Have Imagination, Will Travel

by Adam Carter

  “What’s the terrain like?”

  “You really don’t remember anything, do you?”

  “Bits are coming back to me, although at the moment I’m afraid there’s more I don’t seem to remember than I do.”

  “The ground’s flat. There’s a road the waggons take. There’s also a small woodland which you could cut through if you wanted, although there are shadows within and most folk tend to avoid it.” She paused. “Want me to come with you?”

  “I’ll be fine, Em, don’t worry about me.”

  “Can’t really help it when you tell me you’re leaving the security of this place with only an hour of light left.”

  “You think the pub’s going to be secure come nightfall? The vampire’s going to want revenge and, garlic or no, he’ll find his way in.”

  “As if I wasn’t scared enough already.”

  “Just keep your crucifix handy and remember that silver bullets might well be able to kill him.”

  “Be careful.”

  “You too.”

  Tarne headed out, making sure she took a coat. The winds outside were beginning to pick up now that night was approaching, and while the darkness might hide her, she thought the coat would act as a secondary shield should Kiel be wandering the streets. True night was still an hour off, in this Emily had been correct, and if the shack was only a ten-minute walk from the edge of town, Tarne reasoned she should be back to the pub in little over half an hour. That allowed for a leeway of half an hour anyway, and barring anything going awry, she should be fine.

  The skies darkened quickly, and she assumed that this was due to the power of the vampire baron. The clouds gathered to promise a storm, and she wondered whether this was also a power of the creature. Tarne was forced to admit that she knew next to nothing of vampires, and her experience with them stretched to having watched about half the Dracula film with Gary Oldman. She knew nothing of their capabilities for, as creatures of mythology, everyone seemed to have their own ideas on what they could do and how they should behave. Her ignorance in this matter was disturbing, although she did not intend to actually have to confront the baron. If this hermit had the cat’s eyes which would enable her to leave this world, then Tarne would be content with not falling foul of the fiend.

  The terrain outside the town was just as Emily had described, and Tarne found herself skirting the woodland, for it was far too dark. She continued along the road for some time, and just as she was beginning to consider turning back and trying a different tactic, she saw the shack ahead of her. It was a simple abode just off the main road; a cosy cottage of wood and stone set against the backdrop of the woodland. There was a small controlled fire burning outside, ringed by a collection of solid stones, and close to it was the stump of a dead tree which had, judging by the incisions, been used as a table for chopping wood.

  Tarne approached the door to the hovel, knowing she would have to be away from it shortly, unless she wanted a repeat of the previous night, and rapped her knuckles lightly upon it. The sound was entirely swallowed by the shack, and after waiting several moments, Tarne decided she was not going to receive an answer. She tried knocking again, more forcefully this time, although was rewarded only with an identical response. Deciding she had a short amount of time remaining in which she might speak with this hermit, Tarne tried the door and, surprised to find it unlocked, entered cautiously.

  Within, the hovel seemed more of a home. There was a small fire whose smoke churned up the chimney, whose wisps were so faint she had not noticed them from the outside. There was also the rug of a whole bear lying upon the floor, minus the head, and the pelt of some form of wild cat hanging over a chair. There was a table of rough carving whose legs were not quite the same length and were only made so through the addition of wooden blocks placed beneath them. There was also a series of various trophies set upon the walls, and very little else. There was a door, so Tarne assumed there to have been some form of bed in the other room, although her attention was drawn to the trophies. There were claws and teeth and amulets and necklaces. There were carvings of animals she had never seen before, and she marvelled at how much detail had been placed into this man’s life, considering he, as with everyone else, was entirely fictional. They each had lives and yet would never get the chance to lead them.

  The histories of everyone she had ever met within these places were so detailed that it was almost as though she was being held within one huge game of Dungeons & Dragons.

  She supposed she would eventually run into both those things.

  “Don’t get me many visitors,” a voice behind her said, and Tarne spun rather guiltily at having entered the shack uninvited.

  “I knocked,” she said awkwardly. “There was, uh, no answer.”

  “That means there’s nobody home,” the hermit said as he entered his own home. He was large of frame and full of beard. He wore the thick pelts of the animals he had shot and smelt vaguely of whisky. There was a sullenness to his eyes which was unmistakable and Tarne immediately decided this was a man who had been beaten back by life to such degrees that he no longer cared what became of him.

  “My name’s Heather,” she said by way of introduction.

  “Make ‘self at home,” he muttered, moving past her to drop the carcass of a hare onto the table at which he then sat. He took a knife and began to work at the skin of the animal. He did not, other than his initial appraisal of her, look directly upon her.

  Tarne still felt incredibly awkward and realised she was swaying her arms, so clapped her hands together behind her back. “I take it you’re Salamander?”

  “This is Salamander’s shack, isn’t it?”

  “So you’re Salamander?”

  “Salamander’s a creature, not a person. You see any person here, girl?”

  “I see you.”

  “I ain’ a person, girl. Not any more.”

  “You don’t have to call me girl all the time. I told you, my name’s Heather.”

