The Stair Of Time (Book 2) (24 page)

Convolutions

A
s with the inside of the house, everything on and around the covered porch was as Eli remembered.  There were two wooden rocking chairs and a long bench, the latter of which had spent many a faithful year in service to the Creator as a church pew, bearing the burden of countless behinds with nary a creak of complaint.

Yellow roses—his grandmother’s pride—climbed the lattice to the left and right of the windows, the openings barred by heavy
oak shutters, centers engraved with a round shield bearing crossed hammers against a field of rye.

It was strange to see everything from such a low height, to once again be walking so near to the ground, but…becoming less strange with every step.  Unlike him, spring had reached its full
stride, caressing his unlined face with the occasional warm breeze, carrying the heady aroma of flowering
rhododendron
plants from the gloom of the surrounding wood, the heart of which, as he recalled, was filled with endless mystery—a tantalizing wonderland that was more than enough to keep a young boy awake far past his bedtime, fantasizing about what
might
be
,
listening to the sound of the cicadae in the trees, their rhythmic buzzing both alien and routine, augmented, if he was fortunate, by the not-so-distant howls of timber wolves.

Said to live in the caves along the eastern rim of a nearby gulch, these gray-furred giants were only satisfied when their bellies were stuffed with the sweet meats of young children—a not-so-old wives’ tale he suspected his grandmother had concocted to keep him from wandering off.

“You gots the worst wanderlust I ever seen,” she’d told him one bright spring day.  “Next to you, your father was a momma’s boy, tremblin’ behin’ me skirts for protection, and before you,
he
was the worst I’d ever seen!”  She shook her head at him, admonishing his dirty fingernails and wild hair with her eyes.  “That’s why they howl, ya know, in longin’ to eats a young’n’ just like yerself!”

Eli
shivered and, following Sarilla’s bidding, sat in the larger of the two rocking chairs, the one with the stylize
d
ED
J
carved into its top
,
E
for Eli of course, Eli Dreyer Johansen—his grandfather.

Once he was properly situated, having drawn up his legs beneath him so as not to feel so utterly dwarfed, he turned to the witch and, with as much dignity as he could muster said, “So, what happens now?”

Sarilla stared at him a moment, struggling to speak from behind her hand, sudden mirth dancing in her eyes.

“I’m glad the plight of me and mine is so damned funny to you, lady
,” he said from behind clenched teeth—perfect little boy teeth.

Sarilla’s face darkened—his grandmother’s
tanned and wrinkled face.  She cleared her throat and placed her strong, thin hands in her lap, fingers steepled above her faded blue dress, just as he’d seen his real grandmamma do hundreds of times before.  “You’re absolutely right, Eli.  I’m terribly sorry, my dear.  You see, between the fondness Izabell Johansen had for you and…her wry sense of humor and…the way you look and sound contrasting so dramatically with your expression and words I—”

“
You’re one to talk,” Eli growled, or at least tried to.  “My grandmamma never sounded like
that!”
  He grimaced.  “Why people go around usin’ twenty big words when five small ones will do was as beyond her as it is me.”

Sarilla nodded,
looking sufficiently contrite, long gray hair done up neatly into a bun.  “Again, you’re absolutely right.  I can only imagine how difficult this must be for you.  If you’ll just give me a chance, I’ll try to explain things as well as I can.  There are threads woven into the greater pattern that even I, thus far, have been unable to unravel.”

Eli
hesitated, this time weighing her with his eyes.

Grandmamma
Sarilla took a cookie off the silver tray between them and, holding it out as a sort of peace offering said, “You did come to me for help, you know.  Let’s not forget that.  Based on what I know of you from your wife, daughter, and grandmother, you are a good and honest man.”

At last
Eli saw, shining from beneath the elderly facade, the great authority and power of the woman.  She seemed to grow in stature without actually changing size, the force of her will swelling to give him a not-so-tender embrace.

