He stood and watched the spectacle for some minutes. It was impressive, enigma or otherwise. At times he almost thought he caught glimpses of people or places he recognized, but the visions were so fleeting that he couldn’t be sure it wasn’t merely his imagination at work. He realized he was looking at the world’s—possibly the universe’s—largest cinema screen. He couldn’t honestly say much for the plot, but the camera work and effects were compelling, especially given that cinema was still in its infancy in Tragacanth.
Aspet didn’t see any way to go forward or much point in retracing his steps, so he sat down with his back against a tree and stared at the barrier itself, rather than at the images moving periodically across it. It was smooth and featureless on first inspection, but as he swept his glance back and forth across one particular area something geometric caught his eye. It disappeared utterly during the color flashes, but in the interval between them it seemed as though he could make out a vague rectangular outline, about a meter above ground level and slightly to the left of his position.
He stood up and walked toward it. As he approached to within five meters or so of the wall, however, the intensity of the images suddenly increased and the color flashes came much more quickly, to the point that they were almost continuous. He lost track of the anomaly in the heady visual overload. He backed up until the strobing returned to its former tempo and recalibrated. He scanned the barrier until he located the rectangle once more, memorizing its position relative to his own by triangulating it against distinctly-featured trees. Once more he approached the wall.
This time Aspet forced himself to ignore the light show and focus on the spot where he’d seen the outline, glancing back at the forest every so often to verify his targeting. He reached out and touched the barrier for the first time. The color and light seemed to flow through him like electricity; the images burned themselves directly into his brain. He jerked away involuntarily and stood for a moment, disoriented, temporarily blinded, and gasping for breath.
When his vision and composure had returned, he retreated a few steps and stared at the spot where he’d made contact. The rectangle was now plainly visible, outlined in black as though a door leading into a darkened room had been pushed open a few millimeters.
It was the closest thing to an exit from this place he’d seen, so pursuing it further seemed the logical course. Trouble was, he didn’t think very much of the idea of coming in contact with that barrier again. It was just too much for even his sack-of-bricks goblin physiology to handle. He looked around and remembered that there was a forest only a few meters away. Aspet disappeared into it and reemerged a minute or so later carrying a limb-sized limb.
He broke off the smaller branches and twigs until he had a manageable tool not completely unlike a meter-long section of staircase bannister. Approaching the barrier somewhat cautiously, he moved the limb into position and jabbed it at the center of the embryonic opening. At once he was hit full force by the same sensory overload blast as before. Obviously the native timber was not a good psychic insulator. He stepped back and tried throwing the limb at the door. It simply bounced off, scattering bark in all directions. The bark pieces shattered on impact, like fine glass. They made a loud crunching noise when Aspet walked over to pick up the log and have another go.
9 Resourcefulness.
Several minutes and quite a few heaves later he’d made some small progress, but he could tell it wasn’t going to get him an open door any time soon. The only thing he could think of to do was to go back into the forest and look for a larger battering ram. He turned toward the trees and took three steps before a voice suddenly rang out. It was thin and ethereal, but quite clear nevertheless.
“Allow me to assist you, goblin.”
Aspet spun around to see a bipedal figure floating in the air near the door. It was less powerfully built than a goblin, and disturbingly smooth-skinned. The wraith pushed open the door with one hand and extended the other palm down, gesturing toward the resultant gap in the barrier. Aspet paused, and then approached the newly-created portal. He stopped short and stared up at it. “Thanks for the help, whoever you are, but how am I meant to get up there? Do I climb up and crawl through?”
“I suppose you could,” answered his benefactor, doubtfully, “But I’d recommend taking the stairs.”
“Stairs? There aren’t any stairs.”
“Yes, there are. You just can’t see them. Over here.” He pointed to a spot about two meters to the right of the door.
Aspet walked over, a little skeptical, but the skepticism evaporated painfully when his shin banged into something hard.
“I told you there were stairs here.” The spectral voice sounded annoyed.
Aspet stood on one leg for a moment, rubbing his sore shin. “So you did. Silly me for doubting that there were invisible stairs leading up to a mysterious door in a giant cinema screen that blasts passersby with psychic jolts. It’s so obvious to me now.”
“Well, at least your sense of sarcasm is intact,” replied the visitor wryly. “That’s good. I suspect you’ll need it in the future.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing and everything.”
Aspet rolled his eyes. “I hate it when people answer my questions with smekking riddles.”
“Sorry. It’s the nature of the beast, I’m afraid.”
“What sort of beast would that be? And while we’re at it, who are you?”
“I’m your doorman. Your escort, as it were, to the other side.”
“The other side? What, am I dying now? “
“No, no, I merely meant the other side of the barrier. Through the doorway.”
Aspet let out a tiny sigh of relief. “Well, noble escort, have you a name?”
“I have several names. Were you looking for any one in particular?”
This was beginning to get annoying. “How about I just make one up? I’m thinking ‘Captain Evasive’ fills the bill pretty well.”
