by Peter Ponzo
She grunted then turned and walked quickly into the living room, pulling the robe tightly about her.
By eleven o'clock Sandra had forgotten the trials of the day and began to leaf through her diary while nibbling on a chocolate eclair. Somehow, writing excerpts from her day made the tribulations seem more remote, as though she were describing what had happened to someone else. Indeed, that was the manner of her prose; she would write nurse Brickle did this or that. Then she could also say nurse Brickle is exceptionally talented and refer to the beautiful and excellent nurse Brickle. It didn't matter that she wasn't beautiful; she was a talented nurse and she knew that for a fact. Her patients meant everything to her. There was nothing she wouldn't do for them. The hospital was her whole life and even if she had few girl friends and even fewer boyfriends - well, maybe no boyfriends - it wasn't that important. All the patients loved her and that was what really mattered. And she seemed to have unlimited energy, filling in for other nurses even if it meant a double shift, sixteen straight hours.
She read with pride the entry from two weeks ago when Doctor Marsh had congratulated her on the rope she had arranged to keep the pressure off Mrs. Kronkite's ankle. It was just a little thing. Mrs. Kronkite had complained about the pain in her ankle so the beautiful and excellent nurse Brickle had placed her ankle in a foam cuff and tied it up to the frame about the bed, removing the weight and the pressure. Mrs. Kronkite had tears in her eyes when she thanked nurse Brickle, and later, the beautiful nurse Brickle had cried too. It was a little thing, just a foam cuff, but it was greatly appreciated and that made it important.
There was the entry when the fire alarm had scared everyone on the floor. Mr. Grouch - that wasn't his real name, but all the nurses called him that - he had started to yell and shout. The other nurses had left him to the last, taking the other patients carefully down the hall past the fire doors. That was when the beautiful and excellent nurse Brickle entered his room and kissed him on the cheek. Mr. Grout - that was his real name - was so surprised that he stopped shouting and had actually smiled. He didn't have a single tooth in his head but that gummy smile meant everything to the beautiful nurse Brickle. She wept quietly in the staff room.
Then the entry where she had taken the amulet from Mr. Woller's drawer. The old man had preached the end of the world, continuously, then he died ... poisoned ...
She put down the diary. The amulet? Where had she put it?
She got up and searched through her oversized purse until she found it in a side pocket. It was a small ring of gold with some inscription and what looked like a rectangle embossed on a tiny plate bordered by the ring of gold. She couldn't understand the inscription, but it was a pretty piece of jewelry and she promised herself that she would wear it, one day. She felt just a little guilty for having taken it. The beautiful nurse Brickle should not take things that belonged to the patients. She stared at the amulet. She had forgotten it. Could she bring it back? Give it to someone? But the old man didn't have any relatives and it would probably wind up in some police officer's pocket, a present for his wife no doubt.
Old man Woller was a strange fellow. The end of the world. Didn't all street preachers speak of the end of the world? But he was a sweetheart. He ate little and was emaciated and she often had to force him to drink to avoid dehydration from his prolonged speeches of, of what? An invasion from another world. He warned that the Prince of Darkness would come with his armies and take over our world. He was a sweet man.
Sandra Brickle gazed at the brooch in her hand. Maybe she could invent some meaning for the words, just in case some one asked what it meant. It was a present from a patient, in his own language. It said: to the most talented and beautiful Sandra Brickle. No, it was a gift from the Nurses Association in recognition of years of exceptional service.
She pulled the lamp shade up to illuminate the piece and looked again at the inscription, closely:
Borgo-nom achewan. No-nopawno agerwan.
Meaningless. She opened her purse, put the amulet inside and placed her purse carelessly on the edge of the coffee table. It slipped off and fell to the floor, the contents spilling out across the carpet. She lowered herself to her knees and crawled about the floor and collected the various items, placing them carefully in the appropriate pockets. But she couldn't find the amulet. She looked under the sofa and saw it glowing in the dark.
"How nice," she exclaimed with delight. "You shine in the dark."
