by Enoch Enns
A City Within A Mall
He was led into the most magnificence hall he had ever seen (unlike those of man). The palace structure itself towered above the proud city of marble and marvel, but it compared nothing so spectacular as the Hall of which led to it. Massive pillars arched overhead and extravagant stones formed the walls between them. Streaks of green and yellow flowed across the floor and ceiling like veins giving life, warmth, and peace. A deep velvet carpet held the middle, running from door to door (that is, from where they stood all the way to a glorious throne of indescribable petrified wood, behind which lie the entrance to the palace itself).
“What is the meaning of this?” a deep tone reverberated from the man seated before him known as Keyno.
“The golden bridge lay broken upon his entry. It is only sensible we welcome him personally, my lord,” Pamela answered him.
The man of great power pondered. “And who might this be to enter at such a critical time? We neither called him nor prepared.”
“He--”
“Speak for yourself, sir,” Keyno gently interrupted as Pamela spoke. She calmly smiled and looked to Carls (who, oddly enough, was on bent knee before their leader). What feeling was this that resonated through his being?
“I am here that I might save the life of my daughter. I seek a man that I know nothing about and was told to first come here before receiving further instruction of his whereabouts. Please, I was told to gather up some tarsh lilies in return for this necessary information. Her life depends upon it, though I would rather another way.”
“You speak as the man before you, and I trust you to your word. We are at war here in this world, but I shall make one exception under one promise: that you return where you came when your task here is done.”
“I promise, my lord,” Carls answered without even a thought. For some reason, he felt as though compelled to act anything Keyno asked of him. What is this power such a man wields so as to make one desire to serve?
“Then give him his coat,” Keyno commanded.
Carls saw, from the corner of his eye, a chamber arise, bearing the shimmering reflection of an ocean blue. Pamela drew it and stepped near him, placing it over his withered shirt (which he just noticed to be whiter than snow). As it touched him he sensed a wave of unprecedented comfort and protection-- as though he could jump into flames and not be hurt. This feeling, not in the slightest, faded, nor would it so long he wore it. In it, he found confidence; in it, he felt revival; in it, he had strength.
“I welcome you, sir Carls Locke, temporarily to our world that you might in turn save the life of your daughter and many more. Go now, take this coat and return to Littlerut. The people there shall welcome you with haste and aid you in your search. Go now, Pamela, and ensure he does nothing more until in their hands.”
And so they left the presence of Keyno and stood outside the palace overlooking the expansion of land toward Littlerut. Carls had yet to accept it all. He but starred into the openness and into the light that shone off in the distance.
“Come,” Pamela said to him with joy, “we shall not linger here any longer than necessary for many things have yet to unravel and your journey to begin. I shall take you to Littlerut.”
“What is that off in the distance?” he asked, looking into the light radiating past Littlerut and beyond Waterrise.
“That is our light,” she said simply (as though there were nothing else to it). To Carls, it seemed to be a lighthouse on land, steadily beaming across the entire scape. They took off through the blue rings yet again.
The people of Littlerut were very well collected and simple-minded, yet aware of much more than they let on. A man came to greet him wearing clothes of earth tones and a staff across his back.
“Welcome!” he said with outstretched arms, embracing Carls with confidence. “We have been waiting for you.”
Pamela calmly interjected, “He is not here as Karier, Topi. He seeks the tarsh lilies to save the one he loves. Do you have any with you?”
“Tarsh lilies? Ah! Yes, we have but two...” Topi seemed hesitant upon the words, though not showing it for long. He added, “If it is of outmost importance to you, you may have them and be on your way.”
The words drew attention of nearby townsfolk. The seemed surprised to say the least and spoke to their leader, “Topi, is it wise to give them to--”
“Hush,” Topi assured, looking back at Locke and explaining, “He is with Pamela and a welcomed guest. However, if you would so desire, we could seek to find some of your own.”
