The Stair Of Time (Book 2)

by William Woodward

  There had to be a way to make it work. It was just a matter of trying all the various combinations until he found the right one. Every time he failed, he put the tiles back into their original positions and tried again. Fortunately, besides cinnamon whiskey, he had packed some charcoal briquettes, enabling him to write down his mistakes. Soon his fingers were black. He would have preferred ink, but one makes do with what one has.

  He prayed his initial reasoning was correct, for if not, the house he was attempting to build, no matter how grand, was going to fall to ruin atop its faulty foundation. He had caught the wooden eye peeking at him more than once, mocking his efforts to gain entry. Not that he blamed it, mind you. He knew he was taking twice as long as either Mandie or Marnie would have—at the least. They would have gotten in hours ago, and probably wouldn’t have even needed the charcoal. He hung his head in shame. Here he was, completely spent, and still the puzzle door remained barred to him.

  Upon realizing that the numbers represented letters of the alphabet, 3 for C, and so on, he was ecstatic. If the letters and numbers had been in order, he would have figured it out sooner. But they weren’t. The 3, for instance, was between M and J. The flash of inspiration had come to him after taking another small swig of cinnamon spirits. Thinking maybe he wasn’t so daft after all, he threw himself into solving the puzzle with renewed resolve. When he felt his mental prowess beginning to slip, he took a third swig, and then, unfortunately, a fourth.

  One swig too many, he thought, rubbing the back of his neck. Hmm, maybe I should rest a while. Come back to it when I’m fresh. No, he eventually decided. Mandie said to hurry, so I’ve gotta keep at it as long as I can. She wouldn’t have said it if it wasn’t important.

  Not long after, despite his fuzzy head, or perhaps because of it, Eli realized that the pictures on the tiles, when in their final positions, would come together to form a single larger picture. It’s a face! he thought, sliding the boat tile, which was actually part of a winking eye, into place. A woman’s face, probably the witch, judging by the merry, condescending eyes. He shook his head and grumbled, “Numbers, letters, and pictures within a picture. What’s next, Sarilla?”

  As much as it irritated him, being able to use the face as a reference, made his work much easier. Soon, all that was left was the mouth. One tile—a circle within a circle bisected by a vertical line. Eli hesitated, wary of what might happen when he slid this last piece of the puzzle into place.

  He went to go check on Mandie first, just in case something…unpleasant was about to happen. After feeding her and changing her, he went back to the door and gave Sarilla her mouth, something he suspected he might later regret. The surface of the door glowed blue. The air tingled. Eli took a step back as the eye above began to open, peering down at him, blue light shining through the crack. The mouth began moving up and down, the space between the first and second circle forming lips.

  “Enter at your peril, Eli Johansen! Much to my surprise, and I’m sure to yours, you have finally solved my puzzle, and thus earned entry. But I warn you, do not take anything while you are inside! Not so much as a piece of lint. Very little is as it seems. What you pilfer, no matter how innocent, may have the power to turn into something that will consume you body, mind, and soul. There is much beyond this threshold that is beyond your comprehension, much that could bring harm to the ignorant or unwary. You are both.”

  “Can you help my Mandie?” Eli asked, a lump rising in his throat. “Please, there must be something you can do for her.”

  Rather than answering, the mouth snapped shut, followed by the eye, the expression on the face becoming one of deep concentration. The tingling in the air grew more pronounced as the door’s blue aura brightened. The earth began to tremble beneath his feet, and then, at long last, the door swung wide.

  The Voices

  Andaris was on step number one hundred and fifteen when he began to hear the voices. At first he couldn’t make out what they were saying—aware only that it was the vague, distant whispering of three, or perhaps four, people.

