Fantasy
Date Published: 05-22-2024
Publisher: Evolved Publishing
If you had the chance to remake the world, what kind of world would you
choose?
When tragedy strikes Lucas Mack’s young life, he desperately yearns to
escape its sorrow, and takes an improbable leap through the mythical
maelstrom. Rather than splashing down on the far side like his neighbors,
he’s transported to a magical realm where he has the power to redefine not
only who he is, but the world in which he resides.
As he stumbles about trying to find his way, he meets Mia, an equally
troubled fellow pilgrim. With the help of a mystical guide and an aging
wizard, they navigate the enchanted land while learning to control their
newfound powers. Yet this realm is more complex than they expected, with
seasoned sorcerers who’ve been corrupted by the sinister side of
magic.
Limited by natural law and seduced by magic’s power, they are tested as
never before. Will the gift of magic bring renewed hope or drive them to the
edge of the void?
EXCERPT
PART 1 – THE MAELSTROM
When the cold of winter comes
Starless night will cover day,
In the veiling of the sun
We will walk in bitter rain,
But in dreams I can hear your name
And in dreams We will meet again
~ Fran Walsh
Chapter 1 – The Departure
All stories begin with a question, and this is mine: if you had the chance to remake the world, what kind of world would you choose?
Let me start from the beginning.
The day before my leap, spring had peeked above the horizon. A bolder sun had inspired buds to sprout on the branches, so tiny they stood out only when moistened by the morning dew. A smattering of flowers had bloomed as well, daffodils and the tips of tulips that showed more as promise. Forsythias bulged yellow, lilacs blossomed and spread their fragrance, and the air tasted fresher too, as if purified by the increased sunlight. A time for hope.
But not for me. The arrival of spring did nothing to remove the cloud that had shadowed my days and darkened my dreams these past six months.
Addy had always chided me for living only part time in the real world, the rest of my time filled with flights of fantasy.
I disagreed. My approach had always been a conscious choice, a matter of perspective. After all, what was so wonderful about reality?
Her answer: only in the real world would I find her.
I discovered too late how harsh my life would be without her.
I’d slept poorly that night, my sleep disturbed by dreams, but when I awoke well before dawn, my resolve remained. Though I’d sleepwalked through my coming of age five years earlier, my circumstance had now changed, replaced by a lingering sadness, a malaise that would not heal. I’d become inclined to imagine another life elsewhere, desperate to try out an alternate path. On this day, I intended to test the maelstrom.
The maelstrom appeared as a swirling circle of water for only three days each year, starting at the equinox—an unusual anomaly that behaved in a manner different from a proper whirlpool. This vortex hovered a foot above the lake’s surface and, more bizarrely, stood vertical.
Townsfolk debated its purpose. The more rational claimed a perturbation of light, like a prism, caused by sprays of seasonal runoff and the angle of the sun. Others believed it to be magic, though none existed in our world.
Of course, what we called magic might be nothing more than a label for things beyond the boundaries of reason. Natural phenomenon might still be magic. The sun’s rays lifted our spirits, and the advent of spring lightened our hearts.
Each year, as the equinox approached, young boys who’d reached their eighteenth year would boast about their intent to challenge the maelstrom. In practice, few did. By eighteen, most had narrowed their path through life, following the example of their elders, or rebelled and chosen a contrarian course. With age, the lust for adventure diminished to bluster, tall tales told to impress their younger peers.
Those who took the leap landed with a splash on the far side to the derision of their mates, but rumors alleged one had vanished years ago as villagers gaped, never to return. Philosophers speculated the swirling water might be a gateway to the gods, but only for those with sufficient faith.
At eighteen, I would never have abandoned Addy, but once she was gone, my desire for change stirred. While I lacked the required faith, this was caused by the cruelty of the world, and did not reflect my belief in magic. My desperation grew until, in the spring of my twenty-third year, I determined to go.
