“Got it,” I said. “Life is a quilt. Go on…”
Tyler was unimpressed. “Assuming it is possible to traverse between our fabric of space and Annwn’s fabric of space, unless the fabric of time in each realm is somehow bound together, which seems unlikely, travel from one world to the next would almost certainly involve a jump through time as well. Time is linear, but only from any particular individual’s conscious experience. When different worlds—different dimensions—are bridged, time takes on a whole new meaning. Jumping dimensions means a relative jump in time.”
“Dude,” I said, “that’s why you’re going Ivy League.”
“I’m impressed,” Joni said, complimenting his insight.
Emilie, used to Tyler’s geeked-out science theories of the universe, rolled her eyes. “I agree. Tyler, your theory is brilliant. Just don’t let that theory put us in a box. I mean, at the end of the day you gleaned all that stuff from a pretty light show in the sky.”
“You’re right, Emilie,” Tyler conceded. “But it’s a hypothesis. It needs to be tested. It may be incorrect. Conceivably, though… you have to admit it accounts for most of the facts we know so far.”
“It’s the best we’ve got,” I admitted. “Sure, it’s not the gospel truth, but it’s something. And correct me if I’m wrong, but if your theory is accurate, then at some point in this story—in my father’s story—a trip to Annwn is inevitable.”
Tyler nodded. “If I’m right, yeah. It would have to be.”
I took a deep breath. “And you guys are still trying to convince me not to use the stone again? You know how tempting that is. Who doesn’t want to go see what this Annwn place is like? Think about it. It’s the Garden of Eden!”
Emilie quickly grabbed the stone from the table. “Not gonna happen, Bear. Not today.”
“Seriously, Ems,” I protested. “Give it back.”
“I will. Later. After you get some rest.”
Joni was snickering under her breath. “Hey Emilie… I have an idea. Ladies’ room?”
Emilie nodded. “Ladies’ room.”
I released an exacerbated sigh.
Tyler looked amused. “The women are working together now, superpowers be damned. You don’t stand a chance."
“I wouldn’t stand a chance against one of them, never mind both."
“Bro, when I heard you landed Joni,” Tyler laughed, “I have to admit, I was jealous… for a whole five minutes. Then I foresaw the inevitable.”
An unfamiliar voice interrupted our banter. “Excuse me.”
I turned and acknowledged the barista who had approached our table. She extended me an envelope. “Another customer handed this to me, along with a huge tip. He said to wait five minutes and give it to you. So, here you go.” The barista handed me the envelope and walked away without so much as a friendly smile.
“Oh, thanks!” I said to her back as she walked inside the coffee shop. I eyed the envelope; adorning the front were my first and last name, written in an ornate script. I opened it. A brief note had been composed in the same elaborate penmanship. I read it silently to myself as Tyler stared at me impatiently.
I shook my head in bewilderment.
“Dude, what is it?” Tyler asked.
Just then Emilie and Joni returned, giggling in concert. Great. Now they were girlfriends? Emilie handed me the stone.
“Um, thanks? What was that about?” I asked.
“Oh, Joni put a twenty-four hour spell on it somehow. Neutralized the magic for a day.”
“Oh, okay.”
“You’re not upset?” Emilie asked.
I simply handed her the note. “The barista just brought this over.”
Joni began reading it aloud over Emilie’s shoulder.
Mr. Wadsworth,
Allow me to apologize in advance for my lack of forthrightness. My intentions were only to protect you, but I see your friends are doing a fine job. I knew they would. I will trust them to continue doing so until we meet two days from now.
I must apologize for intruding upon your conversation. I confess, I heard it all. Your friends are correct. It would be best to avoid further use of the stone until we meet. You have seen what you need to see. And yes, I can answer most of your questions. Do not trouble yourselves further with needless speculation. Get your rest. You will need it.
Cordially yours,
M. Nesbitt.
P.S. Mr. Harley’s theories regarding time and space are fascinating.
P.P.S. A map is on the back. The key is under the mat.
