The Stair Of Time (Book 2)

by William Woodward

  Regarding my prior assertion, however, I am absolutely certain. No matter what name a given society chooses, singular or plural, they are worshiping the same thing. In every single instance, it is The Lenoy. And just so we’re clear, I do not look down on humanity for this. In truth, given the grand scale of things, most days I too believe they are gods. The difference being, I recognize the possibility that I am wrong. I also recognize that it doesn’t matter. After all, to an ant, the construction of a single house must be incomprehensible, and yet said construction is routinely achieved by a single man. So logically it follows that if we are like ants when compared to The Lenoy, then they are like gods when compared to us. So basically, for all intents and purposes, even if they’re not gods, they may as well be for all the difference it makes.”

  Eli nodded, glad that Sarilla had touched on something he sort of understood. He was a little uncomfortable with what she’d said about The Watcher, but at least now knew where his god fit into all this. Indeed, he found what she proposed to be more plausible than a lot of people would. In part because of his matter-of-fact way of thinking, and in part because this business about the ant being inconsequential when compared to a person was something he’d pondered one day while riding his plow, the summer sun deepening the already pronounced furrows in his brow.

  And his ponderin’ hadn’t stopped there. That thought had been a bridge to many others, too many, eventually leading to the notion that there might be something else out there of a corporeal nature that made him seem as inconsequential as an ant seemed to him. He obviously hadn’t expected that something to be The Watcher, seeing how he’d assumed Him to be of an uncorporal nature, although wasn’t exactly shocked by the idea either.

  Feeling pleased with himself after his day of plow ponderin’, he’d gone home to regale Marnie with his “revolutionary” theories, only to have her gently explain to him that many people’s minds had traveled down similar paths. He had been crestfallen, but only briefly, regaining his usual good humor by suppertime. After all, Eli Johansen had never counted himself among the world’s great thinkers. Most assuredly not!

  The words his grandmamma had uttered all those years ago still rang true in his ears: “Eli, no sense in scrunchin’ up yer forehead and squintin’ yer eyes until they pop outta yer fool woolly head! Ya have a strong back and a good heart, and that’s more’n most. So leave the ponderin’ for them that are better suited to it, and the turnip pullin’ to us Johansens!” And so he had. Until now, that is. And only because he had no other choice.

  “All the worlds are connected by an invisible conduit,” Sarilla went on in her unsettlingly implacable way, “passable only by those possessing the skill and knowledge necessary to first factor in the coordinates and then ride the wave from one world to the next. These conduits spring forth from…from places that exist outside or between normal space-time. Control nodes, if you will. It’s like locations on a map with lines drawn between. Understand?”

  Eli’s expression went from merely perplexed to wholly mystified—a caricature of befuddlement which, under ordinary circumstances, would have been considered humorous.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, looking genuinely embarrassed. “I’ve never had to explain this to anyone before. It’s more difficult to put into words than I had imagined.” She sighed. “Okay, let’s try again. Think of the worlds as towns, and the conduit as a road. Most towns, certainly any large enough to be called such without argument, have either a center square or a town hall, a place where folk gather and important decisions are made. With me so far?”

  Eli nodded dutifully.

  “Good. For you see, just like every town has a road going in and out, every world has a conduit. But instead of a town hall or square, each world has a secret place where everything related to it can be monitored— weather, rotation, plant and animal life, and so forth.

  As amazing as it sounds, theoretically, one could travel from world to world until one ended right back where one started. I see it as a giant serpent eating its own tail, undulating through the fabric of space-time. And every bit of it—from the tip of its tail to the top of its head—exists atop a mahogany shelf in a cozy little study that, in and of itself, is much much larger than the whole of the known universe.