“Ooh, a promotion. Now I’ll have to upgrade my doorman’s uniform.” He shimmered a little brighter for a moment, but not long enough for Aspet to make out any real details. “If it will make you more comfortable, you may call me Plåk.”
Aspet considered for a moment. “No, I don’t think that would make me feel any more comfortable. I’ll stick with Captain Evasive.”
Plåk chuckled. It was a very strange sound, like hearing the wind laugh. Aspet found it even more unsettling than his ghostly appearance. “Knock that off, will you? You’re giving my goosebumps the creeps.”
“Very well, goblin. Now, ascend the stairs and pass through the door. Try to avoid coming in contact with the barrier itself, though.”
“Yeah, I think I can groove on that,” answered Aspet, “My last couple of encounters were something less than pleasant. By the way, my name is Aspet.”
The strangely spooky sound of spectral giggling filled the air once more. Aspet shook his head and tromped (carefully) up the stairs. He collapsed himself into as narrow a profile as a well-fed goblin can present and inched carefully through the doorway, trying his very best not to touch any piece of the barrier as he inched. Rather than a simple portal through a narrow wall, however, Aspet found himself facing a corridor that stretched off into distant grayness.
He stepped into the passageway a little hesitantly. Nothing happened. He walked a few more steps and jumped when the door closed behind him. He resisted the urge to grapple with the knob for a couple of reasons: first, he didn’t want to take a chance of experiencing those visions again; second, there wasn’t any knob.
The hall was dark, but not pitch-black. It seemed wide enough for several goblins to walk abreast, not that there were any other goblins around to test that hypothesis. He was alone, as usual, which made him a little irked when he remembered what Plåk had said. “I am your escort to the other side,” muttered Aspet bitterly, “Some escort.”
“I beg your pardon?” came a voice from the directio
n of the ceiling, “I believe I’m doing a perfectly marvelous job. You haven’t gotten lost yet, have you?”
“Lost? In order to be lost, presumably one must first be found. That’s not a condition with which I’ve been afflicted in quite some time, so no; I suppose you couldn’t really call me lost.”
“Ah, see? I’m a stalwart escort. I’ll have you there in no time.”
“Where, if I may ask without regretting it, is ‘there?’”
“Tragacanth. Your home.”
9 Determination.
Aspet was silent for a moment, taken aback by the linear reply. “Just when I’m all set for some circular logic or oblique riddle, you have to go and give me a straight answer.”
“I’m simply jam-packed with surprises. Like this one, for example.”
Without warning, the floor of hall dissolved into liquid and Aspet found himself vigorously treading water.
He sputtered and jerked his head around this way and that, looking for Plåk. “Hey, Captain Evasive! You don’t happen to have a boat handy, do you?”
Ethereal laughter floated across the water, but this time it was more of a slightly evil chuckle. “I’m afraid I’m not that sort of captain,” Plåk answered, “Fortunately for you, it isn’t far to the shore.” Aspet found the concept of a hallway having a shoreline a little difficult, but he was grateful when after a moment of scanning that very topological feature hove into view. He made for it, splashing madly with the peculiar, rather violent, swimming stroke favored by goblins, the gob-smack. A few seconds later he pulled himself panting onto the slippery, slimy, vaguely malodorous beach mud.
As the viscous muck drained slowly from his ventral scales, Aspet huddled on the water’s edge and spoke to the circumambient air. “So, you’ve stalwartly guided me into a river and now a meadow full of mire. I can hardly wait to see what new and execrable destination awaits me next. Forgive me if my recent trauma has created some false memories, but I seem to recall some mention being made of Tragacanth.”
“As it fortuitously turns out, Tragacanth is where you are now.” Aspet looked around suspiciously at the featureless gray landscape stretching out to the horizon in all directions. He shuffled through his mental index cards for a moment. “Sorry, I don’t believe you. I’ve never heard of any part of Tragacanth that looks like this.”
“Perhaps this will refresh your memory,” replied the spectral voice. An oval object suddenly appeared in front of him. He plucked it out of the air and examined it. It was metallic, with a fine filigree pattern covering one side. He turned it over and realized with a shock that it was...a mirror.
Aspet awoke with a start. His neck was stiff and his head stuffed with cotton, as though he’d been drinking heavily the night before. He thought back, but couldn’t remember any recent celebrations that would have necessitated significant razzle intake. His mind was a blank for a few seconds, and then suddenly the dream hit him all at once, a neural tsunami crashing ashore without warning. He struggled to a sitting position, but the dream was passing in front of his eyes so rapidly and in such vivid detail that he lost situational awareness and was unable to make it any further. All he could do was sit there, arms stiffly braced on the mattress.
Finally he rolled out of bed and staggered to the kitchen for a very large gourd full of stankabru. He needed it after last night. He couldn’t remember at the moment what he’d had for dinner the previous evening, but as soon as his memory returned whatever it was went on his ‘do not eat before bedtime’ list. That dream was totally weird and completely different from his usual nighttime cinematics. It was as vivid as the memory of a recent trauma, and showed no signs of slipping into the oubliette of vague, misty recollection where the vast majority of his dreams ended up by the time breakfast was finished.
