LEGENDARIUM

by Kevin G. Summers

  Alistair Foley’s eyes scanned his classroom. He thought about all the books he’d read where this kind of thing happened. He thought about all of the one-star reviews he’d given those books on his blog. “Might as well,” he said at last. “Do I need to bring anything?”

  “Your wits,” said Thornton Wilder. “You’re going to need them.”

  The Pulitzer Prize-winning author of Our Town extended his hand, and Alistair Foley took it. He rose and followed the great writer to the broom closet. It excited Alistair more than a little to hope that somewhere—somewhen—he’d be coming out of the closet with Thornton Wilder into a whole new reality.

  Wilder turned the doorknob and opened the door. A terrible white light spilled into the room, but this time Alistair was expecting it and he felt fine. Wilder stepped through the doorway and into the light. A moment later, Alistair Foley followed him into the Legendarium.

  Chapter Two

  Through the Looking Glass and into the Fire

  The first thing that hit Bombo Dawson as he entered the Legendarium was the smell. It was musty and leathery and sweet and acrid all at the same time. It was the smell of eternity and ink and the distilled creative labors of lifetimes.

  It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, and when they did, Bombo saw that he was standing in a circular room filled with books from floor to ceiling. Maybe it wasn’t a circle, he thought. Maybe it was an octagon, or an oblong cylinder. He’d forgotten everything he’d ever learned in geometry class, but it certainly seemed circular-ish. Or maybe it was oval-ish. Anyway, there was one half of a French door behind him—and it looked exactly like the door that led to his terrace.

  “Wow,” Bombo said as he stared at the painted domed ceiling overhead. A fresco painted on the underside of the dome portrayed the Battle of Helm’s Deep from The Lord of the Rings.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Tolstoy said. “And this is just the parlor.”

  Bombo wiped a tear from his eye. “The fresco… I don’t like fantasy much, but it’s amazing.”

  “Leonardo da Vinci painted it,” Tolstoy said.

  “You’re joking,” Bombo said. “He died something like four hundred years before Tolkien was born.”

  “Time has no meaning in the Legendarium,” Tolstoy said.

  “I thought you said we were in a hurry,” Bombo said.

  Tolstoy glared at Bombo. “Even in timelessness things happen in order.”

  Bombo winced, sheepishly. “Well, you see… the word ‘order’ implies—”

  “Quit being insolent, fat man,” Tolstoy interrupted. “I don’t have time to explain it all to you.”

  “You see, there you said—”

  “SILENCE!” Tolstoy shouted. “I know what I said! I am a committed pacifist, Mr. Dawson. Please do not try my patience any further!”

  “All right, then,” Bombo said. “Proceed.” After he said “proceed,” though, he giggled to himself.

  Leo Tolstoy glared at Bombo Dawson, but said nothing.

  Bombo finally stopped giggling when he saw that Tolstoy was truly irritated with him. “You see… sir… even the word ‘proceed’ has a time element to it.”

  “Are you quite finished?” Tolstoy said.

  “Yes,” Bombo said. “But… again… the word ‘finished’…”

  Tolstoy went back to glaring at Bombo, which cut the chubby author short again.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Bombo said. “All done.” A muted giggle erupted from the large man, but this time he successfully silenced it.

  Tolstoy waited for a half minute (which had no meaning in the Legendarium) to make sure Bombo was indeed finished before he continued. “Now, if you will please follow me, we have to get down to business.”

  They crossed the large chamber, and the brisk pace winded Bombo. He realized that he was beginning to regret that last donut. Maybe Carol is right, he thought. Maybe I should go on a diet. The thought filled him with profound sorrow, but he didn’t have time to ponder if for long. On the far side of the room was an archway that led into an enormous room. The ceiling seemed to stretch up forever, and on every story were landings filled from floor to ceiling with books.

  “Wow,” Bombo said. “This place is just… wow.”

  “You should see the Russian room over in the east wing,” Tolstoy said. “Breathtaking. I’ll have to show it to you once you’ve completed your mission.” He paused, cleared his throat, and then added in a whisper, “Assuming you make it back alive.”

  “I was wondering something,” Bombo said.

