The Stair Of Time (Book 2)

by William Woodward

  There is a certain awareness that all abandoned places eventually acquire, whether it be a slouching mansion with a warren of passageways, or an old farmhouse with only two rooms. If a space had ever been inhabited by a person’s thoughts, hopes, and dreams, the feeling was the same: a residual presence left behind after all else had gone, a stain on the air, a stillness that watched and waited, a mouth breathing against the back of one’s neck, a pulse echoing in one’s ears, a chill prickling one’s flesh.

  Regardless of the location, it never felt right or…wholesome, transforming all who entered into unwelcome guests, their tentative steps rising and falling as if against the undisturbed floor of a tomb.

  And when the place included faded pictures hanging crookedly on dust-covered walls, unwound clocks, empty beds and, oh yes, lest we forget, skeletons of oneself, then it became ever so much worse.

  It was an odd sensation, to say the least. To be staring at these things, his things, cherished belongings which a part of himself had possessed for years, but another part had yet to even touch…. Like, for instance, that book lying on the table over there—his future self’s journal.

  Andaris stepped towards it, irresistibly drawn, the lantern chasing the shadows ever deeper into hiding. Beyond the imaginary worlds conceived by his subconscious, that journal had been the only thing to keep him sane, an outlet for his thoughts and feelings, something tangible to which he might cling. The day he’d filled up the last page, his slow decline into despair had become a plummet.

  There was an unlit torch mounted against the wall on either side of the hearth. Touching first one and then the other with the candle from his lantern, Andaris brought them crackling back to life, banishing the shadows once and for all to the farthest reaches of the room.

  After allowing a moment for his eyes to adjust, he looked down at the leather-bound journal—the only thing not covered in dust, as though someone had recently picked it up and flipped through the pages. But who? he wondered, spine tingling.

  As he stared at it, that feeling of being in several different places at once intensified. Andaris tossed the candle into the cold heart of the hearth, feeling curiously gratified as it winked out, its head buried in ash.

  Two hands are better than one, he thought, reaching down and picking up the journal. Especially when you’re about to read your future…as well as your past.

  He stepped over to the high-backed chair opposite the one in which his bones sat, the one pulled out just enough to allow access, feeling the juxtaposition like a spike through his head. He remembered sitting where his future self sat now, looking at the other chair in which he was about to sit, the chair’s twin, feeling a presence staring at him, perhaps his twin, perhaps his past self, perhaps him!

  The sudden spinning of his thoughts was almost enough to make him drop the journal. His heart pounded in his ears. His breath came ragged and fast. He held the journal tight against his chest and squeezed shut his eyes, waiting for his respiration to return to normal.

  At which point, thankfully, he remembered the bottle of spiced brandy behind the clock on the mantle. The fire kept it warm when his heart grew cold. He opened his eyes, dipped his head to his bones, giving himself a quirky grin, then turned and grasped hold of the brandy, showing all the fervor of a drowning man.

  After popping the cork, he took a couple of long swigs, just enough to settle his nerves and warm his heart. He returned the brandy to its place on the mantle. Then, thinking better of it, set it on the table instead. Releasing a sigh that any passerby would presume was borne of prolonged suffering, he sat down and placed the journal reverently into his lap.

  He waited, looking about the room expectantly, fearing some retribution for his brazen intrusion. When nothing untoward occurred—the torches continued to blaze, the shadows continued to shrink, and his skeleton continued to slouch, jaw hanging askew in a caricature of eternal agony—he put his hands against the leather cover of the journal and cracked it open, relishing the feel of the coarse grain beneath his palms.

  It’s been a long time, he thought with a shiver. I told you all my secrets….

  Beads of perspiration popped out on his brow and upper lip as he turned to the first page, the first of many, providence hanging thick in the air. It was his handwriting all right. There could be no doubt.

  Now, you tell me yours….

