The Stair Of Time (Book 2) (12 page)

Under the Dome

“Well, Bo, as far as I see it, there’s nothin’ to do but ride up to the door and knock.”  The horse acknowledged him out of the corner of his eye—apparently all the attention he could spare while continuing to show the proper reverence to the grass.  Eli clicked his tongue and snapped the reins, rudely jarring Bo from his feast, and then directed him gently but firmly the rest of the way up the hill.

He had to admit, the grass
did
look good.  He shook his head at himself.  Now
that
was a thought he’d never had before.  It was like a lush green carpet, so full and rich and vibrant.  It made him want to take off his boots and go frolicking barefoot hither and yon, which was also a thought he’d never had before, not that he remembered anyway, certainly not since childhood.

It’s happening again,
he thought. 

Everything about the place seemed ideal.  The air was crisp and clean.  The temper
ature was a comfortable seventy-something.  The sun was bright, but not too bright.  There was a gentle breeze that, to Eli’s great envy, frolicked hither and yon through the grass.  It all seemed designed to put one at ease, and designed very well at that. 

The one thing that ruined it for
him, that changed the scene from perfect to peculiar, was the conspicuous lack of wildlife.  On a day like today, there should be squirrels, dove, deer, maybe even a hawk soaring high on the wind.  But there was nothing, no animals or insects of any kind.  Anywhere.  In fact, beyond Bo’s steady clomping and the rhythmic jangle of the harness, there wasn’t even any sound.

It
’s not real,
he thought.
  That’s the trouble.

Not to say that it was
all illusion.  He didn’t think that.  It’s just that it wasn’t as nature intended.  Despite the beauty of the scene, it was sterile, as still and lifeless as a tomb—nothing more than a mock representation of nature.

The witch had taken the parts of her environment she liked and, with a surgeon’s precision, re
moved the rest.  It was like an ensorcelled version of Mr. Hanaby’s place.  Each year, the old man entered Fairhaven’s “Spring in Your Step” landscaping competition, and each year, to the eternal vexation of the women’s tea and gossip circle, won the coveted first prize: “The Golden Rake.”

Eli
scowled as he brought Bo to a halt before the cottage’s front door, shrugging off the imposed good cheer with surprising ease, his burdens returning one by one to take their rightful places upon his broad shoulders—where they belonged!  It was a relief to feel like himself again.  He’d take quiet stoicism over imposed good cheer any day.

Sarilla just lost about five hundred points in his book.  Why, she was as silly as the rest of ‘em, all those folks livin’ in town with their brightly painted houses and manicured shrubberies.  As far as he was concerned, it was all a heapin’ pile of nonsense.

His scowl deepened as he set the brake and climbed out of the driver’s seat, as his flared nostrils caught a whiff of something.  “Perfume,” he grumbled, turning the word into an insult, shaking his head at Sarilla’s foolishness.  “Lilac.”  The air being sterile and free of insects wasn’t enough.  Oh no, it had to be deodorized as well!

After
wrapping the reins around one of the porch’s support posts, he kissed Mandie on the cheek, patted Bo on the nose, and walked to the door.  The floorboards of the porch creaked
just so
as he went, a caricature of creaking. 
Another ten points,
he thought.  When he reached the door, he paused to gather his nerve, taking a deep, steadying breath.

The door was rectangular with a half circle
top.  It looked to be made of one solid piece of wood, cherrywood if he wasn’t mistaken.  Carved into the top, was a closed eye. Twining vines blossomed from the corners of the doorframe, set in delicate and lovely relief.  Carved into the lower half of the door was a panel of squares.  Each square was engraved with a different picture, each picture painted a different color.  There were all manner of things represented: a frog, a ring, a flower, a rainbow, a star, a tower, a castle, a sword, a knight, a faerie, and so on.  Unlike the vines, these carvings were simple—even crude.  When viewed as a whole, however, the panel became a work of art.

Eli
looked around for a bell.  There was none, so he raised his meaty fist and knocked.  Nothing happened.  Knuckles on wood, even knuckles as mighty as his, failed to produce any sound.  He frowned and tried again, this time putting all his weight into it.  And again—nothing.  The door didn’t so much as quiver in its frame.  He could feel it beneath his fist.  There was no doubt it was there, and yet….

He took a step back,
considering his options.  He stood there for quite some time, crossed arms above a tapping right foot, trying to make sense of it all.  Question is, how is one supposed to make sense of something so nonsensical?  Then, as if compelled by the will of another, his eyes were drawn irresistibly down.

“
Now, what do we have here?” he asked.

There was s
omething about the panel that had previously escaped his notice.  Namely, the bottom right square had been left blank.  How he had not seen it before was beyond him.  He bent to one knee, examining the indentation more closely.

They slide,
he realized. 
It’s one big puzzle!
Well, if that don’t beat all.
 
