OtherWorld

by Sarah Dreher

  “Let me think.” Eleanor blushed a little, in a charming way. “I used to know them by heart. There’s the Chair of Morgan Mwynfawr, and the Hamper of Gwyddno...” She frowned thoughtfully. “And the Knife of the Hand of Havoc...”

  “That sounds like a good one,” Stoner said.

  “And…”

  “Stoner McTavish!” Gwen’s voice cut through the stuffy air. “I asked you to stay where you were.”

  “I did,” Stoner said. “This is a dream.”

  Gwen took her arm. “It is no dream, and you’re driving me to the looney bin.”

  Stoner looked around. The Dafarn had disappeared. She stood inside a tiny, crowded shop. Tea cozies and pressed wild flowers in frames and jewelry and trivets made from slate lined the walls. Eleanor was there, but instead of tending the bar she was working the cash register, and her name tag identified her as Anna.

  Stoner blinked. “I must have walked in my sleep.”

  “A likely story,” Gwen said.

  “Unless...” She went to the counter. “Excuse me.”

  Anna looked up from her money drawer.

  “Have you ever heard of the Knife of the Hand of Havoc?”

  The woman’s face broke into a beaming smile. “Of the Thirteen Precious Curiosities? Have you seen it?”

  “Not really,” Stoner said. “I only heard of it.” As she turned away, she heard herself say, “Diolch.”

  “Pob hwyl,” Anna called, and waved cheerily.

  “What was that?” Gwen asked.

  “I don’t know. I’m not sure I want to know.” But she did know she was frightened. She headed for the door. “I need to get out of here.”

  * * *

  Edith Kesselbaum, following Stoner’s orders, went to a workshop on dealing with HMO’s, where she delivered a stinging, eloquent diatribe against assembly line medicine and pre-packaged psychotherapy. She was applauded loudly, and dropped from the Harvard Health Plan’s list of approved providers.

  A group of Aunt Hermione’s friends from Cassadaga gathered in her hotel room to meditate, listen, and try to put a light of peace and safety around Marylou. Some of the more traditional Christian mystics also prayed for the soul and conscience of her kidnappers, suggesting that he or she come to Jesus and release her.

  Aunt Hermione received a message from one of her Spirit Guides. The message was, “Look for the music,” or something on that order. Since this particular Guide communicated intuitively and non-verbally, she wasn’t certain those were the right words. But she was positive she’d gotten the gist of it.

  George found Stoner and Gwen wandering aimlessly in Italy and told them Stape had been called away on a job—vandals had cracked a window in “Emma’s”, a local bar, and she wanted to replace it before it gave the local adolescents ideas. She suggested they meet there at five, before the official opening time, and compare information. Sorry she had to run, but she was on her ten minute coffee break and only had five minutes to make it back to Mickey’s Birthdayland, her least favorite spot in WDW and assignment for today (“You haven’t lived until you’ve spent a day tracking down hysterical toddlers in the Mousekamaze.”).

  Stoner wondered briefly how she had found them so easily on a ten- minute coffee break, then realized they were probably under surveillance. That left her wondering how they had accounted for her time under the Ball. Maybe George could ask the computer. She would be interested to know what it was, and what they called it. Some kind of Land or World, no doubt, in keeping with the overall Theme.

  Not having access to a computer herself, she settled for making a mental note to talk it over with George.

  * * *

  Bored, bored, BORED!

  Marylou thought she would lose her mind. If this was what it meant to have adventures, she could see why Stoner had mixed feelings about it. The accommodations were appalling, the food ghastly, and the company… well, spare us even having to talk about the company. In fact, it was her considered opinion that people who went around seeking out adventures obviously had a screw loose. Nuts. A few cards short of a full deck. Elevators don’t go all the way to the top. Poco loco in the coco.

  She picked at a hangnail—not even a decent nail file, for God’s sake, she should have come more prepared—and tried to decide what to do. Making trouble sounded like a good plan, a way to pass the time. She was rather proud of herself for the menstrual bit. That really had him going. Marylou laughed out loud.