I’d leave before sunup, guaranteeing solitude on the shore. Should I stumble through the maelstrom to no effect, no one would witness my folly. Still in a daze, I stowed provisions in my backpack: a day’s worth of salted mutton, a loaf of hard bread, two dried apples, a full waterskin, a knife, a flint, and a rain slicker to ward off the morning chill.
At the doorway of my Queen’s Hill cottage, I hesitated. This morning’s excursion would likely be a fool’s errand, but what if it turned out to be something more, a journey to who-knows-where? As I gazed down to the lake, a sense of foreboding crept over me. No matter. Foolhardy or not, I was committed.
I slipped across the threshold and navigated the switchbacks in the dark.
The maelstrom hovered over the shallows a dozen paces offshore, in the dim light showing as nothing more than a disturbance in the air. I yanked off my boots, knotted the laces and slung them around my neck. As I rolled my trousers above the knee, I cast a lingering glance up the hill to catch a last glimpse of my cottage.
I waited until the eastern horizon reddened and waded into the lake.
An arm’s length from the gateway, I reached out, keeping as far away as possible while my fingertips brushed its surface. It felt like… nothing, likely no more than an illusion. In half an hour, I’d be back in my bed, no closer to comprehending the universe. Yet I’d yearned for a portal to another world, one that might allow me to deviate from accepted norms. I longed to float off to a fresher fate.
Once, I too would have followed the safe path, with no risk of surprise, but then life did surprise me with a cosmic slap across the face that left me shattered—the taking of Addy. At twenty-two, misfortune had cleared the slate, leaving me alone and adrift.
I drew in a breath and plunged through.
In the light of pre-dawn, and in my half-awake state, no difference struck me at first, other than the chill waters deeper than expected, soaking the rolls of my trousers. Out of the mist on either side, giant evergreens loomed graceful as usual, rising until their tops blurred. The view so distracted me that several heartbeats passed before I realized the change.
Perhaps I was still sleeping in my bed, for where the channel to the west lake should have been, a broad flood plain spread. The water had washed over the banks and crept inland for a hundred paces, leaving the trees the only witness to what once had been dry land.
Beyond the trees, nothing.
Nowhere a dock or a mooring, not so much as a hint of early morning smoke rising from a chimney. Nowhere the cottages of Queen’s Hill. Nowhere houses at all. As I gaped, the edges of branches shimmered as if undecided whether to remain intangible or become real. In a panic, I realized the folly of this quest. Better to return to a safer, albeit gloomier life, to go back through the portal at once.
Behind me, the maelstrom still swirled, a fleeting comfort as it had started to recede. While I stared at the last link to my old world, the orb diminished, shrunk to a size I could cover with my hand, and then to that of the tip of my thumb. Before I sloshed more than two steps closer, it winked out.
Now, to the north and the south, nothing showed but water. I stumbled to shore, my movements causing the slightest wake in the surface, which lay so still I could make out my astonished features in the reflection.
I’d spent much of my young life with Addy, like a mate sailing across a forever lake. She’d been with me through calm and storm. I’d yearned to find renewed hope on this side of the gateway and return home to a new life, yet now the gateway, like Addy, had vanished.
Chapter 2 – On Dry Land
I slogged through the muddy bank to the shore, settled on a flat rock, and rolled down my trouser legs to dry. After pulling on and tying my boots, I spread the contents of my pack on the ground and took stock of the situation.
This land appeared vast and lush, with dense forest on all sides. The lake may not be potable, but with so much greenery the rain must fall, and where it rained, bubbling brooks flowed.
Food was another matter. Staring at my scant provisions, I realized how poorly I’d planned. Despite my wild fantasies, I’d expected to return no later than sunset, though I’d ruminated on finding a thriving castle, one with an arched window high up in the tower through which I might behold a fair princess. I’d never considered the possibility of hunger or thirst. I eyed the modest chunk of mutton and decided to stow it away. Best to ration for now.
