The Stair Of Time (Book 2)

by William Woodward

  “So Mandie, whad’ya think? The kitchen, the stairs, or the shutters?” When he was answered only by the crackling of the fire and Mandie’s steady breathing, he decided to try the shutters, mainly because they were closest. It never occurred to him to simply sit and wait. It just wasn’t his nature. If there was somethin’ he could do to expedite matters, well, by gum, he was gonna do it!

  Since he expected to be surprised by what he found behind the shutters, he wasn’t. After gingerly lifting the iron hasp and pulling both halves wide, his grinning face was bathed in sunlight. The window was made up of twenty-six little glass squares, on which, like the infernal puzzle door, were etched more of those angry looking runes, beyond which he could see a lush forest.

  In the center of his view, framed neatly behind the etching of the circle within a circle bisected by a vertical line, stood a covered pavilion with a checkerboard floor and painted wall. To the left of the pavilion stood an old man, body bristling with enough weapons to start and finish the next war. He brushed a tall brown gelding, perhaps fifteen or sixteen hands high, its saddle sitting off to the side, reminiscent of an empty tortoise shell, discarded and sad.

  Eli banged his palm against the glass and yelled, “Hello! Can you hear me? Over here!”

  Unhearing, uncaring, or both, the man merely continued his methodical brushing, demeanor bespeaking some deep melancholy just beneath the surface.

  “Yesss, I can hear you, Mr. Johansssen,” Sholegath hissed through the door. “Isss there anything you or yoursss requiresss?”

  Startled, Eli spun about, the childlike guilt on his face comical. He hadn’t imagined, based on how thick the door looked, that sound would travel so easily, but then of course this was the house of a witch, and so he should take nothing for granted.

  Cursing himself for a fool, he replied, “No, that’s…all right. I was just checking to see that you could hear me in case…I needed something later.”

  “Oh yesss, naturally ssso, Mr. Johansssen. Ressst asssured, I hear much. No need to fret on that count. Now, if you don’t mind, kindly clossse that ssshutter until my missstresss returnsss. We ssshouldn’t want to let too much of the warmth out, now ssshould we? Ssshe would not be bessst pleasssed. No, not at all.”

  “But how did you…uh…I mean to say…yes, I’ll close it. Sorry. Didn’t know it was a problem.”

  “My thanksss, Mr. Johansssen. And do not worry. There isss no problem. Jussst sssit down and be at your eassse. My missstresss will be arriving ssshortly. Word hasss been received. Yesss it hasss.”

  If Eli had been born with a tail, it would have been tucked betwixt his legs as he shut the shutters, scampered to the sofa, and plopped down, expression the very model of meek.

  Out of Time

  As soon as Gaven reached the desired height, that is to say directly across from Andaris, he stopped and stared, hollow-cheeked and wild-eyed, sucking wind like a man who’d just raced up a flight of stairs, which, of course, he had.

  The two men stood like that for some time, bewilderment passing between them like a ball that neither dared to drop. The points of color that had bloomed high on Gaven’s cheeks now began to fade, returning the creased, scaly skin of his face to its previous lackluster gray, a face that was at least eighty, perhaps eighty-five years old. And not a comfortable, well-fed eighty-five either. No indeed. A hard, lean eighty-five that had been bought and paid for with long years of strife.

  The once big man, now stooped and gaunt, wore only dirty rags, no weapon other than his eyes, which presently pierced Andaris’ heart more deeply than any dagger, for they were the eyes of a madman struggling for sanity—bright, fevered eyes that bore through his heart to his very soul, threatening to drive him mad, as well.

  “But how can you be so young?” the once big man rasped, his once resonant voice rattling from his lungs, air whistling in and out, each syllable dripping with sickness.

  Andaris struggled to speak. He opened his mouth, found his throat too dry for words, swallowed, and said, “I…don’t understand what’s happened. I lost you in the mist, waited for a while, and then started climbing down the stairs. It’s only been a matter of hours. A day at the most. How can you be so…old?”

