by Rowan Casey
"I'll be right here," George replied. "All you've got to do is whistle. You do know how to whistle, don't you?"
I was laughing as I put the book on the table, opened it and looked down at the pages. The winter scene took on depth and I fell, through fog and a sudden weight that immediately lifted. And I stepped forward.
I didn't arrive where I intended—there were no mountains, no gibbous moon. There wasn't much of anything except a flat, featureless plain of what appeared to be black ash. Overhead all was gray. If it was cloud, or fog, or even a carpet of some kind of material I had no means to determine.
There was one other thing some six feet ahead of me. It seemed to be a jet-black tear in the fabric of space, no bigger than a sliver of fingernail. Initially I thought I had a hair near my eye and tried to brush it away before I realized I was looking at something several yards away, hanging in space at eye level. I moved closer, but looking at it straight on hurt my eyes. They struggled to focus, never quite managing it, so that the only way I could really see the thing was by turning side on so that it was just on the edge of my peripheral vision.
It appeared to be spinning slowly in a clockwise direction. As I watched, it quivered like a struck tuning fork and changed shape, settling into a new configuration, becoming a black, somewhat oily in appearance droplet little more than an inch across at the thickest point. It hung there, its very impossibility taunting me to go over and, in the same way George had done for my magic, look for the strings that had to be holding it in place.
It swelled, and now looked like an egg more than anything else; a black, oily egg from some creature whose nature could only be guessed at. As I stepped forward a rainbow aura thickened around it, casting the whole area around me in dancing washes of soft colors as it continued to spin.
The quarter-staff hummed, hot in my hand as I moved closer.
The egg quivered and pulsed. And now it seemed larger still. The air started to throb, like a heartbeat. The egg pulsed in time. A song started up, a choir of voices, somewhere in the far distance, and faint even then, as if they were singing in a wind.
He sleeps and he dreams in the deep, in the dark.
The pulsing egg kept time with the song, like a three dimensional metronome. Then it calved. Two eggs hung in the air at eye level, side by side, just touching, each as black as the other, twin bubbles only held in check by the dancing rainbow colors. The whole of this place where I stood throbbed like a heartbeat.
The eggs pulsed in synchronized agreement and calved again.
Four eggs hung in a tight group, all now pulsing in time with the still rising noise. Colors danced and flowed across the sheer black surface; blues and greens and shimmering silvers that filled the air with washes of color. The song got louder. The eggs throbbed, beating time like a giant drum. Soon there were eight, then sixteen.
My head pounded with the rhythm, and nausea rose as my gut roiled and rolled. I started to back away, hoping for some respite, thinking about turning, thinking about George's view of the blue yonder. I was ready to give up. But whatever these eggs were, they weren't ready to let me go.
Thirty-two now, and shimmering with dancing aurora of shimmering lights that pulsed and beat in time with the song as the eggs calved again, and again, everything careening along in a big, happy dance.
Where he lies, where he lies, where he lies, where he lies.
The Dreaming God is singing where he lies.
I couldn't take much more. I stepped forward. The quarter-staff screamed as I raised it and brought it down, hard, on the growing mass of eggs. The rainbow aura seemed to breathe-in, breathe-out, twice. There was a sudden burst of color; red, blue and shimmering silver filled my head with a glare brighter than the brightest sun.
I blinked and was somewhere else.
I stood on a balcony, some ten feet above what I thought must finally be the black sea I'd seen from the tower. But I still hadn't reached that destination. This wasn't a sea at all. Beneath the balcony lay a throbbing, swelling mass of the pulsing black eggs. Hundreds of millions of them filled the view as far as I could see, all the way to a distant horizon where they became lost in fog. The mass of black seemed to quiver and thrum, and there was a distinct, not unpleasant, vibration that ran through me like a weak flow of electricity. Every so often one of the eggs floated slightly above the surface and popped, and at that, images and sounds and muffled voices swam in my head. The visions were quickly subsumed as the vibration rose to a higher pitch, blocking out the sights and preventing me from being overwhelmed by the scene in front of me.
