March Forth (The Woodford Chronicles Book 1) (17 page)

Deanna

              She flopped into bed, and fell asleep nearly as soon as her head hit the pillow.

              As she slept, she dreamed.

              She was back in the great hall full of statues, but the statues were gone.  She stood on the pedestal where the headless woman had been, in her previous dream.  All around her, people were engaged in all manner of activities.  Larsen was riding a motorcycle around the hall, a joyful grin on his face.  John, the tech, was playing guitar, while Eric watched and clapped.  Steven sat alone, hugging his knees and looking angry.

              There were people from Woodford, too.  She saw Louis Miller, holding a bottle of vodka and studying it as if he were uncertain whether or not he would open it.  Barb, the librarian, sat in a comfortable chair, watching
The Matrix
.  The Piano Man sat at a grand piano, playing a sonata she had never before heard.  The Friendly Gargoyle walked around, shaking everyone’s hands and welcoming them, as if he were the mayor of this strange place.

              She watched all of this activity and smiled, until she had the sudden realization that the Rasta Man was not there.  In her dream state, this seemed a crushing blow, and she deflated a bit.

              “Looking for someone?” a voice behind her said, and she turned.  The robed man was immediately behind her. 

              “Where is he?” she asked.  “Where is David Carver?”

              “He’s finding his way.”

              “But…”

              “Yes?”

              “I hoped it was real, before.  When I saw him on the sandbar.”

              “It was as real as you allow it to be. Much like this place.”

              She sighed, heavily.  “I thought… I thought I could bring him home.”

              You smiled.  “He sought me out, for the first time in a long time.  It’s a start.”

              “That’s…good,” she said, uncertainly.

              “What is it that bothers you, my lady?”

              “I guess… I guess I thought it was time for the happy ending,” she said, sadly.  “I’d start learning about magic, and he’d go home, and we’d all live happily ever after.”

              He raised an eyebrow and cocked his head, quizzically.  “My lady, why would you wish for any kind of an ending?”

              “It’s just… so much has happened.  I feel like it’s time for me to be queen of my world and for everything to be okay.”

              “And so it is, if you allow it to be,” he said, gently placing his hands on her shoulders and turning her around so she could watch the activities of everyone in the hall.  “But it’s not an ending.  There is never really a ‘happy ending,’ as you say.  Only constant beginnings.”

              Deanna looked around, considering the hall in this new light, as the robed man continued speaking.  “Life is constant movement.  An ending for one is a beginning for another.  It does not just stop, my lady, and rest in some ‘happy ending,’ unchanging.  You are finally learning to rule your world, but what of all of them?  For some, the world is changing for the better…”

              She saw Larsen ride by on a motorcycle, laughing as he rode.

              “For others, lessons need to be learned…”

              On the other side of the great hall, Louis cracked open the bottle of vodka and lifted it to his lips, chugging a third of the bottle in a matter of seconds.

              “Some worlds are falling apart…”

              Steven stood up and punched a wall, hard.

              “Others are coming together…”

              John finished playing a song and grinned while Eric high fived him.

              “And some, you will never fully understand.”

              The Piano Man stood up with a flourish, taking a bow as some of the people in the hallway broke into applause.

              “Your world may fit into some of theirs, or you may pass right by them, in a totally different orbit.  However, none of them – or you - will come to a ‘happy ending.’  Endings, for the most part, are not happy things.  But there are always new beginnings.”

              She looked up at him, confused, and asked, “But what... What do I do now?”

              “You wake up.” 

Her eyes opened, and she realized she was in bed.  The robed man’s words still danced in her head.  “Wake up and be the queen that you are.”

              She glanced at the clock and realized she had better jump in the shower and get ready for Larsen’s arrival.  First, though, she had a few minutes for coffee and a cigarette.

Epilogue

              David and the robed man walked down the street, hand in hand.  They had walked in silence for a long time, and watched the sun come up.  David had been content with their silence, but he was beginning to feel he should say something.  He searched his brain for the right words.

              “Find you again,” he finally said.

              “Indeed,” You agreed.  “You did that very well.  You must now take your next steps, though.”

              David looked up at him curiously, wondering what he meant.

              “Tell me, David,” the robed man continued, “what is the most important thing to you right now?”