“However,” she continued, “my patience is not without limits.  I’ve taken time away from a number of very important tasks in order to meet with you.  I would advise you to not squander this opportunity by being chil
di—overly prideful.”  She sighed and smiled, seeming to once again diminish, exhaling part of herself while inhaling part of her persona, becoming the vision of his sweet ol’ grandmamma.  “Now here, ya little scoundrel, take a cookie.  And don’t worry, you won’t be disappointed.  They’re as good as ever.”

Eli
did as instructed—or commanded—quickly devouring the best oatmeal cookie he’d had in over twenty-five years.  Inside of ten minutes, he had eaten eight and a half of ‘em, and was now sitting back in his grandfather’s rocking chair with a satisfied grin on his face, wondering why he’d gotten so worked up in the first place. 
Nobody who makes cookies this good can be all bad,
he reasoned.

Some of the mirth had returned to Sarilla’s eyes, but this time
Eli did not take offense.  In fact, he felt such a rush of warmth for the witch that he very nearly leaned in and gave her a kiss.  She stared at him for a time, seeming to gather her thoughts, then, at length, sat back in his grandmamma’s rocking chair, re-steepled her fingers, and began to speak.

“What I have to say will take a good while, “she admitted.  “Much of it is not only complicated but…convoluted.  There is a difference
, you know.  Convoluted implies complex, but complex doesn’t necessarily imply convoluted.  So you see, therein lies the problem.”

Still smiling,
Eli nodded dumbly, his grasp of what she was saying tenuous at best.

“
Even so, as tiresome as it will no doubt become, you must agree to be silent until I am completely finished.  All right?”

Eli
nodded again, relieved to hear something he understood.

“Not a word until I ask if you have any questions,
unless, of course, I ask
you
a non-rhetorical question, no matter what shocking things I might say.  Do we have an agreement?”

Reaching out to pat
grandmamma Sarilla’s hand, Eli nodded a third time.  “Not a word,” he mouthed silently, crossing his heart.  “I promise.”

The Ballroom

Andaris awoke on the floor of the ballroom
, wincing in pain, at the mercy of some phantom blacksmith who apparently had developed a penchant for hammering spikes through people’s skulls—first left, then right, on and on without quarter.  He sat up with a groan and held his head in his hands, thinking of nothing but the pain, breath coming in ragged gasps.

After enduring several more minutes of this, he cried out in frustration, his voice echoing all around.  And just like that, the pain
was gone.  It did not drain away gradually as such things normally do.  It vanished in an instant, as though his cry had flipped a switch.

The change was so abrupt, in fact, that he laughed, the contrast affectin
g his body like a drug, flooding every part of him with euphoria.  He felt like a man who’d been strapped to a torture table having all manner of nasty things done to him—only to blink his eyes and find himself at home in the arms of his loving wife.

It was i
nteresting how the mind worked.  If not for the pain, he might have been discontented by his present predicament, even downtrodden.  It’s true what they say: happiness is just a matter of perspective.  One wouldn’t appreciate the blue sky half as much without the occasional cloud.  A peasant delights in the scraps from the king’s table more than the king delights in the feast.  Hardship and happiness are but two sides of the same coin.  Etc, etc.

Andaris got to his feet without
so much as the merest suggestion of a groan.  He looked at the tapestry, but now neither saw nor sensed anything especially magical about it.  Static figures woven into the fabric—that was all.  He felt compelled to stare longer, to strain his ears for the distant strains of harpsichord music, but this time he resisted, not wanting to pass out again, which is what he assumed must have happened.  One moment he’d been standing there, totally enthralled by what he was seeing.  And then he had awakened with no conception of how or when he’d lost consciousness.  Or, for that matter, how long he’d been out.

Giving his insatiable curiosity something else on which to
focus, he turned from the tapestry and crossed the room, coming to a stop before the center window, the vertical bars of which were positioned just right to prevent him from squeezing through.  Peering past the bars, past the winding vines and blooming flora which climbed the outer walls and hung over the ledge into the room, he was afforded a bird’s eye view of a bustling town square, the pious stone of a church opposite the irreverent squalor of a tavern, the two squaring off with one another, windows narrowed in what both knew would eventually come to bloodshed.

