24:01 One Minute After

by Eric Diehl

  Edgar

  The game-piece abruptly turned and darted back into the maze, and Nightfall sucked in his breath, blinking three times. He hissed softly, raising an accusatory narrow-eyed, whisker-twitching glare to Edgar.

  “That… why, that was cheating! You have shadow-cast my move!”

  Edgar smiled in classic Cheshire fashion. “You insult me, Nightfall—I do not cheat, but I do play to win.”

  Nightfall stabbed a paw at the game-board. “How can you plead fair-play? Might I send my player from an advantage position back into the conundrum just navigated? Surely I would not! You do not simply control your player, Edgar—you have cast a clouding over mine!”

  “Yesss,” purred Edgar. “And so? My dear Nightfall, never have I heard the game of Hawk-Wing described as a courtesy-call between fellows of gentle demeanor. It is by definition an aggressive contest, my good mentor, intended to demonstrate one’s adeptness at capturing the prize in lieu of becoming the trophy in its stead.”

  The pupils in Nightfall’s emerald green eyes channeled down to narrow crescents, and he waved a paw to pause the animation. He purred low in his throat; a deceptively amenable growl. “Ah yes… I believe that I understand your position. The new fiat is that there are none. No rules, that is. The player may initiate whatever ploy, on whichever whim, in whatever manner and to whichever affect that he might desire.”

  The ruff at the back of Edgar’s neck rose—his smug demonstration of the student surpassing the teacher had suddenly begun to feel a bit queasy. Nightfall’s tail was twitching, just a bit—not a good sign. And though he scented no omen of ill-tiding, Edgar tried to keep discreet watch on his opponent’s ears, dreading the sight of those battle-scarred sentinels folding down flat. Edgar steeled himself and cavalierly raised a paw, studying his enameled nails under the light of a sun diffused through the opaque dome. He spoke in a cautiously flippant tone.

  “Oh, very well then. If you must insist upon tradition, I suppose that I might curb my creative instincts… in spite of their obvious merit.”

  Nightfall rose to his feet and stretched, arching his back long and languorous. “Oh no,” he said in a tone hard to judge, “I rather like this new turn. And it is indeed beneficial to be reminded that there is always more to learn.”

  Edgar started in surprise as Nightfall abruptly pivoted to face him, head poised low with shoulders hunched and rear haunches coiled. Edgar came off the cushion in a smooth blur, every muscle tensed to feint or to run, but was slow to notice that Nightfall silently mouthed an incantation. Before he could counter Edgar was frozen in place—his vision flashed light to dark and back, and everything was transformed.

  ***

  Finding himself positioned a dozen meters from the opening into a precisely manicured, impressively tall hedge, Edgar stood blinking the scene into focus. Though the vantage was very different, the venue itself was disturbingly familiar. He growled under his breath and lifted his muzzle to yowl up at the vague, formless sky. “Nightfall! Now it is you who plays the deception. But this ploy strays dangerously far from simple artifice—you would put our very lives at risk!”

  “Oh, no, my dear Edgar,” chortled Nightfall in an omnipresent, albeit remote timbre. “Do you not recall your very words? We play a serious game, and to place any boundaries upon our contest would be… why, it would be insulting to our species’ questing nature, don’t you think?”

  Edgar’s gaze fell from a sky uncomfortably reminiscent of the dome of an observatory, and at the opening of the hedge he squinted at the figure that materialized there. Nightfall stood upright on his hind feet, leaning against the hedge with his legs crossed and hips shifted in a swaggering stance.

  “We will alternate reinventing the rules of our play, eh?” suggested Nightfall. “We pit our innovations one against the other, and determine whose tactics prove the most resourceful.”

  Edgar swished his tail side to side while gauging his response, but no sooner had he opened his mouth than his mentor rejoined.

  “I will go first,” announced Nightfall. “We restart the game and proceed through the obstacles in random sequence, beginning with this maze. And by the way,” he smiled mischievously, “I committed the path to memory before sizing down.” Nightfall turned and vanished into the foliage with Edgar darting in fast behind, but he soon stopped to plant his haunches, realizing that Nightfall had left no trail to follow.

