by T J Marquis
“You aren’t the first to come this way,” the bear was saying, “but you are part of a lucky few.”
Though he tried, Jon couldn’t seem to count the steps away from the world behind him - the numbers slid out of his mind like oil. Before long, the desert night seemed far away, like a vivid dream an hour after waking. Jon looked around, straining his mind’s eye to see as far as he could. The dark desert he’d left was now but a sliver in a long arc or plane that stretched from some distant horizon behind him to another one far off. Other planes hung in the vault of the not-sky above, though he couldn’t see the details of the realities they might contain. Immediately though, it seemed sensible to assume that he was seeing the outer edge of many worlds, a perspective afforded, even forced, by the way in which he’d left the desert night.
The planes intersected in places, but generally were separated by unfathomable distances. Here and there he could make out the spans of long, green-gold bridges like the one on which he trod. Above - if it could be called that - and through everything permeated a seemingly sourceless light that was at once brighter and more subtle than that of the planes and bridges. He perceived that here it was always day.
Strolling forward in calm amazement, Jon was overcome by a sense of peace that he’d never known. He thought one could walk these ways above the worlds, peeking into new places, perhaps even times, and never see the same thing twice. His natural curiosity begged him to do so, but Mr. Bear moved ahead briskly as if he knew Jon might be tempted to stay here, free of all worlds among the planes.
The bridge must have bent or curved, for when Jon looked past the bear, he could see its end coming up. Another plane had appeared before them, stretching in all directions as far as he could see. At a distance, it seemed to be constructed of slivers of earth, nebulous glimpses of day, night, forests, cities and more. As they came within feet of the plane’s surface - if distance could really be measured here - the vista resolved into a starry sky over a shadowy land rolling with the curves of hills. He couldn’t make out many details, but it was apparent that they were ‘close’ enough to have a solid destination.
Mr. Bear came to a stop and turned toward Jon.
“No doubt you have many questions, and maybe someday they’ll be answered, but I advise you hold onto them for now, Jon. As much as lays behind, there is more ahead. Your mind should be focused toward the future.”
Jon tried to ask a question anyway, but indeed there were so many that perhaps the least useful is what surfaced.
“Are you an angel?” he asked the bear.
Mr. Bear’s smile held, and he did not answer, but said, “Go,” leapt up, and surprised Jon with a not so gentle shove to the chest. Jon stumbled backward through some intangible membrane, and in a blink, the light of the realm of the planes was shrouded by the constraints of normal space-time. A door had been shut, and Jon stood alone in the dark night again, boots sunk into soft sand, staring up at the unfamiliar stars of some new world.
Chapter 2
Temple of Light
The memories are new, but they ache like old wounds.
“You’re halfway there, Jon,” the voice says. “Let it hurt, and move forward.”
He tries.
After a few moments of disorientation, Jon’s eyes adjusted to the light, and his senses accepted their presence in a lower realm of being. None of this was doing anything to help his pragmatic mind believe that he was not suddenly insane. Two layers of dreamlike memory now lay between him and any sense of normality. First the panic of flight after Cal’s death, then the brief, timeless trip through that elevated realm. Much of it seemed hazy already, but the crimson stain of Cal’s blood on the highway remained vivid, a testimony to the cold fact of Jon's guilt.
The first thing he noticed was the brisk, cool air, a gentle but constant current curling steadily around him. Fine black sand stirred in the breeze, dancing about his boots, already burying them. He bent to feel the sand between his fingertips, black onyx churned nearly to powder by the passing of ages. Dunes rolled away from him, forming a disorienting labyrinth of swells and troughs that were nearly indistinguishable from the night’s shadows. He stood partway up a rise, and began to trudge up it as he studied the sky. The starlight was cold and clear as the air, with no recognizable constellations. As bright as the night was, he was surprised to find no moon.