Fog swirled and swam overhead, so close that I thought I might be able to reach up and touch it. On glancing up I saw that I had a wall at my back, a stone wall that went up into the fog. I didn't turn for a closer look. I had a feeling there might be a doorway there, and I wasn't sure I was ready to go through it just yet.
Besides, I wasn't alone on the balcony. A tall figure stood just to one side.
Bat-wings rustled and a thin, gray rat-like face widened in a grin full of yellow teeth when he saw me take note of him. He was broad across the chest and gray around the whiskers and eyes. His feet were thick and broad, allowing him to stand upright, with the slightly unfurled, bat-leather wings helping him to balance. I was not fooled by his smile; there were talons on those broad toes, inches long, black as jet and razor sharp. He saw me looking and tapped the toes on the stone in a martial drumbeat that rang and echoed around us as he danced a slightly off-balance accompanying jig. As he moved I saw a long, pink, naked tail snake out behind him, almost as long as he was tall. He was naked, save for a crown of silver, a thin band, intricately carved, that sat on top of his head, perched somewhat precariously between a pair of pink fleshy ears that twitched as he spoke.
"Well met, Grail-seeker and table knight," he said. His voice was high-pitched and whiny, sounding incongruous, almost comical, coming from such a great barrel of a chest. I nearly laughed, but the quarter-staff sent a blast of heat to my palm and although it surprised me, I got the message. I needed to pay attention.
"I am no knight and I’m not looking for any Grail," I replied, trying to keep my voice even.
He laughed, an even higher pitched thing that sounded almost like a scream.
"Are you sure of that, John? Just to get here at all, you must have seen at least part of it?"
The fact that this thing knew my name made by blood run cold. And I had no answer to his question, for in truth, I wasn't sure of anything in this place. The rat-king laughed again, and moved to stand directly between me and what was indeed a doorway in the wall of the tower at my back.
"Why would you want to go that way?" he said. "There is nothing there for you but sorrow and loss, nothing to find but what you already know, nothing to see but what you've already seen."
I found enough composure to reply to him.
"I merely wish to have a talk with the lady. I presume she's through there, somewhere?"
He laughed at that.
"Be careful what you wish for, John Seton. It is a bad habit to develop."
The incongruity of standing here having a conversation with a huge winged rat was not lost on me as he spoke again.
"Go through that door and your fate from this moment on is set. The ladies of Norn will see to it."
I showed him the staff. It sent a fresh burst of heat into my hand.
"I don't believe you. I believe this." I shook the weapon in his face. "And if you don't stand aside, then I'll show you the depth of that belief. If you know anything at all of the Setons, you know we are men of our word."
"Calm down, there's no need for fighting talk. Not here. I'll let you pass," the thing said. "But I have a job here, too, you know. I take it seriously: dweller on the threshold, keeper of the way, gatekeeper if you like. You could even call me Janus, and you wouldn't be that far wrong. It's my place to offer you options, to see if you're decided on one course—or many?"
Another of the black eggs
rose up from the sea and popped. I saw a beach—golden sand, naked girls, little cocktails with umbrellas in them. It looked warm. More than that, it looked inviting. Once again I was thinking about George's view, about the wild blue yonder, and a place where I didn't have to worry about halters and magic and unreasonable women. I felt my resolve start to weaken, and when I spoke it was to cover the fact, put on my poker face, and hope he hadn't noticed.
"What is this place?"
The rat-thing laughed.
"Everywhere—nowhere—the dreams of a Sleeping God—or of a red serpent? Who really knows? All I know is that I am here. And I can go somewhere, anywhere, else, taking you with me, or leaving you behind depending on the result of your choice. This is the Threshold; a gateway to the beyond and all that it holds. Norn, your lady if you like, is through the door. The other way is any one of an infinite amount of possibilities: you choose your eggs, choose your life—lives—it's all completely up to you.
