Along The Watchtower

by Litwack, David

  I accepted the card and shook his hand, trying not to squeeze too hard. Maybe my luck was changing. Or maybe I was becoming a fool.

  After Ralph escorted him out, I looked at the card. It was made of heavy stock and had raised letters with the words: Dreams of the Cape, Sam Shapiro, Proprietor. An etching of sand dunes adorned the background. It appeared more the card of a magician than that of a peddler of souvenirs. Next, I rummaged through my night-table drawer and pulled out my own set of pictures, salvaged from the corpse of my father. I sat on the bed and compared the old, wallet-sized photos of my brother with this new picture, trying to see a resemblance.

  I was still sitting there, staring at the pictures, when Ralph returned.

  "Is it him, Freddie?"

  "Might be. I can't be sure."

  "I hope so for your sake. You're due for a miracle."

  "I don't believe in miracles," I said, then looked up at him. "Do you?"

  "Aw, I don't know, Freddie. But good things happen to people if they're open to them. You're gonna check him out, aren't you?"

  "I don't have a car."

  "Bullshit excuse. Any one of us would drive you in a New York minute. You know that."

  I finally glanced up from the picture to the man looming over me, waiting for a response. As I marveled at his great height, a longstanding question resurfaced in my mind and became words.

  "I always meant to ask you something. Did you ever play basketball?"

  He laughed with that booming bass voice. "Haven't heard that one in a long time. I used to hear it all the time growing up. I was almost this size when I was thirteen. So everyone assumed-"

  "But did you?"

  He came in and sat opposite me, turning the gray folding chair around and straddling it so his long legs almost reached me.

  "A little. My high school coach recruited me for the team, even though I wasn't that interested. I couldn't stretch my arms very high over my head. Underdeveloped lats, he said. So he put me on an exercise program. I developed a half-decent shot, but I was slow as molasses. I lasted one season and never got into a game."

  "Did you ever dunk?"

  "Naw, Freddie. I wasn't an athlete like you. I had bad knees, fallen arches, and could barely get off the ground."

  "That's too bad."

  "Too bad?" His voice rose half an octave, which still left him well within the baritone range. "Too bad to miss out on a game I didn't really like? It's not like I was going to the NBA. No, Freddie. Too bad would be if I never got to help guys like you. Too bad would be you not going to meet this kid, who just might be your long-lost brother."

  I glanced at the picture one last time and set it down on the bed, then studied my hands.

  "You're right, Ralph, but things haven't exactly gone my way the past few years. You get to expect disappointment after a while."

  "You know what they say, Freddie. Nothing ventured . . ."

  I looked up at him. "Would you take me?"

  He thought for a moment, struggling with something, then got up and laid a great paw on my shoulder.

  "I know this is a big deal for you, and I'll be glad to take you if that's what you want. But you and Becky seemed to have a good thing going. Shouldn't you ask her instead?"

  He looked down at me with an impish grin. The brows that reached to the edge of his face fit the image. But he was way too tall to be an imp.

  "You're pretty big to be playing cupid, aren't you?"

  He almost blushed. "Can't blame a guy for trying to bring together two people he likes."

  "Well, it's none of your business." The words came out more sharply than I'd intended. He'd only been trying to help.

  For an instant, he stood there, face flushed, a pulse throbbing at his temple, looking as hurt as a guy almost seven feet tall could look. And then, without a word, he turned to go.

  "I can't do it," I called after him. "I don't want to bring her into my messed-up world."

  He stopped, his big shoulders filling the doorway, and rose up on the balls of his feet so I thought his head might hit the top of the frame. His eyes were wide and unblinking, aimed at mine as if linked by guide wires.

  "Dr. B. was wrong about you, Freddie. He said you had a mild non-penetrating brain injury. That's what he wrote on your chart. But it's worse than that. You're just plain stupid."

  Then he pivoted around, nimble for a big man, and left the room.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Frederick the Fool

  When we emerged from the crypt into daylight, I set Rebecca down and held her close. I could feel no tremor beneath the fabric of her dress and sensed no fear. Instead her eyes were soft and bottomless and locked on mine.

