saw when he said I was different? It makes me even more curious to find out who this Oliver person is and what his role is. Could one of these statues be his?
The trapdoor leads to unguarded stairs, where I almost fall. I even stumble at what I assume is the last step, meeting solid ground instead, and keep walking down what feels like an icy corridor. There is no light from the room upstairs and I cannot hear anything.
I try calling out for the girl, just to confirm I’m not alone, and it dawns on me that I don’t have anything to call her by. “Hey,” I try, feeling silly. “Are you still there?”
“I’m here,” she answers, a little way off.
A small white light with a golden tinge emanates from where she spoke—from where her right fingers touch the mirror wall. It reveals her body, on the same side, and creates a streak against the wall as she walks, fading at its tail. At the same time, I notice a faint teal glow on her left side, closer to the floor: her tattoo.
I feel around for the wall where I am, wondering if it’s a her thing or an us thing. It’s cold! moving up my arm and into my shoulder, followed by warmth from my tattoo. My hand, however, remains cold as ice.
My tattoo glows a faint crimson and a white light with a golden tinge starts from the mirror—well, from the reflection. It’s an us thing. I pull my hand back to warm it up and the light vanishes. My tattoo reverts and I’m back in the dark.
“Are you coming?” asks the girl. I notice her and her light disappear to the right.
I don’t quite understand how it works, but I’ve already witnessed a number of other strange things today. I return my hand to the frozen mirror wall and have the light return to guide my way as I follow after the girl.
She takes left and right turns every so often and continues to glide the tips of her fingers against the wall, without any effort. We’re in a labyrinth, I notice, as we pass gaps that fork alternate paths. She isn’t even slowing down to question the path she’s taking.
“Hey,” I call out. “How do you know where you’re going?” She doesn’t answer. We’re going to get ourselves lost, I think to myself.
A strange tingling sensation accompanies me as I walk, more distracting than the cold in my hand. It’s as if I’m on edge, about to release a current of electricity at any moment. I pull aw
ay from the wall, but only the light and cold seems to fade.
Keep moving, Robert, I tell myself, noticing the girl’s light disappear once more. You’re falling behind. I keep having to repeat this instruction to myself as I pull away every so often for warmth as well.
She finally stops at what appears to be a dead-end.
“Where are you taking us?” I ask, catching up. “And how do you know where to go?” I rely on her light at this point, recalling my hand and shoving it into my jacket pocket.
She moves to the wall on the left, opposite me, looking about. “I’m seeing it,” she says. “When I look down a path, I see where it ends. I’m also seeing the path my dream took and, if what I’m seeing is right, there should be something here, on the other side.”
She investigates the dead-end wall, which doesn’t seem to light up when she touches it. It’s made of stone, we notice, as she touches the mirror wall to our left. “Touch your side,” she instructs, since her light only gives a partial view of the stone wall.
Reluctantly, I remove my hand from my pocket and mirror her motions with the wall on the right. A spark of electricity jumps from my fingertips as I touch the wall and I pull back. Being in this labyrinth feels strange. I feel strange—charged.
“Robert,” she beckons, urging me to put my hand back on the wall. She clearly didn’t see the spark, or isn’t bothered by it. Relax, Robert, I tell myself.
I press the tips of my index and middle fingers against the wall. The light reveals my portion of the dead-end wall and expands as its meets the light from the left. My eyes adjust to the now bright area before noticing that the wall, made of stone, is actually a door. Large, ancient and crowned with foreign characters.
“Maybe we should both touch it?” I suggest, askingly. “Or push, together?”
I let go of the wall, allowing the light on my side to dissipate, and move to push against the gargantuan door. It doesn’t budge. And the girl isn’t helping. She’s fixed in the same position, eyes on the no longer visible characters. “Is everything okay?” I ask, noticing that she isn’t moving, or blinking.
“They knew we were coming,” she says, eerily. “That’s why they built it.”
“Who?” I ask, letting go of the door.
“Those statues,” she answers, still not moving from her gaze. “Those people. They were here. They knew we were coming. That’s why they built this place.”
“I thought we weren’t gonna get side-tracked,” I joke.
“This isn’t a side-track whatever,” she defends, breaking her eyes from the now hidden characters to stare me down. “Don’t you feel it?” she asks.
“Feel what?”
“It’s more than just Oliver,” she says, looking back in the direction of the characters. “They built this for her.”
“Who?” I ask.
“The girl who will see the future. The Arcane—” she begins, then stops, as if she realised something as she was speaking.
“The Arcane Messenger?” I quickly pry for more. “Because that’s why I’m here,” I add, reminding her about my encounter with the ghost.
“I thought you came for me,” she fires.
“That too,” I mumble, trying to defend myself. “But if your mission to find Oliver is leading you to see stuff about the Arcane Messenger, it must be important.” I wait for her to say something or to look at me. But she doesn’t. “At first,” I continue, “I thought it was Skye. She’s an oracle, so she can see the future. But when I asked she was mortified. She said the Arcane Messenger would… It doesn’t matter.” I move a little closer and ask, “Do you think you could be the Arcane Messenger?”