  ***

  My name is Andaris Rocaren, third son of Edward Rocaren. I found this journal shortly after I found this room—this amazing, magical room that seems to read my mind and give me what I most need and want. Within reason, anyway. For instance, if I think of something as I’m falling asleep, then it’s usually here when I awake. Sometimes, it’s stuff I don’t even know I want, like this journal, and the never-empty bottle of spiced brandy. That was a good morning!

  I decided to begin writing down what’s happened in case I don’t make it out, in the hopes that one day human eyes will look upon what I have written, and learn from my time down here. Both so that I will be remembered, and so that my time will not have been spent wholly in vain.

  I am alone. I entered the Lost City with my good friend, Gaven, in the hopes that we could find both a cure for Mandie, and a way back to Fairhaven. We became separated after going through the mist, and then I found myself wandering around, like a mouse in a maze, the confounded clockwork stair seeming to hinder my every step.

  When I found the green door into this castle, of which this room is but a very small part, I was so relieved. I truly believed I would be lost on the stairs forever—or at least until I died. There are many doors leading from the stairs to who knows where. From what I’ve been able to discern, it’s a kind of nexus in space-time. But I don’t know, maybe that’s wrong.

  The door I went through, as you know if you’re reading this, led to a castle that seemed to exist in another world. I could see a town outside the windows, and even people. For weeks I tried to reach them, but could not. Beyond the way I came, every hall and stair eventually leads me back to this room, as if it’s at the center of a great labyrinth.

  There are some extraordinary rooms in this place. There was one with tiles on the floor that I could move around, each bearing a different symbol. Another with mirrors on the walls, ceiling, and floor. Another with nothing in it but a single golden birdcage containing a mechanical sparrow on a perch, a key for winding it up protruding from its back. It sang such beautiful songs. I listened for hours, but so far haven’t been able to find my way back. It’s as if the rooms and halls change position. I’m sure that’s only my imagination. I’m sure I’ll get it down eventually. I just wish Gaven were here to help me.

  Oh, I almost forgot to tell you the best part—the dining room! A thirty-foot long ironwood table with ever-burning candelabras placed every five feet or so. It seats fifty, but there’s just me. The settings are fit for a king. The plates are made of solid gold. And there are crystal goblets that catch and refract the light from the candelabras, casting little rainbows about the room.

  This table holds the most delectable food imaginable. What needs to be hot, stays hot. What needs to be cold, stays cold. There are turkeys, hams, roasts, ten different kinds of bread, pudding, wine, cider, cocoa—all my favorites.

  And that doesn’t do it justice, not by half. I wish I were a better writer so that I could properly convey what I saw. It’s so difficult to paint a clear picture with mere words. I can see it perfectly in my mind, but when I try to describe it I fall short. It’s SO frustrating!

  Oh well. Nothing to be done about it, I suppose. We are all born with the gifts The Watcher gives us, no more, no less. Hey, that was pretty good. Maybe there’s hope for me yet!

  But I digress. I’ve been so easily distracted of late. I find it takes a monumental effort to keep my mind on track, to focus on any one thought for more than a few seconds. Must be this place. I can feel it pulling at me in so many different directions. Sometimes, like now, to a disconcerting degree.


  Speaking of which, did I mention that the temperature is always perfect in here? It’s as if it automatically adjusts to my body. Every time I start to feel the slightest bit uncomfortable, it changes.

  See what I mean? There I go again. So ANYWAY, back to the table. Perhaps the most remarkable thing about it is this: Every time I eat something, the next day it’s back! Sometimes I think I can hear murmuring coming from the kitchen, and the sound of pots and pans, but I’m sure that’s just my imagination. I’ve always been prone to suggestion, and I suppose being alone in this big empty castle is beginning to get to me.

  Some of the other doors, unlike the door I entered, may lead from the clockwork stair to actual worlds. What I see outside the windows, however, is likely just a backdrop, an illusion put in place by one of the Lenoy, a never-ending loop that’s been running for centuries, and will continue to run, provided the machinery and magic don’t fail.