The sun cleared the treetops, spreading its beams across the land. I sat in less a clearing than a spit of sand where years of flooding had washed away the vegetation. The surrounding forest appeared impassable, until I spotted two intertwining trunks forming an archway. I crept toward it, peered through, and caught a path on the far side with pine needles pressed flat, as if others had passed that way.
I headed off through a tunnel of branches while the sun dappled the way, pausing only for an occasional sip of water. By midday, my pace slowed, and I plodded along on terrain so unchanging I worried the trail had circled back on itself. By dusk, I’d found no brook or stream, no trees bursting with fruit, and no bushes lush with berries.
Spending the night hungry, thirsty, and exposed held no appeal. With nightfall, the temperature would drop. Already the coming chill prickled my skin, and I longed for the meanest form of shelter.
How strange to find oneself in an alien world, cut adrift from every prior connection, blocked from returning home and uncertain of what lay ahead. The thrill of adventure sweetened the sensation at first, and the glow of youthful pride warmed it, but soon fear began to dominate. I spun about, peeking around and above to the trees. I was alone.
About to yield to despair, I stumbled upon what appeared to be a man-made shelter. Four poles had been stuck into the soft earth, two upright and two supporting them at an angle, an unlikely feat of nature. On closer inspection, the tops had been trimmed with a knife or axe and bound together with hemp twine, as I might have constructed myself.
I licked my dry lips. Now, if only I could find a stream. I spun around heel to toe, searching for some sign of moisture or the runoff of rain. I held my breath and waited, listening. Nothing. Tired and desperate, I squeezed my eyes shut and envisioned a bubbling brook.
No birds sang, but in the near perfect silence, a persistent murmur came wafting on the breeze, the splash of running water.
Its muffled presence came more as thought than sound, but inexplicably, I knew. A few paces behind the shelter, a path trailed away, so narrow I’d missed it before. I followed it, fighting off encroaching branches along the way. It dead-ended at the edge of a hill where, to my delight, a waist-high boulder stood as if holding back the hillside. Through a crack at its center trickled the purest stream.
I stuck my mouth beneath it and, without the need to ration, drank until my sides hurt. After I’d refilled my empty skin and surveyed the scene, a realization struck me. The rock and stream had appeared as I’d envisioned them, though I’d never viewed them before. My passage through the gateway had been improbable. How else might this world surprise me?
With a modest shelter and plentiful water, I deemed this a proper place to spend the night. The hill would protect my back, and the canopy of trees overhead would provide cover should the rain fall.
I’d gone camping in my youth, hiking inland from the lake to the mountains to stay overnight, but always in the warmth of summer. Now, as the chill set in, I gathered pine needles in a circle, cut small shavings from downed branches, and surrounded the bird’s nest with a wooden tower.
Years had passed since I’d started a fire other than in my cottage stove. Now I clutched the flint a finger’s width from the kindling and scraped with my knife. It sparked twice, three times, but my handiwork refused to ignite. I made a desperate wish, picturing a roaring fire, and struck the flint once more.
Sparks flew and, this time, the needles smoldered. I blew on them and the kindling caught enough to show tongues of orange. With added wood, the flames crackled and rose. I hovered over them, stamping on the ground and slapping my hands on my arms. I’d done it, my first accomplishment in this world, and with a sense of unwarranted bravado, I settled in for the night.
I’d slept poorly the prior night and awoken before sunrise. This day’s hike had been long and confounding, and now a weariness overcame me. I gathered piles of hemlock needles, and spread them inside the shelter, clustering more at the head for a pillow, and slipped beneath the threadbare boughs. As I tipped up the waterskin for a drink, I marveled at the stately pines that rose to startling heights overhead. Their tops appeared to scrape the sky, seeming older than time, witnesses to creation.
