LEGENDARIUM

by Kevin G. Summers

  “Hopefully whoever is up there crying is doing it next to a warm fire,” Alistair said.

  “Hopefully they have some marshmallows and chocolate and graham crackers,” Bombo said. “I could go for some s’mores.”

  As they walked, Bombo mimed making a s’more. First he held an imaginary coat hanger with a marshmallow on it over a fire. Then he pulled back the marshmallow and blew on it to cool it. He touched it with his fingers and pulled them back and shook his hand to show his companion how hot it was. He looked over at Alistair, who was staring at him with a look of contempt on his face. Bombo pulled off the marshmallow and put it on an imaginary graham cracker, covered it with an imaginary chunk of chocolate, placed the graham cracker that went on top, and then sank his teeth into his invisible snack. When he was done, he sighed.

  “I would love a s’more right now,” he said.

  “I’d like this dream a lot better if you would shut up,” Alistair said.

  “Or hot dogs,” said Bombo. “I really like hot dogs.”

  * * *

  They reached the source of the stream after thirty minutes of hiking. The sun was now shining brightly and the heat was inundating the forest. Bombo was breathing heavily, but his clothes were nearly dry, except for the areas where his sweat had kept the clothing damp.

  Alistair wasn’t even winded. After all, he was in good shape, thanks to his gym membership—it wasn’t like he had anything else to do after work.

  “Has anyone ever told you that you smell funny?” Alistair asked. “You just took a salty bath and already you reek.”

  Bombo shrugged. “It might have been mentioned before. I don’t really recall,” he said. “I prefer to think of myself as being odiferous.”

  “You smell like broccoli,” Alistair said.

  “Now that’s just hurtful.”

  “Or maybe asparagus.”

  “That’s more like it,” Bombo said with a smile.

  The sound of someone crying increased with every step, and finally the two writers saw a man in silver armor leaning against a tree in a small clearing in the woods.

  “It’s Don Quixote!” Bombo said. “The ingenious gentleman knight himself!”

  Alistair shook his head. “No it isn’t.”

  “It is!” Bombo said. “And we’re in La Mancha! So sweet! I love this story!”

  “We’re not in La Mancha, you dolt,” Alistair said. “Look at his ridiculous mustaches. A blond mustache that completely covers his mouth. Quixote was a Spaniard, and they didn’t usually wear mustaches like that. And certainly not a blond one covering his mouth. Cervantes would have said something about it if the man looked that way.”

  Bombo leaned forward to stare at the knight. “But…”

  “But nothing,” Alistair said. “And where is Sancho Panza? Do you see Sancho Panza?”

  “Well… no.”

  “This is another story, then,” Alistair proclaimed, triumphantly.

  The weeping knight did indeed have ridiculous blonde mustaches that completely covered his mouth. And the man seemed to be not only the source the weeping, but of the stream as well. His tears fell down his face and ran downhill toward the pond. Bombo and Alistair followed the stream with their eyes, and then they looked at one another. It seemed that the pond they’d landed in was actually the collected tears of this one anguished knight.

  “Sirs,” said the weeping knight, “I wonder if the both of you hast seen a sword during your travels?”

  “No, sir,” Bombo said.

  “We haven’t seen anything,” said Alistair.

  “Beware the Jabberwocky, my son!” said the knight. “So spake my lord as I departed the castle. The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! How shall I battle the fiend without my sword?”

  Bombo and Alistair shared another look.

  “Now do you recognize this story?” Bombo asked.

  “Alice in Wonderland,” Alistair said. “Or is it Through The Looking Glass?”

  “Looking Glass,” said Bombo. “I wonder if the books share a world, or if each one has its own door.”

  “If I recall correctly,” Alistair said, “the knight in Lewis Carroll’s poem defeated the Jabberwocky with the vorpal blade. Perhaps if he doesn’t have it…”

  “Then the Jabberwocky might play a different role in the story. It could hinder Alice…”

  “Or kill her or otherwise change the ending of the story.”

  “The vorpal blade went snicker-snack,” Bombo said.