  Oops! Better watch it. You never knew when Creepy-Peepy would come creeping and peeping his way back. He moved like a cat. Quick, silent, deadly. He wasn’t bad looking, if he wouldn’t insist on wearing those nerdy T-shirts and terrible baggy shorts. Too much mousse in the hair, made him look like he’d been dipped in plastic, and that “Wall Street” look was no longer in. Of course, he’d been in prison, so he was probably behind the times a little. Ex-cons and ex-nuns all seemed to have holes in their experience.

  Clean him up, dress him up, and she might find him attractive—for a sociopath of merely normal intelligence. Not much stimulation intellectually, but physically...

  She shook her head. No, he’d probably want to know How It Was every two minutes. She knew the type. From experience.

  Marylou looked around the small concrete room for the thousandth time. At least he’d let her keep the light on. Darkness would be unbearable. Nothing to do but sleep. And there was no way you could snooze along happily for three days non-stop, no matter how worn out you were. Was it three days? She didn’t think so. She’d gone to sleep twice, but once had been because she was drugged, so you probably couldn’t count that as the end of a day...

  She picked through the food wrappers and residue. Breakfast had been French. A Norwegian snack. Lunch… Italian. She stirred the trash, holding bits of food-stained paper up to the light and sniffing. Well, this was completely and totally outrageous. They weren’t even up to dinner of her first full day of captivity!

  Trouble-making was definitely called for. Marylou crossed her legs lotus-position style and tried to think. She hummed a little hum, which usually cleared her mind of outside distractions and brought up all kinds of interesting stuff.

  The air around her seemed to thicken and grow a little colder. She was tempted to open her eyes, but reminded herself to stay with it until something happened. She hummed a little louder, and concentrated on listening hard to catch the echo of her hum as it bounced off the concrete walls. In a room this small it was subtle, but that made it all the more powerful. She was glad Stoner had talked her into that meditation course at the Cambridge Women’s Center. Tricked her into it, really, by calling it a seminar on Stress Reduction—though after this experience she would seriously question why anyone would want to reduce stress. Given that the alternative was the absence of stimulation.

  Mind wandering. She lowered the pitch and raised the volume of her hum. Ah, that was better.

  If she varied the notes…M.i.c...K.e.y...M.o.u...

  Well, really. Stick to one note and vary the volume. Way to go.

  Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

  “Who are you?”

  Her eyes flew open. “What?”

  There was no one there.

  But she’d heard it. Definitely heard a voice, a woman’s voice, asking who she was. “Helloooooooooooooo,” she called.

  Nothing came back but the quick and tiny echo.

  “Hellooooooo…ooooo.”

  Nothing.

  Well, if this isn’t the pits. Now I’m hallucinating.

  * * *

  Stape was just smoothing out the glazier’s putty as they pulled into the parking lot. “Emma’s” was a square, cement-block building that looked as if it had once been a garage. It had a small picture window covered by drapes with balled fringe. A lavender door, freshly painted. No name was visible, either on the window or on any sign. The window Stape had fixed was in the door. She stood back to admire her handiwork. “What do you think?”

  “Very professional,�
� Gwen said.

  Stoner took a closer look and grunted agreement, which seemed to her to be proper butch behavior under the circumstances.

  On the hall of the entry way was a large bulletin board bursting with flyers. Most of them pink or lilac, offering Goddess circles, crystal healing, homeopathic veterinary services, polarity massage, a harvest exchange, groups for survivors of just about anything and everything, lessons in the Texas two-step...

  “Emma’s” was clearly the local lesbian hangout.

  Inside, the room was dimly lit but cheerful. Murals of women of all colors playing, working, picnicking, making love... Small tables with checkered cloths pushed to the sides of the room. A tiny linoleum dance floor backed by a stage just big enough to hold a DJ and equipment, or a small dance combo.

  Stoner was willing to bet the Emma of “Emma’s” was Emma “If I can’t dance I don’t want to be part of your revolution” Goldman.

  Stape exchanged “Yo’s” with the bartender, a dark-skinned, bright-eyed Hispanic woman dressed in a paisley vest and skin-tight black pants, and led them to a table.