Now if only that creation had added life to this place, even the smallest of creatures, I would not feel so alone. I closed my eyes and imagined a bird, the air filled with its song. When I opened them again, I caught sight of a tiny creature on the topmost branch, one I might have missed before, a sparrow perhaps, or a finch. As I gawked, it began a warbling song. This simple sign of life comforted me. If this world featured sun and trees and singing birds, how different could it be?
I gazed at the treetops, so familiar but so strange, begging them to reveal their secrets, but after the long day and with darkness encroaching, I gave up speculating.
The lulling birdsong acted as a lullaby, and when I placed my head upon my makeshift pillow, sleep crept over me, the blessed giver of oblivion.
Yet I was denied oblivion. Like the falling of night, the memories returned, and a harsh truth revealed itself. This world may be different, but I remained the same. The burden I’d hoped to leave behind had passed through the maelstrom with me.
Late one afternoon at the start of spring, I helped Addy outside. The sky had cleared after a week of rain, leaving a band of blue above the horizon. At its top edge, the setting sun leaked its dying rays. Our favorite bench lay nearby, situated by a notch in the trees. Though a short walk, the slope made the terrain a struggle for her. She’d take a few steps leaning on my arm and pause to rest before shuffling on. At last, we settled on the bench and beheld the western sky light up red and gold.
“Nice… sunset,” she said. The words came out one at a time—she lacked breath for more.
“Are you glad to be outside?”
“Yes… thank… you.”
That simple thought exhausted her, but through force of will, she grasped my hand and squeezed.
“The advent of spring always brings hope,” I said.
She stared at our fingers intertwined. Her lips formed the word ‘perhaps’ but the sound emerged as less than a whisper. She raised her free hand, rested it on my cheek, and forced a smile.
“My Lucas,” she said as firmly as strength allowed.
We’d grown up together, Addy and me. On summer days, we’d race through chores, so we’d have daylight left to meet down by the lake. Our favorite pastime was to construct a boat, small enough to fit in the palm of my hand. We’d steal whatever we could from our respective homes without alerting our parents to the theft: a piece of parchment, a scrap of wood, or a roll of yarn. As a final act, we’d gather a few twigs and bind them together, crafting two stick figures, one for each of us. Then, we’d launch it into the water.
On a windy day, we’d add a sail and stand transfixed as it glided along the path paved by the setting sun. We’d follow it until the tiny vessel drifted too far away to see, and make up stories about where it had gone.
“To a harbor with a castle soaring above it,” I’d say.
“Not a castle,” she countered. “A garden.”
“A city with spires reaching to the sky.”
“Or a dragon’s lair.”
“Or a wizard’s tower.”
Always, we’d end the debate in agreement. It had sailed to the land of dreams.
As we matured, the stories grew less fantastic, and our shared reality shifted to firmer ground. We became more than friends, and in my twenty-first year, we married.
Now, as I stared into her moistened eyes, I searched for hope.
“We’ll have better days,” I said. “You’ll get stronger, and I’ll build us a sturdy boat, one we can sail away together on.”
“How… far”? she said.
“As far as you wish to go.”
“I… can’t… go far.”
“You’ll be able go to where I want us to.”
Her eyes widened, flashing a spark brighter than I’d seen these past weeks. “Where’s… that?”
“To the land of dreams.”
I awoke to the chittering of birds. Most mornings, I’d strain to keep my eyes closed, resisting the urge to wake, challenging memories of reality to prove themselves more appealing than my dreams. Now I opened my eyes at once, eager to take in the view. This was, after all, neither dream nor real but a new world altogether.
I squinted up to a brightening sky and more birds overhead than I could count, circling and serenading the rising sun. I breathed in their presence.
But for the birdsong, the uncertainty of my situation still pervaded. With my bravado gone and my stomach grumbling, I scrambled to my feet, donned my rain slicker and pack, and set off to a destination unknown.
