by Peter Ponzo
"Tom! The writing on the wall!"
"Oh, right, the writing ... uh, well, it seems the old man often preached to passersby, or is it passerbys? Never can remember. Anyway, he said the end of the world was coming, something like that, and he would write his sermons on the wall and invite people into the alley to read them, or maybe to hear them. They didn't say which on TV. The words, the gorbo stuff, was written on those walls, right there in the alley."
"But I heard somebody say those words. Who said it, on TV?"
"That was a reporter who was there in the alley, reading off the wall."
There was a long pause during which Gord could hear Tom breathing heavily on the phone, apparently waiting for Gord to say something. Finally he did.
"Bye Tom. Thanks for the info." Gord hung up the phone.
So, it wasn't a secret language invented by Dan and Kathy. And the old man on TV would hardly be calling Gordon Chaplain an asshole either! The old man and Dan and Kathy, how were they all related? This was strange, very strange.
Borgo-nom achewan. No-nopawno agerwan.
That was strange. It meant something to Dan, and to Kathy, and to that old man. What did it mean?
CHAPTER 2
Thomas Barclay
When Thomas was young he aspired to the towers of finance. He saw himself as part of corporate machinations, international investments and financial wizardry. When he failed to graduate from high school many of his dreams were set aside, but only temporarily. After spending five years working as a minor player in an investment house and taking night courses at college he started his own firm on money management. The stock market was booming, everybody seemed to have funds to invest and he had attracted a sizable clientele. Monarch Money Managers was now big business and many of his clients were faculty members at Corrigan College. Thomas had a style and manner which inspired trust. He had an infectious laugh, an abiding interest in other people, an obvious desire to please and a keen knowledge of what was happening in the world of finance. To most of his clients he was a friend rather than a financial advisor and he nurtured that relationship.
When he was invited to join the weekly poker games with Dan, Gordon and Peter he accepted, gladly. Sharon, his wife, had put up a small fight but Tom insisted that the gang would come to their house only one night a month and he would make all the sandwiches. Sharon knew that making the sandwiches was not a chore for her husband. After all, the most exciting meals of the week were those that he made, or invented, or created. He actually preferred his own cooking to hers anyway, so she agreed to the weekly poker games.
When Tom had heard the 11 o'clock news his first impulse was to phone Dan Woller. Surely Dan would be interested in knowing that somebody else spoke that gorbo gorbo stuff. He had actually started to dial Dan's number when Sharon stopped him.
"You said Dan denied having said that, so why would he be interested?" she had suggested. Tom thought about it, agreed, and hung up the phone. It was too good to just ignore, so he phoned Gordon, rather reluctantly. Gordon was a strange fellow with his theory of other worlds and when the conversation got around to this, which seemed altogether too often these days, Tom understood little hence could contribute little and felt left out of the discussion. Phoning Gordy might initiate another of these discussions and Tom would again be a listener and not a participant. Gordy liked to lecture. His students must be bored out of their minds. But Tom had to tell somebody, so he phoned Gordy anyway and was pleased at the response. There had been no lecture on other worlds, just a keen interest in what was said on TV. Now the ball was in Gordy's court. Maybe at the next poker night Gordon would have some other news, an expansion of Tom's report, maybe he would ask Tom to reiterate what the 11 o'clock news report had said. Tom would then become a participant. Maybe he should spend some time thinking about Gordy's theory. Maybe he could dust off the encyclopaedia, read something about hypnotism, ghosts and dwarfs and contribute to the discussion.
Either that or turn the conversation to matters of money markets, the price of gold and mutual fund investments.
*****
Tom arrived early at Peter Jacobs' place, as usual. He could nibble a sandwich or two before the poker game started, maybe even sneak in a whiskey. Peter's wife would encourage him to do just that.
Gloria met him at the door. She was real pretty with short curly hair, taffy-colored, and blue eyes that just sort of glistened and made you feel good all over.
"Tom! You're early tonight. I made something special, just for you. Come in and nibble a little, before everybody else shows up."