  And what lies beyond the shelf, you ask? And beyond the room? And beyond the world? Boggles the mind, doesn’t it? Could be there is another undulating serpent. Could be there are infinitely many. Or, perhaps, there is something else altogether. Perhaps there is only one level. But if that’s the case, then in what does the serpent undulate? Space-time fabric, you say? Yes, of course, I know. But of what is that made, and in what is it contained? And then what is outside the container? You see, it goes on and on and on like that, each discovery creating more questions than it answers, mysteries within riddles within revelations, revelations which, invariably, lead to more mysteries within riddles, many of which, if followed to their discernible conclusions, become paradoxical to the extreme. I tell you, it’s positively infuriating sometimes.” She leaned back in her chair and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “You know, after all the centuries of immersing myself in this, I’m surprised I’ve been able to keep my mind from spinning off.”

  Eli wanted to leap to his feet and sprint into the forest, yelling and waving his arms for help. It was only with the most superlative effort that he managed to stay put, squirming and perspiring instead. His simple mind was simply overfull. Much more of this and he felt sure it would burst apart entirely, pieces landing with a sickening splat against the cobblestones. He smiled at the thought.

  “Could be there is no beginning and no end,” Sarilla droned on, “only change. I know what you’re thinking. Sounds like lunacy, doesn’t it? Perhaps it is. I just don’t know anymore. And yet there is precedence to support what I say. You see, there is very little real stability, Eli. While there are through lines that run fairly straight, they are so easily lost amongst the chaos of the greater weave, that they become difficult, if not impossible, to follow.”

  Like this talk, he thought.

  Sarilla smiled, a broad, genuine smile that added sparkle to her eyes. “You know, Eli, I hope you listen closely to what I say, and heed it well. I really am beginning to like you, and would hate to see anything…unseemly happen to you. Given your spirit and courage, if you listen to me and do as I instruct, all may still be put right.”

  Eli blushed, regretting his unkind thoughts towards the witch, and then nodded, determined, no matter how uncomfortable it made him, to get through this. Truth be told, he felt like he was floundering waist deep in bog mud—the black as pitch variety typically found in and around the banks of streambeds, like the one running south along the western edge of his land, marking the boundary between his crops and the stunted wood beyond.

  Nevertheless, floundering or not, he would stay the course. There was too much at stake to do otherwise. He would stay if it took a year. Mostly for Mandie. Partly for himself. And lastly, increasingly, for Sarilla. It was becoming more and more evident that she needed to talk almost as much as he needed to listen. She really wasn’t turning out to be that bad a sort, as far as witches went. And if he could help her by providing an outlet while she helped him, why not?

  Sarilla straightened in her chair and drew in a deep breath. “Henceforth, in an effort to expedite things, I shall attempt to tell you only what you need to know in the simplest and—my articulation and your comprehension permitting—most economical fashion possible. You will likely deem it more than necessary. But trust me, it is not.”

  Eli gestured for her to proceed, his expression of sober determination almost comical, that of a man, or in this case child, preparing to do battle with beasts spawned from the bowels of his blackest dreams.

  Sarilla suppressed another smile and, in a calm, steady voice said, “The problem is actually quite simple. It’s the solution that’s the problem, if you catch my meaning.” She shook her head and sighed. “I see I’m not go
ing to get anywhere dancing around the issue with you, so I’ll just come out and say it. Eli, in the future, in another time and place, your daughter is supposed to be…a dog.”

  Seeing that he was about to break his vow of silence, she quickly added, “Now I’m not referring to any ordinary dog, I’m talking about a canine of exceptional beauty and breeding, of uncontested pedigree and intelligence, sired from a long line of champions.” A little embellishment to spare his feelings won’t do any harm, she thought. “Remember, most of us have been animals at one point or another. I myself was once a common housecat. Don’t believe me? Well, I assure you it’s true. As far as I can tell, we each get one lifetime as an animal, everyone from the most bedraggled of peasants to kings. I believe it’s meant to teach us humility, and to make us more benevolent towards the lesser creatures of the world—on a subconscious level, of course.”

  Eli couldn’t help but think of Bo.