"You will only pass this way once. It is a choice only given to those of your kin; a one time, one of a kind offer of a deal I made a long time past with a Scotsman who looked a lot like you. It's make your mind up time. Come with me into an infinity of possibilities and all the wonders that lie there, or go to a lady who has wronged you, waiting in a tower for you to come to her so that she can do the same again?"
I tried not to remember how tempting that beach had looked.
"I don't know what I'm being offered, so I'll have to say no. Let me pass."
The rat-king laughed.
"Once a mark, always a mark," he said.
A black egg rose up from the sea and floated over the balcony parapet toward us. He reached out and took it in his hand. "Remember, you had a choice here."
He popped the egg in his mouth and bit down. I saw dim outlines of mountains and tall, ruined towers under a yellow moon.
"You could have had the beach," he said, sadly, then was gone and I stood alone on a high rock ledge looking over a scene of cold desolation.
15
The second thing I noticed was the cold. The Ramones shirt might give me some street cred back in L.A. but it did little to stop a stiff, icy breeze from cutting through me to my bones. I zipped up the jacket. That helped some, and pulling the hat tight over my hair meant my ears at least got some protection, but I knew I wouldn’t be admiring the view for long; if I stood still I was liable to quickly become part of the landscape myself. It was only once I had protected myself from the elements as much as I could that I paid attention to the view in front of me.
It was the same scene I'd looked over from Agnes' tower prison, but I was now a good way farther down the slopes, standing on a flat ledge of stone on a mountainside. The huge old yellow moon still hung, impossibly low, overhead, and the tower-tipped mountains stretched away, both to my left and right. Agnes was up on top of one of them, but which one I found hard to figure out. They all looked equally black, equally dead from this distance. She'd be singing, high up there somewhere—show tunes or old Scots tales of love and loss and longing, but the breeze was too stiff in my face for much sound to carry in the night.
Except for one thing—something fluttered high above me—wings in the sky. A shadow passed across the moon—gone before I had time to look up to see what had caused it, and I thought of the rat-king, back on the balcony.
Maybe I should have chosen that beach after all. But I was here now, and I'd come for a reason. It was time to be getting on with it.
Making the decision seemed to help me finally get moving. I hefted the staff like a walking stick and began to climb toward the nearest of the high towers.
It wasn't long before I regretted not bringing any food or water with me. The air tasted of the frozen ash that coated the ground; dead, dry and slightly salty. It tickled at the back of the throat and brought on coughing until I was forced to breathe through my nose and periodically blow a nostril clear of black, sooty snot. Cold leeched up from my feet and into my fingers, although the staff did what it could to help, giving me a small burst of heat at random intervals, like an electric bar fire with a loose wire.
I climbed upward through a long dead forest. Black, almost charcoal, branches reached for me and broke off into more ash at the slightest touch, and clumps of it fell around me every time the wind rose by the slightest notch. I was on a track, of sorts, a trodden path up through the woods. There was very little sign of life apart from the occasional footprint in the trampled ash; not hooves or paws, but not human feet either. I wasn't sure I wanted to meet the owner, for they looked large, and probably predatory. The path wound, always upward, through the wood, and after what felt like a very long time I finally got above the tree line and got my first real view of my destination.
A tall, black tower rose up against a darker sky, a black finger of basalt that looked as if a great volcano had spewed it up to flash freeze in the winter air. I suspected it might be just the first of several such goals. I wasn't going to get lucky all of a sudden and find Face at the first attempt. I didn't even know if she, too, was in a tower like her sister, but I had to start somewhere. Besides, now that I was closer I saw that it wasn't just a tower. It was thicker at the base and fortified, like a castle keep. More than that, I saw lights flicker in some of the lower windows, and as I got closer still heard the clatter and roll; wheels on ash, and a soft murmur, as of conversation, from beyond the thick walls of stone.
