The Edge of Madness Cafe (The Sea and the Wasteland Book 2)

by Mark Reynolds

  Jack walked over to the pickup, wondering to himself if it was even possible to stay now. Could they really change their minds, now or ever? Could they stay longer? Could they ever find their way back here if they wanted to? He wanted to say yes, that once you knew where the door was, it could never truly be hidden from you again. But the truth was, he didn’t really know.

  And there were things about this place he would miss.

  He reached down and scooped up a handful of the Wasteland sand, as fine as dust, as white as bone. He took a small tin that once held mints, but was now empty, and poured the pale earth in, closing it back up and pushing it down into his pocket. It was important not to forget where you came from.

  Then he climbed into the truck, finding the keys already in the ignition; why not, there was no one here to steal it. A quick turn and the engine purred to life. No backfire sputter or chug of blue smoke one might have expected from a junkyard derelict, a vehicle ill-suited for a desert crossing, the nearest roadside assistance at least a million miles and a dozen realities in any direction. After the initial thrust of gas, the engine settled into a gentle rumble like the banked fires of some red dragon newly wakened.

  Or was that just a dream?

  He eased the truck forward, thick tires effortlessly holding the hardpan, rolling like a serpent over sand. Carefully, he nudged the truck through the narrow confines of the garage—a garage that had never been intended for fixing cars, something the Caretaker truly knew nothing about. He angled it to the right, careful as he passed the jackal-headed statue not to tip the scales, and rolled over the small length of curb so that he could get the hose from the old gasoline pump into the pickup’s tank. It was a long stretch, but it would make it. And the truck would need as much of the strange, green fuel as it could carry.

  There was a long road ahead of them.

  While Jack worked the gas pump, Ellen arrived with their stuff. She had taken the duffel bag out from under the bed they shared, pushed in a few sets of clothes and some things from the medicine chest along with the much-abused copy of Jack’s first book, The Sanity’s Edge Saloon. Under her other arm she carried the satchel with Jack’s laptop computer and thumb drives and hardcopy notes, careful not to bump it as she went down the narrow stairs. When she reached the truck, she placed both behind the seat in that narrow space common to old trucks, a space of no use except for storing small or crushable things. She stowed them wordlessly then turned to Jack. They traded a look that told the other what each had done, what was packed, what was ready; it was a look only couples understood; a kind of quiet telepathy. Out of politeness, Ellen asked what she already knew. “Is there anything else we need?”

  Jack looked up at the sign over the garage, worn black paint fading on dull white: The Last Stop. Regretfully, he answered, “I don’t imagine so. Except maybe some breakfast.”

  * * *

  They walked into the Edge of Madness Café for the last time, Jack holding the door for her, looking for all the world like any other couple on any other morning in any other roadside diner on any other road along any of the lines of reality that existed throughout the universes.

  Except that this one was theirs.

  Gusman Kreiger stood behind the counter, wiping it clean with a damp towel, a Cast Out no longer. “Good morning, Jack. Ellen. Can I get you something?”

  Ellen tossed the once Cast Out a sour expression. Jack said, “Breakfast.”

  “The booth in the corner is clear. Have a seat. Coffee?”

  The Caretaker nodded, and Kreiger turned away to the coffeepot while Ellen and Jack had a seat in the corner booth, she looking down the road they were headed, he looking out over a world of vast, open blue. Neither said anything.

  Kreiger returned a minute later with two steaming cups of coffee. He produced a small pile of creamers from the pocket of his apron, spilling the cheap little cups on the edge of their table. From another pocket he produced a pair of utensil sets, each tightly wrapped in a napkin. The coffee smelled richly of hazelnut. Kreiger smelled faintly of sandalwood and muslin.

  “I expect Jack would like biscuits with sausage gravy and a couple of eggs, sunny-side up. You’re a harder read Ellen. What can I get you?”

  “What do you have?”

  “That wasn’t the question.”

  Ellen fidgeted with a couple of the creamers, working them open and actively trying to avoid the Cast Outs strange, two-colored eyes, eyes that she knew could read her if she gave him the opportunity. “What kind of fruit do you have back there?”