  Realization dawned in Gaven’s eyes, replacing some of the madness with reason. He started laughing, not the deep, booming laughter of yore, but rather a harsh cackle that deteriorated into a coughing jag, echoing all around with ominous portent.

  This confirmed what his appearance had so strongly suggested. He was not long of this world. Black lung or the like had had its way with him. Death would soon come, choking him on his own fluids.

  Another fragment of unwanted poetry filled Andaris’ mind:

  Sickle, cycle, sickness, death,

  Atop a bony steed to steal thy breath,

  Eyes ablaze with fire so blight,

  Galloping thunder through the night.

  Where it came from was a mystery. If it was something he’d dreamt, his subconscious had kept it well hidden.

  “I’ve been searching all these years!” Gaven wheezed, tears streaming down his still broad cheeks, twin tributaries running past the scaly hollows of his face to his chin. “And now I find you with me at the end and…you at the beginning!”

  He shook his head, still unable to believe. “You can’t fathom the things I’ve seen, Andaris! This place is much more than we imagined! It’s a nexus, built by the Lenoy to travel to different points in time and space. I’ve mapped part of it out, but it would take much longer than I have left to finish—perhaps many lifetimes. I’ve only begun to understand, and now I’m…dying, curse the fates. There are many worlds. Some more beautiful and wondrous than I thought possible. Others more…horrible. But none are what they seem.”

  “You can’t have been wandering all this time,” Andaris said half to himself, feeling numb.

  Gaven’s bushy eyebrows shot up, the ghost of a long-dead grin haunting his lips. “No. I stopped tryin’ to find you…and Rogar…almost fifty years ago. Tried to forget it all. I was happy for a while—almost anyway. I found a world much like our own. It’s called Adrianna. I met a beautiful young woman who reminded me of Trilla and…and I made her my wife. Her name was Alicia. She had golden hair and emerald eyes….”

  The pain on the once big man’s face was almost too much to bear. It was clear Alicia had been everything to him. “Was?” Andaris asked.

  “I had a whole passel of kids, just like I always wanted. But then Alicia passed away and I started having these nightmares, and I knew I had to try to find my way back before I died—damned fool that I am. I wanted to see my native soil again. Just one last time. I wanted to hear the— ”

  Gaven suddenly stopped speaking and looked down, fear growing sharp in his old eyes. “No! It’s too soon! Hurry!” he yelled. “Throw me a line! Something’s wrong! It’s an hour earlier than it should be! Everything’s breaking down! It’s out of order! Number four hundred and twelve should move first!”

  Andaris fumbled with his pack, pulling out a thirty-foot length of finely braided silk rope that had been enchanted to be as strong as steel, or so the traveling merchant from whom he bought it had sworn. After coiling what he deemed to be the correct length into his right hand, he threw.

  Gaven reached for it but missed, and then the staircase on which he stood began to rotate clockwise.

  Andaris reeled in the rope as fast as he could, hand over hand, preparing for another toss.

  And then the staircase began to move away.

  Gaven’s eyes were now wide with panic, disbelief mixing with dread and grief and horror and…too many other emotions to name, making for a near indescribable expression. Suffice it to say, it was far more than any eyes, no matter how old, should be made to hold. Tears streamed anew down his face.

  Once again, Andaris threw the rope, and once again Gaven missed. He wouldn’t have before, but now he was old and…slow. A look of horrible acceptance filled the once big man’s eyes an
d he cried out, “I’m sorry, Andaris! Find my family! Tell them what happened! Tell them I love them! And whatever you do, if you come to a door with crossed hammers against a field of rye, don’t open it! Please heed me! Don’t—

  And then he was gone, voice snuffed out, staircase disappearing into the abyss, swallowed by the ever-present darkness along the borders of sight. Courageous to the last, Gaven Dunarin, son of none and father of many, rode the spine of that spinning beast into, for all Andaris knew, the bowels of Kadra itself, never to be seen again. Not that Gaven anyway.