  It’s too repetitive to be real. The people in the town go about the exact same routine every day. They wear the exact same clothes, which isn’t a problem since the weather’s always warm and sunny, and gesture to each other in the exact same ways.

  I get the feeling that this was a kind of vacation spot for someone, a place to get away from the trials and tribulations of everyday Lenoy life, whatever those might have been. I get the feeling there’s probably a door that leads to pretty much whatever one can imagine. For all I know, the whole thing was a giant playground to them. I wish somebody could explain it to me. I wish I knew where they all went, or at least could find some books on the subject.

  After I’ve rested and had time to work up my nerve, I plan to go out and explore some more. It’s difficult, because I’m safe in here and, like I said, between this room and the dining table, have everything I need—physically anyway. But what about people? I don’t want to live the rest of my days alone because I’m too cowardly to face the clockwork stair. True, I do better alone than most, but even I need SOME companionship. Besides, if I don’t make it back to help Mandie, there’s a very real chance she’ll die.

  Well, that’s all for now. The clock on the mantle says it’s half past one, which means it’s WAY past my bedtime. Oh, and that’s another thing. Time’s kinda screwy down here. Sometimes it seems to move slower than it should. And other times faster.

  For instance, I could swear it was early evening when I started writing. Surely I haven’t been at it that long, and yet my body seems to agree. I’ve been yawning and rubbing my eyes for the past couple of paragraphs. Oh well, no sense worrying about it now. Nothing I can do about it. I’ll write more later. It’s been nice to have someone to talk to. Goodnight.

  P.S. I’m going to try visualizing my friends before falling asleep. I doubt it’ll work, but maybe if I concentrate hard enough. Anyway, I’ll let you know.

  *

  The most remarkable thing has happened! I did as I said. I visualized my friends and…you know what? It actually worked! Well, in a sense, anyway. I mean, it’s not as if they were physically here when I awoke. The next best thing, however. They were with me WHILE I slept. I know how that sounds, but it’s not what you think. It’s not that I dreamt of them. At least not in the traditional sense. Somehow, someway, my mind, and perhaps even body, were transported to another place. A kingdom called Adrianna, where Trilla and I rule as queen and king. Husband and wife. It was unnerving at times, especially since a part of me forgot the truth and thought the fantasy, complete with memories and dialogue, was real.

  I know it’s difficult to believe, but you have to trust me when I say that it wasn’t just a dream. It felt as real as any waking experience I’ve ever had. The smells, the sounds, the colors. The way things felt and even tasted.

  Whatever magic brought me the brandy and this journal, must also have created this other place. I can only assume that my subconscious is controlling it in some way, dictating how it will form. When I went to sleep in that world, I woke up in this one. Question is, is that world any less real than my own? The brandy and journal seem to suggest not.

  If that’s true, and I could gain more control, perhaps I could devise some way to transport myself back to Fairhaven, or even to someplace where I can find a cure for Mandie! I wonder. If I were to imagine myself in Fairhaven with Mandie, would we—I hesitate to even think it, much less write it. Would we actually BE there? Our minds, anyway? Could I draw her to me as she dreams?

  Being a farmer in Fairhaven with Mandie as my wife sounds pretty good right about now. It would be wonderful to see my parents again, too. It still amazes me how much I took for granted back then. But one thing’s for sure: I’ve learned my lesson! If I ever make it out of here, I’m going to appreciate everything and everyone.

  It strikes me now more than ever how truly incredible it is to be alive. And yet most people go through life half asleep, never truly grasping what they’ve been given, their complacency like an arrow in the Maker’s heart. They are bored with things that should fill their minds with wonder. “There’s always plenty of time,” they tell themselves. And then suddenly there’s not. Life is over and their time is gone—squandered, wasted, blown away on the breeze, never to be seen again.

  If one were born on the surface of the sun, fed fire for dinner and lava for lunch, then one would no doubt find it all very tedious, for that is human nature, to detest what we have always had and taken for granted. But it would not BE tedious, would it? It would be extraordinary! Unpleasant, but extraordinary.