  "Some magic," she said with a weak smile. "Perhaps I should keep to gardening."

  I reached out and brushed away a smudge of soot from her cheek.

  "I'm glad to see your spirit's intact and not tainted by the assassin's touch."

  "The assassin." Her smile faded, and the color drained from her face. "But why, Milord, didn't you accept his offer? Peace for all time. And at such a small price."

  "The demon can't be trusted," I said. "How could so much good come from such a wicked choice?"

  "Then what will you do with time so short?"

  "I don't know. That decision's for tomorrow. But your sacrifice won't be part of it." I looked down at my walking stick and into the eagle's wooden eyes. He seemed to approve.

  Rebecca leaned in, rose on her tiptoes, and kissed me on the lips.

  "Well, Milord, this gardener's not displeased to be alive. But should you change your mind, I'm here."

  From there, I brought her to the royal chambers and placed her in the care of a maid-in-waiting. Better than sending her back to her villge. At least in Stormwind, she'd have protection from the castle walls, if only for one more day. But as I left, a panic arose within me-that if I took one more step or turned one more corner, the hope of seeing her again would fade.

  Once she was settled, I retreated to the privacy of my bedchamber, locked the door, and tried to think. I couldn't go back to the crypt with nothing but staff and sword. I needed something stronger, an enchantment or charm powerful enough to overcome the demon. But where to find it?

  For the rest of that afternoon, I stayed in bed, staring up at the mural on the domed ceiling. The painted dauphin stared back at me, the primal image of my youth. But that dauphin had been helped by both Goddess and elf. I too had been advised by the elf, but where was my Goddess, and why had she forsaken me to go through the trials alone? For an instant, I wondered if the gardener might be the Goddess incarnate, descended from the heavens to guide me. Perhaps the staged sacrifice of an immortal was a ploy to test my resolve.

  But how could I take such a chance? And if I were to survive beyond the trials and go on with my life, I preferred she not be immortal but real and flawed like me. I wished no other by my side.

  But what of Malfurion Stormrage? The great elf had appeared to me twice, on the stairway to the watchtower and before the locked door in the crypt. Though he'd counseled in riddles, he'd helped me overcome the first two trials. Now, in my hour of need, could he be the ally I sought? I made up my mind. Unless the Goddess were to spring forth from the plaster in the mural and come to life, I had no choice but to seek out the elf.

  I rolled onto my side and swung my legs to the floor with a grunt, then grabbed my staff and limped off to the watchtower.

  As I headed across the parapet, the lengthening shadows made me pause. It was an hour before sunset, that time of day when the fading light made the world appear cloaked in scrim. When I was little, this had been my favorite part of the day, an in-between time when my schooling had ended and I had yet to be called to my royal duties. It always seemed to last longer than it should, a time of wonder, a bridge between worlds.

  At the base of the watchtower, I violated the adviser's rule and chose the morning stairs, the most direct route to where I'd first met the elf. Twenty step
s from the top, I stopped and searched the stone for the mark in the shape of an owl. When I found it, I pounded on the wall with my staff.

  "Malfurion Stormrage," I cried. "Shan'do, honored teacher. Appear and advise."

  I shouted until the stairway echoed, and the words flying between the walls demolished each other into silence. When my energy was spent, I slumped on a stair and rested my chin on the eagle's head, brooding until the light from the archway above took on an orange hue.

  Sunset was at hand.

  I trudged up the few remaining stairs and entered the chamber. Always before, I'd arrived just in time for my session, but now I had a few minutes to look around.

  To the west, the sun shone red and fat on the horizon, streaming through a thumb-width crack in the clouds above the mountains. Its rays passed through the gems in the wheel and cast a rainbow on the opposite wall. I marveled at it. How could a lens to so much evil paint such a splendid glow?

  But to the east, the land spread darkly and the sunrise oculus gaped black in the midst of the rainbow, an inviting maw drawing me toward it. I gripped the rim of the stone and leaned out over its edge. Below, in the shadow of the watchtower, the dying light did not reach. I could barely make out the drawbridge and the river raging below.