She always said that, looking around furtively as she said it, and he always arrived early. He really liked Gloria. She made him feel important, intelligent and rather than making fun of his gargantuan appetite she encouraged him with these invitations to sample before the others arrived.
"Well, I really shouldn't, but if you insist." Tom smiled and Gloria smiled; a standard ritual. Tom hung up his coat and wandered into the kitchen. Corned beef sandwiches on pumpernickel with hot, hot mustard. Terrific. He ate three and Gloria watched. The others never mentioned the sandwiches, never thanked her, never showed any sign of appreciation so it was gratifying to watch Tom wolf them down, humming his pleasure all the while. When Tom was finished he bent over and gave Gloria a kiss on the cheek, then wiped his mouth.
"Oh, sorry Glory," he said, watching her wipe the mustard from her cheek. "I did that in the wrong order I'm afraid. I mean, the mustard -"
"Aha!" Peter cried in mock anger as he entered the kitchen. "Tom's after my wife and her cooking, again."
Gloria pushed Peter and Tom out of the kitchen as the front doorbell sounded. Gordon Chaplain and Dan Woller arrived together and the poker game started almost immediately. Thomas Barclay couldn't concentrate on the game. There was absolutely no discussion about the gorbo stuff or about the news report. By 11:30 he could wait no longer. He put down his glass, swallowed the last of the sandwiches and said:
"I was thinking, about the gorbo gorbo stuff, you know."
Dan Woller interrupted. "I don't want to hear any more about it, and that's final."
"Hold on Dan," said Peter. "This is my house and you know the rules. I decree the gorbo stuff to be a valid topic of conversation." He turned to Tom and smiled. "Tom? Go ahead. I'd like to hear this."
"Well," said Tom, leaning back in his chair and putting his hands on his stomach, "I was thinking about Gord's theory, you know, the other worlds stuff. I think that the old man that was on the news the other day might be from another world, or know of this other world. They said that he -"
"Old man? What old man?" asked Dan, squinting beneath shaggy brows.
"The 11 o'clock news reported that an old man was preaching to passersby about the end of the world," said Tom, repeating the explanation he had practiced for days. "It seems this old guy had written his sermons on the wall, in an alley beside the Georgian apartments on Sylvester Street, the one with those god-awful purple awnings."
"So?" interjected Dan, still squinting.
"Well, I think that he was preaching that the end of the world will come because of an attack, from this other world, or something like that."
"What does his preaching have to do with some other world?" asked Dan, now apparently losing interest in the discussion.
"The gorbo gorbo stuff," said Tom emphatically. "The gorbo stuff. His sermon was about gorbo. A reporter read it off the wall. Gorbo gorbo."
Dan put down his drink and stared at Tom. "What the hell kind of gorbo are you talking about?"
"Borgo-nom achewan. No-nopawno agerwan," said Gordon softly, waiting for Dan's reaction.
Dan Woller stood up, his face white. His hands were trembling and his voice shook. "This is ridiculous! You should stop talking about something you know nothing about! I've had enough!" He stalked to the hall and slid his coat from the closet. "Anybody coming home? Gordon? I'm leaving now, and you came in my car."
<
br /> Tom stood up and put his hands on his ample hips. "I'll drive Gordy home, if he wants to stay."
"I'll stay," said Gordon.
"Me too," said Peter, smiling. After all, it was his house.
Dan Woller slammed the door and Gloria came running.
"Is something wrong?" she asked.
"No, honey," said Peter. "Dan's decided to retire early tonight. Tom has volunteered to drive Gord home, so we'll sit around for a while and chew the fat."
When Gloria had left, Tom turned to Gordon. "Danny was really upset. Did I say something wrong? I just reported what was said on the news." Tom was quite sure that he had said it correctly.
"No, you didn't say anything wrong, but there's something funny going on here." Gordon was standing, but now sat down. "Last week I went to visit Kathy. I asked her if Dan spoke in his sleep. I asked if he spoke in some strange tongue. She said he did." Peter looked surprised. Gordon continued. "She said it was a language they had invented, the two of them, as a mental exercise. I asked what it meant and she said it meant: Gordon Chaplain, you are an asshole."