  By the time he reached step number two hundred and thirty-six, the whispering had grown louder and more…insistent, taking on a needful, forlorn quality that chilled his bones, surrounding him, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

  Now, rather than three or four, it was a chorus, hundreds upon hundreds of wretched voices whispering in time: Andaris. Andaris. Andaris! He did his best to ignore them, sure that they must, whatever they were, eventually grow tired of tormenting him. Somehow he knew that as long as he didn’t respond, he would be okay. But that if he answered, if he acknowledged the uproar in any way, it would be like throwing oil onto a fire.

  Hoping to avoid this phonetic conflagration, he concentrated on simply putting one foot in front of the other, spiraling ever downward, closing his mind to all else. When he reached step number three hundred and twelve, the chorus had swelled to near deafening proportions. Andaris had stuffed bits of cotton into his ears to block out the clamor. Even so, at the rate things were escalating, he feared it would soon prove inadequate.

  When he reached step number three hundred and forty-six, his restraint shattered. Coming to a stop, he raised his hands over his ears and cried, “What do you want of me!? Whatever it is, I will do! Just please, for the love of Rodan, be silent!”

  And to his immense surprise and relief, his request was granted. Andaris stood stock-still, ears ringing, skeleton vibrating. The sudden and absolute silence was almost overwhelming, more deafening in its way than the chorus of whispers. He let out his held breath and peered around. There was nothing but mist, mist, and more mist in every direction, thick enough to prevent him from seeing his hand should he choose to hold it out at arm’s length.

  “Hello?” he called, listening with no small measure of discomfort to his voice echoing uncertainly into the distance. There was no reply. He hadn’t really expected one, and was very glad that he was right. Alone again, he thought, deciding that his own company was imminently preferable to the ceaseless whispering. Now there was just him and the orange mist, tingling and damp against his skin, and a cool finger of breeze occasionally caressing his face. He found the breeze curiously relaxing. It brought to mind lazy Sunday afternoons spent napping beneath his favorite oak tree back home, of fine feather pillows awaiting his head, of peace, of quiet…of comfort.

  Strange to be so on edge one moment and so relaxed the next, he thought.

  How nice it would be to lie down on these steps and take a nap—just a short rest to refresh his beleaguered senses, to calm his frazzled nerves. He deserved such a rest. No harm would come of it. The mist would be here when he awoke, of that he was sure, as would the stairs. They had always been here, hadn’t they? And always would. Upon awakening, he would continue his descent, reinvigorated and ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead, or rather below. Yes. Then he would locate Gaven, and they would be on their way again.

  A part of Andaris’ mind found it distressing that when he reached up to fluff his pillow, he instead felt the hard edge of a step. But it was a very small part, a distant, barely audible part that deserved no more attention than it got. Such things were not worth listening to. Might as well perk one’s ears to the buzzing of gnats, or skittering of cockroaches. So what if he didn’t remember actually lying down and drifting off? What of it? Everything was as it should be. And now he was safe, and warm, and comfortable, a bear curling up in its cave for a long winter’s sleep.

  ***

  Andaris walked hand in hand with Mandie. Rolling green hills all around. Blue sky above. A hint of wood smoke on the crisp, late afternoon breeze. Smiling and laughing at something he had said, they came to the top of the foremost rise, its grassy head adorned by a crown of wildflowers, primrose and poppies predominant amongst a playful scattering of daffodils. It was lovely, vibrant enough to bring a twinkle, no matter how fleeting, to the most cynical of eyes.

  Mandie undid the blue satin bow in her
hair, auburn curls falling about sun kissed shoulders. The wicker basket she held would soon be filled with wildflowers, gathered for her beloved mother, whose birthday party was now only hours away.

  As Mandie picked and danced her way across the crown of the hill, she began to sing:

  A fairy lands on fairy tails,

  And fairyland is filled with wails,

  Trolls and ogres laugh with glee,

  To see a fairy thrown to sea.

  A firefly cries and burns no more,

  As fairy dust floats to shore,

  A pixie sticks her nose up high,

  As trolls and ogres try to fly.