Part Three: The Shire
13. May Day
MAY 1. MAY Day. Why is it that whenever you’re anxiously anticipating something, time seems to slow down? The day before dragged on, monotonously, ad infinitum. The things I was learning about myself, the uncertainty of what would come next, and the thrill of prospective adventure made a typical school day seem like child’s play. With my father’s memory stone temporarily out of commission—thanks to the over-protective women in my life and the inhibitor necklace securely fastened around my neck—it had been an unusually normal day. Unusually normal… an oxymoron not likely applicable to this May Day.
Joni had pointed out the correlation of the traditional maypole, hence the Maia of the visions, with May Day festivities. We were unsure, though, what the significance of it might be. Perhaps there was a reason why Nesbitt scheduled this… meeting… on May 1. Still, we tried to heed Nesbitt’s discouragement of any needless speculation. We tried to refrain from conjuring up too many theories. The answers would come, soon. Hopefully today.
The map to our destination—the supposed property I was to inherit—more resembled a map one might find on the inside cover of a fantasy novel than an actual road map. The letter x literally marked the spot of our supposed destination. Hadn’t this guy ever heard of GPS? Of course, GPS would be of limited assistance. Emilie had suggested trying to spy out the property in advance on Google Earth. Even with that, though, it was too difficult to correlate the map I had with the bird’s-eye view Google provided. The tree cover obscured the rarely traveled roads too much to make any sense of it.
The four of us piled into the Escort, the girls assuming the same positions they had a few days earlier on our after-school trip to Kaldi’s. This time, Tyler assumed the pilot’s position and I the copilot’s. I had once joked that the Escort’s spoiler qualified it as a small aircraft. At the time, not getting the joke, Tyler proceeded with rolled eyes and a condescending tone to lecture me on Bernoulli’s principles of aerodynamics. Afterward, the pilot and copilot designations for the two front seats stuck as a sort of self-deprecating inside joke.
Seat belts buckled, we “took off” down I-44, leaving the confines of the city, and soon entered the rolling hills of the Ozark Mountains. Our exit and the first few turns were clearly marked. Then we were on gravel. We bounced along the unkempt roads a good while until even the luxury of gravel was lacking, and weeds took over. In the Escort we were lucky not to get stuck. Even a light rain would have guaranteed it. I casually wondered how we could even direct a tow truck through these obscure paths if it became necessary.
The map indicated our final turn. Well-compacted gravel returned to the road, but it was clear that this road had scarcely been traveled in years. Tree branches on either side joined above us, forming a shaded canopy. High weeds and tree roots continued to test the Escort’s shocks and, therefore, our rear ends. The road, if one could call it that, continued with a gradual ascent. As our altitude increased, I noticed the greenery surrounding us was becoming more and more vibrant in color. The trees were fuller and healthier. A variety of colorful wildflowers dressed the ditches and embankments surrounding our path. Here, nature was thriving. It was both peaceful but wild and unrestrained at the same time.
We encountered several deer along the roadside, but they never crossed ahead of us. Instead, they stood, lowering their heads in deference to our approach. I could sense it—they were expecting us.
The road terminated at a sort of cul-de-sac where we were compelled to abandon our vehicle. A cobblestone path led us a short distance, maybe fifty meters, through the woods to the base of a grass-covered hill. It was some of the greenest grass I had ever seen. Surrounding the hill were towering stones, not unlike those of Diarmid’s Druidic sanctuary, spaced evenly around.
I took a deep breath. The air was pure and sweet. And now we could see a previously-obscured giant oak door embedded into the hillside. It was eight or nine feet tall with a rounded top. It was impressive, cleanly cut from a single tree.
“Why do I feel like we just arrived at the Shire at Bag End?” I joked.
“No way this door was built with hobbits in mind,” Tyler said through a muffled chuckle.
“Still,” Emilie agreed, “‘the Shire’ seems fitting.”
