The others all sipped their drinks, save the Sister of Monsters, who looked at the viscous red liquid in her glass and produced an expression that looked like a pre-vomit face. “What is this?” She swirled the liquid, releasing a distinct coppery smell.
“It’s your favorite,” Frau Iver crooned.
“I hate it.” The Sister of Monsters shoved the glass away. It overturned and released an oozing torrent onto the table.
“Little brat,” Baba Vedma said at full voice, even though she had meant to whisper, and she struggled to keep from hissing through her jagged teeth.
“What happened to her eyes?” The Puppeteer asked.
“What happened to the Dottore?” Baba Vedma countered.
Everyone shrugged as the Sister of Monsters went to the Innkeeper to ask for a glass of milk. The table grew silent once more. The Innkeeper set a glass of milk on the counter and then waited for the Sister of Monsters to climb onto a stool before returning to her cleaning. Droll Mary and Paroxysm laughed heartily at a corner table. Baba Vedma suddenly asked, “What do we do now?” making the table sigh wearily.
Frau Iver sipped her glass of wine; then she dabbed at her mouth with one of the cloth napkins set around the table. “We should assess the situation. List the clues we have and make some assumptions about what to do next.”
“As good a plan as any.” The Toy Peddler was still waving his empty glass, but the Innkeeper was too engrossed in taking care of the sweet little girl at the counter to notice. “The Innkeeper sure has changed.”
“That is one clue,” the Puppeteer chimed in. “She used to be a man, gruff and smelly. Now, she’s a woman, incredibly clean and…girly.” He pulled the bonnet off his head and cleaned up the red liquid with it.
“The Dottore changed.” Frau Iver nodded to the corner table. “He used to be nearly as scary as Baba Vedma, but he just appeared to me in the Gloaming Woods and brought me to…”
Paroxysm sobbed loudly.
“Her.”
Paroxysm wailed and pulled at her hair. Droll Mary began to comfort her.
“I thought ye said she replaced him.” Baba Vedma’s tone was more accusatory than she intended.
“I thought—well, maybe—but that doesn’t seem likely,” Frau Iver said. “It’s just that she’s, well, she’s confusing…frustrating.”
“Yeah, what’s up with that?” The Toy Peddler asked.
“That’s Paroxysm. She has mood swings,” Frau Iver continued to sip on the last of her wine. “Whenever you get a minute there, I’m parched over here.” The Innkeeper waved dismissively in her direction as Frau Iver continued, “She’s a weepy, sobbing mess one minute, and the next, she’s so excessively angry that I…” Frau Iver shuddered. “Then she’s aggressive, then sad; then she’s wailing.”
“‘Tis very annoying.” Baba Vedma looked at her own empty glass. “Drinks!” she shouted at the Innkeeper, who jumped and started pouring fresh drinks.
“It is,” Frau Iver agreed. “The Sister of Monsters seems to have changed a bit.”
“Yep.” The Toy Peddler looked at the counter, where the little girl held her glass with both hands and concentrated on not dribbling down her dress. “She’s just a normal little girl now.”
“So, she be useless.” Baba Vedma grabbed the glass the Innkeeper offered, sloshing her beer onto the table. The Innkeeper frowned at the brown stain that started to flow into the red stain.
“Harsh, but true.” Frau Iver finished her wine and then took the fresh glass the Innkeeper left. “I suppose we should make a formal vote to induct Baba Vedma into the Council of Aspects.”
“What? Why?” The Puppeteer tried to stand up but stopped as the Sister of Monsters started to cry because she had spilled a drop of milk on her dress. The Innkeeper rushed to her aid, dabbing a clean napkin at the offending stain. “Yeah, I get it.”
“All in favor?” Frau Iver asked, and the Puppeteer and the Toy Peddler both said aye in unison. “Opposed?” The table was silent. “Then, welcome to the Council, Baba Vedma.”
“Great,” Baba Vedma said, tilting her glass toward each of the Council members in turn. “Ye all decide to promote me durin’ the worst crisis in all of Creativity. Typical.”