Carls knew nothing of what to say, simply turning to Pamela for answer. She but stood there gazing back at him. “It is your call, Mr. Locke. What shall it be then? I could return you to your entrance rather quickly or later, but choose now.”
They needed it and he did not know why, only that it was of concern. But he needed it also. “Time is not something I have much of. Even as we speak, she grows weak and more in danger. If it were at all possible, I would prefer to take them and be on my way.”
A stillness held the air.
Topi took in a deep breath, “Then we will give you what we have.”
“Sir--”
“Hush, Copi, I am aware. But we must help him. Now please, would you so kindly retrieve them for him.”
“Yes, sir,” the towns-troop said, momentarily disappearing.
“Thank you, Topi,” Pamela said.
“I wish these were different conditions, but we are honored to help you, Mr. Locke. Here,” Topi said, handing him a folded cloth Copi had just delivered him. “Use them wisely. And you are welcome here anytime. The people of Littlerut wish you well.”
Carls took them cautiously-- absolutely unaware of the full repercussions.
He felt a tug on his hand and both he and Pamela had vanished and just as quickly reappeared atop the large plant scaling the mountain. The bridge lie broken from it to the gateway-- the shattered doors. Pamela stood at the plant’s edge, peering down the mountainside with worry.
“What is it?” he asked, nearing as close as he would dare.
“Do you see it?” she said, stretching her hands before her and forming a rectangle (just as children would play picture-taking, only her’s seemed to magnify). From where he was, he could not see through the haze of imagery she cradled. But he didn't have to. She smiled at his incompetence and expanded the rectangle that he might peer through it also.
And he saw.
“Did that happen to come through with you?” she asked.
“Yes, it is what chased me here. I was lucky enough to find that ledge-- and you. I am sorry if this brings trouble to you, I did not mean to.”
“I only pray that it does not.” The rectangle dissipated and she walked to the fallen bridge. Holding out her arm, it began moving. Not just that, but the entire platform on which they stood rattled under her force. The blue lines across her face glowed and her robes twisted and turned. He was breathless as the bridge steadily reconstructed itself.
“Tell me, Mr. Locke,” her voice carried, “Who gave you that card?”
Card? His hand reached into his pocket, the memory flooding him. The Trust Seal of Bondage. She smiled at him-- the bridge finished.
“Do you know of its power?” she asked.
“I know of their terrifying potential, and fear using them,” he answered her.
“Indeed, they hold great power. But if need be, you should use it and her pain be shared among you. It will not save her, but it may just buy you time. But it very much as well could mean the death of you.”
“These Hensers, what are they?”
“They are gifts to not be wasted-- as are many things in life. Was it a dealer that gave them to you?”
“If that be what you call a man and a white table, then yes.”
His answer relieved her. “I cannot imagine what it is like for you to be experiencing all of this. It seems everything once known is changing and realities are colliding. However, they led you h
ere and from here you must return. Please, when your task is complete, return to us. I trust you, Mr Locke, to the end. We all do.”
He withdrew the single card that he had been given ever so long ago, its weight burdening his heart and mind. Such power; such affect. He looked up and she was gone, his world returned to that of which he feared. His spine shivered to the oppression of it all. Now what was he to do? It didn't seem that there would be a quick-fix to anything.
Holding the card before him, Carls began to utter its words in accordance to what the dealer had said to him. It makes you responsible for the protection of the other, for its safe keeping. In return... you have its complete trust. He only did it in hopes of sharing her burdens and lightening her pain. The card suddenly lit with colorful arrays. Slowly, the warmth of its burning sparked and it broke into a thousand pieces (each one forming, as if to say, a string that entwined itself and shot off into the distance). Instantly, his own body gained weight and collapsed to its knees. His lungs gasped for air and mind took the impact as nausea flooded in. Is this what she felt like? Is this how she is suffering?
He began to shake, the pulse of what had just happened still settling in. I pray this helped, Joan. Stay strong. I'm coming back for you. His sight started spinning and his face hit the floor.