  He masks his scent, Edgar mused darkly, and he retreated to stand outside the maze, glaring up at the imposing hedge-work. A broad smile transformed his face.

  “If you can memorize the route through, my friend, then I’ll do you one better.” Edgar took several steps back and made a half-dozen rotations while chanting the mantra to empower levitation, and he turned and bounded toward the shrubbery on all four, leaping high as he closed on the hedge. But just as his feet left the ground a teasing, muffled voice rose from deep within the maze.

  “Oh—did I neglect to mention? Another rule is that only the Golden Hawk can fly.”

  Edgar flapped his limbs frantically, as if his woefully absent wings might somehow fend off the fast-approaching bramble, but he promptly found his upper torso plunged through the foliage with his hind legs dangling without. He yowled as pokey branches and prickly leaves scratched through his fur and clutched at his wriggling form as he fought to leverage himself free. Suddenly his dangling weight overcame his entanglement, and now he snatched at branches and leaves and then open space, finally twisting in midair to catch the ground sweeping up fast.

  Brushing off bits of leaf and bark and growling under his breath, Edgar paced to and fro before the maze, knowing that within he would surely become lost more than long enough to place him hopelessly behind. Peering side to side he saw that the hedge seemed to stretch eternally in either direction, and so there’d be no hiking around it. He sighed, and then narrowed his eyes. He walked the hedge, searching for a spot where the vegetation was less dense, and he squirmed beneath and wriggled in toward the trunk, relieved to find some space once past the thick outer foliage. He clawed his way up one of the trunks, stretching and grappling and squirming and shimmying, and when he came upon light filtering in from above he tore at the leaves until there was space enough to squeeze through.

  Once up on top Edgar eyed a path straight across. Within it was a convoluted maze of twists and turns and contorted meanderings, but up here it was nothing but a simple, flat plane. Interrupted constantly by the twining paths within, of course, but those channels were not so wide that he could not leap across with a long-striding run. He bounced lightly, determining that the foliage was not dense enough to support even his modest weight for such a purpose, and so he reached for the wand strapped at his waist and considered his words. He again turned in place, his scepter tracing patterns in the air.

  Frogs and ducks, and platypi too,

  Such odd physiology, I must pursue,

  With toes all spanned, to hold my weight,

  Away I’ll paddle, to meet my fate…

  He spread the toes of one forefoot and watched webbing fill the space between, and felt the same tickling sensation at each paw. Nodding satisfaction, Edgar crouched and bunched his muscles, and then launched himself with the zing of a pilfering imp booted from the den of a Mongo Troll. He leapt across the first gap, and without pause gathered himself to leap again, and then again and again. After just a few vaulting leaps he came to a full gallop, his paws catching the brush and thrusting like coiled spring steel, hurtling so fast that he fairly skimmed the brush. Bounding from row to row he plotted as straight a course as the patchwork maze allowed—if he could complete this passage above while Nightfall labored within he might yet thwart the his rival’s next ploy, likely already conjured.

  But Nightfall had apparently become aware of Edgar’s endeavors, for suddenly the flat-topped hedges began to grow, first as shoots wriggling their way up but almost immediately as branches thrusting determinedly and then even spindly t
runks. Desperate to outrun it Edgar redoubled his effort, and as he flashed over top one of the winding conduits he saw a dark blur moving fast in the passage below.

  Now trunks sprouted branches that thrust for the sky, but Edgar was tantalizingly near the end. Only two leaps from deliverance he realized that the gangly morass had become so ill defined that there was absolutely nothing to gain purchase upon, but his momentum was such that there was little to do but try. He lunged with a last, supreme effort, pushing off on nothing of substance but still intent upon launching himself past the farthest hedge. But it was like swimming in molasses, and he became entangled with the grasping shrubbery and slammed bodily to the earth.

  Edgar lay on his back, wheezing and gathering his wits, and soon he rolled onto his belly and wriggled beneath underbrush that clutched and picked at him like a gaggle of grooming simians, until finally he scrabbled free and climbed to his feet outside the maze.

  —Only to observe Nightfall loping away, cackling like some crazed loon under a great, grinning moon. Edgar’s shoulders sagged and he heaved a great sigh, and he resignedly brushed debris from his ruffled coat. He began to trot along Nightfall’s trail, and soon enough came upon him lounging at the dog ring, tending to his coat and idly scratching at one itch or another.