She reached under the sofa, pulled it out, wrapped it in a tissue and placed it in her purse. It was late so she went to bed, lying there for some time. Then she got up. She had forgotten to make a single entry in her diary. Maybe just a short one, just about Mr. Kailey and his constant pressing of the emergency button. She wanted to forget the reprimand from the doctor for the late medication. It wasn't her fault anyway.
She saw the glow from her purse even before she sat down. When she removed the amulet from the tissue paper she looked at the inscription again, mouthing the words silently, then saying them aloud, slowly, whispering:
"Borgo-nom achewan. No-nopawno agerwan."
The amulet still lay on the carpet, glowing, but Sandra Brickle had vanished ... gone to the World of Sharlain.
*****
On Sunday evening, Thomas Barclay and Peter Jacobs arrived at Gordon's house together. Clayton Chaplain met them at the door, shaking hands. How long has it been since we last met? Put your coat in the closet, have a seat, have a drink, relax, Gordon will be down in a minute. When Gordon Chaplain arrived he was dressed in a robe, his hair still wet from the shower.
"Guess you guys won't mind if I don't dress up for this," he quipped. "Many a fine idea arises from a clean body and -"
"- and soggy gray cells," added Clayton.
"Just wet hair, big brother. Tom? Did you bring the map?"
"Here. A map of the county. All the roads are marked, even the dirt ones, I guarantee."
"Why?" asked Clayton. "Do you expect to find the Door of Monash on that map?"
"Not exactly," said Peter. "We just thought that the old man must have entered this world from someplace not too far away. He wouldn't just appear in the middle of a crowded street so it must have been somewhere just out of town, then he could walk into town. If we check out the roads leading into town we might find someplace that looks ... well, that looks like it might be the Door of Monash." It sounded ridiculous, just as soon as he had said it. Peter pushed at the hair sticking out from the side of his head.
"I see," said Clayton, sitting down and running his hand over his bald spot. "You think this door is an actual entrance from that world to this. A place that can be located on a map. I don't think so." He waited for a response, but none was forthcoming so he continued. "I think that this door is not a place at all. It was called a door by the old man simply because that was a convenient description. Did Daniel mention any door?"
"No. Dan denied the existence of another world," Gordon commented. "If you don't think it's a door through which you pass from here to there, what do you think it is?"
"I don't know. I just don't think it's located at any particular place."
"Gord?" Peter asked. "When you first brought up the subject of other worlds you said something about getting in and out via hypnosis."
"Hey, that's right, Gordy," said Tom. "I remember that. Maybe Clay is right. We get in by hypnotizing somebody and that somebody just sort of slips in."
"I've changed my mind about hypnotism being the key. I can't really believe that Dan or Kathy or the old man were hypnotized. There's some other key, but I don't know what it is."
"Maybe we have to be somewhere special," said Tom, "and we have to be in a trance at the same time." He seemed pleased at this contribution to the discussion.
"In the alley, where the old man lived," said Peter. "Gord hypnotizes Tom while we're in that alleyway. Gord tells Tom to enter the, the -"
"The World of Sharlain," said Clayton.
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"Okay! Hey man, that's good. Let's go to the alley. Let's try it." Tom seemed eager to be the first to enter the new world. That would be a great story. He could tell his grandchildren how he passed through the Door of Monash. He got out of his chair with such enthusiasm that the others just followed.
"I don't think this is going to work, but, what the hell. What can we lose?" Clayton was now speaking like a true believer, thought Gordon.
They had all driven to the Georgian apartments in Tom's Lincoln. It was dark and Peter's flashlight seemed altogether too small to illuminate the dark alley which ran off Sylvester Street. Tom grunted once at the sight of the purple awnings, then marched straight and tall down the dark alley and vanished into the darkness. The others followed warily. At the end of the alley Tom stopped and looked around. Peter shone the flashlight into the corners, up the wall of the apartment building, across the rows of garbage cans and wooden boxes. There was a clanging and Peter jumped back, dropping the flashlight. The cat scurried down the alley leaving an overturned garbage can rocking on the asphalt. Tom seemed not to notice. He raised his huge head in the air and sniffed mightily, his eyes closed, his baby skin gleaming in dim light. There was a pleasant smell in spite of the garbage.