  A dragonfly with broken wings,

  A voiceless angel gently sings,

  Yesterday will come at last,

  All those present gone to past.

  Unicorns have lost their horns,

  Magic dies as yet unborn,

  Dancing, laughing, out to see,

  A ship of mist sails with thee.

  The sky is filled with rainbows,

  The ponies all have mane bows,

  The trumpet on the wind blows,

  While Mandie sleeps so fast….

  While Mandie sleeps so fast….

  While Mandie sleeps so fast….

  ***

  Andaris awoke with a start, knocking his head against the edge of one of the steps, a thread of spittle dangling from his lower lip. The mist had changed back to its original bluish-green hue. He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep, or why he’d so easily succumbed. All he knew was that he wanted out. Anywhere would be preferable to here. He’d had enough of being lost in visually challenging locales to last him a lifetime.

  Still groggy, Andaris shook his head and drank several long swallows of water, going so far as to splash some onto his face. Wishing he could clear the mist from his path as easily as he’d cleared the cobwebs from between his ears, he stood and continued his descent, picking up where he’d left off. Three hundred and forty-seven, three hundred and forty-eight, three hundred and forty-nine….

  Beyond the Mist

  On step number eight hundred and twenty-three, Andaris finally broke out of the mist. There was no gradual transition as one might expect. One moment he was above the line, with his head in the clouds, so to speak, and the next moment he was below. He came to a halt, mouth agape, eyes wide.

  The cause for his sudden discomfiture lay before him like a dream, a dream that could easily become a nightmare, too fantastic to be real, too real to be denied. Apparently, the circular stair on which Andaris now stood was only one of many—very many. As a matter of fact, there were stairways all around, as far as the eye could see, identical in size and design to his own, swaying lazily in the breeze as though in time to some silent lullaby.

  The air was literally clogged with them. Most hung vertically as his did, but some went diagonally, and even horizontally, connecting to other stairways via broad platforms. Some platforms had only two or three stairways sprouting from them. Others had many score.

  And as if this weren’t enough, as if the afore described spectacle weren’t capable of eliciting the desired degree of stupefaction, in the far distance he spied, betwixt squinted eyes, a stairway that appeared to be wholly inverted.

  But why? he thought. What’s it all for?

  All around him hung a tangled confusion of steps and wrought iron railings, not unlike the branches of an enormous tree, the entirety of which was growing within a space of unfathomable size and purpose. The only illumination came from above, from the mist. If there were walls and a floor, they were beyond the watery light’s capacity to clarify, blanketed in a deep darkness that his eyes could not pierce.

  For a long time, Andaris just stood there, expression of wonder frozen onto his young face, his medulla oblongata scarcely possessing the wherewithal to maintain even the most rudimentary of autonomic functions—trifling things like the beating of his heart and breathing. The scene before him was a difficult thing to wrap his mind around, to say the least. Perhaps if he waited long enough, he would discover that his eyes had been deceived by some trickery or another—smoke and mirrors, as Gaven called it.

  About an hour and a half later, when no such ruse presented itself, he sat down, opened his pack, and pulled out the map box. After pausing to gather his nerve, he lifted the hasp and—

  The box suddenly became too hot to hold!

  He dropped it to the step below and backed up. The symbol on the cover, the circle within a circle bisected by a vertical line, began to glow, blue as the sky after a storm. But what was at first lovely, grew brighter and brighter, until finally he had to turn away. As he did so, his nostrils caught the unmistakable smell of burning wood, the pungent sting of which was beginning to make his eyes water. Soon his cheeks were damp with tears. He coughed and wiped his runny nose.

  Damn box, he thought. It’s been nothing but trouble.

  Blinking against the smoke, Andaris shielded his eyes with his hands and scrambled up the steps. A low hum filled the air, resonant enough to vibrate his teeth. A few excruciating seconds later, and the blue light just winked out, rendering him momentarily blind. The hum carried on defiantly until, gradually diminishing in decibels, it too was gone.