  “What’s that?”

  “What about Vonnegut?” Bombo said. “Hugh Howey told me that he was visited by Kurt Vonnegut. Why did they send you instead of him?”

  Tolstoy looked embarrassed, but quickly recovered. “To tell you the truth,” he said, “I wanted to meet you. I really enjoyed Anne Askew in the Tower.”

  “Really?” Bombo said. “Thanks.”

  “Of course,” Tolstoy said, “I didn’t realize you could be such an insufferable clown in person.”

  “I have my serious times,” Bombo said.

  “Let’s hope you do, young man.”

  As they spoke, they heard footsteps approaching in the distance. They turned in the direction of the footsteps and saw a white-robed figure that appeared to be Thornton Wilder. At his side was a middle-aged man in a threadbare professor’s jacket.

  “Leo,” Wilder said. “It’s good to see you.”

  “And you,” Tolstoy said. The ghostly writers shook hands. Tolstoy gestured toward Bombo. “I want you to meet—”

  “Bombo Dawson!” said Alistair Foley. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “Excuse me?” said Thornton Wilder.

  “What is he going on about?” said Leo Tolstoy.

  “Do you know me?” Bombo asked. “I don’t think I know you. Nice ponytail, by the way, ma’am.”

  “I am a man, and I know all about you,” Alistair spat. “I just reviewed your stupid little novel. It was terrible. Terrible!”

  Tolstoy straightened. “If you are speaking of Anne Askew in the Tower, I must strenuously disagree, sir!” The great Russian author put his hands behind his back and stuck out his chest. “I read Mr. Dawson’s book, and I found it to be quite good.”

  Alistair sneered. “Well, what would you know? It took you almost two hundred pages to describe a dinner party!”

  Tolstoy’s anger flared again and he took a step toward Alistair, but Bombo stepped forward first, his face reddened with fury. “You,” he said. “You’re the jerk that wrote that one-star review.”

  “I would be that jerk,” said Alistair.

  “Gentlemen,” said Thornton Wilder. “Please, we need to brief you on your mission. The fate of the world is at stake.”

  “You didn’t tell me that I would be working with this idiot,” Alistair said. “Now I know that this is a hallucination, because there’s no chance that Bombo Dawson—of all people!—would be chosen to defend this so-called Legendarium.”

  “And what makes you qualified for this mission?” Bombo asked. “I’ve had one hundred and nineteen reviews of my novel, and one hundred and eighteen of them are four-star or better.”

  Alistair started to answer, but he stopped himself. He turned to Thornton Wilder. “That’s actually a good question,” he said. “Why would you choose me? I’ve never published anything.”

  Wilder and Tolstoy exchanged a look.

  “You’ve never published anything,” Wilder said, “but you have written something.”

  Alistair’s eyes widened. “How do you know that?” he demanded.

  “I’ve read it,” said the man who’d won not one but two Pulitzer Prizes (most people don’t know that). “The finished version, that is.”

  “Me too,” said Tolstoy. “It still needs some revision in the now, but the future final version… it’s good.”

  “Was it written in crayon?” Bombo said, laughing at his own jab.

  “You’re one to
talk,” Alistair snapped. “At least I had the good sense not to publish before I was ready. Ever heard of an editor?”

  “Have you ever heard of a wannabe that criticizes people because they’ve done something that he can’t?” Bombo took a threatening step toward Alistair. He stood at least six inches taller than the creative writing teacher, and outweighed him by well over a hundred pounds (though this might have been cut to sixty or seventy pounds if Bombo had adhered to Carol’s dieting advice).

  Tolstoy, the father of Christian anarchism and a profound pacifist, shoved himself between the new author and his harshest critic. “You must stop this,” he said. “There are larger things at stake than your foolish egos.”

  “A minute ago you wanted to pound him, Leo,” Bombo said, glaring at Alistair.

  “I’ll admit he is… a frustrating man,” Tolstoy said. “But let’s not lose our heads.”

  “You two are going to have to learn to work together,” said Wilder, “or the multiverse is doomed. Worlds are dying while you two stand around arguing.”

