by Rob Scott
Slowly he turned to stare down at the mysterious tapestry, a swirling cauldron of colour unrolled across the floor. It was simple woven fabric – he guessed wool, but now could not remember exactly how it had felt in his hands. It had peculiar designs stitched in light-coloured thread, each meticulously detailed, but completely foreign to him. A dawning realisation brought a wave of nausea.
‘Oh, Jesus,’ he murmured, ‘not in there … that can’t be.’ Something deep inside told him no matter how impossible, he was right. Somehow, that cloth had taken his roommate. ‘Mark,’ he shouted down at the floor, ‘Mark, can you hear me?’ His voiced echoed off the wood and vibrated the delicate metal chimes in their hall clock. The ringing died away and he heard floorboards creak under his weight as he paced back and forth behind the sofa. No answer.
‘Think,’ he directed himself, ‘think of something, fast.’ But though he was desperate, his mind was blank. Maybe he could experiment. He moved to his desk, shoved the rosewood box containing William Higgins’s precious rock to one side and searched for a pencil, then turned back to the living room floor.
‘I feel okay. It doesn’t seem to be doing any physical damage to me – then again, I’ve never been around anything radioactive before, so I don’t really know.’ He rolled the pencil between his fingers. ‘Either way, it can’t have completely vaporised or disintegrated Mark in the fifteen seconds it took me to get back from the kitchen, especially if I’m standing here just fine ten minutes later.’ He cursed his inability to think straight in stressful situations. ‘So, if he’s not here in the house, he must be—’ Steven gently lofted the pencil towards the tapestry, ‘—in there.’
He watched in awe as the pencil arced towards the floor. Tumbling through the air, its bright blue and orange logo flashed twice: Steven had just enough time to recognise the words Denver Broncos printed below the pink nub of the eraser. It never landed. As soon as it crossed the plane above the shimmering tapestry, the pencil vanished from sight.
‘Holy frothing Christ!’ he exclaimed and immediately reached for something else he could throw into the cloth.
Paper clips, a balled-up telephone bill, two empty beer cans and a pizza crust later, Steven was truly terrified. Snatching up Mark’s jacket, he ran into the street and down the hill. Sprinting around the corner from Tenth onto Miner Street, he saw Owen’s in the distance, the lights and music a latter-day mirage at the far end of an otherwise silent row of city blocks. Despite tearing through Idaho Springs at a dead run, Steven’s thoughts caught up with him. He slowed to a jog. His story would sound absurd to the police.
He sat for a moment on a bench, contemplating his boots and trying to come up with a reasonable version, something that wouldn’t have them calling the nearest psychiatric unit. He rubbed his fingertips roughly against his temples and burst out angrily, ‘There is no reasonable version, you goddamn coward! You have to figure this out. You have to find him.’
Feeling alone and guilty, Steven Taylor rose and walked back home.
Two hours later found Steven sitting in a patio chair on the porch of 147 Tenth Street, watching the living room through the front window. He had failed to come up with any viable explanation for what had happened; now he was too frightened to re-enter the house. He kept hoping Mark would suddenly appear, unhurt, and he wouldn’t have to come up with some course of action. They would simply turn the tapestry over to someone who would know what to do with it and Steven would prepare himself to receive due punishment when Howard Griffin discovered he had opened Higgins’s safe deposit box.
Steven wondered how many other people were like him. His fear dominated him, broke his spirit; in turn, he could think of nothing to do. He was not brave. He was terrified. It must have been something from long ago that started him down this path, maybe something he’d run from as a child, that had grown, layer by layer, over the course of his life until now, when he was literally paralysed with fear.
He and Mark had often laughed that Steven was no risk taker. Everything had its place: he always needed to know what lay on the horizon, what was on the day’s agenda, in order to feel comfortable. He began planning vacations twelve months in advance so as to leave nothing to chance. Mark was different, a brave soul who charged willingly into risky situations and always seemed to emerge unscathed.
