Along The Watchtower

by Litwack, David

  I waited for him to answer. I couldn't read the expression under his mask, but his silence was deafening. I forced a swallow.

  "Will I be able to walk again?"

  He hesitated, apparently not one to make false promises.

  "That may be up to you. Lots of rehab. You'll have to relearn how. But you're young and were athletic, so that will help. Your brain needs to reconnect with that area of the body. Pain is the start of that reconnecting. Think of it as a marathon, not a sprint." I could see him wince under the mask. "Sorry, bad analogy."

  He wrote out a prescription for something to help me sleep and turned to go.

  "I'll give this to the nurse." But before he left, he grabbed my chart. After flipping to the third page, he shook his head.

  "What now?" I said.

  An upturn in his crow's feet showed he was smiling. "I was checking your height. Five foot ten." You're too short to dunk."

  "That's what they all said."

  He replaced the chart on its hook. "This is going to be a long journey, Lieutenant, but I'll be with you the whole way. Think of me as your guide. And there'll be others as well."

  He paused in the doorway. I could see him grappling with something he wanted to say. When he finally spoke, his voice was pained.

  "You're not responsible for your friend, the archangel. But you should know that when he fell on you, he probably saved your life. The fragments that killed him were headed for your heart. A lot of people helped save you, Freddie. The archangel was one more. Don't let his sacrifice go to waste."

  Chapter Five

  Night Elf

  I emerged from the trance as the wheel took a final spin and slowed to a stop. Like the princes before me, I had no memory of what I'd seen, only a lingering sense of infirmity, a weakening at the knees much as I felt after a prolonged fever. I stumbled out of the chamber and down the stairs, grasping the wall for support, wanting nothing more than to retreat to my chamber and collapse into bed. The servants could wake me before the next session.

  The staircase down was unremarkable, a spiral of stones with few distinct features. The walls were broken at intervals by arrow loops, the vertical slits cut into the stone through which arrows could be shot if the castle were under attack. But since the treaty with the Horde, the loops were more to allow in daylight and a breath of fresh air. Between every two arrow loops hung a sconce holding a candle. By now, the candles had burned low and their diminished flames cast more shadow than light. I was distracted by their flickers and puzzling over the visions of the wheel when a touch of dread encroached on my thoughts. I realized what it was.

  The descent was taking too long.

  "Beware the castle," Sir Gilly had warned. "It will change in the strangest of ways."

  I proceeded more cautiously and began to count. At ninety stairs, I suspected some sorcery. At a hundred and twenty, I knew. The stairway was not letting me out.

  I reversed direction and started the long climb up. But no sooner had I rounded the bend than the arched entrance to the chamber appeared. Sunlight streamed through the oculus, so much brighter than the light in the stairway. Inside, the spinning wheel lay still, its task for the morning complete. I became lightheaded at the sight of it and turned away, settling on the topmost stair and hoping to clear my head.

  Should I break the advisor's rule and take the sunset stairway down? He'd said any change had been fated, that the castle would confound me but not betray me. I only needed to understand its purpose. I began to descend more cautiously this time, searching for markings in the wall. I waited until I'd noted an image in the stone, a brown watermark in the shape of an owl. Then I continued my count.

  After twenty more stairs, the watermark reappeared. I kept going. The same after another twenty. I spun around, poking at the wall and searching for a way out. At the midpoint between arrow loop and candle, where the stairway was darkest, I stopped to listen.

  Was that the thud of boots coming from the sunset stairway? I drew my sword and faced the center core. Improbably, from the stone, a breeze. The wall before me bulged and took shape. I turned to flee.

  "May the Goddess watch over you, Dauphin," a rumbling voice from behind me said.

  I looked back to see an elf emerging from the stone. He was tall, over seven feet, with broad shoulders, a slim waist, and a muscular torso that in the dim light appeared to be purple. I stared up at him. As a child, I'd been told stories of the Sin'dorie, blood elves, who'd betrayed their heritage to ally with the Horde. But this one had amber eyes. A night elf and friend.

