Paradox. She wanted to be alone; she wanted to be with him. She hated him; she loved him. She wanted to be a million miles from this crazy place; she wanted to stay here forever, safe from reality.
Nothing made sense, least of all herself.
Standing in the doorway of the empty room, staring at the hollow wafting of the silk canopy, Ellen concentrated, holding her breath and listening intently for sounds from below. A part of her wanted desperately to hear Jack coming up the stairs, coming up to see her, all very romantic, very cliché; unrealistic to a flaw, she knew. It never happened that way in real life, only romance novels and sappy movies that had little to do with reality. Just pretend. Jack would not chase after her because Jack was right. And Jack was wrong. He was wrong and right, and that was why nothing made any sense at all. Jack could not change who or what he was. What he was was why he was here in the first place. Nail believed Jack was a worthy Caretaker. So did Jack’s predecessor, the Writer, though she had never met the man herself. Only Jack failed to see that, and nothing—nothing! —she did would make him open his eyes to the fact that there wasn’t a reality, not behind them or in front of them for that matter, any better or more real than the one they were in right here and right now. That was all that really mattered. Here. Now.
She listened, ears straining for the slightest sound: the clink of a spoon circling the inside of a coffee mug, footsteps upon polished floor, or just the sound of his foot slipping down across the base of the bar as he leaned over a steaming cup of coffee and considered her words.
But there was only silence from the room below.
Ellen swiped a hand across her cheeks quickly, brushing away tears she was only dimly aware of. “Damn you, Jack. Why can’t you see this for what it is?”
But he did not. Whether he could not or would not, she didn’t know. Either way, he did not understand.
But Ellen did. She understood what would happen. She knew what Jack would try to do, right or wrong. And she also knew what she had to do.
Slowly, her fingers began to work at the buttons on the ill-fitting shirt, the snap of her jeans, the zipper. Piece by piece, she removed each article of clothing and let it fall to the floor, lost in the shadows of the growing darkness.
She understood.
Would Jack?
* * *
Raising the cup of coffee, Jack inhaled the steam.
It was only coffee, smelling faintly of hazelnut. Not like before. Not that concoction, origin unknown, brewed from imagination, the Saloon, and dust-saturated Wasteland blood like the rich, black tar he had left behind in his writing room. This was only coffee, nothing added.
Just coffee.
He wasn’t sure he could do that again. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be that lost, that … dedicated to the Word. The last time, he had nearly misplaced himself along the way, becoming a mindless conduit through which the world of dream was actualized. It didn’t leave a lot of room for his own life; maybe none at all.
Unless you make room. But that was a different trick altogether, wasn’t it?
He had not been entirely truthful with Ellen. The manuscript he had torn from her fingers that morning was about her and the reality she would inherit. And he was sincere in his belief that it wasn’t ready. He certainly wasn’t ready to pour it into the Saloon facade and see it recreated in all its flawed wonder by the Nexus. Doing so would bring the train. And the train would take Ellen Monroe away to her new life. The lie was not the manuscript but the reason, and the reason had nothing to do with the story itself.
It had to do with him.
He didn’t want Ellen to leave. He didn’t care that every wasted moment in the Nexus brought the Tribe of Dust a little closer to its dreams, brought Gusman Kreiger a little nearer to his unsavory fantasy of ruling reality with the added bonus of being able to strangle Jack with his own intestines.
But there was death, and there was the idea of Ellen leaving on a train; leaving him behind.
This situation could not go on indefinitely. He could feel the barrier tightening around him. Hastily applied, some reflexive call upon energy as old as the universe itself that he had utilized without any real foreknowledge or instruction, he was now a prisoner of his own devising. And the prison was collapsing upon him.
He had to call the last train. If he could do that, he would be the Caretaker. He could fashion his own focal lens for the Saloon, recharge the Nexus, and drive the Cast Outs away. The scepter would be passed, and he would be king, and there would be nothing anyone could say about it. Kreiger would be left with the option of fleeing into exile to take his chances in the Wasteland, or fighting with nothing but a useless lightning rod, a giant, and a fat pedophile.
But Jack would never see Ellen Monroe again.
Only one of them could leave on the train. If she stayed behind with him, they would simply die together. There was no way that they could both leave together; both leave the Saloon behind; both escape.
Well, there is one way …
It isn’t ready yet!
No, it was ready; it simply wasn’t sensible. It was a deviation from the rules, a mad stab into the dark abyss, ignorance the only shield, like a blindfold while walking a tightrope to protect yourself from the fear of falling. It was a terrible gamble on a great unknown, the odds too improbable to calculate, too frightening to consider. And if he lost, he lost everything.
He should simply send her home and stay behind, let her go on living … without him.
… without him…
Jack shook his head. Who was he kidding? Who had he ever been kidding? He was no Caretaker, barely capable of taking care of himself. He was no ruler of reality on however limited a scale you chose to argue. He wasn’t even a writer, and that was all he ever dreamed of being since he was just a child and books held such wonder for him, books that were the pure escape, the brief flight of fancy with an easily foreseeable destination, the safe look over the edge of madness.