The Delivery (Gaining Leads)
A single candle lit the small room in which he stood. Red cloth draped over the walls and furniture. A leather couch to his left lay in silence near an empty shelf. Both were wrapped in thick plastic.
The candlelight flickered.
To his right posed a door leading to another room—the door being locked. Beside it, another shelf bearing miscellaneous books and pictures. Yes, lots of pictures. Portraits of various depictions held to the four walls. Most were blotted in cold red (as were the stains alongside the couch). His body drew closer to them, eyes peering around the curves of furniture to get a better look.
No corpse lay in its wake, only an overturned table stand. Not far from it was a shattered picture frame of a man. Beneath the smudge of neglect was a young girl and their daughter. Four letters etched across the child's innocence: Dead.
Dead? He left the picture there and walked to the shelves. A single portrait had caught his attention. One of a man holding a plaque. Beneath, in fine imprint, were the words: By what means does man strive to succeed from loss when all hope seems out of his reach? With this small step, I plan on crossing that bridge into blissfulness.
The candlelight flickered once more. Dying. Fading.
He began observing the abandoned content upon the shelves. He saw a single key nudged beneath a book entitled In Search of Life's Mysteries by Mike Dyrdrik, a philosopher. A note lay beside it also: “I am sorry, dear, but whatever has overcome him, trust me in that this work must remain out of his reach. I cannot express the sorrow I feel, but this message must be delivered to him clearly.” It was signed by Andy D. Friedelock. He pressed onward, reaching the door that yet remained unabridged. He stood there, raising the key he had found to the lock (a soft tone began playing in the background). What could all this mean? Where was this? What was this? Who was he?
What had actually happened?
The door unlocked and the candlelight died.
Carls awoke from the vision to a white-filled room with a sense of an illusion in desperate search for an understanding.
A man spoke to him: “I have bestowed upon you all that I know of this so-called Shaw M. E. Norwick. You should know that this process was only possible while you were unconscious, so I apologize for the unfamiliarity of surroundings. You were, however, already unconscious when my... watcher... found you. Do not be alarmed, I did not drug you in any demeaning way. You retain full ability to act as an independent.” Antoinette was in the opposing room, separated by a thick glass. Carls himself lay bound to a cross-shaped restriction that supported him at every joint. Though his eyes still adjusted from a blur, he could see the mechanisms from which he had been injected and performed upon. Across all the machines he could make out the faint imprint of TAP products.
“Who are you?” his voice slurred at the man who's back was turned to him.
“I am Philis Antoinette, as you already know. I am but an old, dying man bound to a wheel chair and lingering only to finish a very important research. You brought me the specimens I needed to continue, and I thank you for that. As for you coat, I have not taken it. It awaits you once our conversation is done. But for now, we talk. Man to man; face to face.” At this, the man spun his wheel chair towards Locke, revealing the age that had betrayed him. His arms, however, remained functional and surprisingly thick for his age-- the rest of his body being bound to his chair due to an inability to act alone. Large glasses shone through the barrier between them. “I only hope you are ready for what is yet to unveil, my friend.”
“What have you done to me, exactly?” Carls reiterated, his bare chest pounding to refill his body with depraved oxygen.
“My apologies. To keep you in stasis I had to manipulate the oxygen intake of your cell. Don't worry, it will pay off. You'll understand.”
But he wasn't. All he could think about was the vision he had experienced-- the room and portraits. The blood....
“You said your watcher brought me to you. Where is he now? And why not send him into the Euphora Gateway? Why did you need to use me?”
The man coughed his laughter. “Such desire. You only ask in fear of a cult you were falsely worried with, am I not right? Friedelock wanted you to think I posed a threat, ha! I tell you the truth: I am no threat to those I trust, but you break that trust and I shall break you.” He wheeled his chair back to his observatory desk.
“So you are an enemy of Friedelock?” Carls inquired.