The dune he crested was tall among its brethren, affording him a view of the horizon. In all directions it was obscured by a jumble of lights or reflections that was hard to resolve. He squinted and focused hard, but couldn’t dispel the noise until he relaxed his eyes. Then he saw that formations like squat, jagged mountains rose up from the maze of black dunes, formations not of stone, but something transparent that teased the eyes with refracted starlight and distorted reflections.
As Jon completed the circle of his survey, a light erupted from the earth far ahead. Pure, white, the beacon shot soundlessly up into the night sky and out of sight. It would be a long walk, but the call was undeniable.
Jon started off toward the beacon, trudging through the sand into the breeze. His boots grew cumbersome quickly, sharp heels sinking into the sand and making his steps a chore. He knelt, removed his footgear, and went on barefoot with much greater ease, carrying his boots, tied together, over his shoulder. He followed the longest dunes as much as possible to avoid constantly hiking up and down. The beacon’s source wasn’t visible, and it was impossible to tell how far away the beam of coherent light lay. As long minutes passed, the only way to tell time’s passing was by his fatigue. After the long, life-changing day, Jon quickly grew exhausted. He may have walked a dozen minutes, or many hours, but his feet were chilled stiff, his eyes kept trying to close, and in fact he may have slumbered on his feet a few times. Dreams or memories of the party, the drive, the shooting flitted through his mind, Mr. Bear making incongruous cameos throughout.
At last the tall black dunes fell into a wide flat with a lonely structure at its center. The bright white beacon shot out from a modest dome structure planted into the ground. The surface of the dome was a dull silver, perhaps once polished, now worn. Jon stumbled down the sandy slope to the hard-packed ground and shook away his grogginess. It was only a few dozen yards to the dome. As he approached, he noted the crackle of the beam’s intensity, the way it distorted the cold night air.
The silver dome itself was featureless, silent. Jon felt its sand-scratched surface and was surprised to find it warm to the touch. He trailed a hand wonderingly along its curve as he patrolled for an entrance. He was sure he went around it more than once before finding the arch of the doorway opened to him. Jon went in.
The silver dome’s interior was brightly lit by the beacon, erupting from a golden pedestal far below. Every surface of every terraced level was adorned with tightly packed symbols or letters of gold filigree. The script was highly ornamental, the dots and lines of either punctuation or flourish inlaid with gems of all colors.
Jon was drawn to the pedestal and made his way down. He felt slightly guilty at stepping on the priceless decor, but there were no proper stairs to go down. As he got a better angle on the pedestal, it resolved into the shape of a hand, white light bursting forth from its cupped palm. Jon reached the bottom floor, set his boots aside, and began to approach the golden hand.
A calm voice spoke to him, “Welcome.”
Jon stopped in his tracks, alarmed.
“How is it you come to be here?” the voice asked.
Jon hesitated, looking around for the source of the voice, “I...um, Mr. Bear, uh… a spirit? ...told me to follow, and I did.”
“You are afraid,” the voice mused, “but not as afraid as you were.”
“Too shocked to be scared,” Jon admitted.
“And you are weary,” the voice said. “You may approach. Accept our rest,” it instructed.
Jon narrowed his eyes a bit, but the hesitation didn’t last. He stepped nearer, and indeed he began to feel quickened.
If the crackle and buzz of the beacon could cause a sensation, this was it, slipping into his blood, strengthening its flow, teasing his nerves. He felt searched, studied, though not violated. The gentle probing was almost clinical, verging on motherly.
“You asked the bear, ‘Why me?’” the voice stated. “But you do not know for what you have come.” Jon shook his head. “It is true that many are called, and few are chosen. Some others may have attended us here tonight, but you heeded the call, and thus the task falls to you. We do not think you will shrink away.”
At that moment he was swept away, whether in body or in spirit, he did not know.
