by P. S. Power
George never really did. He was, in many ways, all alone in the world. By choice. To protect others from the destruction of having an insane person in their life. Even if he wasn’t that bad, day to day.
That got him to think of Gina. The woman had been pretty, after all. Half-naked as well. That didn’t speak to her being very bright, given the weather, but drugs could make a person do some silly things. Her lips had been full, even on her thin face. A bit like she might be part African American, though she was so pale that seemed hard to credit. Her nose was more Romanesque, which worked for him. Really well, actually.
Shaking his head, wondering if he should have gotten a blowjob or at least had her flash him, George moved back to work. Thinking about that kind of thing wasn’t going to help anyone. Even if the idea of having a woman in his life was kind of tempting. In a lot of ways.
“Is being insane any worse than doing drugs?” He spoke out loud, knowing that it wasn’t actually worse, but that the two things wouldn’t mix well.
Except, that part was hard to know. When he warped out, he at least recalled things having gone well enough each time. The night before, he’d gone to the gym, worked out hard for three hours, then had a sensible dinner, by the time he came back. Then crawled into bed for a nice night’s sleep.
At least he thought that was the case. He remembered it happening like that, now, but the fact was, he knew that he’d been gone, if only inside his head, the whole time. There was no real proof that he’d done anything in particular. No dishes in the sink, or clothing in the basket. His muscles didn’t even hurt. Which could be from his being in great shape, but that didn't really help him figure things out.
It was something to think about, actually.
Doing something to help him work out what he was like, or doing, when he wasn’t conscious of it wasn’t a horrible plan. Getting help from someone wasn’t bad either. George was smart enough to get that one. He’d resisted it, since he was kind of afraid that being committed to a funny farm was the real answer for him. Maybe the only one. Telling a doctor that he spent half of his time in a different world, one as real as where he was at the moment, probably wouldn’t go over all that well.
Then again, it might be that he needed that kind of treatment. The worst part was that George half expected to find himself being given a prescription which took care of the whole thing easily. Then putting it all off was just him being a moron.
Not for the first time over the years, he decided to go and actually do it. Get help and at least see if he needed something big or drastic to be done. Lobotomy or whatever they did with people like him.
There was fear about the idea, of course.
Thankfully, there was also a distraction, since several people came all at once. That meant he had to scramble until closing, to keep up with it all. Working constantly, and saving part of the repairs for the next day, which was less than ideal, but part of the business, he managed to finish things well enough. You had to have your own life, after all.
On his way home, the snow that the sky had promised started to fall, finally. It was lovely, falling like bits of fluff, lit by his headlights and streetlights as the road slowly started to turn white. It was a bit of a pain, but he had a covered parking spot. He also knew that getting the car ready for the next morning wasn’t going to be fun, so he did it then, plugging the engine warmer in, since it was probably going to get really cold. It was a bit wasteful, but short of working out how to put it on a timer, there was no way to do that.
He had chains, but had to figure that the roads would be plowed well before he got up for the day. Springfield wasn’t some kind of utopia, maybe, but the streets would be cleared of snow in a timely fashion. That wouldn’t be happening in Homess, at all. No, there everyone would either stay home, ski, snowshoe or if they had to, might get a sled out.
For half the year, the town would nearly ground to a halt. People would live inside and off of what they’d collected in the spring and summer. For a moment, George kind of wondered if being kicked in the head as a kid, by the old gray mule, had caused him to escape into a technological world of his own devising. After all, while he was almost certain that he could build a wagon in Springfield, there was no way at all to check and see if a car would even work in Stena.
He was a mechanic. One who lived in a well heated apartment, owned a television, had a toaster, which all might as well have been magic, as far as he could tell. He understood cars, and even how to make one, having done that himself. From pieces purchased from other people, sent to him from states away. With some basic tools, he could have created a load bearing wagon or a lightweight buggy. Even a sledge or sleigh. In fact, he was already working on one of those, just as a side project. Where he stood, in that world, he could make all of those things.
He'd looked that up on the computer, showing that he had the skills for real.
It lent a certain amount of weight to the idea that this world, the one he was walking up the stairs in, wasn’t his at all. That it was a thing he was imagining. A mental illness, or form of injury from when he’d been hit in the head too hard.
Still, this place seemed so real to him, as he moved to his front door, the key in his fingers. He half expected to warp out, as soon as he realized that nothing around him was real. Instead, he got inside, snow melting on his work shirt. He had a tan jumpsuit with him, needing to be washed. That was another wonder that probably wasn’t real.
A machine dedicated to doing the wash like that, right there in a little space next to his indoor wonder bathroom. Regardless, even if he were from a different world and insane, George decided to invent indoor plumbing there. A car was out of reach, but there had to be a way to make toilets work. Pipes were a thing, after all. Mainly for irrigation. The fields in some places just needed water.
He wasn’t up on how that worked totally, but there were clay pipes used for it. Fire hardened things. Stone and even wood could work as well, but Stena had clay, in the valley bottom, by the small lake.