"A kitchen," said Tom, grinning. "Somebody's cooking fried chicken. Great." Then he turned to Gordon. "Okay, Gordy. Hypnotize me." He was clearly enthusiastic.
"Jesus, Gordon," whispered Clayton. "Are you sure you can do this? I mean, I never knew you were capable of hypnotism."
"Just watch me, big brother. Okay Tom, come over here. I don't want you to hurt yourself so sit down on this box." Tom obeyed. The box collapsed, crushed, but Tom just stayed on the ground, sitting, looking up at Gordon, an ear-to-ear smile covering his face, his hands firmly on his knees which just barely protruded beyond his stomach.
"Tom, you are going to get sleepy. Tom? Tom?"
Thomas Barclay was already in a trance.
Peter shone the flashlight on Tom's face. Tom had a curious smile and was staring straight ahead.
"Well, Gord. Might as well keep going."
"Tom, can you hear me?" Tom nodded, but retained the blank stare.
"Tom, look about you. You see a door, the Door of Monash. Go to the door and look through. Do not enter, just look through. Tom? Do you see the door?"
Tom nodded again, then opened his mouth as though to speak. The others were silent, listening. Eventually Tom spoke. "I see a door."
"Christ," whispered Peter. "He sees the door. Tell him to be careful."
"Tom?" said Gordon. "Tell us what you see. Look through the door and tell us what you see. Whatever you do, don't walk through, just look."
Tom began to babble, but no one could understand what he said.
"He's speaking another language," Peter whispered. "That borgo phrase."
Tom began to speak louder and they all leaned forward and listened intently. "Goo-goo-goodie. Cooky-cooky and milky-poo."
"Tom," whispered Gordon, "tell us what you see."
"I see a crib ... red ... blue ribbons ... filled with toys. My toys. My teddy bear. My Beulah. My ringo-poo."
Peter looked at Gordon, then at Clayton.
"Gorbo? That doesn't sound like gorbo talk. Do you think he's looking through the door of whats-it?"
Gordon groaned. "No. He's not looking through any Door of Monash. I think he's looking into his own bedroom. A bedroom with a crib. Maybe his own bedroom, when he was a kid." Gordon spoke directly to Tom. "Tom, come back. Wake up, you feel fine. Now, wake up."
Tom shook his head and smiled.
"Did I do it?" he asked Gordon. "Did I go into the other world?"
"No, I don't think so, Tom." After a pause: "Who's Beulah?"
Tom looked embarrassed, still sitting on the crushed wooden box. "Beulah? Beulah's my ... uh, my teddy bear. How'd you know that?"
"And who is ringo-poo?"
Tom blushed slightly and looked at his feet. He looked ridiculous, sitting on the crushed box, his hands now placed firmly on the ground, leaning back, his large frame extending before him. "Ringo-poo is my teething ring. Uh, Gordy, I guess I didn't go through that door, huh?"
Gordon shook his head. They stood for some time before Clayton began to walk to the street. They all followed. Tom was the last to leave. He rolled to his side and rocked himself to a standing position, looked one last time up the dark alleyway then turned slowly and followed the others to the car. He was silent all the way home. He had missed his great chance.
*****
It was nearly a week after their visit to the alley beside the Georgian apartments when Clayton ended his stay at Gordon's house. The newspapers were filled with analyses by experts on how the governor was assassinated, but Clayton was off the hook. Details of the elaborate security precautions had been released and a reporter had written a long story comparing security arrangements made by Clayton's predecessor with those made by Clayton Chaplain. Other papers had climbed on the bandwagon and soon Clayton was almost a hero. Never had there been such attention to detail. Never had there been so much personnel involved. Then, slowly, the complaints changed from amazement at the extraordinary security arrangements to the cost of the arrangements. It had cost a fortune. Clayton Chaplain should be reprimanded for excessive expenditures. He was a servant of the state, entrusted with tax dollars.