  “Yes!” said the knight. “That’s my sword. Have you seen it?” There was desperation in his eyes.

  “We haven’t,” Bombo said, “but we’d be happy to help you look for it.”

  “When did you see it last?” Alistair asked.

  The knight thought about it. “I broke for camp upon this spot last eve,” he said. “The vorpal sword ’twas by my side where I keep it always. When I awoke upon the morn, it was gone.”

  “Someone stole it in the night,” Bombo said. He rubbed his chin and nodded his head like he’d come to some fantastic conclusion.

  “’Tis true,” said the knight. “And without it, the Jabberwocky’s reign of destruction will continue unhindered.”

  “How in the world are we going to find his sword?” Alistair said. “Which way do we go?”

  “That depends a good deal on where you want to get to," said a smug voice.

  Bombo and Alistair looked up into the trees, where they saw a disembodied grin hovering in the branches overhead. A striped cat—the Cheshire Cat—began to materialize behind the smile.

  “I guess this answers the question of whether this story shares the same world as Alice in Wonderland,” Bombo said.

  “When I get home I’m going to review both of these books,” Alistair said. “Have I ever mentioned that I hate Lewis Carroll?”

  “Well, I see I’m in good company,” Bombo said. “You hate Bombo Dawson, Leo Tolstoy, and Lewis Carroll.”

  “I don’t hate Tolstoy,” Alistair said. “I was just irritated.”

  Bombo nodded. “But you hate me and Lewis Carroll?”

  “Deeply,” Alistair said, nodding.

  “But Wonderland is fantasy—and you love fantasy.”

  “Wonderland is just nonsense. Are you saying that you like it?”

  “Yep.”

  “But you hate fantasy,” Alistair smiled triumphantly, as if he’d just caught Bombo in a trap.

  “My mom read it to me when I was a boy,” Bombo said. “I’ve had a soft spot for Lewis Carroll ever since.”

  “You like a fantasy novel.”

  “So shoot me,” said Bombo. “At least there aren’t any elves.”

  “I saw who took his sword,” interrupted the Cheshire Cat. “Or is it whom? Who… whom… who… whom… I can never remember.”

  “Who,” said Bombo.

  “Whom,” said Alistair.

  “There was a Jubjub bird,” said the cat. “A black bird. A raven. Or maybe it was a rook. It was quite large.”

  “It took the sword?” Alistair asked.

  “Who did?” said the cat.

  “The raven,” Alistair said.

  “The rook,” said the cat. “The rook took the sword.”

  “Did you see which way he went?” Bombo asked.

  “Who said she was a he?” asked the cat.

  “Did you see which way she went?” said Alistair.

  “That way,” said the cat. Its tail writhed this way and that, and then pointed toward the west. “Say, have you tried the borogoves? They’re delicious.”

  “Please,” the knight wept, “you must find my sword.”

  “Come on,” Bombo said. “The sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can get home.”

  “Hopefully,” Alistair said. “Because this awful dream is getting old. This wouldn’t be so bad if you were a beautiful woman instead of the worst writer I’ve ever read.”

  “Did you say something?” Bombo asked. “I couldn’t hear you
with your head stuck so impertinently up your own ass.”

  They headed north through the tulgey wood, and the slithy toves gyred and gimbled in the wabe. They seldom spoke as they walked, preferring silence to each other’s company. Alistair was writing a review in his head for the beloved works of Lewis Carroll. The review was scathing. He was hoping to use the word “syphilitic” somewhere in his review, but he hadn’t quite gotten the words right just yet. You can’t stick “syphilitic” just anywhere in the text—not without really thinking about it and making it just right, he thought.

  For his part, Bombo thought of donuts as he walked. Donuts made the world a better place. Blueberry cake donuts were his favorite. One day his new wife asked him why he liked blueberry cake donuts. He’d just looked at her and said, very slowly, “Blueberry. Cake. Donuts. Right there in the name are three things I like about ’em.” She’d replied with, “Well, I like blueberry muffins.” His response had been, “Okay, so take that delicious muffin, deep-fry it in grease, then coat it with sugar, and you got yourself paradise, m’lady.” Yep. He could use a blueberry cake donut right about now. And a cigar would certainly improve the situation. The one he’d had in his shirt pocket had been ruined by his plunge into the knight’s lachrymal pond, and unless he came upon a hookah-smoking caterpillar, his chances of a good smoke in this world were highly unlikely.

