The Journey

by Piers Anthony

  “One more woman?”

  “Yes. There will be five for you to choose from.”

  “Five! All I need is one!”

  “Yes. But you need the right one.”

  “Isn’t Amelie the right one?”

  “Not Trudy?”

  “Well—”

  “Or Temperance?”

  “She’s not real! At least, not in any way I could be with.”

  “Ah, but in emulation you could be with her for life.”

  Floyd was taken aback. “You would emulate her for life? No more teasing?”

  “For your life, not mine. Forty years would do it.”

  “Which would be just an instant to you,” he said, seeing it. “A dull one, but then you’d move on.”

  “It would not have to be dull.”

  “Uh-uh. You’d have to stay within the limits of the person you emulated. Only as yourself could you really express yourself.”

  Slowly she nodded. “You continue to gain perspective. You do interest me.”

  Now he was surprised. “You’d be with me as yourself? For my lifetime?”

  “If I chose.”

  “An ignorant country lout?”

  “No longer quite so ignorant or loutish.”

  “You can do better than that.”

  “Perhaps. But it takes all types to make a world, and variety is the spice.”

  Could he believe this? “Why would you so choose?”

  “If you proved worthy, and became a true man, and wanted me, then I could be interested. You have constancy and a certain willingness to learn.”

  And what lessons she could teach him! He had wanted her throughout, as she knew, but thought she was unobtainable. “But what then of your deal with Amelie, that started all this? To bring me back safely so I could marry her?”

  “I would forfeit that. Then she could keep her soul.”

  “But she did it because she learned that I was the best possible husband for her.”

  “As it seems you will be,” she agreed. “But consider the converse: is she the best possible wife for you?”

  Now he was mentally stunned. Such a question had never occurred to him before. “I—should choose—the best for me.”

  “Or the best compromise, considering the needs and qualities of each party. Sometimes the second or third choices of the two parties are best when combined.”

  “How can I possibly know that? People are complicated!”

  “Such judgments can better be made by mature folk. This is what you need to become.”

  Indeed, there was more to manhood than he had thought. “Five. You said five to choose from. Who is the fifth?”

  “Dulcie. You will meet her at Xanadu.”

  And if she were anything like the others, it would be a difficult choice. “We came all the way here, with all this adventure, so I could choose from among five?”

  “Yes.”

  “I need one more bit of information. You are a marvel of illusion, but I do not think you could deceive me completely if I got close enough to you. Will you let me kiss you?”

  “Smart boy.”

  Floyd took that as a yes. He had learned a lot about judging people, and one thing he had found was that deception was easier at a distance. A handshake could tell a lot about a person, if a person was alert to the signals. A kiss could tell more. He had kissed her before, when she had first pacified him, and in the passion flower field with Trudy, and when she emulated Temperance, but this was different. There were different kinds of kisses, as her disciplinary kiss had demonstrated. This would not be innocent fun, but a serious assessment.

  She was facing him on the horse. He put his arms around her body and drew her into him. She did not resist or turn her face away. He kissed her soundly on the lips. It was divine.

  He drew back, pondering, laboring to fathom the reality behind the sheer delight of the kiss itself. Emotion was fine, but that was not the distraction he sought at the moment. “Your body says you would do it. You are not teasing me. You would be with me, if I chose you from among the five.”

  “I would,” she agreed.

  So it truly would be a choice among all of them. Two real girls, one emulation, one as yet undefined, and Faux herself. If he proved worthy.

  There was the rub. Floyd did not yet know whether he would be worthy.

  At last they reached the ruins of Xanadu. They were not impressive. There were irregular fragments of a wall that had once surrounded the area, and the remnant of the temple in the center. It was hard to believe that this had once been a fabulous vacation resort for an emperor. There was no sign of a river, sacred or otherwise.

  They approached the temple. An old man tottered out to meet them. “Who are you?” he demanded.

  Faux was silent, now in her matronly mode, so Floyd knew it was up to him. “I am Floyd, a traveler from far Ireland, and this is my traveling companion Faux and my horse and mule. Who are you?”

  “You dare to question me?” the man demanded angrily.

  One of that kind. Floyd had a notion how to handle unjustified arrogance. “You take a simple question, like the one you asked me, as a dare? If you do not care to identify yourself, we will ignore you and go about our business. As far as I can tell, you are a trespasser here as much as we are. We can cooperate to forward our mutual purposes, or we can stay clear of each other. It’s your choice.”

  The man stared at him. “You are not at all fazed by the spook of the temple.”

  “I don’t believe in spooks.” At least not in that sense; he had seen the supernatural and knew it was real, but this old man seemed mortal.

  The man came to a decision. “Call me Waiter. Are you the one I am waiting for?”

  “I have no idea,” Floyd said. “Probably not.”

  Faux’s straight face masked a smirk.

  Waiter began to look somewhat frustrated. “I am waiting for the one who can rescue Dulcie.”

  Dulcie! That was the name of his fifth choice. “Then I may after all be the one you want. I do want to meet Dulcie.”

  “This is not completely straightforward,” Faux said, shifting to her natural form.

  “You’re a Fee!” Waiter said, astonished.