Now well rested, I added a spring to my step. The birdsong had cheered me and the sunrise had comforted me. Whatever this place, it obeyed familiar rules. With the discordance of the universe hidden, I believed for the moment I had stumbled into a more benign world, a land with a pleasing harmony. For now, I chose to pretend life made sense.
With no concept of direction, I needed to find food, but after two hours, the terrain stayed unchanged. By late afternoon, I trudged along, hungry, weary, and confused. I’d long ago accepted that the real world lacked purpose, especially after Addy had gone, but what was the purpose of this world? Why the gateway? Why did it exist? This trek through an ancient forest offered no answers.
As the sun settled once more below the treetops and the shadows darkened, I encountered the first challenge. Up to this moment, the path had changed little, sometimes straight, sometimes meandering, but always bordered by the same unending trees. Now, ahead, the way forked. Two identical paths presented themselves, offering no apparent way to choose one from the other.
What now? Would one choice reward me with the new life I sought, but the alternative cause me to wander for eternity? I closed my eyes as before and wished for a signpost to mark the way, but when I opened them, nothing had changed. What to do? I pulled out my knife and tossed it into the air, intent on picking the direction its blade pointed to. In a random universe, that approach seemed as sane as any.
It pointed to the right.
When I bent to pick it up, I was distracted by a faint buzz, almost beneath the threshold of hearing. I glanced up to find a hummingbird hovering at the entrance to the chosen path.
Tired and disillusioned, I determined to get on with it, but when I attempted to proceed, the creature barred my way. I tried to dodge it three times, on the third feinting one way and lunging to the other, but it blocked me each time. Its wings flapped in a blur, its existence challenging the boundaries of human understanding. What if on the other side of this boundary lay the end of reality? Why could this not be magic? For wasn’t that its definition?
“You want me to go the other way?”
The whir of its wings slowed, becoming less frantic. It turned its back to me and started down the left path.
I followed.
After fighting through a tangle of brambles, I broke through to a clearing highlighted by a grassy lawn. Behind it loomed an immense redwood, so tall as to suggest the abode of a fairytale giant. Most distinct was its girth, the size of a rich man’s cottage. The hummingbird hesitated a moment before flying to the far side, pausing every few paces to wait for me.
I drifted into the clearing like a penitent entering a cathedral. The tree had an aura to it and something more, the slightest trilling as the wind blew. As I came closer, the sound was joined by a tune played by some instrument, like a fiddle but more exotic.
I eyed the tree, wondering at the source of the music. The hummingbird edged near, so close I sensed the breeze from its wings on my face. Its humming became a murmur, and the murmur a whisper, almost forming words in a language too rapid to understand. It buzzed about my head, doing all but pushing me along, flitting back and forth, frustrated at my reluctance to proceed. At last, I followed.
With the fingertips of one hand brushing the bark, I circled the tree, its circumference beyond my ability to measure. I crept forward, shuffling one foot after the other, until I reached the far side. As I turned the final bend, I gasped.
A door.
Chapter 3 – The Custodian
It wasn’t just any door. A block of cherry wood stood four paces high, capped by an ornate arch and bracketed by two golden lanterns, which glowed in the emerging dusk. Its surface bore sharp-cut geometric patterns winding around its edges, creating an illusion of depth. At eye level where a peephole might be, two bronze sculptures protruded, a vertical key, and beneath it a horizontal sword. On closer inspection, the key was hinged and along with the sword formed a knocker. For any who might doubt its intent, the blade blared the word ‘welcome.’
What could I do? The waterway lay more than a day’s hike away, and the gateway to my home had vanished. I had limited provisions, no permanent shelter, and no way back.
I blew out my cheeks, grasped the sword and knocked.
The music ceased and a moment later, the door creaked open.
At first, the chamber seemed empty, though a warm glow gave it a lived-in feel. The low-ceilinged lodging appeared comfortable in a leather-armchair sort of way, with lots of dark wood, by no means ostentatious, but more than expected in this rustic setting. On either side lay bookshelves filled with dusty tomes containing titles too faded to read. Framed portraits hung on the walls, of forest creatures great and small, all facing the viewer in an unnatural way, as if posing with a purpose.