Fitting, indeed. At least by appearance. In Tolkien’s books, the Shire at Bag End was where the hobbit protagonist would inevitably encounter Gandalf and soon be whisked away on a perilous quest. The next time the character stepped into the Shire, it was no longer the peaceful home he remembered it being. Its tranquility was disturbed by the hobbit’s newfound addiction to adventure. Something about the nickname we had already given the place was both alluring and also frightening.
I noticed a keyhole on the door’s right side. It seemed awkwardly low in comparison to the door’s height. Recalling the “P.P.S.” from Nesbitt’s note, I looked down and spotted the words, Hi, I’m Mat on a mat I had trounced upon unaware. Stepping aside, I knelt and lifted the mat; a large, iron key was hidden beneath it. I use the word “hidden” loosely. Putting a key under a mat is barely a hiding place. Of course, no thief was likely to venture this far into B.F.E., so it was probably safe.
“You have to be kidding,” I said, displaying the ancient key I had just retrieved from my new buddy, Mat. “First thing’s first, I’m updating the locks on this place.”
I inserted the key and turned it, feeling the antiquated mechanism respond as the lock popped open. I pocketed the key and pried the heavy door ajar.
The “Shire,” as we so dubbed the place, was like no other residence I had ever seen. It was neither like stepping into the past nor the future, but a bit of both all at once.
It was rustic and quaint. The floors were of unfinished hardwood oak. So were the walls, which ascended seamlessly to a domed ceiling, contouring the hill which formed its external grass-covered roof. Floor to walls to ceiling, there were no discernible seams or joints. It was as though the entire place was hollowed from a single, giant mass of wood. Nothing appeared manufactured or artificial. Everything was natural, untouched by tools or machinery.
Rustic as it looked, something about this “Shire” seemed futuristic, though not like one would expect in a technologically advanced sci-fi scenario. It was more like an ideal only experienced in the dreams of men. It was like a utopia of sorts that mankind has dreamed about and striven to achieve, only to find himself further from the fantasy with every attempt. The place reflected a wisdom not of nature past, but of a matured age yet to be realized. It was a small taste of what one might guess humanity was supposed to grow into.
All of this was impressed on me the instant the four of us walked through the door. The narrow entry opened directly into a spacious central room. Around the perimeter of the room, three archways led to other rooms, or maybe corridors. I couldn’t tell; the two archways on either end were covered not by doors, but by veils of flower-blossomed vines. The central archway appeared to have the same decorative covering, but it was drawn to either side of the archway like a curtain, revealing an opening to the outside. From where we stood, the sun porch appeared to be covered by a canopy of various grasses while a rail of twisted oak skirted the area’s edge at chest height. I caught an impressive view of the valleys below and the hills beyond, even from where we stood at the Shire’s entrance.
Surveying our surroundings, it was impossible to miss a large, round stone table in the middle of the central room. The table was held up by an oaken pedestal which, like most of the structures in the Shire, simply grew out of the singular mass of wood that unified the entire place. No chairs surrounded the table, which seemed a bit odd, though nothing about this place was run-of-the-mill. As I looked at the stone table, I noticed something strangely out of place. A neon-orange Post-it note was stuck to its surface.
Emilie had apparently noticed it as well, “And again, Nesbitt leaves a note,” she said with a hint of annoyance at what was becoming a trend.
Joni retrieved the note and handed it to me. Nesbitt’s handwriting, familiar from the note I’d received at Kaldi’s, reflected the penmanship of an age gone by—unique, ornate, and full of flourishes. I read the note aloud.
Mr. Wadsworth and friends,
Please excuse my tardiness. I went into town for “essentials.” I shall return shortly. Make yourselves at home. Coffee is warm, room to the right.
-M.
Following the guidance of the note, we approached the room to the right. As we walked toward it, the vine-and-floral veil simply parted to the left and the right of its own accord.
“Wicked,” Tyler said with wide-eyed astonishment.
“Intense,” Emilie concurred.
Joni and I, while just as captivated by the impression of it, simply widened our grins as the room now before us revealed a whole new set of domestic wonders.
