by Earl, Collin
He pushed this thought aside, and found that as soon as he allowed that concept to take root inside of himself, belief welled up from within. He marveled at what an extremely curious revelation it was to suddenly believe. He felt a hand squeeze his shoulder, and turned to see Dawn smiling at him with the proud expression of a mother gazing at an obedient child.
“You’re learning,” said Dawn in a quiet voice. Monson smiled back. Again, words were not needed. He could actually feel Dawn’s emotions, could feel them coursing towards him. They were exciting and familiar, yet oddly foreign and scary as they flowed through him.
These feelings triggered his reminiscence; he examined the feelings closely. They felt like they were probing him and were almost exactly like the one that assaulted him when he first arrived at Coren. He viewed that thought with embarrassment, contemplating the emotion and misstep that caused the scene with Kylie. How could he have forgotten? Monson’s mind reeled as he focused on that episode. Was that incident because of Dawn that day, too?
And a better question yet, who was Dawn?
Regardless of what the experience of probing light may have meant, one thing was for sure: Dawn may look just like him at the moment, but he was very different from him. To Monson’s surprise Dawn smiled at him with a knowing expression, but shook his head slightly.
Monson fought the sudden urge to throw his arms around him and thank him for his concern.
“What do you think we’re dealing with?” asked Monson, walking over to a glowing, unfinished portion of the Tower’s wall. “I have a feeling we’re missing something incredibly obvious in all this.”
“Do not look at me. I am as stumped as you are.” Dawn reached out his hand to touch the glowing space.
“Dawn, are you a reader?” An idea had suddenly occurred to him.
“What’s that?” asked Dawn.
“A reader—someone who likes to read…like books?”
“Monson, this seems like a poor time to engage in idle small talk,” replied Dawn with a puzzled look. “What does that have to do with our problem here?”
“Sorry. I was thinking about something Grayson said about seeking truth in one of the most invasive ways. When he said that it reminded me of a conversation I had with Casey. I didn’t really give it much thought at the time, but I find that conversation haunting me suddenly. Casey told me once that while fantasy stories are fictional writing, they are often the most honest—because they tell some truth about the writer himself.”
For the first time Dawn stared at Monson in utter bafflement. Monson pushed forward.
“Let me explain. I asked Casey once where he got his inspiration for his screenplay. He said that much of it came from pieces of other stories. Casey also mentioned that additional inspirations for stories often come from the dreams of the author, and that these dreams are a glimpse into the heart. He went on to say that the heart is where truth—universal truth—resides and that’s why fiction might be the truest form of writing. Now this is the crazy part: What if Grayson believes what Casey does—that dreams hint at this truth of the heart? What if the reason that he reads all those books is that he’s trying to find that truth? Basically, my theory would be this: Grayson is looking for the complete truth of the heart, which is scattered among fiction books, in an attempt to gain insight to these other worlds.”
“It is an interesting theory. Do you have anything else to go on?”
“Take us up a floor,” said Monson after a moment of trying to remember the exact layout of the building in front of him. He closed his eyes. “There is something I want you to see.”
Monson smiled inwardly, grateful that Dawn was with him. If he had not come, Monson would have had to find a way through the glowing portions of nothingness that littered the Tower’s face. Not that he was terribly worried; he felt confident that whatever the substance was, it would not hurt him, but he did not want to take that chance on his own.
They touched down in front of a very large mural of a being with long, shiny dark hair and feminine hands. And, most conspicuously, a huge angel-like wingspan many feet across. Monson took a step back and inhaled deeply as warmth tingled his senses. He was not sure what had struck him about the image in that moment, but seeing it up close made it feel much more real to him. Apparently, Dawn felt the same way, as his awed expression mirrored Monson’s. Dawn stared at the painting with a look that Monson could not begin to understand, and for some reason, he felt right now probably was not the time to ask.
“What do you see?” asked Monson, trying to act as if he had not noticed Dawn’s behavior.
Dawn gave a shake as if he was coming out of a deep reverie. “I do not really know; some sort of being that has wings, I guess.”
“Exactly. If you open any of the most common religious texts from around the world one of the first things you’ll read about is the heavenly beings known as angels.”
“Yeah, so….”
“Stay with me for a moment,” said Monson, and then all at once he started talking very fast. “The day that Casey told me about dreams and storytelling, I have to admit, I really had no idea what he was talking about. But that, in conjunction with Grayson’s ‘truth,’ that has to be it, and I think this angel fits into that theory. Grayson was trying to gain insight to the truth, whatever that may be, through the dreams of others.”
“You are going to need to explain that one.”
“If this hall is as old as Grayson’s grandfather thought it was, it’s probably one of the first structures built by intelligent hands. I thought the first time I saw this that it might be a replica of what someone saw in a church or religious building. That this might be one of those underground places of worship the Christians used before Constantine the Great converted to Christianity in the fourth century. But what if it’s the other way around? What if it’s that this Tower existed before and is instead copied in other historical writings or works of art?”