“So, we are at full strength again,” the Toy Peddler said. “What do we do now?”
“We need to see the other Aspects,” Frau Iver stood and paced around the table. “All of them.”
“All right, groups of two this time?” The Toy Peddler asked as he finished attending to his wounds. The angry red slashes renewed themselves, and his face returned to normal. “Who’s going where?”
“Baba Vedma and I will go see the Origamist while the Puppeteer and the Toy Peddler find the Angler.” Frau Iver turned her wine glass up and guzzled the contents as Baba Vedma nodded her approval. She sat the empty glass on the table. “Shall we?”
The new Council left the Inn, and the Innkeeper took the opportunity to remove the stained tablecloth and replace it with a fresh one. She then checked on the remaining customers. Droll Mary was still comforting Paroxysm, who was still alternating between laughing and crying. The Sister of Monsters was curled up under a table crafting dolls out of napkins and silverware. She surveyed the room and came to the conclusion that there needed to be more pink.
Chapter 37
Matt paused in his storytelling to listen to the talk outside. The doctor, a nice young woman whose name had escaped Matt, was talking quietly, but not quietly enough, to Mrs. Hensley.
“That is a danger, yes,” the doctor answered in response to Mrs. Hensley’s question about permanent brain damage. “The more immediate concern in the pressure on the brain. The operation helped, but the pressure is still building. We need to find a solution soon or—”
Mrs. Hensley’s sobs interrupted the consultation, and Matt breathed wearily. He looked at John’s bandaged head and imagined the pressure within, seeing it as a swelling bulk of energy, a storm of mental power that needed to be released.
“We just need to get all the stories out,” Matt said, patting his friend’s arm just above the strips of tape holding the IV in place. He often stared at John’s eyes and watched the little movements there. Sometimes there were circular motions, and other times, there seemed to be some near-blinking occurring. The doctor had said that was normal, just a good indication of brain activity, but Matt could see the difference. He knew that certain movements meant John was listening. Little shifts and jerks behind the lids. That’s what Matt was looking for.
“Matt?” Mrs. Hensley’s voice was hoarse and frightened. “I need to go sign some papers. I’ll be right…” Her voice dropped out, and Matt watched her close the door slowly, her hand over her mouth.
The hospital staff always brought around the paperwork. There was no need to leave the room, to leave John, but Matt stopped the critical thoughts. She needed a break. He understood that. It had to be difficult on her. Her only son was…
“We can do this, John,” Matt said and watched for eye movements. “We can get you back. I know we can.”
The clock continued to tick on the wall where he fastened it. The sun was making its way across the sky. The world continued to spin, and Matt began to speak again. “There were many Aspects who were not part of the Council, but only very few of those were powerful enough to effect change. One of those, the very essence of change itself, was the Origamist.”
Chapter 38
The Origamist
The room was silent, where the Origamist sat and worked, save for the click, click, click of fingers on the computer’s keyboard. The wind outside bent toward the house but dared not brush against the wooden planks, so the air silently passed by. The sun arched overhead but refused to dip below the horizon, choosing instead to sit precariously on the tip of the highest mountain in the farthest distance, an extended twilight rife with last-minute possibilities.
The Origamist continued to type code as deep and full as any ever written. The symbols and let
ters and numbers that flew from his fingers wrestled the system outside the house into a semblance of controlled chaos, but that was not nearly enough. The Origamist’s fingers picked up speed, and the code became more complex with more corners and folds than ever before.
This would be his master code. The culmination of his life’s work. The greatest art he could achieve. And it would be finished…click, click, click…now. The Origamist sat back in his chair and looked at his finished work. He saw the twists and turns that formed the bones, the body, the shape of his creation. It was beautiful, elegant, a wonder to behold. The Origamist smiled a slight smile; then he implemented the code.
Nothing moved inside or outside the house. The world froze for just a moment, compiled strength; then…the world exploded with color, vibrant, alive, vivid color. When the light faded, she stood in front of him. Her hair was electricity barely contained; her hands were light beams woven into form; her face, her face was the promise of perfection.