  “I have honeydew.” If there were any other choices, Kreiger did not see fit to mention them.

  “That’s fine.”

  “Anything else? The biscuits are fresh. And there’s strawberry jam. Or can I get you something from the grill.”

  “No,” Ellen said curtly, swirling a line of sugar into her cup then stirring it determinedly with her spoon, wishing the Cast Out would simply leave. She still remembered everything that Kreiger had ever done, to Jack and to her. They would both be dead now if Kreiger had had his way. Forgiveness came from God, forgetting from feebs; she was neither.

  Kreiger nodded politely and stepped away.

  Jack’s hand reached across the table, covering hers. “Are you okay?”

  She nodded stiffly, still stirring the cup of coffee with her other hand, her stare captured by the swirling liquid. “It will be different, won’t it?”

  Jack looked at her, not understanding.

  “The world. It won’t be the same world as the one you and I left behind? Because if it is, I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to go back to that.”

  He gently squeezed her hand. “I promise you it will be different. Don’t ask me how; I honestly don’t know. But it won’t be the same. Take what pieces from your old life you like, and forget the rest. The world already has.”

  Ellen breathed out slowly, unaware until she did so that she was barely breathing as Jack spoke. It shook a little as it escaped her, and she felt her eyes sting. She blinked the sadness back quickly, and reached for her coffee, taking a long, slow swallow, savoring the aroma, the dark taste, the sweetness of the sugar, the substance of the cream. It was all good. It was all real. Why should it end? Why?

  “I thought you both might like some juice,” Kreiger interrupted, producing two tall glasses of orange juice. Then he turned, leaving as suddenly as he arrived.

  But it was long enough for Ellen to answer her own question. What place was there for them in Kreiger’s world? And somehow she knew that it was Kreiger’s world now, or would be very shortly. It was already done. Roll the credits so we can get the next film on the reel. Moving day had come, and all that remained was to lock the door behind them and leave the keys in an envelope in the mailbox.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Jack said softly. “But we’ll be okay, you and I. It’s taken me all of my life to finally realize that about myself, but I know we’ll be okay. We never would have made it here in the first place if the truth was anything other than that.” Then Jack looked over at the empty counter, Kreiger busy in the kitchen. “I left a thermos in the back of the pickup. I think I’ll fill up on some coffee before we leave. Maybe a cooler of pop, too.” Jack looked at her, the intensity of his gaze softening. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  She nodded. It was something of a lie, and she might have betrayed herself, but Jack would not pursue it; she knew him that well, at least. He would believe her because she wanted him to; that was enough for him.

  No more had the door closed behind him, when Gusman Kreiger returned. He put Ellen’s plate down in front of her, thin sections of honeydew melon arrayed in a decorative caterer’s spiral about a center point on the plate where a single fresh strawberry rested. He also set a smaller plate beside it with two fresh biscuits, still warm from the oven. “In case you change your mind.”

  She deliberately looked down at the plates of food, not letting her eyes acknowledge any part of the Cas
t Out. “You said there was strawberry jelly,” she said, not an attack or a complaint, simply a point of fact.

  “Actually, I said there was strawberry jam,” Kreiger said, reaching out to the middle of the tabletop and placing his hand flat upon the surface, then slowly raising it, drawing up a small jar of strawberry jam; an old magician’s trick, like pulling a quarter out of your ear … or producing manna from heaven, water into wine. The jam was homemade, a paper label pasted to the jar, the words strawberry jam scrawled in felt-tip marker.

  Ellen didn’t smile—it was too soon for that. “Thank you.”

  The Cast Out leaned back, knowing that Ellen Monroe liked her space, knowing she felt more comfortable when he was beyond arm’s reach,

  (knowing she knew nothing about how close he had been to her on the other side of reality)

  and said, “That reminds me. I have something for you.”

  Kreiger went behind the counter and took something from underneath, bringing it back over to her. It was a small, flat parcel wrapped in simple brown paper. She looked at it, then at him, suspicious of anything Kreiger saw fit to give her in Jack’s absence.