It probably wasn’t sane, but after he got inside, George decided to Google how to make that kind of thing work. Then he committed the idea to memory. Even if it was all his imagination, if it made sense in the real world, then it was a great idea. For instance, a basic water heater would work. It was basically just a kettle after all. One with a spout that spilled out into a tub. That was so basic it didn’t make sense that they didn’t have that already. They had hand pumps, but no one had thought to hook them to a windmill, even if that was so basic that they really should have. Unless it didn’t work.
Then, if it did, George would have to reconsider what he was thinking by a good bit.
After all, if both worlds were correct, then he had to think they were real.
Which meant he wasn’t insane at all.
Chapter three
The first snow of the season wasn’t that bad, in Homess.
It was a light dusting that covered the dirt streets. The chill in the air didn’t allow the dirt to warm enough to turn to mud yet, which was nice. Spring would be murder that way, but no one had thought to put cobblestones in place there yet. It wasn’t a large place, and the idea of using tax dollars on that kind of thing wasn’t happening. They were at the fringe of the kingdom. No one cared that much about them being comfortable all the time. Certainly, not the remote and aloof king.
He was in the work barn, hooking a large loading wagon used at the mines up to be moved out that day. The driver let him do it, even though it was technically the other man’s job. He was a bit distracted by the news that had come in a few days before. That Renner, the Army Captain in charge of recruiting was conscripting everyone in town who could fight into the irregulars.
That only meant the men, George knew, even though Ken, the mine cart driver, kept talking about it as if it were everyone. Also, that he was going to be driven off to the battle lines that night, to fight the enemy alone.
“If’n I wanted to be a so’jer I would
have signed up fer it. Gonna make us all learn to march and kill with long swords, you recon?” The man had said things like that several times, not helping at all, even if his old gray, one of the two horses there, wasn’t all that pleased with having to pull the wagon, it seemed.
George patted the old beast on the neck, trying to be reassuring. Then, sighing, he did the same for Ken. Being assuring, not patting him on the neck or even the shoulder.
“You’ll be learning spear and shield, as well as short sword. I heard the plan was to keep everyone here for the time being, to defend Homess. You won’t get paid for it after all, and would fight if the Tollan came to rape your wife or sister, right? So, it makes sense to give you some practice first. Besides, it’s winter.” That meant a lot to most of them, but Ken shook his head then, and frowned.
“Down in the mines there’s no snow. It don’t hardly get colder in there. That means twice the work for me, as I gots to use a sledge for the raw ore. Fer me this is the busy time, ya know?”
He really hadn’t, before that moment, but it made sense, now that it was mentioned. They took copper and iron from the ground there at the mine, which was about ten miles away. That they didn't get the same long mid-year break as everyone else had never come up before.
Rather than growl at the man for being lazy, he just nodded.
“Good point. You should get with Captain Renner on that. Still, if you can learn to fight, you should. I don’t know if the barbarians will go for the mines, but I don’t know they won’t, either. It’s far enough away that you’d have to fight for yourselves if that came up, regardless.” It wasn’t his business, really. This was probably the last wagon that he was going to work on for the year, unless there was an emergency. He was going to build a sleigh next, having the parts ready to go. Assembling them would take him about three hours, he thought. He’d done all the work on it himself, including collecting the wood and paying for the metal hardware himself. Not that he owned a horse to pull it.
Not having a wife or family had left him with extra time, for a while. Even practicing fighting four hours a day.
Ken didn’t seem happy with his answer, rubbing at his beard. Most men wore those, once they were married. Younger men shaved. So did those enlisted in the military. The officers all had beards or mustaches, in the main. It was part of how you could tell the difference between them. They had rank badges, as well. Bits of worked leather, dyed different colors, instead of being made of fine metals.
“Ya think? No one as mentioned that to anyone. The mines, we dig and bust rock, not heads.”
“I know. Still, the men there are strong. If you can break a mountain, mere men won’t be too great a threat. Not once you know what to do.” That probably wasn’t real, but the man seemed to feel better having heard that idea, since he whistled a bit, tunelessly, as he drove the heavy timber wagon out of the barn.
There was time to clean then, before he started working on his own project. There would be hours of work time left, but the place was, more or less, empty otherwise. Even his cartwright master wasn’t there in his shop. There was just no need for it that day. There might have been if they’d had a younger apprentice, but George didn’t need that kind of thing.
Unlike at the garage, no one came in with a wagon that needed quick repairs. People did that for themselves, for the most part. Besides, half the wagons would be put away that day, with the rest vanishing over the next week.
By the time Cleot came in, wearing a warm black coat, made of wool that was tightly knit, as well as a warm hat and mittens that didn’t exactly match it, being gray, he had most of the new sleigh put together.
The man, seeing it, whistled.
“That’s nice. Polished to gleaming. Some lord hire the work done?” The man didn’t touch it, but he looked at the thing closely. After a bit, he shook his head. There were no words to follow it, since people didn't always feel the need to talk constantly.
In Springfield, it was different than that.
After a bit, tightening the last of the oversized bolts on the thing, George shook his head.