  “Sorry, Heather. Might as well use names for those who still have ‘em.”

  She had never met anyone so depressing, although chose not to say as much, yet. “Heather is also the name of an evergreen plant.”

  “With purple flowers in the shape a bells. I knows ‘em,” he said flatly, drawing his knife methodically through the flesh of the hare, keeping as close to the skin as possible.

  Tarne tried not to look, although found herself fascinated by the procedure. “Salamanders are creatures that can walk over hot coals, right?” she asked instead.

  “Something like that.”

  “Well, everyone’s name has to mean something. You’re named after a lizard, I’m named after a plant, what’s the difference?”

  “Salamander’s not my name. Jus’ something I calls myself after I lost everythin’ to that fiend the baron.”

  “You want to say that maybe with a bit more feeling? You want to convince me you hate him perhaps?”

  “Don’t hate him. Don’t hate nobody. Just am what ah am, and do what ah do.”

  “Look, from what I hear, you tried to kill a vampire. No biggie there. So you failed? So what? Try, try, try again.”

  “If you knew the humiliation he put me through, you wouldn’t be sayin’ that, Heather.”

  “Worse than having killed you?”

  His eyes met hers then and Tarne found herself averting her gaze that she would not have to stare too deeply into those twisted pits of dark despair. “Much worse,” he said.

  “Look, I didn’t come here to talk about how sorry you feel for yourself,” she said. “I came here for your door.” And then she realised that as she had entered the shack, she had been so preoccupied with what she might find within that she had utterly failed to look upon the door. But then, if there were cat’s eyes imprinted upon it, she was certain she would have seen them as she had approached.

  “My door?” he asked, confused.

  “Is anything painted on your door?”

 
“What, you mean like cat’s eyes?”

  “Yes, I mean cat’s eyes!” she said excitedly.

  “No.”

  “No what?”

  “No, there isn’t anything painted on my door.”

  Tarne blinked. “But you just said you had one with cat’s eyes painted on it.”

  “No I didn’t, I asked whether you meant a painting such as the painting of cat’s eyes.”

  “Then what made you say cat’s eyes?”

  “Because he’s programmed to,” a voice at the doorway said, and Old Man Robes entered. “Greetings, Salamander. How are you today?”

  “Dishevelled.”

  “Good, good. Heather, I’ve fought Kiel, although unfortunately she’s proved too powerful for some of my more potent wards. In short, she’s entered this reality. That means you have to leave as quickly as possible.”

  “Then I need to find that door,” she determined. “I was told the symbol was painted on the door of this shack.”

  Old Man Robes frowned, leaned his head outside, brought it back in and said, “I don’t think it is.”

  Tarne rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Yeah, I know that already.”

  “So, what are you still doing here? Not to put too fine a point on things, but there’s a crazed psycho out there looking to kill you.”

  Salamander frowned while he worked. “Could it actually be possible for a psycho not to be crazed?”

  “I really must learn not to instil so much vocabulary correctness within these people,” the old man said.

  “Where’s the symbol?” Tarne asked of Old Man Robes. “I could really do without Kiel catching up to me right now.”

  “I’ll have a think.”

  “You’ll have a think?”

  “It’s the best I can do after being so exhausted by my battle of wills.”

  “You created this place, didn’t you?”

  “Ah, no. Just the people. Just some of the people, actually.”

  “Whatever. My point is that you must know where the symbol is on each world.”

  “I must know, yes. I fully agree.”

  Tarne waited for more, which didn’t come. “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “Where is it?”

  “I, uh, can’t remember. You have to understand that if Sara Kiel was to tear the information from my mind, there would have been no point in having hidden the symbol to begin with.”

  “That makes sense,” Tarne sighed. “But it still leaves me back at square one. Perfect.”

  “Square one of what?”

  “You never played snakes and ladders, I take it?”

  Old Man Robes thought for a moment. “Not that I recall.”

  “Get thrown in an arena, they might force you to.”

  “Good girl. Maintaining a stalwart sense of humour in the direst of circumstances is a real plus for character.”

  “Just help me find that symbol and I’ll actually have something to be in good humour about.”

  “I can see you’re a bit exasperated now. Would it be best for me to come back later?”

  “Damn it, Robes, I probably won’t even have a later.”

  “Then I’d best not schedule an appointment, just to be on the safe side.”

  “I’m not following any of this,” the hermit said.

  “Do be a good fellow and quiet down,” Old Man Robes suggested. “I’m sure you wouldn’t understand anyway.”

  “He’s a better shot than the big fat nothing you’re offering me,” Tarne said, then turned to Salamander. “There’s an insane woman named Sara Kiel after me, and unless I find the cat’s eyes very soon, she’s going to kill me.”

  “Oh,” Salamander said. “On the reverse of my bedroom door.”

  “That’s not a bad line,” Old Man Robes said. “I might write that down.” He patted down his robes in search of a pen and paper.

  Tarne moved for the other door, deciding this was her best option, and pushed it open to reveal the bed chamber beyond. She peeked around to the rear-side of the door and exclaimed, “It’s here, Robes! The symbol.”