The prospect of meeting folks I might talk to and ask directions of, and who might have water at least, and possibly even food, spurred me on, and I made better time up the stony path than I had in the forest. The path quickly led me straight up to a heavy wooden gate that looked to be made of good strong oak. I banged on it, hard, with the staff, three times and called out.
"A traveler, a traveler seeking food and rest."
I was seeking a lot more than that, but I figured I'd keep quiet about that until I got the lay of the land.
My arrival caused a sudden silence to fall over the keep. The sounds of crunching ash and turning wheels cut off as if someone had just pulled a power cable. I got the feeling I was being watched, and that someone was waiting to see what I might do next.
What I did was bang on the door again, and give them the same spiel.
"A traveler, a traveler seeking food and rest."
Finally, and I got a feeling it was reluctantly,I was answered. A small grated window opened just below my head height in the door. I had to bend to look through it. The face that looked back out at me wasn't quite human. I caught that much in the quick glimpse I got before it gave out an exclamation of surprise and what sounded mightily like delight. With a clatter of bolts, four at least, and a creak that echoed all over the mountainside, the door was finally opened to me, and I was ushered inside the keep as if I was a conquering hero returning home from victory.
There were maybe a couple of score of inhabitants in the inner courtyard. As I said, they weren't human, but they were almost close enough to pass; bipedal, five foot tall, some a bit more, and with the requisite number of eyes, ears, noses, arms and fingers. But their bodies were gray and thin, almost to the point of being skeletal, and their faces had a sharp-at-the-front look about them that reminded me of the rat-king I'd met on that strange balcony. There were males, females and children in the crowd that quickly gathered around me, all dressed in a coarse cloth that looked almost like sacking.
They circled me, chattering excitedly. Their language was one I couldn't even begin to understand, all high-pitched cries and squeals. Again I found myself thinking of rodents and what magic might do to them in this place.
But I was thirsty, I was hungry, and I wasn't getting anywhere by staying quiet about it. I slapped at my chest. "John Seton," I said.
First one, then two, then all of them slapped at their own chests.
They all said the same thing, "Norn." Either it was a generic name, or they just hadn't understood me. But one thing was clear enough, even although I couldn't u
nderstand them at all.
They were very pleased to see me.
One of the children took my free hand, and although they looked gray and cold, the small hand was the warmest thing I'd encountered since my arrival, hotter even than the blasts of heat that the staff had been feeding me. I let the young one lead me through the small courtyard. The main tower loomed high over us, and there was a dark entranceway that I didn't like the look of at all, but that wasn't our destination.
I, and what seemed to be the total population of the keep, filtered in to what was the most recognizable thing I'd seen so far. A bar is a bar is a bar, no matter where you go. The barkeep even reminded me of George, being slightly fatter than his customers, and with thinning hair on top. As I approached the counter, the adults in the crowd gathered around me, and I finally realized the focus of their adoration. All their attention was on my red hair as it escaped in its usual mop underneath my hat.
The one who'd opened the main gate to me seemed to be taking on the role of spokesman. He and the barkeep chattered animatedly for long seconds, with much pointing at me and fingering of my hair. I caught the gist of the conversation well enough. The townspeople wanted to show me some hospitality as, apparently, I was an honored guest. The barkeep, obviously in common cause with barkeeps everywhere, wanted to know who was going to pay for it.
But the townspeople wouldn't let up, there was more pointing at my hair, more chattering, louder now, almost shouting. Finally, the barkeep relented and poured me a bowl of something thick and hot from a cauldron. He dumped it on the counter in front of me before putting out a hand. I recognized that well enough too, pay first, eat later.
I had nothing of value to give him. But I'd spotted something else common to many bars, the entertainment corner. There was a small, traveling harp sitting on a table. This time nobody followed me as I walked over to the instrument. The place had gone quiet, hushed, and there was an almost church-like air; they were a congregation waiting for a sermon.