‘Why couldn’t I have fallen onto the damned tapestry?’ Steven asked of the still autumn night, hoping for some response to alleviate his anxiety. Mark would have known what to do – and if he didn’t, he would have leapt onto it anyway, boldly facing whatever it held. Steven couldn’t bring himself to stand up, enter his own house and step onto that miserable rug, no matter how thoroughly he beat himself up about it.
‘Sonofabitch!’ he cried, hating himself and embarrassed by his fear.
Later on he watched as the first light of dawn painted the mountains pink and heralded the advent of the new day. Mark had been gone almost eight hours and still Steven sat on his porch, a coward, suffering every coward’s worst nightmare: no escape and no excuse. He could either seek help, or he could go into the house and throw himself onto the mercy of the strange cloth he had stolen from the bank the day before. Neither option was appetising, and both required more fortitude than he had managed to summon up in years.
Watching the mountains slowly change colour in the morning light, he remembered an art history class in college. Impressionist painters believed sunlight on any subject changed slightly every seven minutes. He checked his watch: 5.42 a.m. Staring up at the stony peaks above Clear Creek Canyon, Steven waited. He would see the light change in seven minutes’ time; he would watch as the coming day shaded the mountain ridges in slowly evolving hues, and in seven and a half minutes’ time he would get up and go in search of Mark Jenkins. 5.45 a.m., and a car passed on Tenth Street: Jennifer Stuckey, heading for the bakery to get the morning’s first loaves in the oven. Sunlight inched its way down the sides of the canyon: every minute passed with his full attention. He could not remember the last time he had concentrated so fiercely on any one minute; this morning he would chart the full course of seven minutes. He was more frightened than he had ever been, but this morning was special. He wondered how often Monet or Renoir had waited seven minutes for the light to change on a flower or a small pond. He was seeing so much more than he ever had before: the clarity helped to mitigate his anxiety; it offered a sliver of courage for what was coming next. At 5.49 a.m. he rose to his feet and gave the canyon a long last look. The Impressionists had been right. He had seen the change in sunlight. Grasping Mark’s coat in one hand, Steven opened the door to his house, crossed the front room and stepped without hesitation into the shimmering haze above the tapestry.
BOOK II
Rona
THE OLD KEEP
Brexan Carderic leaned forward in the saddle, hoping the lower profile would garner more speed from her mount. A strand of wet, matted hair escaped her collar and lashed across her face, momentarily blocking her view. ‘Get it cut,’ she spat to herself, pushing the uncooperative lock away. Her patrol unit was still far ahead and she had no wish to be riding alone through the Ronan forest. Earlier that morning, Lieutenant Bronfio had sent her into Estrad Village with a coded message. All she had to do was wait in front of a particular inn until a local merchant approached and asked for directions to Greentree Square; she was to hand over a small parcel and return immediately to camp.
Brexan had expected the merchant to arrive shortly after she got to the rendezvous; she was annoyed at being left to wait most of the morning. It was nearly midday when the fashionably dressed young man finally approached.
‘Excuse me, but can you tell me how to get to Greentree Square?’ the stranger asked.
‘Certainly,’ she answered, playing along, ‘follow this street north until you come to—’
‘You don’t have to tell me how to get there, you stupid rutting bitch,’ the man interrupted in an angry whisper, ‘just give me the package.’
; Brexan was taken aback at his rudeness. ‘Here you are, sir,’ she answered, and was immediately upset with herself for showing the man such deference.
The merchant calmed down. ‘Thank you, soldier. Nice work.’ Reaching into his tunic, he withdrew several sheets of parchment. ‘Take these to Lieutenant Bronfio right away.’
Brexan nodded, ‘Yes, sir,’ and watched the well-dressed man as he wandered off along the street.
By the time she returned to camp, her unit was out on patrol, policing the forbidden forest and the north shore of the Estrad River before joining another unit that evening. Determined to catch up, she rode south, not slowing even when she came to the forest. Standing alone in the centre of the village was relatively safe, but the forest was dangerous to any Malakasian separated from the safety of the unit. Few Ronans would attack an occupation soldier in a town, where an investigation might turn up any number of guilty parties, but the solitude of the southern woods was a different matter.