Dawn’s jaw dropped as he finally realized what Monson was getting at. Monson just looked sheepish as Dawn stared at him. “So you actually think that a being like this…”—Dawn pointed towards the painting—“could really exist?”
“I don’t know,” answered Monson, shaking his head. “But prophets of old had dreams or visions and claimed them as truth. What if those prophets had contact with an actual being like this one, one of flesh and blood like you and me but one who displayed powers they couldn’t understand. These men and women simply wrote about what they saw in the context of what they understood—that these beings were from God or were God himself. If that was the case then the mystery we have here is not any different than the Alien/Human Creation story that is so popular right now. Ancient people, humans, whatever were transplanted here by aliens. Think about that in context for a moment. Primitive humans saw this amazing advanced technology and thought that those who wielded such power obviously had to be divine, when they were in fact nothing of the sort.”
Monson paused briefly. “So let’s pretend for a moment that aliens actually placed us here thousands of years ago. In modern day, because of history, time and translations, the meaning behind the original words of our ancient authors are lost. Study of the culture and the writings of people provide insight into the heart and true meaning behind the words.
So let’s relate that back to Grayson. Grayson isn’t searching for the meaning of ancient writings of early humans; rather he’s hunting for some kind of obscure truth he believes to be located in the dreams of others. The dreams provide insight to the world around them as they connect to some greater truth, since dreams are perceptions of the dreamer’s reality. Grayson’s theory is that the books of those dreamers provide insight into those dreams.
“I still don’t think I understand what you are saying.”
Monson considered his train of thought. “ Simply this: Grayson takes the dreams of other people, and attempts to find truth in them. He believes that the dreams are windows to the soul and some sort of u
niversal truth can be found there.
“Universal truth? But to what end?” Dawn asked.
“I could be wrong…but I think the Being of Seven Bloods.”
Dawn opened his mouth then stopped. He looked genuinely speechless. “I do not even know the question to ask next.”
Monson understood the sentiment. “This is all a bit much to take in, I know. I don’t know what’s possible or impossible, so I don’t think it’s smart to limit myself, regardless of what I think to be true. But let’s put that discussion aside for a moment. What I was really trying to say is, if there is any merit to what Grayson is trying to do, I think I may have figured out where we are.”
“Well, give me the punch line then.”
Monson took a deep breath to steady himself, then plunged forward with his theory. “There was this one particular scene in Casey’s screenplay that I was thinking of. In that story, the main character, Alex Cherish, is pursuing the bad guy around a museum in New York with help from his friend Uncle Velvet. They tried to move around without arousing suspicion but were upset when they realized that the bad guys had given them the slip. These bad guys had lost Alex and Uncle V after ducking into a room with no windows, no doors, and no place to go.”
“I think I know where this is heading.”
“You’re sharper than I am, then, because I had no idea. In the next chapter, they realized that the bad guys were using books as sort of a path to a kind of false world.”
“And you think that you have been sucked into a book?”
“Not exactly, I think that the power within myself, or the magic that resides in me, took what it found in the journal and brought it to life.”
“How in the name of all the gods in heaven did you come to that conclusion?”
“The missing portions were the key,” said Monson, looking towards a section of glowing nothingness not far from where they were standing. “The magic can only take you so far. It was able to get us to this point because it used what was in the journal as a reference; actually it gave us more. There are feelings in this place; feelings that aren’t mine and that I can’t relate to, but they are there nonetheless. I think this magic not only recreated visuals from the writings, but perhaps implanted the intent of the original author, Grayson’s grandfather. However, it can’t create what’s not there; hence, the missing portions of the total picture and the odd sporadic movements of the men down below.”
“But why are we here then?” asked Dawn.
“I think that’s the easy part. It was because I was so desperate to know what this all meant. My emotions, my true emotions that seem to be rooted to some deep part of my inner self, made it all possible. I was able to access the chamber because of the way I felt. It’s a funny thing what these concoctions of feelings can do. Belief, knowledge and truth are truly affected by them.”
He paused. “Or maybe it is the other way around.”
“Amazing,” said Dawn, bringing his hands together as if he were a teacher congratulating a student. “Absolutely amazing, Monson Grey.”
“So I’m right?” asked Monson in an excited voice, finally feeling that his crazy world was starting to make some sense.
“I have no idea,” answered Dawn smiling. “But it all sounds very good.”
Monson had to admit, that rained on his parade a bit. But the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. If there were another explanation, it would be hard-pressed to fill in the holes like he just did. Dawn spoke up.
“So now that you understand what ‘here’ is and how you got ‘here,’ why are we ‘here’? What is so important about guardians that you need to recreate all this?” Dawn asked, pointing to the Tower and the surrounding area.
“Now that’s the question, isn’t it?” said Monson, refocusing his attention back on the angelic figure. He gazed at it intently. “When I see this, it makes me feel like there’s more to all this than just me. The word ‘guardian’ implies that someone or something is guarding, and if I’m who Grayson thinks I am, then that would imply that I’m what’s being guarded. But why, and from what? And what about that final entry in the journal? A simple picture with a bunch of random symbols. Of all the things that Grayson’s gramps could have told us, why that?”