In a rush of frigid air, he found himself soaring over an island, the sea, plains, a forest, hills - too fast to make out details. His flight slowed, and he saw himself, standing atop the highest of the hills, a blood-red sword with a blue hilt held aloft. He became an arrow, shot from afar to wound this other Jon, but the arrow’s head was shattered by a mist of white-hot fire. Merging with the other Jon, he turned to find a mighty tower sprouting like a tree from the hill on which he stood. Its top was lost in bruised clouds. An urgent wave like a spiking fever carried him away, and he saw a white mountain that wept bitter tears to flood the plains. He dove into the course of a black river that delivered him to a gnarly crater like a bullet wound in the earth, seeping fiery blood.
He joined a throng of disparate peoples as they fled back across the hills to take refuge in the tower, trails of death in their wake, and he saw the other Jon again, waving them into safety. A bleeding shadow attacked Jon, but he pierced its heart, and its corpse decomposed, fertilizing vibrant fields of grain all about the tower. He became a crown, laid by leathery hands on the head of a child, and the child became an arrow nocked to a bowstring by those same leathery hands. The arrow let fly and pierced the night sky above.
Jon’s vision dissolved into pure white light, then into a simple book laying on a table. The book opened to spill forth black sands, and he found himself back in the silver dome.
“Many do not dream so vividly,” the voice said. “You are blessed. Reach into the Light and take of what is ours. Trust in the authority of the Light, and nothing shall be withheld from you.”
Though his mind reeled from the vision, Jon was so full of wonder and dreamlike excitement that he did not hesitate. He reached into the burning beacon with his right hand, and was not harmed. The Light ran between his fingers like milk, surprisingly cool. Instinctively he curled his hand around it as if he could literally take a portion into his palm. At his gesture of acceptance the Light began to flow into his body, fingertips first, and he saw his veins light up all the way to his shoulders. His vision pulsed brightly a moment later, and his breath seemed to draw in electricity. He turned away from the golden altar and stared in awe at his still glowing body. A shadow flit across his vision, and something like sleep took him.
When he awoke, he was sitting on the floor, and the beacon had been quenched. His weariness had melted away. The circular temple was quiet and dim, lit only by a gentle glow from the thousands of words and symbols on the many terraces. The voice from the Light did not speak again.
Chapter 3
Bahabe
A prism of green-gold light danced before the girl’s eyes. Her fingers twitched as it tried to escape the confinement of the space between her palms. With each miniscule gesture, she urged protruding vertices back into form, drew faults and cracks back out into an even surface. She drew her hands apart to increase the prism’s scale, and it nearly dissolved back into the aether she’d distilled it from, but she managed once more to keep it in check.
When she worked hard, when time was on her side and distractions were absent, she could resolve images in the prisms she made. Sometimes the visions were of faces she knew, people from the village. Mostly they were of far-off places and things she’d never even seen in person, and perhaps never would. Truth be told, she wasn’t even sure all of them were real. Perhaps the images were merely projections of her memories, or her imaginings. Either way, the skill was real, and that was what mattered - why she practiced here whenever she could. Today she was trying to cast the prism’s gaze eastward, in the direction of the pull.
Her cove was tucked away at the southeast corner of the island, a narrow cut between sheer limestone cliffs leading to a deep recess in the rock. No one else came here - there was no reason to, nothing to harvest, and certainly they weren’t concerned with the girl. Here, she could play with the light to her heart’s content, and no one would be the wiser.
Now the shadows were long, the whole cove growing dark. She would have to go soon, or people would start wondering where she was. She glanced at the wall of night encroaching on the deep blue ocean eastward. It seemed there was never enough time to master her strange craft; it was always time to go. She sighed, turned back to the widened prism of light, but it had cracked down the middle, its green-gold palette scattered into noise. She growled softly and cast the light back into empty space.
Looking out from the cove again, she did a double take. A man was standing in the shallow water, staring at his hands and looking very puzzled. He had not been there before, she was certain. He was tall and lean, with a well-trimmed beard, and raven hair down to his shoulders. The cleanliness of his clothes suggested royalty, but their texture was rough, like that of a workman’s. His features were chiseled and handsome, his skin clear and olive, and she guessed he was a little older than her. It was only a moment, but she felt an odd guilt watching him without his notice. Then he turned, caught sight of her, and relief washed over his face.