Aspet had never really been a devotee of the ‘dreams mean something’ school, but then he’d never experienced a dream of this clarity before, either. It had taken control of his mind in a way he found highly disturbing but completely irresistible. He sat in his breakfast nook and stared vacantly out the bay window into a small vegetable and herb garden he maintained as much for relaxation as thrift. It was beginning to rain; the droplets ran down tall reddish plant stalks and hung glistening from their leaves as tiny liquid globes. They looked like planets to him: entire worlds where countless creatures passed their lives and died, unaware of and unconcerned about all the other droplets around them, or the larger world beyond.
He shook his head and frowned. He never used to see things that way—what was wrong with him? Was the dream somehow involved? He got up to pour himself another gourd of stankabru. He was seeing everything a little differently this morning. Even his trusty ol’ bru gourd seemed to have taken on a new dimension since yesterday. He saw textural details and tiny irregularities in the handle he’d never noticed before. As the steaming stankabru took hold and nudged him fully awake, Aspet realized that everything within his field of vision was clearer, more ambiguous, and less easily explainable than he remembered. He’d heard that certain pharmacologically-active substances could have this effect, but two facts kept hammering at him, militating against the theory that he was under the influence:
1) He didn’t recall ingesting any such substances; and
2) He didn’t have the munchies.
As the day wore on, he found himself wandering aimlessly around his house and grounds, puttering with this and that but unable to concentrate on anything but the dream. The unwavering monomania was really getting to him. He unwittingly reviewed every minute detail of the night’s events over and over, until he was ready to scream. Aspet finally decided to go online and try to get his mind on something else before he plunged precipitously over the frigid falls into incapacitating insanity.
It was waiting for him in his inbox. The message. He’d gotten some pretty odd messages since he announced his intention to try for the throne of Tragacanth, but this one was just...out there.
To: Asp37!cholinergia!goblinopolis
From: RCLiaison!FerrocLoca!CoME
Subject: Oneiric Profile Exam
Congratulations. You have passed the final qualifying examination for ascendancy to the Throne of Tragacanth. Your tournament will be held at 0900 hours three days hence at the Royal Network Operating Center Tournament Hall (South entrance). Please be there by 0800 hours for judging briefing and security checks.
Your disentanglement trigger is Fimbolu lagra premnalb
It must be activated orally, and repeated thrice.
Sincerely,
Faxol Brokk
Royal Candidate Liaison
Tragacanth Council of Mages and Engineers
Oneiric profile exam? What the smek did that mean? He hadn’t taken any sort of exam. In fact, it had been awhile since he’d even heard from CoME or anyone else associated with this Royal stuff. It was weird that he’d spent so much time and effort honing his mad skills and preparing mentally for this, the challenge of his life, yet suddenly it all seemed so distant. That damned dream was sucking his psyche dry. He glanced down at the message again. What was that globber about a ‘disentanglement trigger?’ Aspet felt himself getting irritated at the sheer paucity of explanatory information in this communication.
After a brief but frantic search he located a disc containing the extensive collection of docs he’d been given when he attended the Seminar. Scanning the table of contents scored no hits, but after a global search using the right string, this popped up:
At the conclusion of the Oneiric Profile Examination, a trigger phrase will be supplied which should be repeated slowly and clearly out loud three times to disentangle the examination implant from the candidate’s subconscious mind. This procedure must be carried out within one diurnal period of the exam termination or the subject will risk severely diminished mental capacity.
Rereading this part several times oddly did not help to form any cogent mental image for him. He saw the words but found it increasingly difficult to comprehend t
hem, as though they were changing into a foreign language right before his eyes. After a few minutes it seemed prudent to stop trying to understand the nuances and just concentrate on absorbing the gist. Even this seemed more and more hopeless. Finally some small nugget of intellect holding on to a tiny shred of awareness fixated on the words “fimbolu lagra premnalb” and began repeating them in his head, over and over. A mental struggle between this bizarre phrase and the swirling juggernaut that was the dream ensued, driving him even closer to the edge of non compos mentis.
Aspet closed his eyes as tightly as he could, scrunching down until his face sported one long wrinkle across the ocular axis. He made a monumental effort to suppress the dream just enough to bring the phrase his brain was chanting at him into focus so he could grab it. Succeeding for a fleeting moment, he began to mouth the words, quietly at first, but louder as he gained confidence.
Fimble lagga premal....fimbala laggar premnob...fimbola lagra premnal...fimbolu lagra premnalb...fimbolu lagra premnalb...fimbolu lagra premnalb!
A loud snap reverberated through his skull and suddenly the dream was gone. Totally. No trace. As though it had never happened.
Aspet sat in stunned confusion. He was relieved at suddenly having control of his mind handed back to him, but the sucking hole left by the dream as it was ripped out of his consciousness gave him a wicked case of mental nausea. Except he couldn’t make it better by throwing up. He put his head in his hands and took deep breaths, instead.
Goblinopolis, The Tol Chronicles, Book 1 Page 17