First she subjects her visitors to her twisted version of reality, then she makes ‘em solve a puzzle before they can even knock on the infernal door.  It’s probably a weedin’ out process
. 
Anyone not smart enough to solve the puzzle, idn’t smart enough to talk to the Almighty Sarilla, the self-proclaimed greatest soothsayer to ever live.
 

Well, under ordinary circumstances,
Eli would have squared his shoulders, puffed out his chest, and stormed off, goodbye and good riddance to Sarilla and her ilk.  But these were not ordinary circumstances, were they?  No. Far from it.  One way or another, his Mandie’s life hung in the balance, so he would just have to swallow his pride and play her stupid game.  He only wished it had been something else, a feat of strength, an endurance of pain, a test of character—anything but a puzzle. 

Eli
wasn’t dumb, yet neither was he book smart.  He’d never had much use for books, nor a particular talent for absorbing their teachings, unless it be the farmer’s almanac, or the seed and earth bible.  And since he’d always known he’d be a farmer like his father, and his father’s father, what was the point in going against the grain?

Sure wish Marnie was here,
he thought, moving the square above the blank space down. 
She’d give Sarilla some what for, sure enough and make no mistake. 
Eli smiled.  His Marnie had been clever and quick, always top of her class.  What she’d seen in him he’d never know. 

His smile vanished
, however, when he saw that the number six was carved into the space behind the square he’d just moved.  After sliding down the square above it, a square with an acorn carved into it, he discovered the letter T.

Eli
sighed, feeling completely out of his depth.  Pictures and slidin’ squares was bad enough, but now he had to deal with letters and cipherin’ too! 
Poor Mandie,
he thought, sticking out his jaw and moving another square. 
She’s gonna have a long wait.

Never one to admit defeat easily, he rolled up his sleeves—literally—and had a seat.  Like his dear deceased grandfather used to say, ‘
Eli, my boy, there’re few problems in this world that cain’t be fixed with pure cussedness!”

“
I’ll solve your stupid puzzle,” Eli growled, “if it takes me all day!  You just wait and see, Sarilla.”  He smiled grimly.  “What I lack in smarts, I’ll make up for with pure cussedness!  It’s Eli Johansen at your door, lady, and you will see me!”

The Boundary

Andaris
awoke shivering, teeth clamped together like a vice.  Because he’d chosen to retire before the fire was put out, the earth beneath his bedroll remained chillingly bereft of campfire coals.  But thanks in part to the cold, or rather the distraction brought on by the ensuing discomfort, he didn’t remember a single dream—which, given what had transpired earlier, he deemed a blessing.  So relieved was he, in fact, that he considered neglecting his bedroll tonight, as well. 

It was going to be a good day.  He could feel it. 
Crisp blue sky shone above, framed by the wispy tops of the surrounding pines, bushy green heads swaying in time, torsos girded in long suits of armor that had been skillfully crafted in Kolera’s own forge, red-barked and fine, creaking back and forth in a lost language known only to them, root, leaf, and vine….

And
, perhaps, to the squirrels, a quartet of which presently chattered away with mischievous abandon, leaping from branch to branch like crazed gymnasts, playing a game that appeared to consist, chiefly, of hurling acorns at the campers.  One expertly tossed nut hit Gramps right on the end of the nose.  He was out of his bedroll with his sword drawn and drawers up before he knew what was happening.

Realization dawned as another acorn whizzed past his left ear, striking Gaven’s sleeping form with equal accuracy.  Gramps narrowed his eyes at the culprits, ears perked to the triumphant chattering of one of his least favorite animals
on earth—what he referred to as, ‘Yer everyday, limb-jumpin’, tail-flickin’, forest rat.’

Shaking his fist, Gramps hurled a few choice insults back at them, each one a bull’s eye. 
The squirrels scattered, disappearing from sight with practiced rapidity, alive to annoy another day.  Grinning at the long string of not only colorful but inventive expletives, Andaris got up and began to rekindle the fire, mind filling with tantalizing images of bacon and eggs sizzling in the pan. 

With the sort of empathic timing usually reserved for skinny old men with
long gray beards and cloaks, Gaven walked to his saddlebags and retrieved a large pan containing smoked bacon, sausages, hardboiled eggs, and biscuits.  “Figured there was no reason not to have some decent grub the first couple of days out,” he said, smiling broadly.  “And…no sense in rationing what’s gonna spoil anyway, so we might as well eat our fill!”

Andaris nodded, appreciating, for at least the hundredth time, his friend’s pragmatic
nature.

After breakfast, they packed their things and continued along their way, onward and upward, as the saying went, full stomachs warming them body, mind, and soul.  If Gramps or Gaven had had any bad dreams, they kept them to themselves, a courtesy for which Andaris was most grateful.

