That was the last thing he remembered before waking, curled in the fetal position, cheek pressed painfully against the stair grating, the wrought iron triangles of which, quite literally, had left their mark on him, branding him not for life, but surely for an hour or two.
He sat up and rubbed at the triangular indentations, blinking away sleep, the combination making him look like a deranged invalid. He felt dazed, numb of body, mind, and soul. What he’d experienced, no matter how hard he wished it, was not a nightmare from which he would simply wake. There was the rope to prove it—narrow, ineffectual silk stretched across the railing in defeat—frail, impotent, pathetic.
Suddenly, he felt a great hatred for this braided silk rope. If it had been heavier, he would have been able to throw it farther. If it had been coarser, thicker, it would have been easier for old fingers to grasp and hold. But no, he had to have the best, the one that was the strongest and effortless to carry.
In a fit of total exasperation, he stood, picked up the rope, scrunched it into a ball, drew back his arm, and flung it as far as he could. He watched with grim satisfaction as it reached the top of its arc and began to fall, unspooling like ribbon as it entered the blackness below.
There! he thought. That’ll show it!
It took only a moment for him to realize how childish he was being, the expression of grim satisfaction turning to self-reproach. I mean, what possible good would come of being angry with a rope? What would that accomplish? Nothing. Obviously, he was angry with himself and had just needed someone, or something, to take it out on.
Should have thrown myself over the side instead, he thought.
Fortunately, in situations such as this, all those years of introspection served him well, preventing him from deluding himself for long. Beyond foolish it had been to throw the rope away. He saw that, yet even now felt somehow justified, as if in spite of everything, it had been the right thing to do. Perhaps it was because he felt so infuriatingly helpless to do anything about anything, and at least throwing the rope had been doing something.
Yes, that was part of it he supposed, but not the greater part. The impetus behind his stupendous lapse in judgment was actually three fold:
First, he blamed himself for what happened to Gaven.
Second, he felt helpless to make amends.
Third, he thought he should be punished for what he’d done, or rather hadn’t done.
And punished he was, for you see there was a fairly decent chance that he was going to need that rope later, froufrou though it may be, to save his own life, or at the very least to climb up or down something…important. He was going to need it and not have it. Mission accomplished.
Well, that’ll show me, won’t it? Yes sir! That’ll fix my wagon, all right!
Simple as that. Mystery solved. He had avenged his friend’s death by taking revenge against the only person available—himself. Brilliant. What’s more, it probably hadn’t even been his Gaven. He hadn’t had time, seeing how it had just occurred, to properly sort it all out, but he thought his Gaven was probably still the age he was supposed to be, traipsing about the stairs somewhere, just as he was—lost. Of course, that could merely be wishful thinking, but he didn’t think so.
Old Gaven, the Gaven he had allowed to die in a horrible and inexplicable way, had believed this place to be a nexus in space-time. Could it be he was right? Right or wrong, it was clear that he had either been from the future or from what Ashel had called, “An alternate space.”
At the very least the future, thought Andaris. And it’s not like his aging was unnaturally accelerated, either. He remembered things that happened from before we lost each other, as well as from decades later. Lived a long and full life….
He felt another headache coming on. His father had often claimed, much to his son’s dismay, that it was a side effect of thinking too much. Andaris had always just laughed him off, because as everyone knew, the only side effect to thinking too much was wisdom. And one could never have too much of that. Now, however, as he stood there attempting to massage the kink out of his neck, he wondered if his father might not be right.
So, the question is, was old Gaven only from the future, or also from an alternate space? Probably just the future. If he’d also been from an alternate space, how likely is it that he would have shared the same experiences? But then how should I know? I’m certainly no expert on the matter. Just the bit I gleaned from talking to Ashel, and that was cryptic enough to confuse anyone.
Unfortunately for Andaris, the question was largely moot. His Gaven or not, it was still Gaven, and he was still dead. Would it really matter if this version of his friend had been from another time and space? Would Andaris really feel any better—loathe himself any less? Maybe a little, but not much.
And there’s something else, he thought. Something I’m missing….
He sighed and shook his head, making what he considered to be a valiant effort to refocus his thoughts. Had anyone been there to behold the piercing yet preoccupied gleam in Andaris’ eyes, they would have assumed he was a man caught in the throes of some seemingly unsolvable equation—and they’d be right.
Okay…so let’s try to be logical about this. Let’s start with what we know and build from there. Future Gaven died, or certainly appeared to have died, and he was an old man with full memory of his life, including the part right before we got separated. Which means…. Which means…what? Think!
As so oftentimes is the case with such things, once you see the solution, you wonder how you could have missed it in the first place—forest for the trees kind of situation. Perhaps his headache was affecting him more than he realized.
It’s so obvious and you still don’t see! that other, less amiable part of his mind chided.
And he knew it was right. Indeed, his arithmetic teacher, the venerable Mrs. Greenswich, would be appalled. Four years of devoted tutelage down the drain. He could almost hear her now, spectacles sitting low on her pointed nose, peering at him with disappointment and, worse still, pity. “Mr. Rocaren!” she would snap. “I thought you were smarter than your brothers, but apparently not! All those afternoons spent in the sun behind the plow has cooked your brain just as thoroughly, hasn’t it?” And then she would shake her wizened head, lean back in her chair, and say, “What a waste!”