  “In case you change your mind,” he said with remarkable solemnity. “You can’t always find your way home, but at least you can find your way back. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to tend to some eggs. Enjoy the melon.”

  And Gusman Kreiger left.

  Jack came back in with the Styrofoam ice chest and the old thermos, heading immediately to the kitchen to look for ice. Neither he nor Kreiger spoke. When he came back out, he heaved the newly filled cooler up on the counter with a slushy rattle and started filling his thermos with coffee. He added a generous amount of sugar and some cream from a half-pint carton stored in the refrigerator. Satisfied, he resealed the thermos, shaking it up as he walked back to the booth. Ellen had already started eating. The parcel Gusman Kreiger had given her was beside her on the seat, out of sight.

  Kreiger arrived almost as soon as Jack sat down, carrying a plate of sunny-side-up eggs and biscuits with sausage gravy. He set it down before the Caretaker. “Is there anything else you need?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Jack replied. “We’ll be leaving after breakfast.”

  “I imagined you would,” the Cast Out said, and left them to eat.

  When they finished, Jack carried the thermos and the small cooler out to the truck while Ellen lingered at the booth, pushing the last of the melon about her plate. As soon as she heard the door close behind him, and knew she was alone in the diner, she opened the small parcel. Inside she found a compass crafted from tapped brass with copper inlays, the needle spinning around and around lazily in a greenish oily liquid beneath a polished quartz crystal. The compass rested atop a hardback book: Rivers Under the Sahara. She had never heard of it, but there was something about it, something familiar. She cautiously riffled the pages, seeing a myriad of pictures and hand-drawn maps pasted into the text, stories and dialogue and random etchings of symbols and images, copious notes jotted into the margins, the handwritten segments inked in bright blue. A liquid-crystal compass and a picture book of the rivers under the Sahara. She wasn’t sure what to make of either.

  You can’t always find your way home, but at least you can find your way back.

  Ellen carefully wrapped the book and compass back up in he crisp brown paper, and tucked it into the back of her jeans. Then she climbed out of the booth, leaving the Edge of Madness Café behind.

  * * *

  Chin resting upon her arm, Ellen stared out the back window of the pickup. They had not yet left the curb, and already she was feeling miles away from this place. Was it really this simple? Could they just drive away? The last time they tried to leave, it nearly cost them their lives. And now they were simply driving away.

  Behind them, Kreiger stood with his back to the edge, the worn-down heels of his boots inches from the void. The Cast Out—only that wasn’t really right anymore was it—had abandoned his cook’s apron, somewhere finding a long, ash-and-dust-colored coat instead. The same color seemed to have infected his shirt and pants, as if he had formed himself from the very Wasteland itself like some kind of elemental spirit, an avatar of dust and bone and death. His hair hung in lank strings of gray and cotton-white, and his eyes bored down upon her, one as blue as the distant, empty sky, the other as green as a cursed emerald from a Middle Eastern fairytale. He was smiling, hands clasped behind his back, watching them leave.

  Jack turned to her, his hand on the gearshift. “Is there anything we’ve forgotten?”

  “Probably,” she answered, unable to look away from the crazed wizard behind them, wondering why seeing him standing there like that should seem familiar. Wondering what it was he had given her, these strange tokens or totems or bits of his mad mojo, and what he had meant by what he said. His face revealed nothing: no secrets, no lies. Nothing. He was unreadable. “But maybe it’s for the best.”

  Jack leaned over and kissed her gently on the temple. She turned to him, and they kissed. “We’ll be okay,” he said, and Ellen believed him.

  She continued to stare out the back window as Jack started driving down the long, endless road, watching the signs turn illegible with distance. When they disappeared, all she was left with was the side-wall of the garage and its sun-faded advertisements, painted there in the hopes that passersby along the road—of which there were none; never had been, never would be—might read them. An ad for Osiris Coffee featuring a large blue-black scarab on a bright orange sun. Another sign, something dredged from the fifties and designed for the tourists vacationing in their American-built cars, showed a smiling cartoon sun shining down upon a quaint New England beach resort, black-lined letters asked: Do you know the way to Shell Beach?