Tom opened his mouth and frowned as though trying to comprehend, then he began to laugh, his belly rolling like a tidal wave. Gloria poked her head past the door, saw that Tom was laughing and left smiling at the sight. Tom was like a giant panda, lovable and sometimes laughable but always in good spirits. She had heard from Tom's wife, Sharon, that Tom had a violent temper when he did get angry, which was only rarely. It was hard to imagine Tom as a violent man. He was just a big panda bear.
"Anyway," continued Gordon, after Tom's laughter had subsided, "I heard the same phrase, the same strange language, on TV. I missed most of it. Fortunately Tom heard it and called me that same night and told me about the old man who died and how he had written -"
"Died? No, he ain't dead," interrupted Tom. "He didn't die. He's in the hospital, in bad condition I understand, but still alive, I guarantee."
"But I thought the news report said he died en route to the hospital," said Gordon.
"No. The reporter said he was in such lousy shape that the medics were worried that he would die en route ... but he didn't."
Gordon stared down into his glass without saying a word. Peter and Tom waited for him to speak. Finally he said, "We should talk to this old man, find out what he was preaching." He looked up at Peter, then at Tom. "Tomorrow. I'll drop by tomorrow and talk to this old guy."
"Let me go," said Tom, a little whine in his voice. "I'll say he's a client of mine and I'd like to talk about the allocation of his assets in case he kicks the bucket."
Peter smiled and Gordon nodded his head and Tom was pleased. He would have another contribution to make to this other world thing.
*****
Thomas Barclay was an imposing figure when he entered the hospital and walked to the desk. He was huge in vertical as well as horizontal dimension. His face was pink, his blue eyes were twinkling and when he put his massive hands on the desk the nurse kept her eyes on his hands as he spoke.
"That old guy who was brought in here from the Georgian Apartments, the one with the god-awful purple ... uh, where is he staying? What room?"
"You must be speaking of Mr. Woller. He's in room 219, but no visitors are allowed. Doctor's orders."
Tom bent over the desk, mouth open. "Woller? Did you say Woller?"
"Do you know him?"
"Uh, yes, of course. He's a client of mine and I would like to talk to him about his assets. You see, if he should kick the bucket, I mean, if he should demise, if you know what I mean, then I have to know what -"
"Please, wait one moment mister ... mister?"
"Thomas Allen Barclay, president and general manager of Monarch Money Managers." Tom stood as straight and tall as he could manage.
"Yes, Mr. Barclay, please wait."
The nurse spun about in her chair and picked up the phone, whispering something which Tom could not hear. When she spun about again to face him, she said, "Constable Kochewski will be with you in one moment."
"Constable ...? Hey! I don't want to talk to no cop." Tom turned to go and ran into a police officer even taller than he was.
"Mr. Barclay? I'm Constable David Kochewski. I understand that Mr. Woller is known to you, that he is a client of yours. Is that true?"
"No. Of course not," stuttered Tom. "I never laid eyes on the old bugger before."
Constable Kochewski looked at the nurse who nodded her head.
"Then why have you come to see Mr. Woller?"
"His assets ... uh, I just thought, you see, I don't know him from a hole in the ground."
"I repeat, why have you come to see him?"
Tom remembered that they were seeking information on the old guy. Anyone who knew him was supposed to contact the cops. Why had he said that he knew him? That was pretty stupid. Now what?
"Woller. His name is Woller," grunted Tom, now certain that he knew how to proceed with this discussion. "Dan Woller is a client of mine. I assume that your Mr. Woller is a relation of Dan's. I look after Dan's financial investments and if this old guy is related then I feel obliged to offer my services. If the old guy drops dead without regard to the appropriate disposition of his assets then he'll get it in the ass ... uh, the neck. That is to say the government will step in and -"
"I see," said Constable Kochewski. "Mr. Barclay, may I have your address and phone number? And this Dan Woller you speak of, can you give me his number?"
"Look officer. What's the chance of my talking to this old geezer?"
"If the old geezer, as you put it, if he feels up to it, then you most certainly can speak to him. That's his decision, not mine."