  “And you’re a wandering spirit,” Faux returned. “I will not allow my ward to get trapped by misinformation. It is time for you to come clean about you and Dulcie.”

  “I was about to,” Waiter said. He faced Floyd. “When Kublai Khan governed here, this site was a paradise with pleasant springs, delightful streams, lovely woods and meadows, all sorts of beasts of chase and game, a five mile long sacred river, and a sumptuous house of pleasure that could be moved from place to place.”

  “Now, wait,” Floyd protested. “That—”

  “The Mongols used tents,” Waiter explained. “The fanciest tents extant, unlike any seen elsewhere. They could be moved, yet inside them it was as comfortable as in any palace. I know; I was one of the tent maintainers.”

  “Now wait again. That was four or five hundred years ago.”

  “Yes. I was a spirit trained in tentmanship who could inhabit a regular worker and make him expert in a moment. The emperor found folk like me useful. When the empire passed and the rebellious Chinese destroyed Xandu, I survived by taking over the body of a new person who could profit from my tenting expertise, and thus earn a good living. When he grew old and died, I moved along to a new younger man. It was always a fair exchange. And so I have continued for centuries.”

  “Which is why you understand him,” Faux said. “As a spirit he touches your mind and sends his thoughts, which you hear as words in your own language, just as I do.”

  Floyd paused, chagrined that he had not caught on that he should not understand the man’s Chinese. He should have been more alert.

  “And I have lingered here, in one host body or another—suicidal young men will come to me, and I cure them of their depression in exchange for their hosting of my spirit—waiting for a mortal
who will do my bidding.”

  Floyd realized this was possible. “Why stay here, when you could have found a more comfortable existence elsewhere?”

  “Because of Dulcie. She was from Abyssinia, a dusky musician who animated a local girl to make her expert in dancing and playing the dulcimer. I loved her and couldn’t let her go. But when the reality shifted she was trapped in a cavern, down near the sunless sea, unable to escape because of a lecherous demon who wanted her for his own. She managed to hide in a spelled ice chamber he could not enter, but neither could she escape it, because he lurked. Her host body is suspended in youth, but what use is that when she is a prisoner? I can’t rescue her; only a brave mortal can do that. One who can defeat the demon and bring her out of the measureless caverns and across the barrier to this realm.”

  This was complicated, but Floyd was following it. “What barrier?”

  “The reality barrier. The Chinese did not just physically destroy Xandu, because they hated the Mongols and all their works. They moved it into an alternate reality that only they, being mortal, could cross.”

  Now it was coming clear. “I am mortal,” Floyd agreed. “So it seems I can cross. But how?”

  “You must do it with your mind,” Waiter said. “You must visualize the two realities here overlapped, the one where Kublai Khan existed, and the one where the handiwork of Kubla Khan was banished. Then you will be able to go to Dulcie.”

  “Ah. Just my mind?”

  “Caution,” Faux said. “I am not mortal, so can’t cross that barrier. If you do, you will have to go by yourself. That means facing the guardian demon alone.”

  And that was surely a challenge not for a boy but a man. Faux had seen this coming and set it up for him: his trial of manhood, alone. A trial he wanted to win.

  “I’ll do it,” he said.

  “I am not sure you grasp what is entailed. You can’t slay a demon with a sword. He is immaterial. But he can reach into your body and squeeze your heart with his electrical essence until you die.”

  That made Floyd pause. “Then how can I deal with him?”

  “You need a little electricity of your own, to charge a wire and make a magnetic field to contain him.” She produced an almost invisibly thin thread that looked like silk. “Use this to weave a circle around him thrice. That should hold him long enough.”

  This struck him as gibberish. Electricity? Magnetic field? Long enough for what? Whoever heard of such nonsense? But if that was what it took to handle the demon, so be it. He took the thread and stuffed it into a pocket.

  Faux stepped close and kissed him on the cheek. Was that a tear in her eye?

  “Is that it?” he asked.

  Faux was silent. She was letting him make his choice, for good or ill.

  “Whenever you are ready,” Waiter said eagerly.

  “I am ready now.”

  Floyd closed his eyes and concentrated, thinking the words Kublai and Kubla, so close, yet the key to adjacent realities. KUBLAI—knock off the I—KUBLA.

  Nothing happened.

  He tried again. XANDU—add the A—XANADU.

  Nothing.

  Disappointed, he opened his eyes. And stood amazed.

  The parched ruins were gone. In their place was a gorgeous landscape with forests and fields, small flowing streams, placidly grazing animals, and all manner of brightly plumaged birds. In the center, a phenomenal palatial tent; indeed it was a mobile palace. There was also a tremendous fountain geysering high into the air, splashing down to form a river surging along between the hills. That would be the River Alph, starting its five mile course before plunging back below ground. Truly a wonderland.

  Then he saw what wasn’t there: Waiter, Faux, Old Blackie, and the mule.

  He was on his own.

  Chapter 19: Ice Dome

  Floyd had never felt more alone or scared. More than anything, he felt distinctly vulnerable. He was suddenly alone in a strange land; worse, he was alone in a strange reality, too. An alternate reality, the old man had called it.