  Bombo and Alistair stared into each other’s eyes like two professional wrestlers about to embark on the match of their career. The tension was palpable.

  “I can never work with this idiot,” Alistair said. His voice was slow and steady.

  “Well now,” Bombo said. “Something on which we can both agree!” His eyes cut upward as he tried to recall exactly what he was claiming to agree with. “Well… except the part about me being an idiot. We completely disagree on that part. He’s the idiot. And he has a ponytail.”

  Wilder and Tolstoy exchanged an exasperated look. There was nothing either ghost writer could say that would make an impression on Bombo Dawson or Alistair Foley. The two ghosts’ eyes met and they both nodded. This was no time for words; it was a time for action.

  Tolstoy moved casually behind the living authors as they continued their argument. Wilder, meanwhile, knelt down and pulled on a heavy iron ring in the floor. A trap door opened, and white light spilled into the room. Tolstoy reached out with both hands and shoved both Bombo and Alistair toward the opening. They teetered for a moment on the edge of the light, their arms waving in a futile effort to regain their balance, and then they were falling…

  Falling…

  Falling…

  * * *

  They landed with a splash.

  Alistair Foley, who maintained a membership at a local health club and swam twice weekly, bobbed right to the surface. Well, apparently gravity isn’t meaningless in the Legendarium, he thought. He spit out a mouthful of salty water and tried to get his bearings. He was in a pond in the midst of a sylvan wood. Birds sang in the distance, and he could smell the slightest aroma of sulfur in the air. There was a sound like someone sobbing, but looking around, Alistair couldn’t see anyone. It was at that moment that something brushed against him. It took him a moment to recognize that it was a flannel shirt.

  Bombo’s shirt. Empty. Meaning that there wasn’t an overweight, bearded writer in it.

  “Dawson?” Alistair shouted. “Where are you?”

  There was no response.

  “Stupid fat moron,” Alistair whispered. “Of all the terrible hallucinations, I’m stuck—”

  Something grabbed Alistair’s ankle. He screamed and kicked his feet, knocking whatever it was away. He looked down into the abyss, and saw a terrible sight: Bombo Dawson was on the bottom of the pond, his face contorted in fear, and his hands reaching toward Alistair in desperation.

  Instinctively, Alistair took in a huge gulp of air and dove. The saltiness stung his eyes, but he kicked downward anyway. He touched the bottom of the pond, grabbed Bombo by the collar, and pushed off. They rose together steadily, Alistair kicking his feet all the way, and a moment later breached the surface of the water.

  The creative writing teacher took a huge gulp of air. He was alive, but he wasn’t sure he could say the same thing about Bombo. With one arm over the shoulder and across the chest of his mortal enemy, Foley lay back in the water and began paddling toward the shore. In this way, he kept Bombo’s head above water, though the man was unconscious, and his large head lolled from side to side with each stroke. It felt like an eternity, but within a minute they were on the bank of the small pond. With much effort Alistair dragged Bombo out of the water and checked for signs of life.

  Bombo wasn’t breathing.

  Alistair turned Bombo’s head to the side, allowing the water in his mouth and nose to drain away. Next, he turned the bearded man’s head forward and prepared to give him mouth-to-mouth.

  It was at that moment that Bombo’s eyes popped open. He saw Alistair hovering over him, lips pursed and just beginning to open.

  “No!” Bombo shouted. He gagged and coughed. “Don’t do it!” He squirmed to the side, narrowly avoiding an uncomfortably intimate moment with his most hated rival.

  “Oh, thank God,” Alistair said. He rolled off of Bombo and pushed himself to his feet.

  The two writers scurried away from one another, both avoiding eye contact as if it might reinitiate the terrible scenario they’d just endured. An uncomfortable silence descended on the two, the only sound that of someone weeping in the distance.

  “Um, thanks,” Bombo said. He halfway stuck his hand out like he wanted to shake, but midway through the gesture he stopped and just kind of awkwardly waved at Alistair. “You saved my life.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Alistair said. “I would have done it for anyone.” He put his hands on his hips and then looked around. “Except for that Tolstoy. I could kill him for pushing us down that hole.”