Before long
, the path began to narrow, becoming steeper and more treacherous.  Sheer cliffs now rose on either side, looming hundreds of feet above, blocking all but a narrow ribbon of sky.  Around midday, they stopped for lunch, conversation subdued by a growing unease.  They found themselves glancing over their shoulders with increasing regularity, unable to shake the feeling that they were being watched.  The cliffs crowded the trail, craggy faces glowering down at them, seeming to eavesdrop.  The air was still, as though holding its breath.  Every clink of fork and scrape of knife became loud in their ears.

A
ccording to Gramps, they weren’t far from where the path opened onto a broad, verdant shelf, a place where they could take a deep breath and relax.  And thank goodness for that.  This pervasive watchfulness was beginning to put them on edge.  Besides, Andaris was not yet ready to abandon his prior assertion that it was going to be a ‘good day.’

Presumably d
ue to its proximity to The Lost City, the shelf was teeming with life, all manner of flora and fauna, warmer and lusher than either the land above or below.  “It’s beautiful,” Gramps assured them.  “Oceans of grass, rivers swimmin’ with fish, woods packed with deer and elk, and a nice climate to boot.  I can’t figure why no one’s ever settled up there, unless it be on account of things like that creature I couldn’t shoot.”

He shook his head.  “It was enough to keep
me
away…all those years ago.  Mayhap it’s the same with others.  I remember considerin’ it, wonderin’ what in the blue blazes was wrong with me for decidin’ against.  Always thought I’d go back one day, but after I got home, the urge to return just sorta…faded.  I found I had to write down what I’d done and seen before I forgot it altogether.”

“Well,
you’re here now,” Andaris pointed out.  “It might have taken you a few decades, but you made it.”

“Yep, suppose you’re right,
young’n’.  Although I nearly missed my chance, didn’ I?  Glad you boys came along when you did.  Another couple o’ years and I woulda been too old to make the trip, and I doubt I woulda ever come on my own.  There was always somethin’, one reason or another I gave myself.  But, as my fourth wife was fond of sayin’, better late than early, whatever
that
means.  She never did make much sense.”

A shadow passed over Gaven’s face,
no doubt cast by the thought of Gramps’ imminent demise.  A moment later he brightened and, with forced vigor said, “Who are ya kidding, ya old codger?  Whatever it is you’re sellin’, I’m not buyin’!  You’re gonna outlive us all!  You’re too contrary to die.  Why, if ya tried it before your two hundredth birthday, the Almighty would give ya some choice words and kick ya right back to earth!”  They all laughed, especially Gaven, tears of what, if asked later, he would swear was joy glistening in his eyes. 

D
ue to the intrusiveness of the cliffs, the merriment did not last as long as it normally would have.  Their laughter echoed back to them, distorted and even amplified, seeming to mock their mirth from every crag and crevice.  After that, they just kept their heads down and mouths shut, concentrating on only one thing—reaching the oasis above.

Time stretched, and
then stretched some more, languishing around the mid-afternoon hour for what felt like…hours, seeming to become much more flexible than it had any right to be.  Once again, the cliffs were to blame, their monotonous gray walls enough to drive the heartiest of men insane.

Despite the echo, Andaris was considering startin
’ up a tavern song.  Nothing like a bawdy verse or two to break the tension.  He opened his mouth to ask if anyone would mind, and then abruptly closed it again, experiencing a distinct tingling sensation.  He brought Del to a halt and, since he was last in line, called out, “Gaven, Gramps, do you feel it?”

Displaying what at times bordered on creepy
synchronization, they stopped their horses, turned their heads, and replied, “Feel what?”

“The tingling
.  It’s so…strong, like my teeth are crawling with ants.”

“That sounds ‘bout right,” said Gramps.  “Guess you’re just more sensitive than us.  Come on, best thing to do is ride past it!  The shelf’s gotta be close!”  And with that,
the old man spurred his mount into a gallop, boldly leading the way. 

“Ah, now I feel it!” cried Gaven. 
“I see what ya mean!  It
does
feel like your teeth are crawlin’!”

A
nother thirty yards or so and the tingling stopped, ceasing abruptly as they left the stark confines of the cliffs behind and emerged onto a broad plateau ringed by snow-covered mountains.  Gramps reined in his horse and stood in the stirrups, pressing spyglass to eye, a childlike grin on his old face.

A herd of bison rumbled across a grassy expanse,
green grass,
weaving between stands of oak and pine, heading towards a sapphire lake that sparkled brightly in its emerald setting.  On the other side of the lake stood a deep forest, ancient and dark, stalwart sentinels standing watch over a storybook realm.  From the moment the three started galloping until now, the temperature had risen a good twenty degrees.  What’s more, nowhere on the shelf did they see even a hint of snow.

“This is it, my boys!” exclaimed Gramps, voice a full octave above normal.  “Well done to both of ya.  We made it!”