The Origamist’s smile fluttered, stretched, and became something much more. “Do you know me?” he asked.
“I know your work.” The woman’s voice sizzled and sparked like her hair.
“You know your own code?”
“No, I know your work.”
The Origamist stopped smiling. He frowned in concentration and looked at the computer. The code was still there. It was still more powerful than he had ever dreamed. It was still complex and perfect and…changing. He leaned forward and watched as the code shifted, altered, became something he had not intended.
“Do you see?” The woman sizzled in his direction.
The Origamist looked at her and then back at the screen. The code was bent, folded in on itself, twisted at odd angles. It was…everything and nothing at once.
“How is this possible?” The Origamist asked, his hand timidly touching the computer’s screen.
“All is possible within Creativity.” The woman’s voice sparked and flared before giving way to the silence of the newly arrived nighttime.
Chapter 39
Newly Acquainted Old Friends
“Don’t get me wrong: me love for little paper animals be as great as anyone’s,” Baba Vedma said as she followed Frau Iver through the mists that suddenly encompassed the entire Woods. “But truthfully, how be the Origamist of help to us?”
Frau Iver turned, a look of slight shock etched on her face. “His power of Creation,” she said as if it was the most obvious answer in the world.
“Aye,” Baba Vedma acquiesced. “I be understandin’ that, but he only creates little paper animals. I don’t rightly see the benefit.”
“Paper?”
“Aye, paper.” Baba Vedma saw the confusion spread along Frau Iver’s indistinct features. “You be rememberin’ his story differently?”
“He works in code.” Frau Iver paced back and forth along the length of the path.
“What? You mean to say that the paper animals represent somethin’ bigger than themselves, like they be a symbol?”
“No.” Frau Iver whirled to face Baba Vedma. “I mean he works in computer code. He can write code that then can be translated into the world. His creations are temporary, but they are extremely useful.”
“What the hell be a computer?”
“Wait.” Frau Iver suddenly became very animated. “You don’t know what a computer is?”
Before Baba Vedma could answer, a strong wind blew out of the Gloaming Woods. It filled their ears and nearly lifted Frau Iver off the ground. It was a sudden gust, an angry, tempestuous disturbance that ended as quickly as it began.
“Forget computers. What the hell was that?” Baba Vedma held Frau Iver’s arm while she steadied herself.
“I’m not sure, but I think we should hurry to the Origamist.” Frau Iver centered herself for a moment and then began a brisk walk toward the clearing she knew was just around the next bend in the path. Baba Vedma fell in line behind her. They made quick work of the path and entered the clearing.
“That be not…” Baba Vedma began as she saw the silver and glass A-frame house in front of her. The mirrored surfaces reflected all the light beaming down from above, creating a glow that permeated the entire clearing. “Where be the quaint little house?”
“The what?”
“The Origamist’s house.” Baba Vedma was becoming more agitated as she began to inch closer to what appeared to her as a monstrosity of glass. “This be…this be completely wrong. The Origamist be a traditionalist. He lived in a raised wooden house. It had paper walls that slid in different directions. He could make rooms where none had been or get rid of rooms he no longer desired. ‘Twas stupid, mind ye, walls made of paper. Not the most practical buildin’ material, but ‘twas…elegant. This…this…thing be abominable!”
Frau Iver looked past Baba Vedma to the glass triangle that formed the Origamist’s house. It was exactly as she remembered it. The smooth angles, the sharp point of the roof, the glistening exterior. It was as it had always been. “There was a different house? Are you sure?”
“Of course I be sure.” Baba Vedma was suddenly tired. “I been here a hundred times, maybe more. ‘Twas always warm and welcoming, not this.”
Frau Iver looked again. Baba Vedma was right. The mirrored glass structure, even with all the reflective light, was cold, sterile…unnatural. “Let’s go see the Origamist. Look for other changes.”
Baba Vedma was shaking. Frau Iver returned the favor from before and held Baba Vedma’s arm until she felt more steady. They walked to the door, a solid piece of polished steel. Frau Iver’s misty finger jutted out and pressed the black button next to the door. A chime rang out inside.