  Andaris turned, peeking from between splayed fingers, afraid of what might happen next. The box was still there but…changed. There was no longer a latch, or even a line separating the top from the bottom. It now seemed like nothing more than a solid block of wood—the sort which typically sits gathering dust in the back of a carpenter’s shop, awaiting the saw.

  With one notable exception. The symbol on what used to be the lid was also still there, a ringlet of smoke rising innocently from its center. Indeed, not only was it still there, it was etched more deeply than before, inset beneath the surrounding surface by a good inch.

  When his heart quit dancing its maniacal jig in favor of a more measured waltz, he stepped down and, with experimental diffidence, touched the tip of his forefinger to the box. To his relief, the surface was cool. Upon closer examination, his hands confirmed what his eyes had so readily conveyed. Beyond cleaving the box asunder, which he doubted would even be possible—being that it had been magically sealed and all—he now had no way in. He fingered the symbol, its dark lines not only deeper, but wider. His finger came back clad in a fine coat of soot.

  An acrid cloud of wood smoke still hung heavy in the air. He coughed and wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve, wishing there was more of a breeze. Convinced that the box meant him no direct harm, that its metamorphosis had merely been triggered by its proximity to this place, he picked it up and examined the other side, noting that it was much heavier than before, as if…well, as if it were a solid block of wood with no hollow to house magical maps. Perish the thought, for without the maps, he was adrift, at the whim, yet again, of the changing winds of fate.

  Andaris was surprisingly unsurprised to discover that the bottom of the box now bore an elaborate inscription, twelve lines of florid text burned into the wood. It read:

  Twisting, turning, toiling track,

  On the backs of mice we all run back,

  Gray and blue and red and green,

  We lift our skirts and try to scream.

  A ball is a ball unless it’s sad,

  A yellow kajone is hopping mad,

  How many ladies can an old man drink?

  How many cards are in your sink?

  Trust to the reaper before the crow,

  He’ll tell ya true as his crops do grow,

  I am a traveler filled with fame,

  I spend my time eating shame.

  Okaaay. So…what the heck does that mean? he thought, frowning at the inscription with both bemusement and distaste. Just exactly what was he looking at here? Was it some kind of weird riddle, or just pointless gibberish? As if in answer, his brain began to offer up an assortment of decidedly uncharitable suggestions, making full use of words such as balderdash, poppycock, and tw
addle. That last one he didn’t even know he knew until he thought of it.

  But why seal the box and then burn such a…twaddling verse into it? To what end? It’s definitely gibberish, he decided. The question is, is it also a riddle?

  Andaris pondered the meaning of this peculiar rhyme, or lack thereof, for as long as he could stand it, i.e. until the sheer inanity of it all threatened to split his skull straight in two. He had a vague impression of something that might explain something hovering at the very far corner of his mind. Perhaps if he didn’t scrutinize it too intently, it would come close enough to be identified.

  “If ya can’t remember what you ought,” his grandmother had once told him, “just forget about it for a while. Fool it into believin’ you don’t care, and then sure as water runs downhill, it’ll be there, usually when you least expect it, starin’ ya right in the face!”

  Spurred by the memory of his grandmother’s half-pint frame and forthright attitude, he put the block back into his pack, stood up, and continued down the stairs, fervently hoping that he hadn’t just strapped a bomb to his back.

  Eight hundred and twenty-four, he counted, eight hundred and twenty-five, eight hundred and twenty-six….

  The Old Man

  Andaris had counted to one thousand three hundred and eighteen when he reached the first platform. Judging by what he’d seen from above, he’d expected to need a torch at some point. But by some obscure sorcery or another, the light was progressing with him, always keeping the gaping maw of the encroaching gloom at bay. The farther he got from the mist, the more it resembled sky—a cloudy, bluish-green sky with countless stairways disappearing into it, but sky nonetheless.