A brazier rested on its tripod in the center of the space, its burning coals the source of the warmth. A pair of cushioned chairs bracketed it, each with a distinct back pillow embroidered with needlework pictures of fanciful beasts. The furniture appeared inviting enough, though undersized for someone of my height.
I crept closer and extended my hands toward the fire, hoping to warm my weary limbs, but in the process nearly tripped over my host, whom I’d somehow missed seeing.
A voice emanating from just above my waist let out a yelp, followed by a more polite clearing of the throat.
“So sorry. I—”
“Not to worry. Happens all the time. Hazard of my… ahem… stature.”
I glanced down at a man with bead-like eyes and a nose so protruding from mutton chops it might have been the snout of a badger. A formal coat covered his body, starting at the top with a fur collar and ending with a broad bottom, obscuring all but his gloved hands and black leather boots. In his right hand, he grasped the instrument that made the music.
He eyed his guest, unsurprised at the sudden appearance of a visitor in such a remote location.
I gaped back. Before me stood what might have been a creature come in from the woods, who’d adapted to human ways. No. Not a creature. Beyond his ability to play a melody so sublime, his eyes bore a spark that gave doubt to the question of which of us was the wiser.
My host broke into a grin, revealing the mouth hidden within the facial hair. “Welcome to the borderlands,” he said, in a voice like a prince delivering a speech from a castle wall. “I’ve been expecting you.”
“Expecting me?”
He pointed to a set of crystal wind chimes above the door. “Yes, these trill whenever a visitor passes through the portal, an advance notice of sorts.”
He collected a brass kettle from a back shelf, filled it with water, and hung it from a hook over the brazier.
As he waited for it to boil, I hovered over him trying to grasp my situation.
Once the water began to steam, the little man filled two floral cups containing a sack of tea and offered one to me, raising a finger in warning: “Best let it steep.”
Soon, earthy scents flowed through the chamber, driving away all memories of the chilling breeze outside. I settled into a chair and wrapped my hands around the steaming cup, embracing its warmth.
The man raised his. “How about a toast to celebrate the occasion.”
“What occasion is that?”
“The arrival of Lucas Mack to his new world.”
I brought the drink to my lips but froze before taking a sip. “How… do you know my name, and what do you mean by my new world?”
The man set his cup down, and his bushy brows drew together in a dark knot. “Oh, bother, I’ve been doing this so long I sometimes forget and rush through the welcome. Let me slow down and explain. You’ve arrived at the borderlands, my home and a simple albeit boring place. I am its custodian, tasked with orienting newcomers and answering their initial questions before they move on. As you’ve already discovered, my realm consists of not much more than trees, a sort of blank slate where you can practice your newfound powers.”
I had lived a hard couple of days with little to look forward to, slept poorly on the ground despite the pine needles, and after walking so many hours, my feet ached. I gazed half-dazed into the green liquid steeping in my cup, but his last words snapped me awake. “Newfound powers?”
“All who travel here are endowed with the potential to do magic. In the borderlands, you can dabble in the art, create structures, change the landscape, whatever simple pleasures you fancy. After a time, you may want to continue to the enchanted land. Now where would you like me to begin?”
I took two sips of hot tea, and let the burning sensation assure me this was no dream. The question sputtered out between gulps. “The… enchanted land?”
“Yes, of course. In the world you left, magic has faded over the centuries through disbelief, until it has all but vanished, but I suspect you’ve heard its stories from long ago. You likely considered them fairytales. Though embellished over time, it turns out most of them are true. So where did such wonders go?” He waved his hands to encompass the tree he lived in and all that surrounded it. “It’s here!”
“You expect me to believe I can now do magic?”