  He broke into a grim smile, bushy brows extending beyond his face, pointed ears quivering.

  "And may the stars guide you," I responded.

  He bowed his great head to be level with mine. At once, I recognized him. His was the face painted on the mural on the domed ceiling above my bed, the one I'd contemplated since childhood. I looked deeper into those amber eyes, preparing to pay homage, but he announced himself before I could acknowledge him.

  "I am Malfurion Stormrage," he said.

  Not merely a night elf. The Arch Druid of the Moonglade himself.

  I bowed, bending at the hip, but kept my eye on him. "Milord."

  "Rise up, Dauphin. These are the days of anointment and titles mean nothing to us now. Only the present matters."

  "Have you brought me a weapon to fight the demons?"

  "Weapons will not save you."

  "Then a spell." I offered my sword. "Enchant this blade. Recast it into a demonslayer. Engulf it in flames."

  He shook his great head sadly.

  "Then what must I do?" I said.

  "You must speak the pain that can't be spoken."

  "Don't talk in riddles. I need magic, a way to battle the demons."

  "You lack faith, Dauphin. Faith in yourself."

  I lowered my chin to my chest, chastised by the great elf. But what did he know of my burden? I was alone and the fate of Azeroth rested on my shoulders. I tried again.

  "You are Malfurion, shan'do, honored teacher. You know Druid magic from the Well of Eternity. Can't you give me something to help with the trials?"

  The ancient one watched me plead, his face revealing nothing.

  "My magic is useless during the days of dread. You must find answers within yourself."

  "Then at least tell me what to look for."

  He straightened, appearing as tall as the tower, and stared past me, as if his gaze could pierce the stone and see all the way to the mountains of Golgoreth.

  "You will be confronted by four trials. Only after overcoming these will your life resume. Only then will you be crowned king."

  Four trials. Each more difficult than the session I'd spent in the watchtower. And all to be overcome within thirty days.

  "Tell me, shan'do, how will I know them and what must I do to prevail?"

  "With this I cannot help. The trials are conjured up anew for each generation, conceived from within your own heart. What you confront will depend on who you are."

  He turned to go, his cloak beginning to merge with the wall. I reached out and grabbed his wrist, my hand like the hand of a child next to his.

  "I pray you, Milord, tell me more."

  When he glared at me, I let go but continued to implore.

  "Very well, Dauphin. One last piece of wisdom."

  I bowed more deeply. "Anything, Milord."

  He stepped back, now almost indistinguishable from the stone. As he faded from view, he called out in a voice that echoed down the stairwell.

  "Seek the white rose."

  Chapter Six

  Flowers and Jell-O

  After a week, I'd gained back some of the weight I'd lost and swapped the catheter for a bed pan. Best of all, the quarantine had ended. I got to see Dinah's rosy cheeks and discovered Doctor B. had jowls that shook when he noted my progress. When Ralph came daily to turn and bathe me, I found I'd been right. He had a perpetual smile beneath that mask. Today, he strode into my room with
an even bigger grin, pushing a wheelchair.

  "Care to go for a ride?"

  I sent a signal to my right leg, trying to flex the muscle, and winced.

  "You think I can?"

  "Hey, Freddie. I do this for a living."

  He rolled the wheelchair next to my bed, set the brake, and hooked the IV bag onto the metal tower attached to it. Then he raised the right leg support until it was horizontal. With his help, I slid to the edge of the bed and balanced on my good leg while he supported the bad. With a couple of nimble moves, I was settled into the chair.

  "All set," Ralph said. "Let's go find some girls."

  I was too busy waiting for the pain to subside to think he was funny.

  "No?" he said. "Well how about some fresh air instead? You may not know it cooped up in here, but it's September in New England. Best time of the year. Gotta enjoy the nice weather while it lasts."

  September. The IED attack had been in July. August had vanished without a trace. How many more months of my life would vanish as well?