  “Now, I’m just asking this out of curiosity,” Alistair said as they walked. “But what do we care if a few stories here and there blink out of existence?”

  Bombo thought about the question for a moment before answering. “The way Tolstoy explained it to me,” he said, “was that every story affects someone, even if it is only the original author. And those effects change history at some level. Every one of them. I know that when I was young boy, I was profoundly affected by a book called A Squirrel Forever, by Douglas Fairbairn. It was a book I checked out of the public library when I was ten or so. Not many people ever read that book, and almost no one remembers it today, but I read it, and it affected me so much that it made me want to write my own stories.”

  “I get that,” Alistair said. “The book Rascal, by Sterling North, had the same effect on me.”

  “On the other hand,” Bombo continued, “another book I read at that time was the non-fiction story of Kon-Tiki by Thor Heyerdahl. A lot of people read that true story about men sailing across the Pacific Ocean on a raft, and its effect was far more universal. Some of the original Apollo astronauts credited reading Kon-Tiki with motivating them to become explorers. If those books hadn’t been written, then I’d be a different person today, and the results would cascade outward for good or for evil. One way or the other, the whole world would be a different place.”

  Bombo and Alistair lapsed into silence as they continued through the forest. And the farther they walked, the more they noticed a strange sort of feeling creeping over them. There was something in the woods watching them. They were not alone.

  “Foley,” Bombo said, “do you feel that?”

  “The feeling that the shadows between the trees are alive and hostile?” said Alistair, “or the feeling of utter revulsion that washes over me when you call me by my last name.”

  “That first thing you said,” Bombo said. “The one about the shadows being hostile.”

  The temperature dropped drastically, and if Bombo had been a beautiful woman, Alistair would have gladly snuggled up to her. But he wasn’t, so the creative writing teacher simply stood there, shivering, as the shadows in the woods began to move.

  * * *

  They were called the Mome Wraiths, creatures of living shadow that dwelt in the space between worlds. They were an ancient race, and some say that they were the fallen angels of lore. They had no knowledge of peace or joy, no understanding of love. Theirs was a life of emptiness and hatred and ignorance. They saw light in men’s eyes and they wanted to extinguish it.

  The Mome Wraiths were born of the void in which the world was made. They were the darkness on the face of the deep. They were present at the foundation of life on earth, and they would never rest until all knowledge was wiped out and the world was returned once more to shadow and chaotic emptiness.

  The Mome Wraiths watched as two beyonders passed through the Tulgey Wood. They watched, and their black hearts burned with hatred. These squabbling heroes had the power to unravel the darkness and save the worlds from destruction. The Mome Wraiths would not let that happen.

  As the beyonders passed by, the Mome Wraiths poured from the trees like oil spilling from an undersea well. They seeped toward our heroes, moaning and shrieking and stretching forth their clawed hands. One touch was all it would take. One touch would suck out a living creature’s soul and turn that creature into a Mome Wraith.

  “Run!” shouted the largest beyonder. He shoved his companion toward a narrow opening between the Mome Wraiths, and the Mome Wraiths moved quickly to close the gap. In a few seconds, these heroes would become living shadows, and the last hope for the world would slip into darkness.

  * * *

  “Run!” Bombo shouted. He shoved Alistair, and the smaller man nearly stumbled. Bombo grabbed him by the shirt at the last possible second and helped his arch-nemesis to regain his balance. Bombo was surprisingly nimble for such a large man, especially when he felt like he was in danger.

  Together they ran, narrowly slipping past the encompassing shadows before the Mome Wraiths closed their circle. The trees sped past—or, in Bombo’s case, lumbered past, —but both of our heroes understood that it was only a matter of time before their luck would run out. The woods were teeming with the living shadows, and there was nowhere to go.