  Grandmamma

  Eli had been sitting, or more like dozing, on the couch with Mandie for the better part of two hours when he heard a familiar tune being cheerfully hummed from the kitchen. The wholesome aroma of oatmeal cookies rising in the oven was much stronger now. That, along with the humming, triggered flashes of vivid memory—bright, colorful scenes playing out against the back of his eyelids, scenes which soon coalesced into a dream.

  ***

  Eli was five years old again, sitting on the floor of his grandparents’ house, wrestling with Bo, the family dog, after whom he would one day name his horse. Bo had his mouth around Eli’s fat little arm, pretending to be fierce by growling and baring his teeth. Eli just laughed and laughed as he tickled the dog between the ribs. There was the general sense of safety and comfort. Things were blessedly simple here, his heart and shoulders not yet burdened by the many trials of adult life.

  The smell of freshly baked cookies stacked high on a tin platter—to Eli it was silver—now wafted from the kitchen with confectionery delight. And with it came more humming. His mouth began to water. A minute or two to cool and they’d be ready to eat! As an adult, Eli had only been able to remember a few stray words from the songs his grandmamma had taught him. He would sometimes wake in the night, mumbling along with her sweet voice. Then the words would flee, drifting from his grasp like whispers on a breeze.

  Now, like always, his grandmamma stopped humming and began to sing, but this time her voice was so clear that it felt like more than a mere dream. So much so, that he could almost believe he was actually there…. Part of him knew that he was dozing on the couch with Mandie. But another, increasingly ubiquitous part was on the floor with Bo, wrestling and laughing as his grandmamma’s high, quavering voice rose from the kitchen like a blessing. He and Bo perked their ears to listen, postponing their match until after she’d finished.

  Oh don’t you remember,

  A long time ago,

  Two babes in the woods,

  Their names I don’t know,

  Were stolen away,

  On a bright summer’s day,

  Poor babes in the woods,

  Poor babes in the woods.

  Among the trees high,

  Beneath the blue sky,

  They picked wildflower blooms,

  And watched the birds fly.

  Then on blackberries fed,

  And strawberries red,

  They turned towards home,

  To climb in their beds.

  And when it was night,

  So sad was their plight,

  The sun it went down,

  And the moon gave no light.

  They sobbed and they sighed,

  And bitterly cried,

  And just before dawn,

  They lay down and died.

  Poor babes in the woods,

  Poor babes in the woods,

  Poor babes in the woods,

  Poor babes in the woods.

  And when they were dead,

  The robins so red,

  Brought strawberry leaves,

  And over them spread.

  And all the day long,

  On the branches they thronged,

  To mournfully sing,

  And this was their song:

  Two babes in the woods stolen away,

  So far from their home,

  On a bright summer’s day,

  Amidst wildflower fields,

  They did lose their way,

  Pretty babes in the woods,

  Pretty babes in the woods….

  ***

  “Eli, honey,” came a sweet old woman’s voice. “Are you ready to sample my cookies?”

  Sarilla, he thought. Finally. Eli opened his eyes and turned around, but instead of the witch, he saw his dear ol’ grandmamma standing there before him.

  “My goodness, what’s the matter, dear? You look as though you’ve seen a spirit.”

  Eli’s blood boiled. He knew magical folk were prone to mischief, but this was goin’ too far! “You don’t have the right—” He stopped as abruptly as he’d begun, for his voice was that of a five-year-old boy’s. He looked down at his pudgy arms, Bo staring quizzically up at him from his lap, ears perked, head cocked to one side. There could be only one explanation: he was still dreaming.

  But I woke up, he thought. I’m awake. I know I am….

  Eli’s face froze in an expression of utter astonishment. His brain, used to much simpler things, such as the plowing of fields and fixing of farm equipment, listed first to the left, then to the right, centering itself just long enough to allow him to speak.

  “I…I don’t know what you’ve done,” he said in his little boy’s voice, struggling to remain calm, “but if you saw fit to undo it, I’d be…grateful.”