Brexan reached the beach; she would make up time if she ran along the water’s edge on the hard-packed sand. A full Twinmoon was coming the following day and she enjoyed the feel of the strong winds off the water. The southern Twinmoon affected the tides along the Ronan coast; huge waves pounded the beach this morning and Brexan felt the spray splashed up from her horse’s hooves. It looked as if the world itself were marking the passage of time.
As she rounded a sandy point, Brexan saw a lone man sitting upright near the water’s edge. Reining in quickly, she turned and made for the protective cover of the forest. The pounding surf and near-gale drowned out all sound of her approach. She dismounted quietly, tethered her horse out of sight and slowly picked her way through the underbrush.
Mark Jenkins stared out to sea. He had fallen asleep in the sand and his lower back ached from hours resting on the uneven surface. He had woken just a few minutes before, disappointed for once that he was not in his bed nursing a debilitating hangover. Now, still groggy, he was trying to work out how he came to be at the ocean. Two moons still hung in the sky, although they now looked closer together, as if they might crash into one another in some rare and profound galactic mishap.
Eventually he would have to go in search of food or a telephone … he wrestled with a sense of foreboding that unfamiliar constellations and a second moon might not be the oddest discoveries he was about to make.
Mark’s mind was too logical: he was not ready to accept the fact that he might have been transported to another world, or that he might have died and discovered a two-mooned afterlife. Beside him were hundreds of small holes where he had pushed his fingertips into the sand in an effort to create a map of visible stars. None of their patterns were familiar. Worse, he had seen no planes, heard no cars, spotted no boats and observed no joggers running along the beach. There were no cigarette butts, no empty soda cans, no gum wrappers and no footprints save those he had left himself the night before. He feared he was alone, but he could not think of an expanse of beach in the world where he would so thoroughly fail to find any trace of humanity.
‘Well,’ he sighed finally, ‘I can’t wait here for ever. I’d better get moving.’
He was about to stand when, over the howling of the onshore breeze, he heard someone calling his name. Brushing sand from his clothes, he strained his eyes to see along the beach: someone was running towards him. Squinting, he recognised Steven and shouted out an unintelligible oath. He grabbed his boots and sweater and sprinted towards his roommate, relief flooding through him as he hurried across the sand. Both men were oblivious to the young woman observing from the forest’s edge.
Huddled in a thicket, Brexan watched as the dark-skinned stranger rose and began running along the beach. The Malakasian soldier marvelled at Mark’s outlandish clothing: blue leggings of some sort, a bright red tunic and a white undergarment that exposed his bare arms. She had no idea which territory produced such strange clothing, but she knew she had to get word of this intruder to Lieutenant Bronfio and the local officer corps as soon as possible. Feeling in her vest for the pages given her by the merchant in Estrad, she crawled back to her horse as quickly as she dared.
When she came upon her mount, Brexan nearly vomited from the stench. The beast lay dead, rotting at an unnatural rate in the Ronan sun. Dumbfounded, the soldier noticed the tree to which she had tethered the horse only moments earlier was also dead. It was a large coastal cedar, and when she had tied the reins to it, it had been lush with prickly green branches. Now it was grey, dry; it looked as if its life had been drained through the sand, squaring some overdrawn account with nature.
The horse twitched several times and Brexan backed away, fearing the rotten shell of the animal might spring up from the small puddle of blood and bodily fluid gathering beneath it. A moment later, the beast was bone-dry, mummified. The fluids that dripped from the dried flesh were strangely absorbed and the putrid stench faded on the ocean breeze.
Brexan nervously rubbed her palms across the breast of her tunic and wondered what to do next. Her saddle and weapons remained buckled to the corpse. Tentatively she inched towards the remains.