  “Using a series of past life regression techniques, I have attained partial memory of my time as a feline. Fascinating, really. But I, by far, am the exception to the rule. Most people’s minds would not be able to accept such a thing.”

  She patted Eli’s pudgy little hand. “You see, my dear, Andaris Rocaren inadvertently triggered memories of one of her past lives, which is her present life with you, wherein, based on one of the more common scenarios, she and Andaris are together after he goes back through time to find her. He is attempting it as we speak, from what is his most common present, the present your Mandie is presently half in, desperately trying to find a way to send himself back to a point in time before she was divided, so that he might be reunited with the whole Mandie, the one whose reflection has been cast across the centuries to him through the canine, Jade, your Mandie’s future manifestation.”

  Eli stared dumbly on, old, neglected parts of his brain reluctantly beginning to engage, gears straining against the accumulated corrosion of disuse.

  “Innocently enough, Andaris had the fool wizard Ashel—who, by the way, would be mortified to learn that he was once a tree sloth—change her into her past life human self. They meant well, but as the saying goes, ‘The path to Kadra is paved with good intentions.’”

  Sarilla frowned. “Naturally, Jade being changed into Mandie caused all sorts of problems—namely, two distinct iterations of the same person existing within the same body in two separate times. It’s not supposed to happen. Damn that Ashel Tevellin and his incessant meddling! He doesn’t know what he does, or even that his mind is not entirely his own. Grindark is a formidable foe, slipperier than an eel and stealthy as a shadow, his subtle guile making him the perfect choice to infiltrate one as proud as the High Mage Tevellin. Something must be done! As we speak, Jade and Mandie are dreaming of each other, existing in each other’s time-space. If Jade is not changed back into Jade, both will die.”

  Eli suppressed a gasp, for this, like the ant analogy, he understood perfectly. It almost made him long for some more of Sarilla’s mind-boggling convolutions—almost.

  “The universe cleans up after itself, Eli. This cannot be allowed to go on. It’s like two great wheels turning in opposite directions beneath the same wagon. Either the wheels eventually synchronize with one another, or the wagon is ripped asunder. Space-time cannot be allowed to be ripped asunder, Eli. It just isn’t done. I mean, it would be anarchy, wouldn’t it? All the worlds falling into one another, swirling together into some great, inescapable vortex.”

  Eli gulped and nodded, as if to say, “Why yes, that does sound bad.”

  “But what if no one’s at the helm to steer the ship – just magic and machinery to turn the wheel and follow a course set many millennia ago? Mark my words, Eli, there are reefs ahead! If something isn’t done soon, we will all crash! Don’t you understand? This is much bigger than you know. Although connected, your problem is but a symptom of a greater illness. The very hull of reality that keeps us afloat is in jeopardy of coming apart at the seams! The fail-safes left behind should have engaged already. The ship should have righted itself. The fact that it hasn’t….” and here she trembled, “can only be taken as further proof that the Lenoy are dead.”

  The Willing Wench

  Andaris needed time to think, and so declined Bernard’s offer to fetch him a carriage, stating that some fresh air and sunshine would do him good. Bernard argued that it would be unsafe for the king to walk the streets like a commoner. Andaris countered by saying that he would probably, given his age and attire, go wholly unrecognized.

  “Besides,” he added, a wry grin lending his lips a roguish curl, “if there’s any trouble, I have you strapping fellows to bail me out!” Bernard grudgingly agreed and, at length, they set off, making their way through the dark underbelly of the city towards the palace.

  That had been about forty-five minutes ago, forty-five minutes since he’d begun following Bernard and his underling slug through the red brick streets of Adrianna, purportedly the brightest jewel in his crown of kingdoms. The afternoon sun felt warm against his face, a light breeze caressing his tired spirit.

  All around, throngs of people meted out their mundane chatter, going about their daily do with the sort of casual competence that comes with mind-numbing repetition. Since the war, Andaris had been uncomfortable in large groups. That had been one of the reasons—though he’d scarcely even admitted it to himself—that he’d spent so much time in the archives.