  Edgar sidled in, feigning disinterest in the feline manner. He sighed. “I suppose that you’ve won the first stage, but you can’t call it anything but a fixed game. How might I compete if you’ve already fiddled the rules and plotted the outcome?”

  Nightfall ceased his grooming and turned a gauging eye upon Edgar. “That is a fair argument,” he said. “And so I propose that you contrive the specifics for our next stage.”

  Edgar’s eyes narrowed. “Here, at the dog ring? Hmm. That has always seemed a rather boorish portion of the contest, wouldn’t you say—with the players darting to and fro while attempting to redirect the attention of a noisome pack of rackety, obstreperous curs?” He purred coyly. “So why don’t we instead engage the crotchety beasts—as allies? We will both pass through the so called ‘ring’, but we’ll do it one at a time, and each will choose a breed of dog to hasten himself and thwart his opponent. Let’s say that we each produce a pack of six to do our bidding?” Edgar grinned his wily grin. “Wouldn’t it make for a pleasant change, to be calling dogs to our heel?”

  Nightfall nodded. “So be it. Who chooses first, and who first attempts the crossing?”

  Edgar squinted, considering how Nightfall would certainly attempt to turn his opponent’s choice to his own advantage. “I will make the maiden passage,” he announced warily, “and you will be first to choose your partners in misdeed.”

  Nightfall pondered the ring. “All right, but be advised that it shall be no frowsy crossbreed that I choose. Instead, I will select the spirited Boxer as my defense.” And with those words he spun his forepaws in a deceptively simple pattern, and a half dozen chocolate-brown boxers materialized, their chests emblazoned with crests of pure white and likewise their snowy paws. But by no frame of reference were these normal dogs, for they stood upright, wearing baggy trunks and high-top sneakers, and they promptly set to work preparing themselves, tugging on gloves and bobbing and weaving and dancing foot to foot while playing one off the other.

  “Those are indeed boxers,” Edgar observed dryly. “I would surmise that you have taken very seriously this concept of reaching beyond patterned constraints?”

  Nightfall purred and licked a paw.

  “Very well then,” said Edgar, and his brow creased in thought for long moments before his eyes lit and his ears pricked up straight. “I have decided upon the sheepdog,” he announced loftily, which drew a curious gaze from Nightfall. Edgar withdrew his wand, separating it lengthwise in two, and with a grand gesture a half dozen Olde English Sheepdogs appeared, with their thick coats puffing them out twice their already substantial size and making them appear as though they’d spent too much time with a fluff dryer. But Edgar did not stop there; he continued to ply his wands in a weaving motion and the coats of the sheepdogs began to grow and to grow, until they were not even identifiable as dogs at all but looked more like a storm of great furry tumbleweeds.

  Edgar put away his rejoined wand and waded into the center of the pack, drawing the sheepdogs close around. He could see nothing and was afraid that he might fall into a fit of sneezing amidst this sea of fur, but as he urged the pack forward he could hear the frustrated chuffing and gruffing of the boxers and the muffled swishing and whuffing of their gloves as they jabbed and punched and hooked with apparent determination, but they remained unable to effectively penetrate the plodding mass of hair. In short moments Edgar had traversed the ring, and he separated the pack so that he might stroll through the exit gate. He waved his hands and all the dogs disappeared, and he regarded Nightfall with a smug grin.

  “It’s your turn now, my savant, and I’ve decided to employ the Bull Mastiff to ward off your crossing.” Edgar removed a gauzy kerchief from his waist-pouch and flapped it to one side as if he were a matador, and six gargantuan Bull Mastiffs appeared, looking very much the first half of their title. They lined up shoulder to shoulder facing Nightfall, pawing and striking their feet to the ground while tossing their heads and snorting angrily, and as Edgar circled the ring to admire their glinting blood-red eyes he felt delighted with his choice.

  “Hmmmm,” mused Nightfall. “Then I believe that I’ll settle upon the New Guinea Singing Dog as my accomplice.”

  Edgar frowned. “I’ve never heard of such an animal,” he muttered.