Despite the throbbing in his temples, splintering personality, imaginary reprimand, and temporary bout of idiocy, Andaris grinned, suddenly flooded with fresh hope. The important thing is that my Gaven is alive! he thought. And at the same age! All I have to do is find him. But here his grin faltered. And that should be no trouble, right? I mean, I only have the whole of time and space through which to sift. Hmm, I wonder if he’s met an elderly version of me by now.
This image spawned quiet laughter. He clamped his hand over his mouth, uncomfortable with how it more closely resembled a titter than a chuckle. He mentally shook himself and, for good measure, gave himself the cerebral equivalent of a stern slap across the face.
Pull yourself together, he thought. Rocaren blood and all that. Think how displeased father would be if I went crazy.
Deciding that he needed something else on which to focus, anything else, he once again began to climb down the steps, resuming the count where he’d left off, picking it up like some impossibly heavy mantle that he alone must bear. It didn’t matter that the count was no longer accurate. All that mattered was that he keep moving and stop thinking. Later, when he reached some refuge or another, he would try to sort out what he was missing. Until then, for his sanity’s sake, he would only climb. Climb and count. Climb and count. There was nothing else.
One thousand three hundred and twenty-five, one thousand three hundred and twenty-six, one thousand three hundred and twenty-seven….
After You
At one thousand eight hundred and forty-two, he came to yet another platform, this one easily the largest and most impressive thus far, having a total of thirty-three stairways sprouting from it.<
br />
Now that seems a bit overdone, Andaris thought, staring at the thing as if he’d just discovered some ungainly new breed of octopi, tentacles leading up, down, sideways, and in a stunning variety of other directions, as well—its appearance not just bordering on, but surpassing absurd, crossing boldly into the realm of the preposterous.
Impressive though it was, this is not what made Andaris gasp and come to a halt a full step shy of the platform, puzzlement shining bright in his eyes. What had accomplished said feat, was really quite modest by comparison. In fact, had it been almost anywhere else, say in a pub or an alley, one might even say ordinary.
But it wasn’t almost anywhere else, was it? It was here. And that made it extraordinary. For you see, no more than a few feet from where he stood, drawn onto the grating of one of the landings in what appeared to be green chalk, was an arrow. The arrow pointed away from the platform, its peak concluding at the grating’s far edge. Until now, all of the landings he’d encountered had been connected to a staircase. This one, however, was different, incomplete, sticking from the platform like a wrought iron tongue that had been severed just before the tip. In other words, naught but empty air lay beyond the arrow’s peak, orange mist and then an impenetrable darkness that seemed capable of concealing one’s most dire imaginings.
After taking a moment to steady his nerves, Andaris stepped to the spot and sat down, fighting the urge to look over the edge. A couple of minutes later, following some rather extensive rummaging, he pulled a metal box with a hinged lid from his pack. From the box, he took a piece of green chalk. With the chalk, he drew a line parallel to the arrow.
“The color and width are identical,” he whispered.
This revelation was made even more compelling by the fact that Andaris had purchased the “Deluxe Set of Sir Huxley’s Unusual Colors” not two weeks prior to leaving Rogar. No skimping, either. He had gotten the big box. The words written across the lid in bold and rather declarative script read:
Every piece guaranteed to be unlike any piece from any other brand.
ANYWHERE!
Well, this definitely qualified as anywhere, perhaps more anywhere than anywhere he’d ever been. In his right hand, he held a piece of chalk labeled “Sage Green.” If the writing on the lid could be believed, Sir Huxley’s curio shop in Rogar was the only place that sold that exact color—anywhere. His heart danced a happy little jig.
It’s Gaven! It has to be!
He wasn’t aware that the big man had purchased a box of chalk along with the rest of his provisions. In truth, it seemed a bit out of character. But then he must have. What other explanation was there?
Might have even bought it at the same shop, Andaris mused, beginning to smile. I remember him admiring how bright the colors were…. Good ol’ Gaven!—ol’ not old. Leaving me a trail better than breadcrumbs!
Of course, there was still the matter of the missing stair with which to contend. Where had it gone since his friend had marked it? Presumably marked it, that other part of his mind added. And when would it come back? Clearly, Gaven believed these things followed some sort of schedule. If he was right, and Andaris didn’t see any reason to doubt him.
Everything is breaking down….
Then it seemed likely that the marked stair would eventually return.
It’ll be like waiting for a stagecoach, he thought. I should have known better than to—
And then his breath caught for a second time, for there, nestled perfectly into the little wrought iron triangle at the arrows tip, was a blue marble. How he had missed it before, he didn’t know. And not just any blue marble, either. With trembling hands, Andaris picked it up, holding it close to his right eye. He saw what he didn’t want to, what he had seen hundreds of times before. In the marble’s center was a thrice-divided river of red, green, and silver, the colors wrapping around each other with kaleidoscopic flair.
