The Great Divide

by Chase Erwin

  “Oh,” I said. “Well, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt. What do I need to do?”

  “Nothing in particular, just go about your business,” Sunfire said. After a moment, he added, “Actually… would you mind baking me a loaf of bread for me to take on the road? I could draw you making the dough if you don’t mind doing so there at the bar so I could sketch that.”

  I still felt concerned about this conversation, but I agreed. After delivering his meal, I put the material for the bullets under the bar. I took a wooden bowl and the ingredients to make bread dough and began working it together on the worktop.

  Sunfire watched intently, his quill moving rapidly across the page. His eyes never left me, even when he was taking bites of his food.

  I rolled the dough out on the bar top into two ropes and began to braid them together into a circular shape. For any other baker this would still have to proof in a warm oven so it could rise.

  But normal bakers don’t have my special bracelet. And I wanted this man out of my tavern as quickly as possible, so I placed the dough in an empty cardboard box under the bar and put the lid on it.

  In mere minutes, the heat generated from my bracelet baked the bread perfectly.

  “Here you go,” I said, delivering the bread to Sunfire. “And with your meal, that comes to seven silver pieces.”

  “A fair price for the wonderful food I just savored,” he said, reaching in his pocket for the coins. “And I hope you don’t mind if I give you your drawing as a tip,” he added.

  Sunfire tore the page carefully from his notebook and handed it to me.

  “Wow,” I breathed as I gazed at the picture. It was a fine-lined sketch of me standing behind the bar, working the ropes of dough against the countertop. It was amazing in every detail, down to the bottles on the wall behind me.

  “That is amazing,” I said. “You have a supreme talent, that is for certain.”

  “Why, thank you,” Sunfire said with a wry smile. He rose from the booth and straightened his coat. “I have another to give you, as a token of my esteem.”

  “That’s not necessary,” I began, “I believe we are even.”

  “I must insist,” he said. He tore another page out of his notebook, with less care than the one before. “This is one of the first I drew,” he said as he handed the paper to me, walking toward the entrance.

  I turned the paper so I could look at the drawing.

  What I saw made my blood run cold. It was like a mirror image of the drawing of me at the bar, except the setting wasn’t the tavern. It was a lab of some sort, test tubes and beakers against the wall.

  A man stood behind an examination table, pouring a beaker of some sort of fluid into the mouth of a humanoid creature strapped to the table.

  The man looked exactly like me. Down to the shape of my chin. His eyes were partially obscured by a pair of glasses.

  It was dated 1496, nearly two years ago.

  “What is this?” I demanded.

  “That,” Sunfire said as he grabbed his loaf of bread and sailed towards the door, “is you, Dr. Kane. Good day.”

  “Stop!” I shouted and ran out the door to follow him. But once I stepped outside, there was no sign of him – just a wisp of frosty air against my skin.

  6. The Ends Justify the Means

  I was unable to sleep for the next few nights. Sunfire’s words, his drawings, the group’s assertion that I wrote the notes I found from Kane…

  It was all so confusing when it shouldn’t have been confusing at all.

  Each night, when everyone had gone to sleep, I took a lonely walk around the keep perimeter. I was so engrossed with thought that I often forgot to bring a coat.

  “Think, Abel,” I would mutter to myself. “Think! Is Kane pretending to be you? Has he perhaps created a doppelganger masquerading as you? There has to be a reason.”

  But no matter how hard I tried to think, there was no explanation that made sense to me.

  There was still some connection he had with me. Perhaps he was possessing me when I slept – in that case, it was probably good that I wasn’t sleeping, though I knew that would not be a permanent solution.

  I stood underneath the light of a lantern pole and leaned against the stone barricade lining the edge of our property. “They can’t be right,” I said. “They just can’t be…”

  The sound of feet crunching against the snow behind me made me turn around.

  “Sweetheart, you’re going to catch your death if you stay out here so long,” Ricken said. He held out a sheepskin coat.

  “Perhaps that would be a good thing,” I murmured.

  Ricken frowned, momentarily dropping the coat to his side. “Now stop that,” he said. “No matter what happens, you matter to so many people. Like me. Now, please?” He lifted the coat again.

  I hesitated before walking the few paces towards him and let him put the jacket on me.

  “How is any of this possible?” I asked. “I should be figuring out how to prove everybody wrong, not trying to reason out why people could be right.”

  Ricken sighed and looked up at the lantern as if searching for an answer there.

  “There’s things you really shouldn’t have to know,” he said. “But it’s probably the only way we can put this part of your life to rest.

  “Abel, I haven’t been entirely forthcoming about your rescue,” Ricken said.

  “Not again,” I groaned. “I thought we promised each other no more secrets, especially after that business about you being The Kaa.”

  “I know, but please understand – your sanity has been at stake all this time. I thought keeping this from you was in your best interest. But now I see I have no other choice.”

  “Fine, out with it. What else have you been holding from me?”

  Ricken sighed and put his hands behind his back.

  “My mission wasn’t to rescue you. It was to assassinate Dr. Kane.”

  I shook my head. “I fail to see the connection.”