  *

  I have spent every night since my last entry in a different place. As remarkable as this sounds, I am growing increasingly frustrated. The problem is, I can’t seem to figure out how to stay in any one place for more than one night. A couple of times, I didn’t even make it THAT long. Turns out, the S-shaped handle on the door to my bedroom is in all the worlds. I’ve seen it on trunks, doors, and even faucets. It acts as a kind of failsafe, emergency escape handle, bringing me back here. I used it three times before catching on.

  But no matter how hard I concentrate, I can’t keep from being transported when I fall asleep. Nor can I keep from FALLING asleep. Each night my subconscious comes up with new scenarios. And each morning, it feels less and less real.

  *

  Well, apparently after thirty days, it all starts over. So, I guess I’ve reached the ceiling. If I’d known there was going to be a “ceiling,” I would have been more careful with my creations, especially since the script appears to merely repeat itself.

  Imagine my surprise when I realized I had all the same double memories, the same split consciousness as the first time through. Most disturbingly, even though I knew what was coming, I felt the same scripted emotions.

  Just like the first night, I emerged from the door as king of Adrianna, ready to wow Bernard and his underling slug with my implanted speech. I insisted on walking to stretch my legs, and then rode in the monstrosity of a carriage instead. I talked with Bernard for a time. Was reunited with Trilla. And then went to sleep and woke up with Mandie.. But no matter where I go, how far I travel, I always end up back here.

  I tried with all my will to alter the course of the script. To go to the Willing Wench instead of the castle. To not take the carriage. Even to look out the window at the passing scenery, if indeed it exists—which I’m beginning to doubt. But all my efforts were wasted. Every time I came close to exerting free will, the script took control, and I found myself uttering something other than what I had intended, anything to progress the damn plot!

  Needless to say, this is a big setback. Any hopes I’d had of escape through the imaginings, as I’ve begun to think of them, are pretty well dashed. I mean, even if they are real, I still haven’t been able to sustain them for more than one night at a time. And the fact that they repeat seems to suggest that they are NOT real. A shame, considering the imagining of Mandie and Fairhaven. That one’s by far my favorite. The one closest to my heart.

  ***

  Andaris put down the journal and
rubbed his eyes. Obviously not all the entries were contiguous. He looked at his skeleton with sudden irritation. “I can understand you not writing every day, but why not at least date the entries so that others can tell how much time passed between? It would have made things a lot easier.”

  Showing a blatant disregard for proper decorum, his skeleton gave no reply, ocular cavities unmoved by the slightest twitch, yawning sockets staring fixedly at the floor, the very picture of downcast. Andaris picked up the bottle of spiced brandy and, this time, took several long swallows, relishing the sensation of it flowing warm and delicious down the length of his throat.

  “Though I can’t fault you your taste in liquor,” he confided, the warmth spreading to his lips, making him grin. “You know…it’s fortunate we met when we did. Until recently, I didn’t like myself very much.”

  Just barely resisting the urge to cackle, Andaris lowered his voice and, in a conspiratorial tone said, “So, if I were to take something out of this place, would it disappear once I’m back in the real world, as soon as I cross the…threshold—like a piece of a dream that can’t be recalled?”

  He waited a moment to give his future self the opportunity to respond. He hoped he would. He felt it was a very good question, relevant and timely.

  Come on. You can tell me, he thought. After all, I’m you. Who else are you going to trust?

  When it became clear that his skeleton intended to remain tightlipped on the matter, or rather tightboned, Andaris shook his head at himself and, with a disapproving sigh,once again began to read.

  ***

  I have to get out of here, but I’m so scared. Every day I tell myself I’m going to go back to the clockwork stair. I mean, Mandie’s counting on me. I have to. And yet every day I don’t. A part of myself says, what good are you to her dead? Remember what happened to Gaven? There must be another way. You just haven’t found it yet.