“It’s mine. I just needed something to work on. It’s not like I have other things to do.” There was no reason to go into the reason for that, but his other master smiled at him, seeming a bit slow.
Reluctant for some reason.
“I was thinking… The other day, with Renner… He was certain that I’d taught you the ways of war, which is a thing you clearly know, but… That hasn’t been covered for my students. You didn’t get that working here, either. Elmer is a great hand at cart building, but that doesn’t translate to that kind of knowledge. There have been other things as well.” The man stopped, seeming a bit tense for some reason.
George could see that, except that he was from Homess, and not a newcomer. Thinking he was a spy didn't make sense at all. His parents lived there, doing leather working. Making saddles, mainly. He could do that as well, but hadn’t loved it, so had been allowed to learn other things.
Smiling, he almost just went for being cryptic. In all the years, he’d been going between worlds, he’d hidden the fact from everyone. It was insane, after all. Though, if this was the real world, then it made sense for at least one other person to know that he was gone in the head.
“Um.” It wasn’t exactly a great speech. Cleot stared at him, his gray eyes unblinking. The outer doors were open, giving them some light to see by, without wasting lamp oil. They’d need that later in the year.
There was a nod.
“I’ve known you since you were a boy, off and on. You started with me nine years ago. I know that you haven’t been in a war. We haven’t had any in that time, or before it. So, you weren’t a boy soldier without me understanding that about you. But you know things. Too much. Why is that, exactly?” There was no real fear in the other man, though it was clear his right hand was edging toward a lump in his side pocket. A weapon, which got George to roll his eyes a bit, smiling.
The man stopped then, seeming puzzled.
“You aren’t going to deny it, or claim not to see what I mean?”
Blinking, George shrugged.
“Ah, well, I do get it. You know… I guess I should tell someone. Just in case I ever lose it completely. So that you can tell the others about it.” He looked at the man, and then hedged, if only a little. “When I was ten I was kicked in the head, by a mule.” There was no sign of it left. Not even a lump on his skull.
Cleot frowned.
“Go on.”
“I was in bed for five days, out of my head the whole time. My poor parents had to have figured I wasn’t long for the world. I wasn’t even dreaming, just gone, inside. The thing is, after that, when I woke up, I kind of… Knew things. Not like… Not Witchcraft or Wizardry, or anything like that. I don’t know the future or secret things. It’s just that I have the memories of a man from a different world as well as my own. I figure it means I’m touched inside. Mental.” He tapped the right side of the thing then shook his head. “Wrong. Delusional. Anyway, that other version of me, he was in a war. It’s a very different thing, the weapons and all that weren’t the same as what we use, but some of it matches up. Strategy, tactics.”
The other man, instead of calling him a Witch and planning a nice fire to roast him, which wasn’t a thing there in Stena, thankfully, nodded.
“I think I understand. You imagine a different life, and learn from what you consider that way?”
It wasn’t right, of course, but was close enough that George smiled.
“About like that. A make-believe world inside my mind. I just don’t get to pick what I come up with. If I did it wouldn’t be nearly as boring, I assure you. That’s the issue though. Part of why…” He didn’t go on. There was only so much he could ask the man to accept from him that way.
Cleot, standing there dressed for chilly weather, his face a bit red where it showed, but only from the cold, smiled and nodded a bit. Probably because he thought he understood part o
f what was happening that he hadn’t even a few moments before.
“How are the weapons different?”
That wasn’t what George would have asked a crazy man in front of him, but it was totally what the Weapons Master would want to know about. Even if it was imagined, there might be use in some of the things.
“Guns… Metal tubes that use small explosions to fire tiny pellets. Very fast and hard, though. I guess the aiming would be closest to a crossbow, but you get a lot more shots before you have to reload. The vehicles are different as well. Like wagons, only they don’t need horses. Well… I can’t really show that any of it would work. The plumbing might be possible. Pipes that carry water around? Even if I’m touched, that part is worth looking into.” He smiled, but then had to explain that bit, while he kept working on his sleigh.
When he was done, the man shook his head.
“That would be a wonder, if it works for real. I can see the wisdom in not speaking of this. I won’t mention it to anyone, or again, if it doesn’t come up. Is that, your strange dreams, why you haven’t moved on yet? Gotten a woman and taken a spot in a new town?”
“Part of it. I also want to finish my training with you, here. It’s mainly the other thing though.”
There was a strange look then and a head shake.
“You’re ready. I was being kind to Renner the other day and pushing the others, saying you were only middling here. He was right. You’re as good as anyone can be as a fighter. Testing isn’t about you proving to me, or others, that you’re worthy. It’s to let you know that about yourself for certain. You’re a Weapons Master, George. The rest isn’t needed for anything.”
That was probably true enough, but he shrugged.
“All right. I’ll keep that in mind. So, did you just come to beat my secrets from me, or was there something else?” He managed to sound friendly about it, though the man patted his lumpy pocket, not upset on being called on the whole idea. George was supposed to be able to pick up on things like where the weapons were.