              David screwed up his face in thought, but he stayed silent.  He thought about all that had happened to bring him here.  His memories of most of it were just a vague, jumbled blur of images.  There was the nice lady who had sat in front of him, saying words that made his brain jiggle.  There was a ride on his motorcycle, but it hadn’t felt right.  He remembered being cold, and walking through crowded places, and climbing mountains, and wading through water, always feeling like something was missing.  He had no way to verbalize what had been missing, though; he just remembered this constant, nagging feeling, as he walked, alone, that he was looking for something.

              He definitely felt better, now, having found the robed man, even if he wasn’t sure exactly why he felt better.  However, he still felt like there was something else he should be doing, something that was missing.  Perhaps it was something they could do together.

              He thought all of this, and he searched his mind again for the right words, for some way to verbalize his feelings.  It was hard, though.  He had not spoken to anyone, really, for such a long time.  He had been alone for so long, he had forgotten most of the words he knew.  He wished he knew the word that would explain all of that.

              As he tried to think of the word, they turned a corner and he smelled something familiar.  Smoke.  He looked around for the source of it, barely noticing that he could no longer see the robed man, though he still felt the clasp of his hand.

              David saw the source of the smell, then; there was a lady standing in front of a doorway, holding a mug in one hand and a cigarette in the other.  He walked toward her, and realized she looked familiar.  He knew her.  “Nice lady!” he exclaimed, and she looked up, startled.

              Unseen by either of them, You smiled and murmured, “It’s a start.”

Acknowledgements

              Writing my first book (which you’ve presumably just read) has been a lifetime goal.  Making it happen while working two jobs, and maintaining my sanity, involved a lot of different kinds of support from various people. I could fill pages with the myriad ways my loved ones have provided support and encouragement, but in the interest of time, I will limit my thanks to these few:

              First and foremost, my parents have been amazing in every way.  So to my Dad, John Hopton, my stepmom, Margaret Hopton, and my mother, Deirdre Zigarelli, I can’t thank you enough for your many words of encouragement, your support, including your donations to my gofundme.com campaign, and most importantly, your belief in me.

              To my boss and friend, Adriana Natale Korngold, who allowed me time to write while we were slow at my day job, I thank you deeply.  Without that time, I may have never finished.

              I’d also like to thank Joe Yerchik, Jeremy Freedman, David Rivera, and Frank V. Scrofani for always being there when I need a friend, and always providing encouragement.

              This book was edited by my longtime acquaintance and friend, Jenna Collins, whom I’ve known since high school.  I can’t thank you enough for your hard work and kind words, Jenna.

              Thank you to all who donated to my gofundme.com campaign to help make this happen, including John Carr, Daniel Mann, Samson Forney, Donna Piscopo, Jonathan Kalafer, Kara Klink Cruz, Jeremy Rogers, Jill Palumbo, and my lovely sister, Jennifer Lee Hopton (and of course, again, my wonderful mother, father, and stepmother).

              To all those who provided inspiration here and there, knowingly or unknowingly, for some of the characters and events in this book, I thank you.

              Last but not least, I’d like to thank Sara Jane Gasero, who took me to see Neil Gaiman speak at the New York Public Library on Halloween, 2014.  Mr. Gaiman has been my favorite author for many years, and while he was signing the
Yoshitako Amano prints I had brought with me, I thanked him for years of entertainment and inspiration.  He responded, quite seriously, that writing was his only marketable skill.  At that time, I had been dealing with writer’s block; prior to that, the longest story I had ever written was twelve pages.  I had graduated from Rutgers University with a degree in English, then entered the restaurant industry, and was making my living by waiting tables.  I hadn’t so much as picked up a pen to attempt a story in years.

              When he said that, though, I tried to picture a world in which Neil Gaiman had never written his best works because, like me, he was too bogged down with the daily grind of waiting tables and paying bills.  It made me sad.  I realized that maybe if I just got to work, I’d find that writing could be my only real marketable skill, too.  So thank you, Neil Gaiman, for unknowingly giving me the impetus to write my first book, and thank you, Sara Jane, for facilitating that experience.

              I actually feel lighter having written my first book, and I promise it will not be my last.  You have not seen the last of Woodford, friends.