  He wheeled me into the corridor, my first time out of the safety of my room. I was immediately on alert. Green tile walls were broken every ten feet by dismal doorways, portals to more misfortune like my own. The sides of the hall were cluttered with IV towers, oxygen tanks, and ominous machines with wires snaking out from behind them. The middle was filled with strangers, nurses and attendants in hospital scrubs bustling about and patients shuffling along with walkers and canes, marching to a more somber beat. Most of them had the thousand-yard stare, young people turned old in an instant. I wondered if I looked the same.

  When we came to the elevator, I glanced up at the lights above the door. They were numbered from one to twenty, all except the topmost floor, cryptically labeled "RA." My first thought was "Royal Apartments," but it was more likely roof access. Ralph reached into his pocket and pulled out a key card, which he swiped across a black box. Then he pressed the down arrow and the mechanism began to whir.

  "What was that for?" I said.

  He watched the light flash through the numbers and cleared his throat.

  "Restricted floor. Need a key to leave."

  "I'm a prisoner?"

  "Naw, Freddie. It's just that some of the guys here have had it pretty rough, rougher than you. Traumatic brain injuries. Or bad PTSD. The doors are alarmed so we know where everybody is."

  A bell sounded and the elevator doors slid apart. Ralph blew out a stream of air and steered me inside.

  On the ground floor, the center of the hospital opened into a small courtyard, an insecure space with too many places for insurgents to hide. I took a quick breath and tensed.

  "Wait up, Ralph."

  "It's okay, Freddie. You're safe here."

  "Give me a minute. It's my first time out."

  I surveyed the perimeter. A few benches. A flower garden dominated by hydrangeas, but not like the softball-sized blossoms my mom used to grow. These were small and paler than the Cape Cod variety, which were a blue that could compete with the sky.

  At once, I could see my mom, hands buried in the hydrangeas, grooming her flowers-one of the few memories I could bear to recall. Me and my brothers in the driveway shooting hoops. Mom telling us to keep the ball out of her garden. She was happy then, surrounded by her family, her garden, and the ocean.

  I looked past the hydrangeas to find purple asters and some lilies too. But no roses. For some reason, I'd been hoping for roses.

  Despite the nice day, the courtyard was deserted, except for a woman about my age who sat on a wooden bench, finishing up a brown-bag lunch. Her eyes were closed and her head tipped back to take in the sun, making her appear to be dreaming. Sitting alone on the bench, her face seemed framed by flowers.

  When she heard us coming, she sat up, straightened her scrubs, and smiled.

  "Hey, Ralph. What do you have there? Another victim for me?"

  "Becky," Ralph said. "What's up? This is Freddie, Lt. Williams, our newest patient. We're trying to bring him back from the dead. Freddie, meet Becky Marshall, one of our physical therapists."

  I nodded a greeting to her, not much in the mood for small talk. She tilted her head to one side as if evaluating me. Then she gave me the kind of look that said we'd met before, if not in this world than in another, and that she intended to make a difference in my life.

  "Is he ready for me?"

  "Soon. If he's assigned to you."

  My attention was drawn to a soda can on the bench next to her. I'd seen too many IEDs in soda cans.

  She caught me fixating on it and grinned.

  "Just my diet Pepsi, Freddie. See?"

  She chugged what was left and tossed the can into a nearby trash basket. Then she crumpled the bag into a ball and to show off, stepped off exactly five paces and shot the bag into the basket in a perfect arc.

  "Nice shot," I said.

  "I make that shot every time."

  "Yeah, right."

  She came close enough that our knees were almost touching and hovered over me, sizing me up.

  "You'll be mine," she said finally. "I can tell. I get all the hard cases."

  As she walked away, light on her feet like a dancer, I fumbled for the wheel of the chair, trying to spin it around so I could watch her go. But Ralph had set the brake.

  "I hope you get her," Ralph said. "She's one of the best. If anybody can fix you, she can."

  ***

  The next day, Ralph let me solo so I could get used to maneuvering the wheelchair by myself. I was trying to reach the solarium around the corner and at the end of the hall. But my arms were weak from disuse and I was uneasy being in the cluttered corridor with so many people.