  Still they ran and ran. Alistair’s lungs were burning, and Bombo was certain he was about to die. His thoughts flashed, for just a moment, to the time that he’d run through the streets of London with Hugh Howey—being chased by zombies. He remembered how he’d admitted to himself at that moment that he probably needed to get into better shape. Human minds often thrash around in moments of peril, he thought, and promise things here and there like offerings at the altar of some covetous deity. That’s probably what all that nonsense was around New Year’s Day—the resolutions and so forth. But now, the desire to amend his ways seemed very real. These weren’t some slowpoke zombified writers he was running from. These things were spiritual. They gave off the odor of actual evil, embodied in shadow form, only with scary claws and other assorted devilish whatnots.

  If only I’d listened to Carol, he thought. He wondered if she was still lying on their deck, unconscious. Of course she is, he thought. The ghost writers had told him that time was meaningless in the Legendarium. Bombo shook his head. It seemed like hours since they’d told him that, but it was probably only minutes ago. He wondered what Carol would think if he died here. If when she awoke he was just gone and never came back.

  They entered a small clearing, and for a moment it looked as if they might have outrun the immediate danger. They paused to catch their breath, their eyes searching the tree line for the onrushing evil.

  “What are we going to do?” Alistair said through labored inhalations.

  “I… don’t…” Bombo struggled for a breath. “I… don’t…” His face was slowly regaining a bit of color. “I… don’t… know,” he panted.

  “I know,” said a familiar voice.

  The Cheshire Cat faded in to opacity on the ground at Bombo’s feet. His eyes twinkled playfully, as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening.

  “Tell us quickly, cat,” Alistair said. “How do we fight those creatures?”

  “What creatures?”

  “Those shadows,” Bombo said. “They tried to kill us back there.”

  “They are called the Mome Wraiths,” said the cat. “But, they weren’t trying to kill you.”

  “Ummm… I’m pretty sure they were trying to kill us,” Bombo said, “Or at least it sure did seem like it to me,” he added.

  “If a Mome Wraith touched you,�
�� said the cat, “you would become one of them.” He gave a perfect imitation of a Mome Wraith’s terrible moan.

  “How can we fight them?” Alistair demanded.

  “You can’t fight them,” said the cat. “You have to find the vorpal sword.”

  “Can the vorpal sword hurt them?” asked Bombo.

  “The vorpal sword can kill the Jabberwocky,” said the cat, as if this were something that everyone should know without asking.

  Bombo and Alistair looked at one another in exasperation.

  “You’re saying that we should keep looking for the sword?” Alistair said.

  “Try the door,” said the cat. He pointed once again with his tail and then began to fade.

  Bombo and Alistair turned and saw something peculiar, if anything in Wonderland can be called more peculiar than any other. A metal door like something on the starshipEnterprise was standing just a few yards off the path.

  “Where do you suppose that goes?” Bombo asked.

  Alistair shrugged. “Anywhere is better than here.”

  “But we haven’t found the sword.”

  “Maybe the rook took it through the door,” said Alistair.

  There was a ghastly rumble and the sound of approaching dread, and the two authors turned and looked over their shoulders. Behind them, the Mome Wraiths were writhing and boiling through the trees, their moans growing more ominous with every second.

  Bombo grabbed Alistair by the elbow and pulled him forward. “Let’s go, Foley.”

  As they rushed toward the door, it slid open with a swish. White light poured from the opening, obliterating any view of what was on the other side. The Mome Wraiths were only inches away when Bombo and Alistair leapt through the portal and the door swished closed behind them.

  Chapter Three

  Beyond the Stars

  They emerged, through an airlock, into what could only be a science fiction story. They knew it was an airlock because the words “AIRLOCK 03” were stenciled in black paint above the door that swished closed behind them. And they knew it was a science fiction story because of the airlock. And the rivets. There were rivets everywhere. Everywhere. Because in the future, apparently everything is riveted together just like it was in the 1940’s.