  How simple to shift my weight and pitch out onto that river with its jagged rocks, to be embraced by its flow and become another voice of the damned.

  I wavered, balancing in the moment, but became distracted as the light around me came alive. The wheel had begun to spin. A reflection of the dream started to play out on the eastern wall, replacing the rainbow. I watched the vision unfold, a dream I could remember.

  I beheld the gardener in the casket, her eyes gazing up at me as I raised the poisoned blade. But before I could strike, the vision flickered and changed. Now I saw a different place, not a castle, but a lesser structure, a poor imitation of Stormwind. The vision breached the walls and glided down the corridor like a hawk riding the breeze. I saw people young and old, many with terrible wounds. But I also saw the care they were given, the good that was being done. I reached a room filled with flowers and, at its center, the gardener. She saw me and spoke two words. "I'm here."

  Ignoring my obligations, I spun around and fled the watchtower.

  As I hobbled down the sunrise stairs, preoccupied with what I'd seen, my thoughts were interrupted by a wind coming from the inner core, from a place where no wind should be. I stared spellbound as a candle wavered and smoked. Then the gray wall swelled and Malfurion Stormrage reappeared.

  He loomed over me, his amber eyes boring into my mind.

  "Why," he said in his booming voice, "have you summoned me?"

  I bowed, then told him of the encounter in the crypt and the demon's unholy offer.

  "I beg your help," I said. "Some magic to vanquish the assassin without costing the gardener her life."

  He slowly shook his head.

  "You rely too much on magic. These are your trials, Dauphin, born out of your hopes and fears. And so, only you can make the choice."

  My shoulders slumped, my final hope denied.

  "Sorrow's been my fate since I was a child, a fate I never chose. Can you, who have stared into the well of eternity, at least tell me why?"

  "None of us choose our fate. Yet sorrow is not preordained by the gods."

  The blood rushed to my face and I shook the eagle staff at the great elf, all my deference gone.

  "Enough with elfish wisdom. Not preordained? Then explain all that's happened-to my family, to the archangel, to the heroes and the boy with the innocent smile."

  "What's happened is past. Not every future is dark."

  "What could be darker," I said, "than the death of the gardener by my own hand?"

  "It's your trial, Dauphin. You control its outcome, not fate. I can help no more."

  He turned so sharply the breeze caused by the swish of his lavender cloak made the candle flame shiver. I clutched at a corner of the fabric and held on until I'd been dragged off the stair, falling to my knees at his feet.

  "One enchantment," I begged. "One spell to defeat the assassin."

  He pulled away. I was nothing to him, a mere mortal who'd soon be gone.

  "No need of spells to defeat the assassin," he said. "He's your own creation. All you need is to understand what he is."

  "If it's that simple, then tell me. Tell me, and I'll do what I must."

  The amber eyes softened as he pondered my request. Finally, he spoke.

  "The assassin," he said, "is the ghost of your own past. You must learn to laugh in his teeth."

  ***

  That evening, I prayed through the darkness to the Goddess on the dome, hoping she'd grant me wisdom. I had a terrible choice to make and was afraid of making it wrong.

  The night passed slowly, a procession in shades of gray. When the black of midnight had lightened to charcoal and then to slate, I arose. I'd get no sleep that night nor would I be struck by a flash of divine insight. I knew two things for certain-I'd never harm the gardener, and I'd refuse to return to the watchtower. What use were its dreams to me now? I decided instead to trade the comfort of my bedchamber for a more restful place.

  With the eagle held high like a second set of eyes, I slipped out the doorway, down the hall, and across the courtyard to the crypt. That chamber of death had always been gloomy, but now, in the wee hours of the morning, it seemed as if no light had ever graced its inside. I took a candle from a sconce by the entrance and went in. In its glow, the faces of the dead took on a reddish hue, and all seemed to be staring as I passed. When I arrived at the barrier to the final trial, the assassin's magic let me through, though the gardener was no longer by my side. I knew it would, for I'd come to understand what the demon desired. Neither the boy nor the gardener, but my despair.