People, fully
human people as far as he could tell, traveled up and down the dirt and gravel roads with the sort of entrepreneurial spirit that typically comes with new-found wealth, or at the very least, the scent of it in the air.  Some rode horses.  Some drove wagons.  Indeed, an elite few had the fortune of being chauffeured in great black carriages, red velvet curtains concealing their interiors, spiked wheels tattooing the streets with ever more complicated designs.

Most, however, simply walked, or rather sauntered, eyes scanning this way and that, searching for some opportunity or another.  Those on foot tended to be well armed,
equipped with all manner of weapons, daggers, swords, and bows at the ready, traveling the streets with a lean, hungry look, the sort folks back home would have frowned upon, giving the possessor of said look a wide berth, whispering behind locked doors and shuttered windows about his or her sinful ways.

Speaking of
sinful, there were even ladies of the night about, and with the sand to walk the streets in broad daylight, billowing, brightly colored petticoats concealing the goods until payment was made, the promise in their eyes all the advertisement they required. 

This
town rivals Tinar,
he thought with a wistful grin.  Getting caught up in the hustle and bustle of the place, Andaris soon found himself shouting out the window and waving.  “Hello!  Up here!  Hello!  Can anyone hear me?”

But n
ot one head turned his way.  Unless, that is, you counted the squirrel sitting on a tree limb to his right, just above the crenellated top of a thick granite wall, the nearest end of which was connected to some sort of keep—of which he, thus far, seemed to be the sole inhabitant.

And n
ot even the squirrel was looking at him, was it?  Rather at something it had decided to chase, evidenced by its sudden acrobatic leap from one branch to the next.  He followed it with his eyes, but soon lost sight of the little devil as it scurried beneath the golden leaves of a towering, white-barked maple tree.

That’s when he realized what was missing.  Not only couldn’t they hear him—he couldn’t hear
them.
  Distance and wind might account for part of it, but not all.  That is, if there was any wind.  Because, come to think of it, his face and hands remained curiously uncaressed by even the gentlest of breezes.

He frowned. 
Must be magic again.  A barrier over these windows that allows me to see out without others seeing in, something that also prevents the transfer of sound.  Wish Gaven were here.  He’d have some quip followed by that knowing smile of his that would make it all seem somehow unimportant. 
My
Gaven would, anyway. 

His
frown deepened as an idea began to take shape.  He needed to concentrate on it, for he felt sure that if he didn’t, it would simply slip from his grasp, never to be seen again.
Hmm.  Now let’s see here….  The thing is, old Gaven said he found his way to a town where he met a girl who reminded him of Trilla, some place where he was able to find comfort and peace.  A town where he met a girl and found comfort and peace….  What if—

His
face lit with sudden mirth. 
What if this is that place?  After all, the arrows did lead me here, and it is a lot like Tinar, based on what I can see, anyway.  Gaven sure did love Tinar, almost as much as Rogar, though in a completely different way.  But don’t get off track.  Let’s think this through. He said the stairs are like a nexus in time and space.  So…if that is the right town, it’s actually possible that I’ll find him there, before he grows old and tries to make his way back.  Maybe I’ve finally caught up to him!  Maybe I’ll arrive shortly after he did.  Who knows how these things work?

He grinned
again. 
Maybe I’ll find him drinking ale in a tavern while flirting with the barmaids and wrestling some back alley bruiser.  Like as not all at the same time!  And then we can get out of here.  Together!

He just hoped he wasn’t one of them. 
One of the people, that is.  A man should never be made to meet himself, to have his carefully guarded delusions torn away, to stand naked and shivering before his own merciless scrutiny.  In other words, to see himself as others do.

Andaris whirled for the twenty
-foot tall doors, thinking not only of Gaven but of a hot meal and soft bed.  There must be a way down.  One thing was certain.  If there was, he would find it.  In his heart of hearts, he knew it was extremely unlikely that he would also find his friend.  I mean, he wasn’t stupid.  He knew the odds.  But he also considered himself to be an optimist, which meant he would take small hope over no hope any day, allowing it to motivate him and, at times, to compel him to proceed in a manner that some might deem just shy of strictly rational.