“Friedelock... no. But his industry, yes. His research astounds me and I, in fact, desire his remedy. But with that I would have to accept his means and that I shall not partake in. He remains only as a tool. Not of mine, but one of darker intent than he. There is something you should know before getting into this. It is no coincidence that none have yet recovered Friedelock's stolen work, as you shall soon find out. And there is also much more to this reconnaissance than you could have ever imagined. Take caution in your steps, my friend, and heed my words. Your eyes are still but opening to what lies beneath. Do not overstep yourself else you be swallowed up like the rest. The illusions are powerful. Do not think you are yet free of them.”
“So you understand what is going on here?”
“I only wish to. But no, I know nothing of the big picture. I only care to finish my own work before my time has ended. When our relation began, I told you I would need something in return, but I have found out we desired the same thing: Friedelock's serum. Though you could have done differently. I have to admit, I am surprised that you brought them to me when they could have just as easily healed your daughter....”
What? He'd held the cure all this time? He'd been tricked? “Why did you use me?” Carls suddenly demanded, and sense of abuse infiltrating him. He still felt her suffering in the distance of his mind. He still felt her need.
“As I said, we seek the same serum, only for different purpose. And I have chosen to give you the serum fully in exchange for the plants.”
“She could be better now and I'd have avoided all your politics!” How could he have been so foolish?
“Now you listen to me, young man. More is happening here than you, your daughter, or me. And if you could only care about but one thing do NOT make it a possession! She is ill, I understand that. But I also take it that you have already bettered her chance of living, am I not right?”
The card.
“So please, don't go hating me when you do not understand the full repercussions of it. I know you love her. But for now, she is safe. Friedelock can do nothing to her so long as the watcher is looker over her. You have already left her once, so it would be best you not return to her empty-handed. There is much work to be done. As for the whereabouts o
f Norwick, I have sealed them within you already. All you must do is seek them out as they come and gain an understanding as to where they lead. Remember my words, and heed them well. I cannot afford to lose you. No one can.”
The bindings let loose and Carls' bare feet slid onto the floor. The oxygen had returned to him and the door opened. He reached out for the coat and felt its warmth about his body-- mind in question of Antoinette's true motives. Of anyone's true motives.
Even his own. If you could only care about but one thing, do not make it a possession, Antoinette had said. To him, his daughter was no possession. She was only the only thing he had left worth fighting for. I am coming for you, he said to himself as he followed the lights out from deep within the e-Company. I will yet get you that serum.
Just A Little Deeper
He remembered the room in which he had been. The candlelight still flickered in his mind; his body poised before the opening door. But where? Where had it been? He reached deeper. It was there. He knew it. A name, or location, etched upon the wall or an overlooked portrait. It was near the sciences, it was near Friedelock.
Mike Dyrdrik. A philosopher and writer. He had to have answers, or at least another clue. But where? If only he had looked into the book! It would have a location or something of more use. I have sealed them within you already... you must seek them out.... His eyes closed; his lungs began to calm as he steadied the thoughts and relieved the scene.
The portraits, the red, the flickering, the plaque, and, finally, the shelf.
He moved toward the shelf, observing its abandoned content. Beneath one of the books he found a single key. The book had been entitled In Search of Life's Mysteries-- a work by the name of man known as Mike Dyrdrik, a philosopher. He grabbed hold of its withered outlining and sifted through the dirtied pages (all of them wrinkled and worn). A smudge of ink caught his attention mid-way through and he shuffled back. Chapter eight was entitled “The Luxury of Not Knowing, and Dreading It: We are simple-minded, our race, and will fall for anything so long as it fits our vision. And that vision can be ever so manipulated and controlled that, without a growing conscience or pursuit of understanding and purpose, we become slave to it. Indeed, it would only take a fool of convincing measurements to distract us. So long as we are at terms of agreeing upon the facts, we tend to become blind as to their potential....”