  The bartender, whom Stape introduced as Rita, came over and looked at them questioningly. Gwen ordered coffee. Stoner settled for club soda with lime.

  “You from out of town?” Rita asked Gwen.

  Gwen nodded. “Boston.”

  “If you’re looking for a meeting, there’s a couple posted on the board. Women only, no cajones.”

  Gwen thanked her.

  “If you’re shy, I can find someone to take you.”

  “We’re fine,” Gwen said. “I really don’t… do meetings.”

  “Oh. Well, I figured, on account of the coffee…”

  “I just quit,” Gwen explained. “Because of my grandmother, I guess. She drinks a little too much, and it seems to have made her intolerant of my...” She shrugged. “You know...lifestyle.”

  “Bummer,” said Rita.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t blame the drinking. Maybe she’d be that way, anyway.”

  “Probably,” Stoner muttered.

  “Yeah, well,” Rita said, and returned to the bar.

  Stape leaned toward Gwen. “She’s flirting with you.”

  “Who?”

  “Rita.”

  Gwen looked dubious. “Talking about alcohol is flirting?”

  “You didn’t see her offer to take Stoner to a meeting, did you?”

  “She didn’t offer to take me,” Gwen said. “Not really.”

  “She was working up to it.”

  Stoner realized Stape was looking at her. Expectantly. She tried to imagine... Oh, right, this was the time for her to make jealous, threatening noises. She cleared her throat, tried to conjure up some anger—or at least heavy anxiety—but couldn’t. Not that anger, jealousy, and anxiety were foreign emotions. She’d had plenty of that in her life, with Agatha, her first real lover. It made her feel worn out and used up. She didn’t want to feel that with Gwen, that possessiveness that came from fear and only led to more fear and ultimately to claustrophobia and terrible arguments, nastiness and...

  If I ever start feeling that way about Gwen, she decided, I’ll just leave town.

  “If you want to go to a meeting with her,” she said to Gwen, “Go ahead. I can look for Marylou…”

  “I don’t go to meetings at home. Why should I go to a meeting here?” Gwen reached over and touched her face lovingly. “Stoner, do you feel all right?”

  That seemed to satisfy Stape, who nodded—subtly—her approval and picked a bit of glazier’s putty off her jeans.

  Rita, meanwhile, had put together the coffee and club soda in one big hurry and was back. “Okay,” she said as she put the drinks down. “If you change your mind...”

  “No go, Rita,” Stape said.

  The woman shrugged. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.” She sauntered through swinging doors to the kitchen.

  “She doesn’t mean to be pushy,” Stape said. “Went through a nasty break-up in the spring, and she’s been a little rancid ever since.” She took a swallow of her beer. “Hell, last time it happened to me, I was drunk and horny for a whole year. Made a damn fool of myself, lost a couple of friends, and totaled my pick-up. Ran that sucker right into a tree—booze and drugs, but mostly self-destructive, I guess. They couldn’t even salvage the stereo. Only things that survived that crash were me and one Lucie Blue tape, and I was in better shape than the tape.”

  “I’m sorry,” Gwen said. “About you, not the tape.”

  “It was a long time back,” Stape said, and polished off her beer. “Love is hell.”

  “It certainly is,” Stoner agreed. “I hope things are better for you now.”

  “George is great. Except she’s trying to kill me with that microwave. Jesus, I hate that thing.”

  “Maybe you should let her know that,” Stoner suggested.

  “Aw, she thinks it’s the greatest thing since TV dinners. I can’t do that.”

  Stoner grinned. “Must be love.”

  “Yeah,” Stape said, returning her grin, “I’m stuck on the wench. It’s a pitiful situation.”

  The wench in question was coming through the door, letting in a blast of evening sunlight. She strode to the table and made a grab for Stape’s beer. “How many is that?”

  “Just one,” Stape said a little sheepishly.

  George looked at Gwen and Stoner. “That true?”

  “As far as I know,” Gwen said.

  “Okay,” George said, and plunked herself down. She leaned over and ruffled Stape’s hair. “Not that I care about you, Tough Stuff. But we only have three payments to go on that truck.”