“What be that?” Baba Vedma exclaimed.
“The doorbell,” Frau Iver said quickly, astonished at Baba Vedma’s question. She looked at the old woman, who simply shook her head and shrugged, her face a perfect mask of confusion and her eyebrows asking what a doorbell was with just the correct lift beneath them to impart the question most effectively.
The door whispered open, and a young man, barely old enough to grow a wispy mustache, stood in the entrance.
“Origamist,” Frau Iver bowed low. “We need to speak with you.”
“That be not the Origamist!” Baba Vedma asserted. She stepped back and looked frantically around her. “The Origamist be an old man, impossibly old, like a person made of leather. His house be wood, not metal and glass. He made the sweetest little animals out of paper.” Baba Vedma slumped to her knees, weeping sobs erupted from her throat. “He be my friend.”
Frau Iver rushed to her, but the Origamist was suddenly by her side. He knelt and took Baba Vedma’s aged hand in his own youthful one, bent level to her ear, and whispered, “I am still your friend, dear Baba Vedma, if you will allow it.”
The wind whipped around them suddenly. It shot errant leaves over the glass roof, creating a funnel of angry air above the glistening house. When the gust subsided, a rain of leaves, crisp and withered, fell in steady, soft intervals, blanketing the two newly acquainted old friends.
Chapter 40
The Angler
He reeled in the fishing lines and tied off the nets. The sun was dipping into the horizon; the day was ending. The ocean current was peaking and ebbing as the night approached. Soon, the temperature would drop, and the wind would become chill. He headed toward home, the wind and the dying sun at his back.
The dock beckoned, and the boat went to rest easily. The Angler slid into his own bunk just as easily. Sleep came quickly. The long day was over.
The dream involved falling. He found himself in the air, no specific reason for being there, no way to be somewhere else. He fell. The ground approached far too quickly. He wasn’t afraid; instead, he was resigned. The end would be…
The dream shifted. It now involved his teeth. He was standing in front of a mirror, looking intently at his open mouth. He lifted a finger to his front tooth and wiggled it. The tooth flapped back and forth before falling a
nd clinking into the porcelain sink. Then the rest of his teeth began to fall. He held his hands to his chin and tried to keep the teeth from falling, but there was no…
The dream became a crisp autumn day. He was walking through the Woods. The leaves were brilliant colors, reds, oranges, and yellows; and he was happy. The air smelled earthy and full of promise. He knew that the winter would not be as dangerous as before. He was more settled, stronger; he would face the cold, dark days ahead with dignity and a desire for…
He dreamed of snow. A blanket of whiteness nestled amid frozen trees adorned with icy ornaments. The weakened sunlight shot through the watery prisms all around and glowed like the light of a thousand tiny, weaker suns. The air was heavy, pushing on his lungs like a sinker attached to a line much too light for its purpose. But the cold was nothing next to the weight of the memory of…
Space engulfed him. The stars and planets floated in the ebon ink of nothingness while he whirled about the universe, unable to distinguish up from down, left from right, forward from backward. He tried desperately to orient himself, to pick a planet and determine the North pole from the South, but it was no use. He couldn’t identify even the simplest directional orientation. There was nothing to do but spin, alone in a vast…
He awakened. His story was never complete, never finished, never neat and tidy, but there was a phrase, a simple phrase full of finality, that echoed through his memory. He opened his mouth to sigh, and the phrase spilled out: “It’s all changed.”
Chapter 41
A Small Corner of Creativity
“Something shifted, just now.” The Puppeteer’s hollow voice broke through the sounds of birdsong and whispering winds.
“A change? What was it?” The Toy Peddler asked.
“I’m not sure, but it’s big.” The Puppeteer sat on a fallen log just off the path and bent his head to rest on his wooden hands. His knobby knees barely provided enough surface area for his lumpy elbows to find purchase. Yet he somehow managed to adopt a thinking position. Now, all that was left was to think.
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