“Oh! Hallelujah, a person!” he cried, and began to approach her, beaming.
Her eyes went wide as she stood and backed away. The man seemed to realize he was scaring her and halted, bringing his hands up, palms out.
“Oh, hey, it’s alright,” he said, concern in his brow. “I just… I don’t know where I am. Huh, maybe you don’t even understand me.”
“You weren’t here a moment ago,” she said. She thought of her own burgeoning magic. Maybe… “Are you a magician? How did you get here?” The curiosity in her voice was only lightly shaded with suspicion.
A look of surprise on the man’s face. At what, she wasn’t sure, but he shook it off.
“It’s... weird, how I got here. A magician? No,” he said, but seemed to be thinking about it, “well… Look, I’m Jon, and I don’t know where this is,” he gestured at the cove wrapped around them, then held his hands out toward her again, “but I’m not here to hurt anybody.”
She studied his eyes. There was an innocence in them, framed by wrinkles of worry. Was that a tinge of gold ringing each iris? Those brown eyes were unusually bright, their pupils drinking in the world like a child. She cocked her head at him - something was strange about this man, but she believed his words.
“I’m Bahabe,” she said. “You’re on an island we call Sem-bado,” she took a breath. “Not a magician huh? Normal people don’t just appear out of thin air like that!” Her tone was playful.
Jon said, “I’m not even sure what I am right now.”
Bahabe thought that an odd thing to say, but she let it go. “Come on up out of the water and sit. Tell me your story, and maybe I can help you find your way.”
After the last few… hours? … Jon could imagine no reason to distrust the girl. Or anyone really. Wherever this was, the Light had sent him here, so it must all be okay. As in a deep dream, his only pragmatic choice was to follow the trail of opportunity.
She was a pretty girl, athletic, her skin a deep brown. Her lovely face captured his gaze with delicate angles and large, innocent eyes. Their color was startling, grey with a ring of brown, like storm clouds above the desert. Her high cheeks seemed to pull her mouth into a naturally amicable smile, but there was the slightest hint of mischief at the corners of her mouth, as if a smirk lie a moment away. Her humble clothing and braided, beaded hair gave her a decidedly bohemian look, and indeed her demeanor was
relaxed and unconcerned. This put Jon somewhat more at ease, though the mystery of his circumstances remained disorienting. He joined her shortly, dazedly hunkering down in the shade. His fingers found a twig and he drew in the sand as he spoke.
He told her most of his story from the previous night, leaving out Cal’s death and his own act of murder. He wasn’t really ready to unpack all that yet. He focused on his unease, the sense that something needed to change, and described wandering into the desert to meet Mr. Bear. The girl betrayed no knowledge, or lack thereof, of anything he spoke about, nor did she balk at the idea of a talking teddy. She did not interrupt or ask any questions, and Jon found himself basically thinking out loud.
He even recounted the vision the Light had shown him and could see her puzzling it out.
“It was almost like the Light spoke the vision to me. Its words came to life. I’ve never felt anything like it. When I came to, everything was quiet. I went up the steps to the dome’s exit, and when I went through, I showed up over there,” he pointed to the spot where she’d first seen him. Jon finished his tale, abruptly silent. He looked at the girl for a reaction - doubt, affirmation, humor - but she simply looked interested, waiting to be sure he was done. When it became apparent he was, she nodded to herself and mused in the silence.
Tiny waves lapped at the shore of the cove, the white noise of wind and water blanketing everything in calm anticipation of the rising tide. Jon let it soothe him as he waited for the girl to say something.
“Sounds like you have a job to do,” Bahabe said at last. “Alright, I’ll help you.”
Jon’s face showed his surprise, and she chuckled at him. “You’d help a random stranger, just like that?” Jon asked in disbelief.