It was a kitchen… sort of… but with magical equivalents of most modern kitchen appliances. On the foremost wall a stone pedestal protruded from the floor, topped with a stone bowl. Water bubbled up through the pedestal into the bowl, overflowing into a trough of the same sort of stone fitted into the back wall. The excess water ran down the trough in either direction. On one wall, a black, granite countertop rested upon oaken buttresses. Above the counter, oak shelves emerged from the wall containing various clay and stone dishes, bowls and utensils. Embedded into the far end of the granite countertop was an impression that was filled with orange and red flames. But there was no fuel. No wood, coal, or gas—nothing. Just the orange fire, over which hovered a clay cupholder supporting four paper cups. I recognized the orange-and-black logo immediately.
“Kaldi’s Coffee!” I blurted out, unable to contain my excitement.
“Whoever this Nesbitt is,” Emilie added, “I love him already.”
Tyler joined me in a round of our best attempt at Handel’s “Hallelujah” chorus as we retrieved our cups from the magical heating devices. Joni rolled her eyes, but permitted herself a restrained chuckle at the exuberance a Kaldi’s novice such as herself could not yet understand. Though even Joni seemed pleased that Nesbitt had remembered her previous day’s order, as her mocha latte stood out from the three black—and pure—cups of java beside it. Emilie, Tyler, and I were purists.
The orange flame extinguished itself as we took our paper grails to the opposite side of the room, where a casual oaken bar jutted out from the wall. The girls leaned against the bar, setting their cups upon it while Tyler and I greedily slurped from ours, careful to gauge our modest sips so as not to burn our mouths—a mistake our coffee cravings had left us each regretting on many occasions.
We enjoyed a moment of reverent silence, imbibing the closest thing to heaven a human mouth can experience.
Then we heard a thud, a creek, and all four of us turned simultaneously toward the source. Back across the central room, a man zoomed through the door. The aging man, tall in stature, whizzed around the room on a Segway. His long white hair caught the wind, restrained only by a backwards-turned St. Louis Cardinals ball cap. His beard, straight and thick, was tied together near his chest, the rest messily pressed between his abdomen and the handlebars.
He wore a white robe, cinched together at his waist with a rope. A long wooden staff, adorned by various carvings, was fastened to the front of the Segway by what must have been a Velcro strap. On his feet were a pair of Converse All-Stars, their white-tipped toes barely visi
ble but impossible not to notice poking out from the bottom of his robe.
The eclectically dressed man balanced two pizzas and a cake on one hand. How he managed to both maneuver his Segway so precisely with a single hand while balancing all that with the other was certainly impressive, if not downright acrobatic. All of this sort of begged the question—why such an eccentric entrance? Perhaps Nesbitt was under the impression that legs and walking were out of style.
As Nesbitt made his second lap around the room, he turned his face my direction and with wide eyes began singing an out-of-key rendition of the “Happy Birthday” song.
“Happy belated birthday to you! Happy belated birthday to you! You look like a monkey, and you smell like one, too!”
I wasn’t sure how to respond to this display. I would have to recover my jaw from the floor before I could figure out what to say. As I surveyed the reactions of my friends, Emilie and Joni each bore expressions matching my own. Jaws were dropped, and shock covered our faces as we observed the ridiculous scene. Tyler, on the other hand, was laughing hysterically. Apparently this absurdity amused him.
Nesbitt made his final pass around the room, dismounted his Segway, set the cake and pizzas on the table opposite from where we stood, and with a single word caused me to regret any disillusionment I had since harbored toward the man.
“Fyr!” he said with force as orange light flashed from his eyes.
Suddenly the eighteen candles atop the cake ignited, small tongues of fire dancing upon each. As we approached the table, I got a better look at the man. His eyes were an emerald green, much like my own. While his white beard gave him the appearance of an aged man, the face beneath it held a youthful charm, free of the wrinkles or age spots that would typically litter the face of an older man. He was smiling, clearly delighted by the round of applause we found ourselves giving his unique but impressive entrance and spell. Not to mention, clapping is customary after the “Happy Birthday” song.
Gates of Eden: Starter Library Page 16