  On this day, however, he delighted in the experience, allowing the boisterous company of his fellow man to help mend the wounds inflicted first by the shapelings, and then the confounded clockwork stair, emotional wounds which ran far deeper than any of the flesh.

  Indeed, at present he found the background noise ideal for serious thinking, something he’d been putting off for far too long. He wished he knew what it was in his nature that kept him from appreciating something until it was gone. If he could figure that out, he suspected he’d have the answers to a great many things and, in general, be a much happier person.

  The steep rooflines of mud-thatched buildings rose to the left and right of the street, chipped faces traced by sturdy oak beams which crossed and re-crossed at right angles of one another. This reminded him of something his grandfather had once said about a mule: “He’s scruffy all right, but he’s got good bones on ‘im, and that’s all that counts!”

  Here and there the windows held thick panes of glass, wavy surfaces obscuring the interiors from curious onlookers, such as himself, hearts glowing with a pale, murky light. The rest held only shutters, hinged and louvered affairs that could either be latched during periods of inclement weather, or opened when it was fair.

  Today, of course, they hung wide to catch the afternoon breeze, making the buildings appear to yawn, as though settling in to take a long nap, gentle giants lounging in the gathering warmth. Like the street, the interiors bustled with people. There were those doing the selling—shopkeepers insisting their wares were the best. Those doing the buying—customers with bright eyes and sharp tongues. And those just passing by—like himself.

  Above most doorways hung brightly painted signs advertising everything from armor to hair cream. The occasional shouting match could be heard over the more familiar hum of activity.

  “You want how much? Why, that’s outrageous, it’s not worth half that!”

  “Are you trying to ruin me? I’m an honest merchant, but I wouldn’t sell it to my mother for that price!”

  “Come one, come all, only two coppers to see The Amazing Crocodile-Man, captured just last week from the deepest swamps of Meldoria!”

  “Guards! Guards! Sound the alarm! I’ve been robbed! There’s the cutpurse now, heading down that alley!”

  And so on.

  Not for the first time, nor unfortunately the last, Andaris had cause to marvel at humankind’s capacity for silliness.

  A variety of aromas hung thick in the air, one layered atop another, giving his nostrils quite the work-out. Incense and perfume floated on the
surface, spicy, sweet and, at times, sickeningly pungent. Below this was cooking meat, bold and savory. And below this was what any town of Adrianna’s size tried to conceal but never quite could—the musty stench of the unwashed masses.

  How long has it been now? he wondered. He should guess at least an hour and a half. All that time and wonderful background noise, and he was just as flummoxed as before. The brightest jewel in my crown, he thought, trying to make sense of it all. This chapter of his life was turning out to be much odder than expected. I mean, going through a portal to another world was one thing. But then to find oneself ruler of said world…. Well, that was enough to make anyone’s head spin.

  And the shapelings are here, he thought. Which means, somehow, so is The Lost One. Guess it’s not all that surprising, given everything else. If different versions of myself can be in different realities, then why not the shadow-blighted Lost One?

  While it was true that Andaris was relieved to be with people again, especially after his harrowing escape from the clockwork stair, he wished someone would tell him why everyone, including a portion of himself apparently—a portion that had blessedly gone dormant again—believed him to be king of this place. It was more than a little disconcerting to know that, at any given moment, someone might push their way into your mind and take control, especially when that someone turned out to be an alternate version of yourself.

  Next time he felt it coming on, he would fight it! If he was determined enough, perhaps he could fend off the intrusion. It was all a matter of whose will was stronger. Although he supposed his will would prove the stronger no matter who won, for it was him either way, wasn’t it? Yes, indeed. Part of himself coming to the fore to take control when he found himself, understandably, out of his depth. But there was more to it than just that. He also felt as if his body and mind were being violated by something…foreign, and not altogether wholesome.