  By the time I arrived, my breathing was labored and my fingers cramped. I unclenched my fists and checked my hands. Angry grooves ran along the crease of both palms. I must have been gripping the metal rims too hard. I flexed my fingers to ease the stiffness.

  When the redness had faded, I checked my surroundings, relieved to be alone. I wheeled myself to the window, grasping the rims more lightly now. I was high up, fifteen floors according to my room number, and could see a long way. But the view had little to offer, nothing but houses and highways, a golf course, and a stretch of cemeteries. I tried to let my mind wander, but there was nowhere I dared let it go. I didn't stay long.

  On the way back, I must have taken a wrong turn. My room was 1522, and I tried to follow the numbers but became lost in the maze of corridors. I rolled along until my arms got tired and then stopped. I'd be damned if I'd ask for help. I tried again, paying more attention this time: 1542, 1541, 1540. Numbers descending. That was good. But at 1529, the numbers started going up again. I became disoriented and started to panic. Maybe Dr. B. was right about the concussion.

  I pressed my eyelids shut and wished for a white butterfly. Sometimes in World of Warcraft, during a quest where I'd become lost in a cave, a white butterfly would appear and show me the way out. Or lead me to help, a priest, who'd offer an herb to increase my healing, or a mage with an enchanted ring.

  I waited.

  No butterfly, no magic.

  I began counting down instead, from a hundred by nines. I got to twenty-eight, when I heard a voice.

  "Whatcha doing?"

  I looked up to see a young man dressed in a warm-up jacket and loose-fitting jeans. He looked healthy enough from the neck down, even athletic. But on his head, he wore a white plastic hockey helmet covered with decals of American flags and well-wishing autographs in purple marker. Deep eye sockets suggested he'd once had more flesh on his face. And his blue eyes were wandering and wild, like they could see more than his brain could process.

  "Nothing," I answered. "Just resting. First time on my own."

  "You're lost, aren't you? Can't remember your room number?"

  "Fifteen twenty-two," I said too loudly.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. "I'm in 1563. I can never remember the number, so I carry thi
s reminder with me. But I can show you the way back to your room."

  "You can't remember your own room number, but you can lead me back to mine?"

  He tapped the plastic helmet. "TBI patient: traumatic brain injury." He drew the words out, then lowered his voice. "The brain works in mysterious ways. Follow me."

  He turned and headed off. I had to scurry to catch up.

  He walked hunched over, focusing on each step like his feet couldn't proceed without concentration. Every third step, he'd lurch to the right and grab the handrail that lined the hall. I called after him.

  "Who the hell are you?"

  "Jimmie," the boy said, smiling a bit. "Or that's what they tell me. I don't really remember." The grin came easily to him, but didn't make him look happy. He looked more like a quest giver in Warcraft about to reveal a secret.

  "You don't remember your own name?" I said.

  "I lost a lot of words. They tell them to me in speech therapy. Sometimes, I remember. Sometimes not. I remember the word for my name and trust they're telling me the truth, but I don't recall anyone calling me that before."

  He went silent, staring down at me with a blank expression. The pause was infuriating.

  "Before what?" I said, mad at myself for giving in and asking.

  The boy's hands flew to the sides of his helmet and his fingers straightened.

  "Before boom."

  "You mean the explosion?"

  "I guess. I don't know that word."

  "IED?"

  The boy shuddered. "I know that one. Improvised . . . explosive . . . device." He said each syllable with care as if it might detonate.

  My expression softened. Jimmie reminded me a little of my brother Richie, slow and simple but with a magnificent innocence.

  "So why do you wear the helmet?"

  "Part of my skull's missing."

  "From the IED?"

  "No. The doctors cut a hole to let my brain swell. I was asleep for six weeks. Medically . . . induced . . . coma. My brain's healing now. Two more months and they'll patch my skull with plastic. Then I won't need the helmet anymore. How about you?"

  "My head's fine, but I may never walk again."