“I expect nothing but know you’ve already performed some. Whenever an enchantment is used, the air vibrates a bit. Those of us more experienced can sense it on their skin. You must have felt it as well but are too new to recognize the sensation.”
Images of odd events of the past days sprung to mind, all unexplained, yet I remained unconvinced. “Let’s say I accept what you say. Why would I want to continue to this so-called enchanted land.”
“Because nothing’s here but trees and the changes you make, an appropriate place to practice the craft. If you take to the magic, you’ll soon want to do more. The enchanted land is a world much like yours, with one exception. While its inhabitants have no supernatural powers, pilgrims like yourself dwell among them. The common folk call them wizards or sorcerers and either admire or fear them, depending on how these travelers have chosen to behave.”
“Is that my fate, to become a conjurer in a strange land?”
“That depends on if it suits you. If not, you may choose to return home, but the power will be lost.”
I pictured my cottage above the lake, once a cherished home but now barren and empty. My head spun. “What you ask me to believe is too much, and despite your claim, I feel powerless and worn out from the long day. My greatest dread right now is spending another night exposed in the cold on the ground.”
A laugh emerged, starting from deep within the custodian’s belly, more of a chortle, a sound discordant with my mood. “You misunderstand. You control the magic in this world. If it’s a shelter you desire, you can conjure up tree branches, a rope, and a lean-to in the wink of an eye, as you did before.”
Despite my tendency to be polite, I growled at him. “A lean-to? I don’t want to live out my days in a lean-to in the woods.”
“Nor shall you, unless you lack the imagination to dream of more.”
When his words failed to lift my spirits, he rose to his feet and shuffled so close, his face lay a hand’s breadth from mine.
With two fingers, he raised my chin until our eyes met. “Oh, bother, here I go again. Either I’ve lost my touch, or the new generation of pilgrims have grown more skeptical. I beg you to believe. This world is yours to make of what you wish, not a curse but a blessing.”
My heart began to pound. I had believed in magic as a child, imagining alternative worlds, all more pleasing than my own, but these dreams became brittle with age and shattered. My prior life offered no magic, only vague hope that too often turned to despair.
Do I dare to dream again?
“If your world is such a blessing, can I banish death? Can I bring back the one I loved?”
The custodian’s brows dipped at the corners. “I’m sorry. Like all things, magic has its limits. You may create most anything so long as you imagine with enough conviction, but you must stay within the rules: you may conjure memories as in your sleeping dreams, but these are ephemeral—you cannot change the past or violate the laws of nature. Your opportunity is to bring to life waking dreams fresh and new.”
I sat up straighter, pressing my back to the chair. Could it be, a world to make as I saw fit? The maelstrom had proved to be a form of magic I could not otherwise explain. The brook and the birds in the trees did come to pass as I’d imagined them, but even if true, would such power be enough? The borderland was verdant, wild, and unknown, a blank slate—possibly a paradise, maybe an illusion. I recalled the world I came from, plagued by discord, illness and death, less paradise, more hell. Was that the nature of things?
I took in a breath and released it in a long stream. “I seem to have no choice.”
The custodian took a step back and drew himself up, seeming taller than his limited height. “No choice? My boy, you’ve been given a wonderful opportunity. You should be rejoicing like—” He stopped in mid-sentence and took a moment to reflect. “Forgive me. I’m so much more accustomed to this world than you who just arrived. It’s late now. You’re weary from your journey and confounded by the sudden change. I have a modest guest room. Stay the night with me. Get some rest and ponder what I’ve told you. Perhaps in the morning, things will be clearer, and you’ll be more enthusiastic to start on your way.”
He led me to a small room with minimal furnishings: a bed not quite long enough to hold my frame, a wooden table with two drawers, and a desk with a brass candle holder. Not a place for guests to linger, but preferable to the shelter from the night before.
I kept the candle lit and lay down, staring at the flickering shadows it made on the rafters of the ceiling.