  Bombo shrugged and then bent over with his hands on his knees to catch his breath. “He’s already dead.”

  Alistair gave Bombo a nasty look. “I was speaking metaphorically.”

  “No,” Bombo said, “you were speaking ironically, only even you didn’t know it.” He inhaled deeply and then stood up again and nodded his head at Alistair. “What you meant to do is use hyperbole. I can’t believe they let you teach young people.”

  “Why didn’t I just let you die?” Alistair said.

  “Now that,” Bombo said, “was meant to be rhetorical, I suppose.”

  Alistair glared at Bombo and his hands clenched into fists.

  “I never learned how to swim,” explained Bombo.

  “You never learned how to write either,” said Alistair.

  Bombo started to go on the attack again, but then changed his mind. He would allow the snide remark to pass, at least this once. He owed Alistair Foley his life; not responding to his obnoxious trolling for five minutes was the least he could do.

  Over in the pond, Bombo watched as his flannel shirt drifted lazily toward shore. The weeping in the distance went on and on.

  “What’s that sound?” Bombo asked.

  Alistair listened for a moment. “It sounds like somebody crying.”

  “Do you have any idea what story this is?” said Bombo as he reached into the pond and retrieved his shirt.

  “None,” Foley said. “This little piece of forest could be virtually any scene in almost any book, a fairy tale, a fantasy novel… anything.”

  “I hate fantasy,” Bombo said. “Most fantasy novels are so lame.”

  “I love fantasy,” Alistair said, “but I know what you mean. So many are just cheap knockoffs of—” he stopped, realizing that he had just agreed with Bombo on a point concerning literature. He wondered if somewhere, in another part of the Legendarium, Hell was freezing over. But he didn’t have to worry. His agreement with Bombo didn’t last long.

  “I mean, what’s the deal?” Bombo said. “It’s like a bunch of pre-teens sitting around a campfire making up a story on the fly.” He adopted the voice of a young boy. “Okay, a guy named Bob was going to Cleveland to sign some insurance papers.” Then Bombo imitated the voice of a young girl. “No, no, no… His name isn’t Bob, it’s Bogrith the Vendarme.” Bombo was now hopping back and forth between the two characters, acting out
his scene. In the boy’s voice: “Okay, so Bogrith the Vendarme is going to Cleveland to sign some insurance papers… No wait! He’s not going to Cleveland. He’s going to the ancient city of Chlamydia!” Now Bombo hopped over to the girl’s place and put on her voice: “Yes! And Bogrith the Vendarme is going to Chlamydia to rescue the Oracle of Boobstone!”

  “Stop it,” Alistair said.

  “Oh, and there were elves and dwarves and stuff,” Bombo added in his childish voice.

  “Just stop it,” Alistair repeated. “You are a complete nit.” The sound of the person crying in the distance caught his attention again, but he couldn’t leave off without trying to knock some sense into Bombo. “Just because most fantasy stories are nonsense doesn’t mean that fantasy isn’t a valid form of literature. When it’s done well, it can be very good.”

  Bombo laughed, but his his laugh dripped with sarcasm and derision. “It sucks because it isn’t real.”

  “All fiction is unreal at some level,” Alistair added. He was now staring into the middle distance with a philosophical look on his face. “Maybe that’s why we need to save the Legendarium. Because at another level, all fiction is very real.”

  Bombo pulled on his flannel shirt and buttoned the top few buttons. “I guess.”

  “As much as this pains me,” Alistair said, “it appears that we’re going to have to work together if we have any hope of returning to our normal lives.”

  “Yes,” Bombo said. “I have to return to a world where I’m a bestselling author, and you have to return to a world where that ponytail is okay. So… any idea where we go from here? I don’t see a yellow brick road.”

  “We should track around and see if we can find the source of the crying,” Alistair said, deciding not to take the bait on the ponytail comment. “That seems like the logical thing to do here.”

  Bombo thought about it for a minute. “Agreed. Let’s do this.”

  The soggy writers walked along the perimeter of the pond, their wet socks squishing with every step. Soon they came to a tiny stream that led into the woods. The sound of the weeping seemed louder in that direction, so they agreed to follow the stream and see where it led.