  “What I have done?” his grandmamma echoed. “Why, Eli Johansen, I expected more from a person who could open one of my puzzle doors and charm my chamber guard. You are doing this, not me. I assure you. That is part of my gift, the core part that I cannot change or dispel. Everyone sees me differently, Eli. And, in a way, I become what they see, incorporating some of what their mind creates into myself.”

  Sarilla smiled and winked. “Your grandmamma was a wonderful lady, you know. I can feel her love for you. You must remember Mandie and Marnie describing me. Does it correspond with what you’ve heard from others in your town? People see what they expect…or want...or fear. Sometimes I’m a haggard old crone. Other times, I’m not even human. It can be quite unsettling. It does, however, give me a unique insight into people’s minds. And once I’ve changed into someone, or something, I can always take that form again, any time I like, a skill which has served me well in the past. Thus far, I’ve amassed one hundred and sixty-five personas. A rather impressive number, don’t you think?”

  Eli scratched Bo behind his left ear, weighing the truth in Sarilla’s eyes—his grandmamma’s hazel eyes. The situation was difficult to reconcile, to say the least. He was wide awake, he was sure of it, but he was also five years old again, sitting on the floor of his grandparent’s house, a place he hadn’t stepped foot in for over twenty-five years.

  “Don’t you understand?” she asked. “You were dreaming about her when I arrived. It’s perfectly natural that this should happen.”

  Partly because Mandie’s fate hung in the balance, and partly because he so fiercely loved his grandmamma, Eli pulled himself together and nodded, flashing her a boyish grin. He didn’t need to understand. He just needed to help his daughter, and the best way to do that was to keep Sarilla happy.

  “So, ‘bout those cookies….” he said. “Will they taste the same? Poor Marnie could never get it quite right. The only thing she ever cooked where she followed the recipe to the letter, and no matter how she tried, something always went wrong. I never told her, of course. But she knew. A bright ray of sunshine was my Marnie.”

  Eli reached up and wiped his eyes, disgusted to find that he was crying. Bo whined and licked his face, making him laugh. He was glad this was only temporary. Apparently, while his cognitive ability remained more or less intact, his emotional fortitude was much like that of a five-year-old’s—all those years of building barricades gone. And Eli wasn’t one of those people who wished to be young again. No sir. Why, just the sound of his own voice was enough to give him the willies.

  “In a sense,” replied Sarilla, “they will taste exactly the same. In a sense, you are wher
e and what you seem to be.” She waved her hand from left to right. “Look around.”

  He did as instructed, discovering that every detail of his grandparent’s house was as he remembered, even details that he had long since forgotten. Here was a picture of a knight galloping through a forest atop a white horse, there was a wooden rocking chair with blue cushions, here was a rack of pipes with a side compartment for tobacco, there was a shield hanging above the fireplace bearing his family’s coat of arms—crossed hammers against a field of rye.

  And through the unshuttered windows, instead of an old man weighted down with enough armaments to start and finish the next war, he saw the broad trunks of cypress trees. Nothing quite so beautiful as the lowlands at this hour—sunlight slanting through the breaks, fog ferreting its way along the forest floor.

  What would happen if I walked out the door? he wondered. Would the illusion end?

  As though reading his thoughts, Sarilla gestured to the door. “Why don’t we go outside and sit on the porch to discuss this…situation regarding Mandie. It’s a beautiful spring day, just like the ones you remember. The sky really did used to be bluer, you know?”

  Eli nodded, realizing for the first time, to his great shame, that Mandie wasn’t here.

  “She’s safe,” Sarilla assured him.

  He nodded again and, with about an equal mix of eagerness and apprehension, followed her outside.

  Reeling

  Andaris had stood there for what felt like ages, hanging onto the railing, eyes fixed on the spot where Gaven’s staircase had been swallowed whole, where it had disappeared into the darkness, spinning into the yawning abyss that waited just beyond the pale orange glow of the mist. When his mind had finally allowed him to accept what had happened, he had dropped to his knees and begun to weep.