I might cause memories to appear, but these would be ephemeral. The past cannot not be changed, but whatever else I can imagine with conviction will come to life. No choice. I’ll go out tomorrow and explore this new world, magic or not, and see if I can do a better job than the gods did with the old.
I rose and blew out the candle. As I lay back in the dark, I whispered to Addy: “Illusion or not, I may have found the land of dreams.”
I arose the next morning well rested but only a bit less confused. The custodian served me a biscuit with jam and honey and a fresh cup of tea, and waited until I finished before offering to answer my questions.
I glanced around the chamber, an unlikely hollowed-out tree that a hummingbird had guided me to. The whole experience from the time I’d made the leap had been strange. Once I exited this front door, I had no idea what to expect, but likely would be on my own. Or would I?
“Will I meet others like me in the borderland, travelers from the real world?”
The custodian stood and circled the room twice, as if making certain to phrase his answer better than the night before. At last, his lips curled into a curious smile. “Fewer pilgrims pass through the portal these days—too many skeptics and non-believers. Those who come stay here a brief time, and either move on to the enchanted land or return to their homes, so meeting someone here is possible but rare. In the enchanted land, you will meet lots of ordinary folks, but they will not be like you. Other conjurers, however, settle there, all much more experienced. For better or worse, you will encounter them.”
“Why for better or worse?”
He paused and gazed up at the rafters. When he looked back, his pleasant smile had turned into a frown. “If you stay long enough, you’ll discover how the power can change you. It brings out more of your character, both its strengths and… its flaws.” His frown deepened, and his brows drooped. “For what is magic if not the bending of reality to one’s will. If one’s will becomes corrupted, so too will the magic, and thus evil defiles an otherwise peaceful world.”
I raised a hand to query him further, but before I could state my concern, the smile returned.
“And you may meet Lyra.”
“Lyra?”
“The transition can be challenging for pilgrims—a multitude of choices. You might achieve your dreams in the end, but many are unsure of what to wish for, so the forces that created this realm provided Lyra, part guide and part helper. Of course, you may never meet her. You may be one of those so sure or your intent as to have no need. She was put here as a facilitator but has developed a mind of her own, and appears only to those she deems needy.”
A multitude of choices.
I knitted my brow. “After I pass through that door, which way do I go. North? South? Can you give me some direction to start.”
“The choices are yours, not mine.”
“Then at least lend me a map?”
“A map?” His voice rose an octave. “To the world you’ve yet to create?”
I sighed and gave a deep shrug. “How about provisions to last a day or two while I figure this out?”
“No need.”
He urged me to stand in front of the small table fronting the brazier.
“Place you pack here, close your eyes, and imagine what you’d like to have in it.”
I set the pack down, grimacing as it settled, half empty with little left inside, closed my eyes, and waited a few seconds before opening them. The contents remained unchanged.
“Remember,” the custodian said, “always with conviction.”
I squeezed my eyes shut again and held them this time, thinking of Addy at the lakefront on a blanket with a basket of food she’d prepared for a summer outing. I pictured the feast in such detail my mouth watered.
When I opened my eyes this time, I gasped.
About the Author
The urge to write first struck at age sixteen when working on a newsletter
at a youth encampment in the woods of northern Maine. It may have been the
wild night when lightning flashed at sunset followed by the northern lights
rippling after dark. Or maybe it was the newsletter’s editor, a girl with
eyes the color of the ocean. But he was inspired to write about the blurry
line between reality and the fantastic.
Using two fingers and lots of white-out, he religiously typed five pages a
day throughout college and well into his twenties. Then life intervened. He
paused to raise two sons and pursue a career, in the process — and without
prior plan — becoming a well-known entrepreneur in the software industry,
founding several successful companies. When he found time again to daydream,
the urge to write returned.
David now lives in the Great Northwest. He no longer limits himself to five
pages a day and is thankful every keystroke for the invention of the word
processor.
Contact Links
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Twitter: @DavidLitwack
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