And look how far over that edge you are now.
He was always missing that one key component: courage. Not something inspired like standing before your enemy unafraid, but the real, unglamorous courage of taking the unsafe path, of being willing to sacrifice the comfort of the known for the possibility of success—or failure! —with the unknown. The simple courage to chase a dream, to leap from the edge of a cliff because until you did, you would never know whether or not you could fly.
He had leaped once … and landed here. The question was whether he could leap again, throw himself into the uncharted territories of unreality, or try desperately to throw himself backwards, away from the call of new possibilities; back into a world he at least understood, even if he loathed it.
He breathed in the aroma from the coffee one more time, the subtle spice more noticeable now, more
(… Christmas eggnog)
discernible.
He set the mug down and pushed it away. Ellen was right … about this, at least. There were things she didn’t know—should never know! But about this, she was right. He couldn’t do it this way, couldn’t repeat what had happened to him days ago. And there was no reason to, except that he was afraid; afraid of the possibilities he might have opened with that last manuscript, not the least of which being its utter failure. He never questioned the stories that flowed out of him while experiencing the “awakening” of Oversight’s blood. And it was under that same fugue that he had put Ellen’s story to print as well. And he didn’t question it. He was simply afraid of it; afraid of its implications; afraid it had been too much a wish of his own and not enough in line with the workings of the Nexus. The Nexus rewarded the writer; it did not suffer the fool.
Ellen should leave. Jack knew that.
And he should stay behind. Jack knew that, too.
It was the only way to guarantee that it would work.
Unless you were to…
No! There was only one way that was certain. And Ellen could never be allowed to know this. She
was a dreamer who believed in happy endings and justice for those who deserved it and six passages on five tickets. She would try to discourage him from this course, but he was not prepared to see her die for dreams or for her faith in him.
Jack started up the stairs, knowing what he needed to do; knowing that it had to be done now before any more time passed; before the barrier shrank any further, lost its cohesion and collapsed like an old soap bubble. There was still time to change the last manuscript, make it safer, its outcome more certain. He had to do this now. The time of self-delusion was over. It was time to acknowledge his responsibilities, the extent of his potential, and, yes, his limitations. The Saloon was not some judge, not some cold and critical entity evaluating his work with a stone heart and a cruel eye. It was a reflection of himself. The Saloon knew the very best he was capable of, just as he instinctively knew, judgment unfiltered by ego or social consequence. And when his work was wanting, it knew as well … just as he always knew.
Jack walked easily through the long shadows and dark turns of the Saloon like a blind man wandering with practiced ease through his own home. In a way, perhaps, he was exactly that. So much of the Saloon had never changed because so much of the Saloon was exactly how he liked it. Jack turned into the master bedroom, failing only to notice the discarded pieces of clothing upon the floor.
He did not miss Ellen sitting on the bed, her knees drawn tightly to her chest, staring at him.
“Jack?”
He started at the sound of her voice, feeling like an intruder caught in the act, trespassing where he did not belong. For the first time since they met, it seemed like Ellen was actually watching him; not simply waiting passively while he moved about the Saloon and did his thing, but actually paying attention to what he was doing, perhaps even knowing what it was he was attempting. He felt suddenly as if she were staring over his shoulder while he wrote.
There was an awkward pause while he tried to make his mouth work. What came out was less a word than a sound. “Hmm?”
“Can you really get both of us out of here?”
He hesitated before answering. “I think so.” Not yet a lie, not really, no.
“Because if you can’t, I don’t want to leave.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t send me away.”
“Wh-what would make you think I was planning on sending you away. We’re going to get out of here. Both of us.” Now that’s a lie, isn’t it, Jackie boy?
“There’s only one ticket left. You and I both know that. I don’t imagine there’s a lot of flexibility here because if there were, the tickets would hardly matter. Not to you, not to me, not to Leland or Oversight, and certainly not to the Tribe of Dust. But they do, don’t they?”
He nodded slowly. “Yes, they do. But I think there’s a way.” Though he heard himself say it—knew there was a grain of truth to it—he still could not convince himself of it. And he wondered how he expected her to believe what he could not.
“Good, because if we can’t both get out of here, then I don’t want to go back at all,” she said. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life remembering …” Her voice trailed away as if searching for a conclusion that wasn’t there, and settling upon emptiness.
“We’ll get out of here,” he promised. “Both of us.”
Liar, liar; pants on fire.
There was another awkward moment of silence, of unfinished thoughts and speeches lapsing into the past as forgotten opportunities and regrets, marked only by the endless tick of the clock.
“Jack?”
“What?”
“I love you.”
He felt the breath catch in his throat, elated and destroyed both at once. One hand groped slowly for the iron railing of the helical stair. Why? he wondered against the rising bitterness in his throat. Why, when she knows as well as I that phrase has a way of opening a long and distant road that is cut short by the very circumstances that brought us together in the first place. The barrier was going to collapse if he postponed her departure any longer than was absolutely necessary. He could feel it, taste it like copper and electricity in the air. His time, the so-called trial period, was coming to an end, and the Tribe of Dust was waiting just outside. We’re so sorry you didn’t win, Jack, but we do have some lovely parting gifts for our runners up …
Only this wasn’t a game. If Ellen stayed, they would both die. And he couldn’t go with her. One train, one rider. It was that simple. Before, he thought maybe he could make her understand; now he was certain he could not.