  “Really? Oh, right. Well, you go on through, and I’ll distract Kiel. The longer it takes her to find this place, the more of a head start you’ll have on her.”

  “Just how long is this going to go on for?” Tarne asked. “I’m I going to be running forever?”

  “Not forever, no. Just until she catches and kills you.”

  “So there’s no other way out, then?”

  “There may be. I’m working on that, leave it with me. It’s just that I keep getting distracted by having to deal with Kiel at every turn.”

  “I could kill her before she kills me,” Tarne suggested.

  At this Old Man Robes actually laughed. “As I said, Heather, keep that sense of humour active.”

  “No, I’m serious.”

  “You are?”

  “Yes. Why couldn’t I kill her?”

  “Because you’re human?”

  “And so is she.”

  “My dear,” the old man said, every trace of joviality gone from his tone now, “she is no more human than you are rodent. Not any more anyway.”

  “So what are you, then?”

  “I told you, I am the custodian.”

  “And what does that mean exactly?”

  “Exactly? Uh, I don’t really know.”

  “So you don’t know what you are?”

  “Do you know precisely what you are?”

  “Not for a while, no,”

  “So there you go, then.”

  “But this whole thing is some part of your master plan, whatever that might be. I ... I’ve been dragged into it against my will, while you actually understand all the rules.”

  “I’m not sure that could be said for anybody.”

  “I don’t believe this.”

  “I don’t blame you. Look, we’ll talk more once you’ve put some distance between you and Kiel.”

  “I recall you saying that once before.”

  “Did I really?”

  “You don’t even seem to know what you’re doing, Homer. How do you expect me to keep my hopes up through any of this?”

  “Think good thoughts, Heather. Think cheery, care-free thoughts while that lunatic chases you across these weird worlds. Think of blue. Blue’s a nice friendly colour.”

  “Blue is the colour of melancholy, Robes.”

  “But I’ll bet it’s a happy melancholy, Heather.”

  Tarne sighed, threw up her hands in final defeat, and walked into the hermit’s bed chamber. “Laters, Homer.”

  Old Man Robes glanced at Salamander and shrugged. “Women, eh?”

  Tarne, meanwhile, placed a hand to the door, and her world once more exploded into the light of total darkness.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The newspaper cover read ‘1 March 2006’, so Tarne decided that at least she was in roughly the present this time around. She had spent so much time in the past of late she was beginning to wonder what had happened to the future. Which technically was nothing, since the future had yet to happen. Placing linear logic aside for the moment, Tarne looked about herself to see where she was this time. She was in an office of some sort, sitting at a computer and watching a tiny dog do very unconvincing rolls while visually informing her of all the things she could be doing with her computer. She played around with the icons on the screen for some moments before deciding she had no idea what she was doing. Looking about, she could see scores of other people in the same large office along with her, all of them busily typing away while talking to people through headsets.

  It was then she realised someone was speaking to her also, and she made out the voice of a man asking something about his car insurance.

  “Churchill’s good,” she said then with a smile. “They even have that little nodding doggy.”

  “Churchill?” the man asked.

  “Yes.”

  “But all I want ...”

  “
Yes.”

  “I just need to know whether I’m eligible for a claim now that ...”

  “Oh no no no no no,” she said, shaking her head.

  There was a pause on the other end. “Hello? Did you just say ...?”

  “Aww yes.” And she hung up, then minimised all her work and searched for the Internet icon. She found it quickly, called up a search engine and thought about what to type. “Hunky guys in pants,” she said to herself, typing as she did so, then moved back to insert the word ‘tight’ in the appropriate place. She clicked to see what it would bring up, then proceeded to spend the next hour sitting there laughing aloud at all the sites which weren’t blocked.

  “Heather Tarne, what do you think you’re doing?” an imperious voice came at last, and Tarne glanced to the side to see a tall, officious-looking woman standing there clicking her heels at her.

  “Just Googling enough stuff to get me sacked.” She leaned on one hand and continued to browse. “I’m feeling lucky.”

  “Well you’ll be feeling a tad worse when you’re sacked, Heather.”

  “I refuse to speak to unliving protoforms,” Tarne said without turning around. “Oh, and does everyone have to say tad when they mean bit? I tend to say tad, but then that’s just me. Not that I don’t mind setting a trend.” She came to a particularly interesting specimen on her computer and craned her neck for a better angle. “Now this would be a world I wouldn’t mind entering.”

  “That’s enough,” the imperious woman demanded. “I want to see you in my office right now, Tarne.”

  “Pish, call me Heather. And if all you want’s these site addresses, I’d be happy to pass ‘em on. Only, you’d have to tell me your name, because when I hop from planet to planet now I tend not to know anything. Right at this moment, I know my name and that in this life I work in an office, but beyond that I don’t know much else. I’m sort of figuring out that I’m heterosexual, but I think I knew that anyway. You know, you look a lot like the librarian at the beginning of Ghostbusters. Only taller, and with far more menace. I suppose if you mix the librarian with the ghost she comes into contact with, you have you.”