“My marble,” he whispered, turning it so that it caught the light. It was a keepsake from his childhood. Playing marbles was the one thing that he and his father had done together which they both truly enjoyed. This marble had been Andaris’ favorite, as much for its vibrant colors as for the luck it had brought him. His dad would exclaim in mock fright, “Oh no, it’s all over now, he’s breakin’ out Ol’ Blue!”
Of course, the marble being nestled anywhere but in his pack was impossible. Unless…. Yes, that must be it. Somehow, Ol’ Blue had gotten mixed up with Gaven’s stuff, and now the big man was simply using it to make sure Andaris knew it was him.
But why not leave something of his own, instead?
Holding his breath, he reached into the special pocket where he kept Ol’ Blue. “Let it not be there. Let it not—” A shiver coursed up his spine as his fingers brushed against its cool, somehow enigmatic surface. He pulled it out, still hoping, even though his heart told him true. He held them side-by-side, rotating them so that they caught the light. They were, as far as he could tell, identical in every way. His father had explained to him how marbles were like fingerprints—no two exactly alike.
So, if Gaven didn’t leave it….
He shivered again, feeling sick. My marble. My chalk. It was me.
Worlds on a Shelf
After carefully considering his options, Andaris determined that there was but one thing to do: sit and wait for the absent staircase to return and follow it to wherever it led. Initially, he passed the time by preparing himself a light meal—walnuts and linberries washed down with several healthy swigs of mead, followed by a piece of chocolate cake made especially for him by Mandie’s nursemaid, Molly. “No matter where ya goin”, she had said with her usual south-warren charm, “ya can’t go wrong with a bit o’ my chocolate cake.”
Eventually, Andaris grew drowsy and fell asleep, this time having the presence of mind to use his pack as a pillow. He liked the triangle pattern just fine, found it quite attractive really, just not tattooed into his flesh.
When first he woke, it was to the rumbling of two staircases detaching from the platform and spinning off into the distance. One of the two was replaced seconds later, its whirling twin coming to within five feet of the platform. Just when it seemed inevitable it would crash, it stopped and docked with a solid, metal-on-metal clunking sound, presumably the Titan One locking clamps engaging. The other landing remained as conspicuously empty as his own.
He didn’t know how he knew the name of the clamps, only that he did. And for some reason he didn’t find that especially odd, which, in turn, he found sort of odd. When he had the time and mental wherewithal, he certainly did have a lot of things to sort out. Indeed, the list appeared to be growing longer by the minute.
Just as I suspected, Andaris thought. Only the staircases move—not the platforms. Feeling surprisingly calm and sophisticated about the whole thing, he yawned and went back to sleep.
When next he woke, it was to the rumbling of what had the potential to be his staircase. It executed the same breathtaking maneuver, and then, like its counterpart on the far end of the platform, locked into place. Would hate to see the magic fail at the wrong moment, he thought, taking a step back.
It had docked in the correct spot. Upon closer examination, however, he found the troubling absence of a chalk line. Provided he was the one who had drawn the arrow, which at this point seemed all but irrefutable, he would have left a mark not only on the landing, but on the staircase, as well. He was sure of it.
The only thing he could deduce by its absence was that this, no matter how demoralizing, was not his staircase, after all. Andaris suppressed a yawn.
Why am I so tired, he wondered? He knew he needed to keep his wits about him. I mean, even if the stairs did move from platform to platform on a preset schedule, the schedule could obviously change without warning, and with catastrophic results.
Considering the seriousness of the situation, it was strange to feel so at ease. He stretched and this time did yawn. His eyelids felt far too heavy to hold open. He fought back the
sudden fatigue for a few more minutes and then, bowing to the inevitable, surrendered.
May as well rest while I can, he told himself, trying not to dwell on the danger. No telling when there’ll be another chance.
He hoped he didn’t have to wait long. Presumably, at some point he would grow tired of napping and have to resort to less ambitious pastimes, things such as the twiddling of thumbs and tapping of toes.
If he were to be completely honest with himself, he would have to admit that the situation was really quite dire. The trouble was, there was no way to know when the arrow mark had been made, much less what sort of rotation the stairs followed. Which meant his wait could be five minutes or five years.
Fortunately for him, he found being completely honest with himself dreadfully dull just now. Years of introspection be damned! Much better to remain positive, or, depending on your particular philosophical bent, delusional—no sense in splintering one’s personality when it could be so easily avoided. He just had to trust that somehow things would magically work themselves out. Besides, all else aside, he had a good feeling about this.
Surely, it wasn’t that outlandish. I mean, this platform was a main hub, so his stair would have to eventually return. Right? Really, it was just a matter of time.
No problem there, he mused, drifting off to sleep, resisting the urge to pull out his pocket watch to see if the hands persisted in being not only inaccurate, but by his count, downright cavalier. He smiled, visualizing them moving in opposite directions of one another, once again struck by how calm he felt. It was almost as if he had been through all this before and some part of him knew that everything was going to work out all right.
Yeah, just a little thing called time. That’s all. Nothing to get wound up about….
The Stair Of Time (Book 2) Page 18