“No!” she shouts, quickly turning to face me again. She takes it as an accusation. I forget that she was there when Skye made her disquieting claim. Calmer, but not completely, she adds, “I’m here to find out where I came from and to go back home. I don’t have a message to deliver. I don’t even know my own name.”
“I guess we’re both looking for things,” I say.
“I guess,” she agrees.
“You said there was something here?” I ask.
“Yes,” she answers. “There’s something through this door.”
“So, let’s push?” I suggest, seeking confirmation for my ill-designed proposal.
“There’s another way,” she tells me. “Don’t you feel it?”
Does she feel it too? I wonder. “What do you mean?” I ask.
“I see things,” she reminds me. “You shock things—”
“I don’t just shock things,” I say, interrupting her.
“Exactly,” she says, letting her hand drop. We both now stand in darkness. I feel her body come close to mine. It’s warm. “That’s what I’m trying to say,” she continues. “Whatever you do should be stronger here. At least, that’s what they say.”
“They?” I question, a little concerned—a little frightened.
“The people who built this place,” she answers. “Like I said, they saw us coming.”
“So, you’re seeing…?”
“Back in time,” she tells me.
Good, I think. “Just making sure.”
“Okay,” she mutters, before continuing, “So, think shocky. Tell me what you see on the other side?”
I see where she’s going with this, sort of. I feel her hand grab my shoulder—seriously, how is she this warm? I close my eyes and put my hands against the door, concentrating. Except, I don’t really know what I’m doing.
“Think shocky,” she repeats.
And so, I do. It takes a bit of effort, but I get into the right space of mind. With my eyes closed, I see the door in white, with a hint of blue, the characters above it and a maze of corridors behind me. She’s right, it is stronger.
I concentrate and push my view past the door. There isn’t much. A small room with six… tombs? Three on the left, three on the right. They have inscriptions on them, but I cannot make out what they say. I tell the girl.
“One of them must be Oliver’s,” she says, lifted from her previously weighted mien.
“This is all good and well,” I share, “but how does this help us get in?”
I almost open my eyes. She stops me. How? You know what? I’m not even going to entertain that question.
“What if you could do more than just shock and see?” asks the girl. She knows something. She’s seeing a lot more than she’s telling.
Maybe Skye was right, I think, then shake the thought. “What do you mean?”
“Just concentrate,” she says.
I move closer to the door and her body moves closer to mine. Concentrate? Right… echo my thoughts, sarcastically. I feel her warmth and shape. The image in my head stutters. I feel a rush through my body. I feel light. I feel as if the world is moving around me and lose my breath, for a moment.
The side pressed against the wall warms up and I no longer feel the stone door. I feel nothing but the girl and, as I’m feeling, I touch… “Sorry,” I say, quickly pulling away.
She turns a little, but doesn’t say anything.
“What just happened?” I ask, moving away from… what just happened. “With us—” I catch myself and awkwardly clarify, “I mean, the door.”
“I think you just took us through it,” she answers.
Wait… “What?”
“We’re inside the room,” she tells me. “Where you saw the tombs.”
I—This isn’t… “How?” I ask.
“You’re the one throwing electricity around,” she says to me, expecting me to have the answer. “It’s your peculiarity.”
“My what?”
She grunts. “I see things. You shock things. Come on, Robert.”
It’s just a lot to take in. How is she so okay with this?
“We’re looking for Oliver’s tomb, now,” she tells me. “Can you see when you close your eyes?”
“Why can’t you look?” I ask her. “You brought us here.”
“I can’t see
in the dark,” she tells me. “I just saw where the paths would take me if I walked down them.”
“Oh,” I let out.
“So,” she continues. “Can you?”
“Give me a moment,” I mutter. I close my eyes. Think shocky.
“What do you see?” she asks.
“A moment,” I murmur, trying to make out the speckled images. “Please.”
A hear her sigh.
“I see the tombs,” I tell her. You should have brought your phone, Robert, antagonises the voice inside my head. I feel like kicking myself.
“And?” she asks. “Do you see which one is Oliver’s?”
“No,” I answer.
“Look,” she pushes. Her warmth leaves my side as she moves her body away, feeling around with her left hand. She still keeps hold of me with her right hand, though.
I look around direct her to the tomb furthest from and to the left of the door. “I see an inscription on this one,” I tell her. “Actually, on all of them. The details just aren’t clear.”
I place my hand on the stone tomb and move my fingers over the inscription. I feel letters and a symbol of sorts, and nothing but a blurry shape in my mind’s eye. I let the girl know. “Here,” I tell her.
She moves her body closer to mine, again, and feels for my hand. I’m flustered. “Here?” she asks. I feel her breath on my neck. It’s warm, like her body.
Get a grip, Robert. I take her hand, awkwardly, and direct it to the inscription. A gold light seeps from the engraving when both our fingers touch. Our tattoos glow their respective colours as well, as they have with almost every other touch inside this building.
I don’t recognise the name or title, but the symbol strikes familiar with its elegant curves. Clear and bright, it reads:
Claire Stryker
The Alternate Enforcer
“She looks like the statue upstairs,” says the girl.