“I told you this morning that I couldn’t send you back to reality because I wasn’t finished with your story. Do you remember? I told you it wasn’t ready.”
She nodded slowly, her face unreadable in the encroaching darkness. He took a deep, shaky breath like a man entering into a confession, afraid his courage would fail him if he didn’t finish in a single breath. “That wasn’t entirely true. I didn’t put your ticket through because I didn’t want you to leave. I didn’t want you to leave here. I didn’t want you to leave me. I love you, too.”
“Then stay with me,” she said, almost a request, almost a plea.
“I shouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
Because Oversight told me the reason Kreiger failed was because Kreiger fell in love with her, lost sight of what he was doing, lost control. Do you see how this is the same? Do you see how I’m no different than he was? A Cast Out. There are no cheaters in this game.
But Jack did not say what he was thinking—could not, though it was true. “I … I have to get to work. I have to get you—I have to get us out of here before it all falls apart.”
“Can’t it wait until morning?” she asked, her voice a whisper on the verge of disappearing.
“Maybe.” No! Dammit! Don’t be stupid! “But I don’t think so. Oh, hell, I don’t know.”
“Then stay with me tonight.”
The offer was more than tempting. It was something he had wished for at least a hundred times in the last week. Only not now. Not when things were so desperate. “What if the barrier collapses? What if …” he swallowed uncertainly, his throat half-choked with something like dust and fear. “What if I fail?”
“Are you absolutely certain you’ll succeed?” she asked gently.
It might have been a snub, a cruel retort worthy of Leland Quince or Gusman Kreiger or any one of his many critics. But from her, it was simply a question. Was he certain of what he was doing? Was he any more certain of it than of anything else? The answer came with quiet resignation: “No.”
“Then stay with me. Whatever it is that needs fixing, fix it in the morning.”
“And if I can’t?”
“Then we’ll have tonight. Is that so bad?”
No, no it wasn’t. He didn’t want to die, and he didn’t think Ellen did either, but did it make any more sense to waste what time they had left together on some desperate scheme that might not amount to anything. He could try to revise Ellen’s story throughout the night, but the outcome was no more certain than if he simply left it alone. The story was complete, a long shot he capitulated over; too desperate. He could revise it, make it more sensible. The only real difference, of course, would be his place in it.
Or he could leave it alone.
Exhausted by the possibilities, by the worry his own fears lent him, he crossed the empty darkness between them and sat down on the edge of the bed. Shadows played across Ellen’s skin, strands of night-blackened hair spilling across her shoulders and hiding her face. He reached out to touch her arm, fingers raising bumps across her flesh, sending a shiver through her frame. She leaned into his kiss, her lips parting his, her tongue touching his own. Her fingertips found the back of his neck, her skin burning against his as her fingers combed into his hair, trailed down along his back, and started to work his clothes apart until their bodies pressed naked against one another.
And while they made love on the edge of madness and forever, th
e clock ticked softly in the darkness, permanently counting away time’s inexorable passage.
HIGH NOON
And the decision was made.
As the sun crested the endless expanse of naked sand, the barrier came in contact with the Sanity’s Edge Saloon. Its edge touched the top banister of the unfinished stairway, the furthest point from the center of the Saloon that was the heart of the Nexus. For just a moment, it shimmered in the new day’s light; ornamental glass; a fragile soap bubble.
Then it burst, and the barrier was gone.
* * *
The first off-key clang jolted him awake, cutting through sleep’s peace with a sound like a rusted clapper on an ancient copper chime. Jack sat up, heart thudding uncontrollably, breath locked in his throat as his eyes flicked around the room, searching for the source of the noise while knowing exactly where it would be found.
The tall clock chimed again.
Beside him, Ellen turned away sleepily, pulling the blankets close around her naked skin to hide from the disturbing sound.
But there could be no hiding from this. He had been hiding all along, and reality had finally found him.
Again the bell clanged. The clock’s insensible face had, for the first time, come to a consensus: all five hands pointed to thirteen. In this strange unreality of untime and insanity, it was thirteen o’clock, some netherworld version of midnight or high noon.
By the fourth dull-edged clang, Jack was leaping from the bed, scooping his clothes up off the floor and tugging them on. “Ellen, get up! We’ve got to go!”
She raised herself up on one elbow, looking at him blearily in the twilight. The clock rang again. “Jack? What’s going—?”
“No time. Get up and get dressed. We have to get out of here right now. Hurry!”
“But—”
“Now!” Jack grabbed his sneakers and ran for the spiral stair, Ellen staring after him from the bed, confused. He paused for a moment, the iron steps cold against the soles of his feet. She didn’t understand and he had no time to explain. There was time enough only for blind faith and maybe hope. Maybe not even that.
The Sanity's Edge Saloon (The Sea and the Wasteland Book 1) Page 51