  “The Daggers of Allech had it on good authority that The Ravens had turned their back on Kane and imprisoned him because they thought he might make off with their secrets. My informant told me Kane was kept in a certain cell within Nevermore.”

  Ricken began pacing. I shook my head. “I would have known about” –

  “No, Abel, you wouldn’t. You wouldn’t have known about Kane being in the cell because you were Dr. Kane! You were in that cell! I was sent out to kill you.”

  I clenched my fists, and before I could stop myself, I struck Ricken squarely in the jaw. Caught by surprise, he tumbled to the ground. A few drops of bright red blood spattered onto the clean white snow.

  Immediately I crouched to Ricken’s side, helping him sit up. “By the gods, Ricken, I’m so sorry… I am so sorry…”

  Rubbing his face, Ricken pushed my hand away.

  Not knowing what else to say, do, or think, I resorted to just sitting down in the snow.

  “How can this be true?”

  “I wish I knew,” Ricken said. “I still don’t have the full story about how you managed to get yourself tied up with the Ravens.

  “Why am I not dead?” I stared at him like I had never met him before. “Ricken, if your mission was to kill me, why didn’t you do it?”

  “I was never actually going to do it… at least, once I knew.” Ricken periodically checked his lips for blood as he spoke. “Before getting those orders, I had spoken with Antareus.”

  My brother’s name drew more unexpected anger. “What did he have to do with this?”

  “He asked me to find you,” Ricken continued. His eyes pierced me. “He was so worried about you after you went missing, and he didn’t know where else to turn.”

  “You mean he knew about you…?”

  “Not about me being The Kaa, just that I had connections with the Daggers of Allach,” he said. “He thought I could arrange a search party to track you down and bring you back home.”

  I shook my head, fin
ding it harder and harder to find the power to speak. “This makes no sense,” I kept saying. “I can’t be Kane…”

  At that point, I stopped listening to Ricken. I saw his lips move, but I could no longer hear his voice. I couldn’t see the wall behind him, nor the snow underneath us.

  I went into a catatonic state. Nothing existed, and I saw nothing but black in front of my eyes.

  It wasn’t until nearly a week later, I was told, that I finally came to again. I was in my bed, tightly tucked in.

  My mouth was dry, my vision heavily clouded. But I could see that everyone was by my bed. Even Rook, and even Taryn, his wheelchair tilted forward so he could see me.

  “Thanks to the gods,” Caeden said, kissing the religious talisman he wore around his neck.

  My voice was thin and cracking. “Wh… what’s going on?”

  “You’ve been in a psychotically comatose state for about six days,” Ricken said. He held my hand tightly.

  “How can you love me…?” was all I could ask.

  “Shh,” he said, softly kissing my hand. “Save your voice. We’re taking you to see a doctor tomorrow.”

  “A doctor?”

  “Akir Cloudcaster,” said Beltrin, “said to be the finest soul surgeon in the land.”

  “And by appointment,” said a female voice. I craned my neck as everyone else turned and bowed their heads.

  Queen Enwel stepped towards the bed. She wore a blue tunic trimmed with silver. A white brooch with her family’s royal symbol was tastefully pinned to the lapel of her blouse. She looked ready to go to work as opposed to ruling a kingdom.

  “She is my doctor,” Enwel said. “She helped me fight through the loss of Father and my new responsibilities as leader. And she will help you sort through your past. She will put all the pieces together.”

  I nodded. I did not have the strength to argue or question anything that was being said.

  “And, begging your pardon, ma’am, this is the best course of action?” Ricken was still holding my hand as he looked at Her Majesty.

  “I believe it is,” Enwel said. “If we can truly confirm the existence or nonexistence of Dr. Kane, it can help us begin a course of action to stop the Grey Ravens once and for all. And whatever Abel may remember about their lair would be of considerable importance to that mission.”

  I was in no condition to add my opinions to the discussion. I simply closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep.

  7. Going Under

  “Mr. Mondragon, you must listen to me!”

  The depression was so bad I could barely lift my head, let alone take my eyes off the dreadful stone bust on Dr. Cloudcaster’s desk. It depicted a demon’s head, its eyes gouged and dangling from their sockets, its tongue, partially severed, clearly visible inside its open mouth, no doubt screaming.

  “Mr. Mondragon…” Akir’s glittering bracelets jingled as she moved out from behind her desk to come to my side. Her voice was thick and heavily accented. It was easy to tell ours was not her common language. But she had a wonderful vocabulary.

  “Ah, I see you are admiring the demon,” she said, proudly putting a hand on the stone head. “Yes, my proudest accomplishment to date. You see I developed an incantation which freezes and kills a target instantly, turning its body to stone. Or,” she added, with a gleam in her eye, “or any part thereof.”

  Ricken, sitting beside me, breathed, “You mean that’s not artwork?”

  Akir chuckled. “Well, it is now. Fifteen years ago, it was a ferocious amphibious demon. Its head was easily five times the size you see it now. But with the aid my nomadic patron’s head-shrinking spell, and of course, my scythe” – she gestured to the long, black blade leaning casually behind her desk – “we were able to convert it to a much more manageable object. Now, if we may please return to the subject at hand.”