  At last I arrived.

  The final casket stood empty as when I first beheld it, waiting for an occupant. But now it bore a newly engraved plaque that read: Here lies Prince Frederick, the Fool. And resting on the edge of the frame, Kingsbane, the dagger of sorrow, its tip still gleaming with the sap of the monkshood.

  I crept closer and grasped the dagger, feeling its heft in my hand. But I nearly dropped it when I heard the unmistakable scrape of footsteps on the hard ground. A voice behind me spoke.

  "The eternal choice."

  I turned, careful to keep the dagger's point at arm's length. Before me stood the assassin. No expression graced his lifeless face, just as no inflection ennobled his words.

  "If you do this," he said, "the dreadlord will leave your world in peace."

  "And the gardener as well? A long and happy life?"

  He nodded, almost a bow. "Long, I can say. Happy will be up to her."

  I raised Kingsbane into the glow of the candlelight. The dagger had already killed a king. How much easier to kill a prince? But then I thought of the gardener awaiting my return.

  I set the dagger down on the rim of the casket and turned to the demon.

  "I have till sunset this day to make my farewells. I'll return before then."

  The assassin bunched his cheeks and brow, narrowing the hollow sockets in what would have been a look of sadness if he had eyes.

  The voice was less than a whisper. No echo, no air.

  "I'll be waiting."

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  The View from the Watchtower

  The night following Mr. Shapiro's visit, I tossed and turned, bothered by dreams. Well before sunrise, I was done with sleep. Instead, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling and thinking about the war. When I'd been in Iraq, I lived minute to minute. No past, no future. Only survival and now. Everything I saw or did, every person I fought with or against displaced all the moments and all the people that came before. Like living in an alternate reality.

  But back in the States and recovering from my wounds, the war seemed like a fantasy. All I was left with was a bum leg, the archangel's medallion, and two medals I didn't deserv
e, wondering why I was still alive when so many were gone.

  But what kind of life was it? I was stuck in a twilight state, in the shadow of the turret of the VA hospital, with no real connection to my past and no clear picture of my future. Mine was a foggy existence surrounded by dark mountains with thunderclouds looming over their summits and demons waiting on the far side.

  But on the horizon, like the sunset trying to break through, glimmers danced at the crest of the ridge-my leg getting stronger, my studies resuming, the possibility of finding Richie. And Becky. She'd insisted the future was in my control, laid out like a blank canvas. All I had to do was choose between palettes-the one with bright colors and hope, or the other with grim memories and death.

  I tried to focus on the colorful palette. I recalled the style of the gingerbread houses around the green, and how I loved to sketch them, meticulously drawing the trim beneath each roofline and the carvings that embellished them. I rattled off the names of the neighbors who lived in them. When I'd recounted them all, and it was still not daylight, I moved on to my basketball team, to the players I played with my senior year and the scores of the few games we won.

  But my thoughts kept returning to Richie. To autumn days when my mother would take us apple picking; to how we'd climb the hill in the orchard to where the apples were ripest and dangling just above our heads; to how I'd select the perfect apple for Richie and let him jump up and pick it. And to winters past. To Christmas mornings with the few presents my parents were able to make or buy, and to how Richie thought they were magic.

  And to whether he was the boy in the photograph.

  I began to believe Mr. Shapiro was like a quest giver in World of Warcraft with a gold exclamation point above his head, inviting me on a high-risk quest. If I chose to accept and played well, my life would level up. If not, my fate would be despair.

  The next morning, after the usual work details to clean out the common room and remove trash from the night before, I hung out with the guys, not wanting to be alone. A bunch of them were gamers and took the opportunity to jump online. They'd invited me a number of times to become a member of their guild. Always before, I'd turned them down and went back to the cloister of my room. My reality was muddled enough without role-playing in a fantasy world. But this time, when I heard the familiar music start up, something drew me in. The kettledrums, the clash of cymbals, the trumpets, and the chorus. A tune I hadn't heard since Iraq. The call to a hero's quest.