As she began unfastening a short dagger and her forest bow, the almor sprang up before her. Brexan screamed, ‘Lords, help me!’ and, falling backwards, stumbled over an exposed root. From the sandy forest floor, the soldier looked into the face of the demon creature and watched in horror as the nearly translucent visage peered back at her. Brexan knew the legends of terrifying demons that ravaged the known world thousands of Twinmoons before. She always believed they were tales amplified by the passage of time: monsters grew more powerful, demons more frightening and magic more mysterious as stories were handed down through the generations.
Looking up into the perfectly evil face of her first almor, Brexan realised she had been wrong. The creature’s eyes were deeply set, grey, and changing shape as the monster contemplated her. It stood on fluid, shapeless hind legs and its height fluctuated between that of a tall man and a small tree. It appeared to be comprised entirely of a cloudy, milk-white fluid, but if the tales were right, the demon possessed superhuman strength and speed. Fighting back would be pointless. All she could do now was to wait for it to decide whether or not to take her. Brexan tried to close her eyes, preparing to feel her life drain away, but as frightened as she was, she could not keep them shut. She had to look at it.
The almor had experienced ample gratification with the horse and the large cedar tree. Both had given it energy. For a moment it considered taking the young woman cowering on the ground until, reaching towards her, it was reminded of its mission. This was not the one it had been summoned to find. The almor was driven by urges, and with its need for food satisfied, the urge to find its target was renewed. It was being controlled by a distant force, a long-forgotten voice that had commanded it once before. It would not be permitted to return home until it had found and absorbed its target, a sorcerer. Reaching out with one formless arm, it found the root system of a grove of cottonwood trees. Then it was gone.
Brexan lay in the dirt, breathing hard. She rolled onto her side, vomited into a patch of sweet-smelling ferns and promptly passed out.
‘I can’t believe I found you,’ Steven called as the roommates met on the beach. ‘I was convinced—’
He was interrupted as Mark hugged him hard. ‘I thought I died. I thought this was some sort of afterlife, some crazy hallucination—’ Mark stopped and held Steven at arm’s length. ‘You are really here, aren’t you?’
Steven handed him a balled-up piece of paper. Mark unfolded it: their August telephone bill. ‘What’s this?’ he asked curiously. ‘Why do you have our old phone bill?’
‘We are someplace. We aren’t dead and this isn’t a dream.’ Mark still looked confused, but Steven continued, ‘It was the tapestry, the cloth from the safe deposit box. I threw that phone bill into the air above it and watched it disappear.’
‘What? So, it’s some kind of transportation device, some hole in the u
niverse? What is it? How did we and our phone bill get here?’ Mark was frustrated. ‘Steven, we live in Colorado, a long, long way from the sea: and here we are, at the ocean … an ocean. I don’t even know if there are other people around here.’
‘I don’t know how it works and I don’t know where it’s dropped us, but it’s sent us somewhere.’
‘Why?’
‘What do you mean, “why”?’
‘I mean why would it send us somewhere? What’s its purpose? Why would such a thing exist?’ Mark’s head began to ache again; he rubbed his temples.
‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s some experimental military transportation device they hid in our bank.’
Mark shot him a dubious look. ‘A hundred and thirty-five years ago?’
‘Maybe not. Maybe they did it six months ago and we didn’t know. Either way, I’m certain the answer isn’t going to come looking for us here.’
The first arrow struck the ground near Steven’s right foot. Without thinking, he jumped out of the way, then shouted, ‘What the hell is that?’ Before Mark could answer, a second arrow hit the sand only inches from the first.
‘Stand still,’ a voice called from the edge of the forest. ‘Do not try to run.’ Seeing Mark raise his hands in the air, Steven did the same, dropping Mark’s jacket to the sand.
‘We aren’t going to run,’ Mark shouted towards the treeline. ‘We’re lost here and need to borrow a phone. We’ll leave just as soon as we can call a cab.’
‘Speak Common,’ the hidden voice commanded, and accented the order with another arrow at their feet.
Steven looked at Mark. ‘I understand what he said. I mean, I can tell what he’s saying.’
‘So can I.’ Mark’s face modulated from fear to curiosity. ‘It’s not German and I recognise enough to know that it isn’t Russian. How can that be?’