  “Of course you haven’t, for you’ve never been to New Guinea, nor exhibited the slightest interest therein. But I assure you that the Singing Dog does indeed exist, and can actually be rather delightful.” With that, Nightfall pulled his wand and wielded it like a conductor before an orchestra, setting a cadence of dynamics and pace, and six Singing Dogs appeared, each looking much like a cross between a fox and a wolf. They stood upright, preening and stroking their throats as they tested their voices, and after a few moments Nightfall held up a paw for silence, and raised his baton. One of the Guinea dogs opened his muzzle and set forth an unwavering key, and the others joined in, one at a time, in harmony. The conductor again lifted his paw, and the Singing Dogs gathered side to side and linked their forearms. Nightfall initiated a slight sweep of his baton, and the dogs began to sing in the manner of a barbershop quartet, swaying in synchronized unison.

  It was a lulling melody, and Edgar felt himself immediately begin to relax, as if he were a kitten curled up with his muzzle buried in the fur of a littermate.

  Lay two more logs… upon the fire,

  That crackles in the hearth…

  Before we bed our-selves…

  This winter’s niiiight…

  The snow lies deep… in drifts outside,

  And ice rimes yonder pond…

  Rest well and strive to set…

  Your dreams in fliiiight…

  The Singing Dogs continued on with several more verses, and Edgar found himself repeatedly blinking his drooping eyes to keep them from falling closed and staying that way. He watched in annoyance as the tension sloughed off the Mastiffs like water over a fall, their fury dulled behind eyes glazing over. Their threatening posture quickly faded to more of a scratched-behind-the-ears, tongue-lolling bliss, and their combined focus now seemed fixated, longingly, upon the ground at their feet.

  Nightfall signaled a change with his baton, and five of the singers fell into a harmonized humming while a single voice carried the seemingly endless chorus. After every few repetitions the lead singer would drop his voice to the background while another would pick up the lyrics in a different timbre.

  Sleeeeep… sleep, oh yes we sleeeeep…

  Sleeeeep… deep, is how we sleeeeep…

  Now the last of the Mastiffs finally succumbed, curling himself into a mound upon the ground, and Nightfall moved forward, carefully stepping around the massive animals—far too larg
e to step over—with their only movement being their breath let in and out and synchronized to a chorus of snoring. Nightfall joined Edgar where he’d moved back to the far side of the ring, and he shook his head.

  “That was a rather silly bit of foolishness,” he grumped. “Surely we can do better? Why don’t we skip any remaining lead-up stages and proceed directly to the deciding contest?”

  Edgar nodded uneasily, reminding himself of just how canny his mentor could be when one was not sheltered safely under his wing.

  ***

  In a normal game the final obstacle to be surmounted entails a hazardous ascent, and the steep slope they now stood before surely met that criteria. They stood peering up the incline, and Edgar pensively scratched behind an ear. “How can there be such a landform here? The game-set is contained in a single room, with a ceiling not nearly so high. Even at our reduced size, this is just too much.”

  Nightfall treated him to a disapproving frown. “Edgar, please. In sorcery, much depends upon scale and perception, correct? Items can take many forms, and so we simply observe what is currently seen as ‘real’, and change our image of it. Our changed perception then becomes the new reality. Sorcerers engage in a dimension that Normals know nothing of, and which they in fact deny even when unmistakable evidence of it is paraded directly before their eyes. But you are not a Normal, Edgar.”

  Edgar nodded moodily. “I know. But this is advanced sorcery that you invoke, Nightfall. Some might suggest that you delve into the Dark Arts.”

  Nightfall waved a paw. “Pish. Sorcery is defined by its intent, not by its extremity. We stray to the Dark only when our magic is laced with malevolent design, and this is no evil Work, but rather a challenge between the advancing student and his tutor.”

  Edgar sighed. “All right. But since you have defined the venue for this final stage, I will call the stipulations. You spoke of the plight of ‘Normals’, and so that is what we will assume the form of—thereby relinquishing our ascendant abilities until we’ve made the contest complete. We’ll leave all of our trappings here, out of reach, and so will need to work together to make the climb. We’ll carry nothing that a Normal would not have access to, well… normally.”