  Floyd didn’t want trouble. He only wanted to find Dulcie, save her, and return her to the real world, although this world looked pretty real too. He could feel the wind, feel the sun, and hear voices coming from within the tent nearby. He had no business with the occupants of the tent. He needed to find that ice cave.

  Now, as he kept to the shadows of trees and tents, behind carts and oxen, he knew of only one direction to go: down toward the sunless sea. Wherever that was. Shortly, when Floyd had made it through camp unseen, he found himself in a dense forest. Once there, he had the bright idea to climb the tallest tree and get the lay of the land. Once he settled on what was surely the tallest tree around, he went about climbing it. He was reminded of the monkeys he’d seen in India, those mischievous, human-like critters who’d roamed many of the city’s rooftops.

  He smiled at the thought as he climbed higher and higher. Floyd had always been a good climber. Indeed, nearly all the boys in his village were. Floyd loved the freedom of it. Up in the trees, the world seemed small and beautiful, and he liked that. Now, as the treetop itself bowed under his weight, Floyd found himself smiling and gazing in nearly all directions at once. It was hard to believe this land was an alternate reality. It seemed as real as his own. He nearly preferred it to his own, what with all the rolling hills, the fertile grounds, the many gardens, the miles of stone walls, punctuated by round towers. He saw people, too, and livestock, all tiny as ants from up here. He caught the scent of incense-bearing trees, and knew this to be paradise.

  But, lo, to the east was a dark sea. From here, Floyd could see the clouds huddled for miles beyond, with the occasional flashes of lightning. He could also see where the River Alph continued on its five-mile journey, cutting through the green hills through a deep chasm.

  And so Floyd made his way down as fast as any monkey and fashioned a walking stick from a lightning-blasted branch, and set off in the direction of the sunless sea.

  ***

  Floyd followed the chasm due east.

  Water surged over rock and sometimes cascaded down in smaller waterfalls. Floyd enjoyed the whispering sounds of running water almost as much as he enjoyed the sounds of the howling wind.

  But when he heard the voices of men on the wind, he took cover within a cedar grove, and waited for a troupe of mighty-looking Chinese soldiers on horseback to pass him by. Later, as the sky darkened under a waning moon, he heard something else on the wind. He was about to take cover when, yes, he was certain it was a woman’s voice. A woman wailing perhaps. But strangest of all, he could get no bearing on the haunting sound. After many minutes of trying to pinpoint it, something stranger still happened: the wailing seemed to move from one direction to the other. Floyd shivered and suspected these hills and woods just might be haunted.

  Down through the chasm the river flowed, and down through wood and dale Floyd followed. His best estimate was that the river flowed about five miles, a journey that he knew he could make in under an hour. Indeed, such a distance was but a drop in the bucket compared to his travels of late. In Africa, he had walked for days hunting slave traders. In India, he had journeyed a week to a sacred temple. Floyd smiled. Surely by now he’d gathered enough stories to appease his elders.

  It was but a short time later that the sound of crashing surf mingled with the whispering river. Floyd crested a small hillock and saw two things at once: gray skies and a dark, churning sea. The temperature had dropped as well, and as Floyd pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders, he noted the dead grass and stunted trees. He also couldn’t help but see how the ants between his boots roamed in circles, seemingly confused. Next, Floyd watched two seagulls crash into each other and drop like rocks from the sky. Although a stiff wind blew, Floyd noted that the sea lay inert, unmoving.

  Something evil is here, he thought.

  In fact, now that he was here, he realized that what he had seen from a distance was a mirage. A vision of what lay below: the sunless
sea.

  Now, as he crept along the hill, huddled within his cloak and suddenly realizing he had been foolish beyond reason to volunteer for this quest, he heard it again. A wail on the wind. The same sound he’d heard earlier. Only now it was closer—and seemed to be coming from where the river cascaded from a steep cliff, to drop down as a waterfall to the lifeless ocean below.

  Floyd, hair whipping and teeth chattering, took in some air and made a decision. He would see this adventure through to the end. He would win Faux’s heart in the process. And so he made his way down to where the river plunged over the cliff, and where the sound of wailing could be heard. He leaned carefully out and took a look—and saw one of the strangest sights he’d ever seen. The tumultuous river poured into a brightly lit dome of ice.

  The cavern of ice?

  And was the wailing he heard from Dulcie?

  Floyd didn’t know, but he knew there was only one way to find out: he had to get into that dome. Unfortunately, he saw no other opening except where the water entered through the very top.

  He was just about to look for a way down the cliff—perhaps there was a vine hanging nearby, or a natural path in the rock—when a voice hissed next to him, “You have come a long way to die, boy.”

  Floyd turned, gasping, and saw what he could only describe as a living shadow. It hovered over him, black as night with two glowing red eyes. It fluttered and wavered on the wind, formed and re-formed, expanded and retracted. Now, as Floyd reached for his sword, knowing in his heart it would be useless against what was surely the demon, he lost his balance. And as he teetered on the precipice, a cold wind blasted him.

  His grabbing hands found nothing as he fell over the cliff, and down toward the ice dome below.