The Stair Of Time (Book 2) (33 page)

I know it
’s difficult to believe, but you have to trust me when I say that it wasn’t just a dream.  It felt as real as any waking experience I’ve ever had.  The smells, the sounds, the colors.  The way things felt and even tasted.

Whatever magic brought me the brandy and this journal, must also have created this
other place.  I can only assume that my subconscious is controlling it in some way, dictating how it will form.  When I went to sleep in that world, I woke up in this one.  Question is, is that world any less real than my own?  The brandy and journal seem to suggest not.

If that
’s true, and I could gain more control, perhaps I could devise some way to transport myself back to Fairhaven, or even to someplace where I can find a cure for Mandie!  I wonder.  If I were to imagine myself in Fairhaven with Mandie, would we—I hesitate to even think it, much less write it.  Would we actually BE there?  Our minds, anyway?  Could I draw her to me as she dreams? 

Being a farmer in Fairhaven with Mandie as my wife sounds pretty good right about now.  It would be wonderful to see my parents again, too.  It still amazes me how much I too
k for granted back then.  But one thing’s for sure: I’ve learned my lesson!  If I ever make it out of here, I’m going to appreciate everything and everyone.

It strikes me now
more than ever how truly incredible it is to be alive.  And yet most people go through life half asleep, never truly grasping what they’ve been given, their complacency like an arrow in the Maker’s heart.  They are bored with things that should fill their minds with wonder.  “There’s always plenty of time,” they tell themselves.  And then suddenly there’s not.  Life is over and their time is gone—squandered, wasted, blown away on the breeze, never to be seen again.

If one were born
on the surface of the sun, fed fire for dinner and lava for lunch, then one would no doubt find it all very tedious, for that is human nature, to detest what we have always had and taken for granted.  But it would not BE tedious, would it?  It would be extraordinary!  Unpleasant, but extraordinary.

*

I have spent every night since my last entry in a different place.  As remarkable as this sounds, I am growing increasingly frustrated.  The problem is, I can’t seem to figure out how to stay in any one place for more than one night.  A couple of times, I didn’t even make it THAT long.  Turns out, the S-shaped handle on the door to my bedroom is in all the worlds.  I’ve seen it on trunks, doors, and even faucets.  It acts as a kind of failsafe, emergency escape handle, bringing me back here.  I used it three times before catching on.

But n
o matter how hard I concentrate, I can’t keep from being transported when I fall asleep.  Nor can I keep from FALLING asleep.  Each night my subconscious comes up with new scenarios.  And each morning, it feels less and less real.

*

Well, apparently after thirty days, it all starts over.  So, I guess I’ve reached the ceiling.  If I’d known there was going to be a “ceiling,” I would have been more careful with my creations, especially since the script appears to merely repeat itself.

Imagine my surprise when I realized I had all the same double memories, the same split consciousness as the first time
through.  Most disturbingly, even though I knew what was coming, I felt the same scripted emotions.

Just like the first night, I emerged from the door as king of Adrian
na, ready to wow Bernard and his underling slug with my implanted speech.  I insisted on walking to stretch my legs, and then rode in the monstrosity of a carriage instead.  I talked with Bernard for a time.  Was reunited with Trilla.  And then went to sleep and woke up with Mandie..  But no matter where I go, how far I travel, I always end up back here.

I tried with all my will to alter the course of the script.  To go to the Willing Wench instead of the castle.  To not take the carriage.  Even to look out the window at the passing scenery, if indeed it exists—which I
’m beginning to doubt.  But all my efforts were wasted.  Every time I came close to exerting free will, the script took control, and I found myself uttering something other than what I had intended, anything to progress the damn plot!

Needless to say
, this is a big setback.  Any hopes I’d had of escape through the imaginings, as I’ve begun to think of them, are pretty well dashed.  I mean, even if they are real, I still haven’t been able to sustain them for more than one night at a time.  And the fact that they repeat seems to suggest that they are NOT real.  A shame, considering the imagining of Mandie and Fairhaven.  That one’s by far my favorite.  The one closest to my heart.

***

Andaris put down the journal and rubbed his eyes.  Obviously not all the entries were contiguous.  He looked at his skeleton with sudden irritation.  “I can understand you not writing every day, but why not at least date the entries so that others can tell how much time passed between?  It would have made things a lot easier.”

Showing
a blatant disregard for proper decorum, his skeleton gave no reply, ocular cavities unmoved by the slightest twitch, yawning sockets staring fixedly at the floor, the very picture of downcast.  Andaris picked up the bottle of spiced brandy and, this time, took several
long
swallows, relishing the sensation of it flowing warm and delicious down the length of his throat.

“
Though I can’t fault you your taste in liquor,” he confided, the warmth spreading to his lips, making him grin.  “You know…it’s fortunate we met when we did.  Until recently, I didn’t like myself very much.”

J
ust barely resisting the urge to cackle, Andaris lowered his voice and, in a conspiratorial tone said, “So, if I were to take something out of this place, would it disappear once I’m back in the
real world,
as soon as I cross the…threshold—like a piece of a dream that can’t be recalled?”

He waited
a moment to give his future self the opportunity to respond.  He hoped he would.  He felt it was a very good question, relevant and timely.

Come on. 
You can tell me,
he thought. 
After all, I’m you.  Who else are you going to trust?

When it
became clear that his skeleton intended to remain tightlipped on the matter, or rather tightboned, Andaris shook his head at himself and, with a disapproving sigh,once again began to read
.
   