That didn't bother Clayton at all. He slept like a log, for the first time in days.
*****
It was Gordon Chaplain who first read of the missing nurse, Sandra Brickle. It was a short article on page ten. Usually he only read the longer articles, but this one was intriguing. The header had been simply: Nurse missing. He would not have continued except that the photo looked familiar. He had seen her at the hospital the day he visited old man Woller. He needed to know more about this nurse. How had she disappeared? Were there any clues? Did she just vanish, like Dan and Kathy Woller? Anyone who had spoken to old man Woller, then disappeared, required some further investigation. He phoned Clayton. He needed a favor.
The next morning they both went to the police station. Gordon didn't have a class or a meeting at all that morning and Clayton felt that Security must be involved with any invasion from another world, so he went along too. Gordon let his brother do the talking. Clayton was by now well known because of the security discussions after the assassination, and the Chief of Police was eager to be as helpful as possible. Clayton asked for details of the disappearance of nurse Brickle and the officer on duty was pleased to make the report:
She was reported missing after she failed to come in to work and her girl friend could get no answer on the telephone. The police had visited her apartment. There was no sign of a break-in. Her clothes were still in the closet. The bathtub was still filled with water, obviously left there after a bath, so she must have left in a hurry. Even her purse was still there, on the floor, as though it had been dropped, a small piece of jewelry had fallen out. An ring-shaped brooch with funny words and ...
"Funny words?" asked Gordon. Until now he had said nothing.
Clayton pointed to Gordon. "My assistant," he said. "Can we see the jewelry?"
The officer looked at them both, carefully. They looked like twins, both almost bald. Does everybody in Security look the same? He left, returning shortly with the amulet which he removed from an envelope. Gordon scooped it out of his hand before he had a chance to place it on the desk. Gordon silently read the inscription:
Borgo-nom achewan. No-nopawno agerwan.
"Look at this, Clayton. See?"
"Does that stuff mean something to you?" asked the officer.
"No, nothing," said Clayton in his most official voice. "But it's clearly in some sort of code. We've seen this kind of thing before, you know. Could be important. Our department has experts in this area. Can you ask the Chief if we can take it, borrow it?"
"Sure, go ahead. The Chief has already told me to be as cooperative as
I can. Just sign this form, and it's yours. When we want it, if we ever want it, we'll just ask. I know where to contact you, that's for sure. Okay?"
"Okay." Clayton signed the form and left, with Gordon clinging to the amulet.
"Hey!" shouted the officer. "When you break that code will you let us know what it says? Imagine that, a secret code."
Clayton shouted back over his shoulder. "You bet!"
*****
The front seat of the Clayton's car was covered in books, newspapers and Clayton's briefcase, so Gordon sat in the back seat.
"Well, what do you think, Gordon? Is that nurse from Sharlain?"
"Yes, I think so. And now she's gone, just like Dan and Kathy, back to Sharlain. And this little thing is also from Sharlain." He held up the amulet. "I don't know how, or why, but it's surely got something to do with this other world."
"What else does it say on the brooch, anything?"
"Nope, just Borgo-nom achewan. No-nopawno agerwan."
"Hmm," Clayton grunted, "I'll tell you my theory. I think that you hold in your hand the key to the Door. I told you it wasn't a place, didn't I? The Door is wherever that thing is. It makes sense. From Sharlain you just rub that brooch and maybe chant a few words and you're here, in our world. You bring the brooch with you so you can get back the same way. God only knows where you'll wind up when you enter this world, maybe on a street corner or an alleyway, like the old man. You could probably arrange to show up inside a building. Christ! Inside a bloody tank! And who knows where you'll end up in the World of Sharlain, when you go back. But, who knows what the magic words are? You rub the brooch and chant ... hey, know what? Maybe you say Borgo-nom achewan. No-nopawno agerwan. Maybe that's how you activate the brooch! You rub it like some kind of Aladdin's lamp and say those words. That's why Dan and the old man both knew the same words. They used them to enter this world. What do you think, Gordon? Gordon?"