Tom gave Kochewski his own and Dan Woller's address, he couldn't remember the phone number, then walked down the hall to room 219. He could hear the old man rambling on, even before he entered the room.
"Will you shut that jerk up," said the only other person in the room. "Bloody idiot keeps talking about the end of the world, day and night. I can't sleep more than thirty minutes before he's at it again."
Tom walked to the side of Woller's bed and sat down. The old man stopped talking, looked at Tom for a moment with beady eyes peering from hollow sockets, then started in again.
"When they come you won't be able to stop 'em. They'll take over, everything. They're mean, they are. Mean and powerful. And they'll just take over. The Lord of Darkness will descend, his armies will come from Wilo-ard, from Dragomir, from the Mountains of Mune and from the Black Abyss. When they cross over you won't be able to stop 'em. When they come -"
Tom raised his hand to stop the flow of words and the old man stopped talking. Tom smiled.
"Where will they come from, these armies and this darkness guy?"
The old man looked left and right then whispered, "He comes from the World of Sharlain."
The old man was about to continue but Tom again raised his hand and asked, "How do you know all this?"
The old man began to shake, then answered, "I am from Sharlain. I have come to warn you. The Lord of Darkness -"
"Yes, I understand. He'll come and get us. But how did you get here? How did you get from this Sharlain place, to here?" Tom looked around as though he needed to explain where here was.
"The Door of Monash ... it was opened to me by Mune, the King of Light. I cannot say more. I must not say more. He will know, and I will be taken, and I will be punished, and I will be destroyed."
"Okay, but what about this gorbo gorbo stuff? What about that?"
The old man frowned, his white hair falling into his face. "Gorbo? "
"Yes, you know. The stuff that was written on the wall, by the Georgian Apartments. What about that? What does it mean?"
"Borgo-nom achewan. No-nopawno agerwan."
"Yeah! That's it!" cried Tom. "Yeah! What's that mean?"
"The words of Monash, known only to the Ghost of Chalma and the King of Light."
The
doctor walked in and frowned.
"I left strict orders that this man was to be left alone. He is not well, so I would ask you to leave."
Tom stood up. What a story he would have for the guys at the poker game next week. They would all listen to him, not saying a word. He would have their undivided attention. Maybe they could move up the poker game. Next Thursday was a long way off.
The old man was still talking:
"You must warn the others. You must warn them of the danger. The time is near, very near. He comes ... soon."
"Okay, old man. I have to go now, but I'll be back tomorrow. Don't talk to nobody about this. Keep it to yourself; wouldn't believe you anyway. I'll be back tomorrow."
Tom walked out and stopped at the door, looking back at the old man who was still talking. Then he continued down the hall toward the desk. This would make a great story. Gordon would really be pleased. It sounded very much like some other world. This old man Woller really thought he had come from another ... Tom stopped.
"Woller?" he muttered.
"I beg you pardon sir?" said the nurse.
"Uh, nothing. His name is Woller. Right?" Tom turned and walked quickly back to room 219. The old man was still talking and the doctor was gone.
"Mr. Woller?" The old man stopped talking and gazed at Tom. "Is your name Woller?" The old man nodded, then continued talking. Tom raised his hand and the old man stopped. "I know somebody named Woller. Dan Woller. Do you know him? Are you related?"
The old man put his hands to the sides of his face, his eyes turning to slits, his face becoming white and ashen. He said something which Tom couldn't hear.
"Beg pardon?" said Tom, now leaning over the bed.
The old man whispered, "Daniel of the Dark Lord, Prince of Woller." Then he slipped down into his bed, pulling the covers to his chin.
"Prince of Woller? Then who are you? King of Woller? You're both Wollers, right?"
The old man closed his eyes, his face grim.
"Thanks buddy," said the man in the next bed. "Whatever you did, at least he's stopped talking. How'd you do it? What'd you say? I'll have to remember that: Prince of Woller, right? When he babbles, I just whisper Prince of Woller. Great! Now maybe I can get some sleep."
Tom wasn't listening. He repeated his question, but the old man had stopped talking. Soon Tom left, promising to return the next day and glancing back for one last look at the old man.