  Stape turned the color of the camellias in the mural.

  “I’m afraid I don’t have much for you,” George said as she rooted in her purse and brought out her notebook. “The last time anyone saw your friend was early afternoon yesterday, leaving EPCOT.”

  “She left EPCOT?” Gwen asked. “On the monorail?”

  “Through the parking lot.”

  “We didn’t have the car with us,” Stoner said.

  “Well, she didn’t steal one or I’d have heard about it.”

  Stoner thought hard. “If someone just started walking, where would they end up?”

  “Just about anywhere,” George said. “There’s a lot of land around here, and most of it isn’t developed.”

  “What if she was trying to get back to the Contemporary?”

  “Make more sense to take the Monorail,” Stape said.

  “But she’s afraid of the Monorail.”

  “Well, if she turned right coming out of the parking lot,” George mused, “she’d end up at the Contemporary, eventually.”

  “In about a month,” Stape added.

  “That’s assuming she didn’t take a right off of World Drive onto Vista Boulevard.”

  “Where would that take her?” Stoner asked.

  “To River Country, Fort Wilderness, or the Village.”

  “For the sake of Marylou’s sanity,” Gwen said, “let’s pray she went to the Village.”

  “Marylou’s not really comfortable in wilderness,” Stoner explained.

  Gwen laughed. “Marylou’s never even been in wilderness. She’d probably be consumed by a bear.”

  “Thanks a lot, Gwen. Now I can worry about Marylou being eaten by a bear.”

  “Not in WDW,” George said. “There aren’t any real bears in WDW. There’s no real anything.”

  “Except birds,” Stape corrected.

  “And the ponies,” Stoner said.

  George turned to her. “Ponies?”

  “At the U.K. pavilion...” She caught herself. They weren’t ponies. They were dream ponies. Weren’t they? She smiled sheepishly. “Sorry. Got it mixed up with something else.”

  “Probably the Grand Canyon,” Gwen suggested.

  Stoner kicked her under the table.

  “Of course,” George went on, “she could have turned left out of the lot, which w
ould take her to the Dolphin and Swan—those are our luxury hotels.”

  “I vote for that,” Gwen said. “Check the dining room.”

  George shook her head. “Sorry. We already looked into it. No luck. And she didn’t stop off at Disney-MGM Studios.”

  “You might have missed her,” Stoner said.

  “Our people are pretty observant, and pretty thorough. And, if you don’t mind my saying so, your friend is hard to miss.”

  “It’s been mentioned,” Stoner mumbled.

  George tossed her notebook onto the table. “I’m afraid we have to assume she’s somewhere outside the World, or somewhere inside the World and we can’t find her.”

  “What about the tunnels?” Stoner asked.

  “It’s possible she went in there and no one saw her,” George said, reaching for her notebook. “I’ll have it checked out. Though, from the direction she was headed in when last observed, it’s not likely she’d have found an entrance. And it’s pretty busy down there—laundry, maintenance—like a whole city, really.” She tried to look hopeful. “But worth a try. Definitely worth a try.”

  Stoner took a swallow of her club soda and tried to think of a non-self- incriminating way to bring up her next question. She decided on the indirect approach. “How big is WDW?”

  “About forty-seven square miles. 27,400 acres, to be exact,” George said. “Not all developed, of course. It used to be forest—palmetto and pine, you drove through it on the way in—and some swamp.”

  “Did anyone live here before?”

  “Not as far as we know. Oh, there are always a few swamp rats in any of these wilderness parts down here. Sometimes whole families going back generations, descended from early settlers or Indian tribes, living God knows how back there with the copperheads and alligators and intermarrying. Nobody knows they’re there until the land gets sold and developed, or they’re driven out by a flood or hurricane.”

  “Did they find anyone when they started building here?”

  George shrugged. “Not as far as I know, but it was a bit ago—1971 when they opened the Kingdom.”

  “I guess there must have been tunnels and things while they were building that just got abandoned,” Stoner said. “You know—holes and trenches, stuff they don’t even bother to fill in.”