  She did not.

  Below the sign, just around the corner of the garage from the antique gas pump, sat a worn statue of a three-headed dog, one head looking towards her, the other two looking to the left and the right. She did not know what this meant either. And still sitting in the sand across the street from the diner was the dream flyer, the one she had used to travel back across the river and the empty chasm of clouds and nothingness, the night-black sea of eternity. It was all growing smaller, growing more distant, fading.

  Ellen watched out the back window until the Edge of Madness Café was reduced to a shady speck in the distance, a tiny mote that might easily be nothing more than sun spots in her eyes, a mirage created by the heat.

  Then, finally, it was gone.

  Only then did she realize she was crying.

  * * *

  Gusman Kreiger, leader of the Tribe of Dust, the last of the Cast Outs and the first to ever force his way back into the Nexus, watched the red truck as it pulled away and started off down the road towards distant realities he did not know. He had an almost overwhelming urge to raise a hand in goodbye, but suppressed it by gripping his hands tightly behind his back. He waited until they were too far away to see his face, to see his lips move and wonder what he said.

  “Goodbye, Jack. Under other circumstances, we could have been friends.”

  But of course, that reality and this one were dozens of lines apart, and would not be recognizable except by the most adept. He himself could have seen it, of course. Jack? Maybe. Anyone else? Certainly not.

  And as Jack left, the door closed behind him. And the way was forgotten.

  It was almost done.

  Gusman Kreiger remained where he was, feeling the edge just behind his back, tucked up against the bottoms of his boot heels, beckoning.

  Not yet. No, not yet. Like Jack, he had no reason to take the last step—or was it the first step? —in that direction just now.

  Like Jack. How delicious was that comparison.

  When he was sure the truck was too far away to see, too far away to want to come back, he turned his gaze to the strange amalgam of cinderblocks, neon lights and chrome trim. And like a dream, the Edge of Madness Café faded and disappeared, taki
ng everything with it. Only the single, needle-straight tower remained. The focal lens. The Nexus. It was eternal; its shape might alter, but it would never simply be dismissed. As for everything else, it was gone. Even the roadway Jack and Ellen had left on. There was only barren sand as far as the eye could see, an endless expanse of bone-white desert below an endless blue sky.

  And the dream flyer. Kreiger kept that. You never know when a good dream flyer might come in handy.

  But everything else he wiped away. It was time to start afresh. No more preconceptions. It was what stifled the artists who had been trouping here for centuries, one after another, each one taught the other’s mistakes so that he could repeat them to his own successor. A long line of cosmic errors and paralytic thinking that culminated in trials and tests and tickets for what was never meant to be withheld save by the person who thought themselves unworthy of its blessings. Jack had broken all of that apart, revealed what had been forgotten so long ago that even Kreiger himself had succumbed to the amnesia, selective loss of detail, the blindness of distant time. Algernon was an idiot; the only thing the myopic imbecile had actually done right was to find Jack Lantirn. Kreiger himself had similarly been a fool; the only thing he had done right was to push Jack to the very edge of reason, forcing him to the limits of his own mind.

  Once there, Jack had finally realized the truth: there were no limits save those he imposed upon himself. And so he broke free.

  And now they were all free. Free to start over. Free to start again.

  Behind him, something clawed its way up from below the edge of reason, pulling itself hand over hand into the solidity of new reality. When it gained the plateau, it straightened, standing nearly half again as tall as the magician, something resembling a demon of legend, Icelandic mythology, stout and powerful and horrific. Huge horns sprang from its forehead, thick as a rhino’s tusk, and flanked by a smaller, sleeker pair that curled up behind them. Its mouth was a gaping maw of thick teeth and enormous fangs, its brow a ledge that hid its blackened eyes beneath a permanent scowl. Its hands were large and clawed. Its feet and legs resembled the base of two trees that had quickly tangled together into a powerful knot, muscles like boulders, sinews like steel cables. Coated from head to toe in a coarse, dark hair that spared only its enormous genitalia and blackened penis, it leaned towards the magician, lowering its head until its gaze was level with him, hot breath snuffling in and out.