  Listlessly, I tried to hear the full conversation. Ricken asked questions; Akir answered. There were lots of gestures in my direction, heads pointed at me and away again; all the while, the same wheel of four thoughts spun through my mind:

  If I truly was Dr. Kane, why was I not aware of it?

  How could I remember about two years’ of captivity if I really was Kane?

  What more did I remember about that amulet?

  How many more evils did Kane impose upon the world? Upon innocent people? … What was the scope of the damage he… or I… caused?

  “Abel,” Ricken suddenly said, snapping me to attention. “She’s talking to you.”

  “Sorry,” I slurred, looking at the surgeon.

  “I need to do a quick scan of your mind to determine just what kind of issue we are dealing with,” she said. “Do you consent?”

  I nodded.

  “Don’t worry,” she said as she took off the bracelets on her left wrist. “This will not hurt, and it will be over quickly.”

  She took her thumb and forefinger and placed them against my forehead. A warm sensation began to flow from the contact point and a soft green light emitted from her fingers. It was a strange feeling, almost like trying to pass your body down a very tight hallway.

  After a moment, she lifted her fingers from my head, and the light and warm feeling stopped.

  Scratching her brow, Akir turned back to her desk and sat down. “The problem is twofold,” she said matter-of-factly. “On the one hand, you do have blocked memories. Something shook you so violently that your actions in the time since that point are essentially being held captive within your mind.

  “To compensate for that loss,” Akir said, putting her fingers together in thought, “your mind has also created a second reality – a false reality – of which you can no longer differentiate.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked. I felt fatigued and irate.

  “You are living a false life, Mr. Mondragon.” Akir leaned forward as if sharing a deeply-held secret. “You do not know what is truth and what is fiction. There is a large piece of your timeline which is in question. And the answer, the truth, is locked far away at the back of your mind.”

  Ricken gripped my hand. “What’s the treatment?”

  “If Abel wishes to recover those memories, I must put him under and perform an intensive recovery spell,” Akir said. “We anesthetize him here, on this plane, and send him, psychically, to another plane. It is on this plane we can work to sort through the pieces of Abel’s life and correct his timeline.

  “I should stress, Mr. Mondragon, this is elective surgery. You can of course continue to live your life this way; it does not further damage to your state of mind. But if, as your lover says, these memories can help solve these problems – both your nightmares, your sleepwalking, or anything else tied to this issue… then I would urge you to take the corrective action.”

  Ricken looked at me. “It sounds like the choice is yours, hun.”

  I sighed. I was tired, I was on edge… but above all, the thought of being forced into a sleep state seemed enticing.

  “Let’s do this,” I said. “Let’s end this once and for all.”

  Two days later, I was on a cold table in an operating theater, waiting to be sent to an ethereal plane, unsure of how I would fare when I returned.

  8. The Broken Library

  My head heavy, my eyes stirred once I felt myself in a sitting, upright position.

  I was seated in a comfortable brown leather chair, its back and arm rests overstuffed. I looked around, as far as my tired neck would allow me to stretch.

  Everything around me was pearl-white; white floors, white walls – even the light emanating from a skylight a very, very long distance above me was white.

  It was a beehive-shaped room, lined with bookshelves that spanned from the floor and seemed to only end near the skylight. It was difficult to see exactly where this room truly ended.

  “Where am I?” My voice was groggy. The last thing I remembered was laying on the examination table and falling asleep.

  “Welcome, Mr. Mondragon,” said a velvety-soft
voice from above me. I tried to twist around in my seat to see who was speaking, but I was so fatigued I could not.

  “Oh, please do not worry yourself – I am a friend,” said the voice. A moment later, a figure seemed to appear before my eyes. It was a male figure, draped in fabrics of black and purple. His hair was a dazzling silver, but I couldn’t describe his facial features – he was wearing a pair of spectacles that were shining a bright, concealing white which masked the rest of his face.

  “Who are you,” I mumbled. “Where am I?”

  “This, to put it plainly, is your memory,” the man said. “I am tasked with cataloguing your memories and arranging them here on the shelves. My name is Mial Xavex. I am your Watcher.”

  “Mial,” I said. “What’s going on?”

  “You agreed to a procedure which would restore your memories, did you not?” Mial gestured with his hand to the bookshelves encircling the room. While there were hundreds, if not thousands, of books lining each shelf, there were large portions missing books.

  Those books, as I would soon see, were scattered and tossed about on the floor.

  “Everyone’s life story is a library,” Mial explained as he knelt down to examine a pile of books at his feet. “A Watcher’s job is to chronicle each story and place it on its respective shelf.

  “Sometimes, however, a memory can be tampered with. Usually this is due to a fault in an aging brain – something I cannot interfere with,” he continued. “Other times, the body has experienced some trauma, and I have to work rather laboriously to try and correct the damage. In your case, dear Abel… your memories are still very much here. They have just been tossed about. And while you are awake and going about your day, there is no way for me to repair the damage. But, when you ‘go under,’ as you have, this offers me the chance to put right what has gone wrong.

  “You will soon have all your memories intact, young Abel. But, I must ask… are you certain you wish them restored?”