***

I have to get out of here, but I’m so scared.  Every day I tell myself I’m going to go back to the clockwork stair.  I mean, Mandie’s counting on me.  I have to.  And yet every day I don’t.  A part of myself says, what good are you to her dead?  Remember what happened to Gaven?  There must be another way.  You just haven’t found it yet.

I
’d like to believe that part.  I’d like to believe that my procrastination stems from something other than fear, that somehow this place is exerting its will over me when I’m awake, just as when I’m asleep.  But I know it’s not true.  It’s just plain fear, and I loathe myself for it.  What good is being alive when it’s like this, anyway?

The imaginings keep repeating and repeating, every detail happ
ening again and again and again.  I feel the scripted emotions welling up within me, and yet am becoming dead inside.  I have to get out, but am so afraid.  My heart tells me it’s too late for Mandie anyway, that I’ve already failed her.

*

Dream and reality have merged at last!  I awoke yesterday to find the sword and amulet from the Adrianna imagining next to me on the bed.  I wished for neither.  The sword speaks to me when I grasp the hilt.  It tells me it is the soul of a Lenoy called Endollin.  I can talk to it aloud or in my mind, and it hears!  It’s nice to have someone real to talk to again.  I just wish Endollin weren’t so blasted cryptic.  Difficult to understand what he means by anything, especially when he breaks into High Lenoy—the language of the gods.  I told him it sounded more like High Gibberish to me.  He didn’t much appreciate that!

Supposedly, the consciousness of this Endollin fellow has been trapped inside the sword for centuries, genie in
a bottle sort of situation, except he can’t grant any wishes, and I don’t know how to let him out.  Wouldn’t want to even if I did.  Seems being trapped in a sword for centuries is enough to make even a god go mad.

*

Please disregard what I wrote above, and accept my deepest apologies.  I am so ashamed.  I have burned all but this one piece of chalk in the hearth, and will soon burn this one, as well, for now I know what I am, and thus do not deem myself fit to further pollute the minds of others.  I wasn’t certain until I saw the birthmark on my left arm, just like in the dream.  It must have appeared after I touched the hilt of the sword.  I realized then that it was I who had gone mad.

It
’s so obvious now that I think about it.  A talking sword, indeed!  Ridiculous!  And a god trapped in it, no less.  Hey, why not?  It’s my delusion!

Worse still,
according to the accursed sword, the Lenoy are asleep, waiting for The “Chosen One” to wake them.  It’s so cliche, I can scarcely stomach it.  Seems like if I have to go mad, I could at least be more original about it!  I mean, how many books have I read with these same themes?  Certainly several.  Perhaps dozens.  Racing against time to save the kingdom of Nore and all that! 

Obviously, this place is drawing from those books and my fears to create an imagining intended to soothe me.  I am so disgusted with myself.  I never thought my character would prove so selfish, my will so weak
.

This morning, I tried to get back to the stairs.  I really did.  Or at least I think I did.  It
’s becoming difficult to distinguish what’s real and what only happens in my head.  Remember how I couldn’t find my way back to the birdcage, how the rooms and halls seemed to be changing positions?  Well, now I can’t even find my way back to the freakin green door!

That room with the tapestry and dancing Lenoy is gone.  Now there
’s just a hallway with no openings.  I searched for hours and, ironically enough, found the birdcage, but not the tapestry room.  Perhaps tomorrow I should set out to find the birdcage again.

Anyway, I know things are shifting around, provided I didn
’t imagine this part, too.  I know because I started leaving chalk arrows behind, like ya do, so as to not lose my way.  But when I found them again, the arrows were pointing in random directions, some even pointing up and down.  What am I supposed to do now? I certainly can’t go traipsing about through the floor and ceilings, can I?

I even found one that was cut in half, shaft separated from its tip, as if the wall had divided and then moved somewhere else.  I waited too long to try and get out!  Either because now I am insane and thus incapable of distinguishing fantasy from reality, or because this place has decided it doesn
’t WANT me to leave.  Maybe a bit of both.

Don’t make the same mistake I did!  Save yourself!  Leave now if you can!  This place is hungry for your thoughts, and perhaps even your
life!

Pray tell, what
good is a weapon with no one to wield it?  What good is a ball with no one to throw it?  But wait, that’s not quite right, is it?  Because it is I who am the ball, free to be tossed wherever the Maker sees fit!  So, I guess instead I should say, what good is a blacksmith without a forge, or a musician without an instrument?

Once again, I apologize.
  Another tangent.  I told myself I would hold it together at least long enough to finish this one last entry.  To show a little courage and dignity here at the end.  But apparently I can’t even manage that much.  I’m already losing focus.  It feels like my mind is about to spin off again.  What a disappointment I have turned out to be.  And I had such high hopes.

I
’ll try to hurry. To finish what I intended to say before I lose control.  I don’t believe this place is evil.  It just wants what we all want, to have a purpose to exist, to do what it was made to do.  Perhaps it even ceases to exist if there’s no one here to use it.

Regardless
, you must stop reading and get out!  Get out now!  Warn others to stay away!  My name is Andaris Rocaren, third son of Edward Rocaren.  I am dead, and so bid you farewell.  Know that I died wretched and alone
.

***

Spurred to action by an overwhelming sense of impending doom, Andaris shut the journal and stood up, eyes darting frantically about the room. 
Have to get out!
he thought. 
Before it’s too late!  No time to waste!  Procrastination killed me before!  Can’t let it happen again!

Panicked
though he was, he made sure to proceed with great care as he unbuckled the swordbelt from his skeleton’s waist and put it around his own, coughing from the flying dust which, at least in part, consisted of his own decay. 
I’ll carry a part of myself with me always….