“I give up,” said Dawn. “I do not know any more than you. Actually, it is kind of depressing that you are working this out more quickly than I am.”
“But how can you not know? Weren’t you the one who brought my guardian up in the first place? You wanted me to tell my guardian that the initial gate was breached.”
“Yes, well, it is kind of hard to explain. I have these recurring thoughts in my head telling me to do certain things and keep you from doing others. My form, for example. I do not know why, but revealing my true form would be dangerous for you. Whenever I think about doing it, a powerful feeling stops me. I do not know what exactly to make of all this. I hope we can get some answers at some point, but I do know that you are important to the future, that many things have been done for your -sake, and that I am here to protect you.”
Monson was taken aback by this declaration. He considered this for a moment. “I don’t know that we can do much more without further information.”
“It would appear that way,” said Dawn, taking a deep breath. “Before we go, there was something I wanted to talk about….”
“What was that, Dawn?” asked Monson, turning back towards him. “I didn’t catch that last—” The sight of Dawn’s face stopped Monson mid-sentence. Dawn’s eyes rolled into the back of his head just as his body started to go limp. Monson screamed out as he suddenly understood.
“Dawn!”
Monson tried to reach for him but stopped as he felt a sudden shift in the stone landing that he was standing on. Before he knew what was happening, the magical world he had suddenly been thrust into began to dissolve around him. It had been an experience unlike any other, and Monson’s heart felt heavy as the images that had been so real melted in a burst of energy-infused light. As the light and chunks of magically created material rushed towards Monson, he had the fleeting thought that this was probably what aliens in outer space experienced. He laughed. He hoped this would not hurt.
***
Monson awoke suddenly. Something cold was dripping down his head. A sharp pain shot violently through his muscles as his consciousness stirred. Images of the magical hall sprang to the forefront of his mind as he remembered Dawn and the revelations of the day. He moved his body slightly to get a feel for his surroundings when he realized that he was lying down and that he was shirtless. He felt very cool but at the same time felt like a hot poker was being lightly drawn across his skin. It was this sensation that brought him out of his vegetative state. He could no longer fight it. He opened his eyes.
“You’re awake, I see.” Grayson’s voice sounded in the dimly lit room.
“Where am I?” Monson’s dry, husky voice cracked as he spoke.
“Hold on.” Grayson placed his hands on Monson and, despite being confined to the wheelchair, helped him sit up. “You’ve been out for four or five hours and your fever finally just went down. Here, drink this.”
A cold glass touched Monson’s lips and he drank deeply. Cold, clean water laced with mint soothed his dry mouth and throat.
“What’s going on?” Monson looked over at Grayson, who was sitting in his chair smiling gently. His vision was still adjusting; he could hardly see.
“I was hoping you could tell me.” Grayson placed the glass of water in Monson’s hand. “Do you remember what happened?”
“I remember we were talking about some myth and that somehow I’m supposed to save the world, but after that it gets a bit blurry.”
“Well, before I explain, to illustrate you should look around.”
“Illustrate what?”
Grayson put up a hand to silence him, then a single finger. He pulled out some sort of remote, which he pointed at the wall. Suddenly the lights came on.
&
nbsp; “Oh, my...” Monson said in disbelief. The room appeared as if a small tornado had landed and hung out for a while. Grayson’s books and posters were ripped, tattered and torn. His computer was on the floor; the screen was smashed. The chairs and tables were contorted to the point where they resembled modern stylized art. Large gashes in the walls looked as if beefy men with axes had gotten drunk and mistook the wall for a really obnoxious tree. Clearly, something terrible had happened while Monson was asleep. He lowered his gaze, unable to look at Grayson. Grayson just smiled.
“I’m quite all right,” said Grayson, reading the look on Monson’s face. “You don’t have to worry. I don’t remember the last time I had such an evening.”
“How can you say that?” asked Monson angrily. “I did this, didn’t I? Whatever happened to me when I touched that journal caused this destruction. You could have been killed! How can you be so calm?”
“Don’t worry, Monson. I knew something like this could happen. I don’t claim to be an expert in magic or know what you are. But I do know that you are important to the future and if I have to die for you in the process, so be it.”
As an almost-involuntary reflex, Monson’s hand slowly rose and covered his eyes. What in the world was he? What was he doing in this world if he was not a part of it?
“I know that you’re confused,” whispered Grayson in an attempt to calm him. “But you aren’t alone. And I’m not just talking about myself, either.”
“What do you mean?” asked Monson, looking up at Grayson. “Who else knows about this?”
“That’s not what I meant,” said Grayson with a slight headshake. “You’re probably wondering how I remained unharmed while my room looks like its contents had a close encounter with a very large blender.”
Monson paused, working through Grayson’s words. Now that he thought about it, Grayson did not appear to have any conspicuous injuries, and apparently he had been taking care of Monson for the better part of the afternoon. Maybe Grayson was more powerful than he was letting on.