Then he discovered he was still fully clothed — not one garment removed. He was as dry as a desert. He rolled off the bed, but failed to stand. He saw Charminus’ heaving breasts above the blanket line. The light overcame him. He crept along the carpeted floor.
Shag, he thought and didn’t know why he noticed, except he grabbed its nap, and pulled hard, which slammed him to the floor. He promptly fell asleep, thanks to the local vintage.
2
Bing bong. Bing bong.
Harris opened his eyes in a flash. He felt the ground move — a gentle sway. He monitored for the sound heralding the next station. But he wasn’t in a runaway subway car. He was plastered on Charminus’ bedroom floor. The bing bong was his imagination. The room’s brightness had faded. The walls reflected silvery motion, obscuring movement outside the house. Had Mortis House been swept off by a tornado? Was he heading for Oz?
He was moving, or at least Mortis House was in motion. He sat up and peeped over the blanket mound to see his passionate captor, but the bed was empty. He hoisted himself up. He was still fully clothed. Perhaps all this was the aftermath of the bad Potato Latkes. Or . . .
He glanced to the bed stand. Two empty goblets set there, a testament to the Corzanthe. The flask was gone. Had he glugged down more of the stuff? Was the motion a Corzanthe hangover? He ruled out nothing. He ached and felt bruises beneath his shirt. He searched the room for his seducer, when he remembered he had somewhere to go.
“MTV,” he muttered.
He staggered to the door, which he expected to be locked. But he twisted the knob freely, and escaped to . . . to where?
The hallway, once downright Edgar Allan Poe, had transformed into something more appropriate for the Starship Enterprise — a steel corridor drifting into infinite. He couldn’t see the end. He was on a balcony still, but the staircase had become a spiraled ramp, something from Frank Lloyd Wright’s drawing board. The serpentine banister was still draconian, but had turned white with gold stripes punctuating the scaly segments.
“I should have brought my skateboard,” he mused. He scratched his head. “That wine was pretty potent.” He took a cautious step. “I think I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole.”
Perhaps the local vintage should have come with a Drink Me tag. Harris’ grounding in children’s fairy tales and The Magic Planet sets kept panic at bay. Any other mortal would have raised their hands in terror, screamed like the proverbial painting and ran to the edge of . . . of where? Infinite? Eternity?
“There must be a better explanation than booze,” he muttered, grasping the dragon’s back and continuing his descent. “Booze and a subway ride,” he said. “That’s all it is.”
He didn’t believe it, but, like his audience, he had mastered suspending disbelief. It was all illusion, after all. It was the only life he knew.
Suddenly, two eyes stared up at him from the downstairs foyer. It was . . . the Trone, that lovely being with the long tresses, the purple band and the ability to float like a feather. She appeared startled when their eyes met. She diverted hers, bowed, and then withdrew.
“No, wait,” he called, hastening down the ramp. “I need your help.”
That burst illusion’s bubble. Fear crept into his noggin. Denial fled to the rafters, if rafters there be. Still, he pursued the evasive woman to the dragon’s head, but she was gone.
“Wait,” he said.
Suddenly, he jolted. The house halted, throwing him into the walls. The light changed from muted green to surreal yellow. He heard exotic music — no, not music, but rain. No. Not rain, but water flowing. Had this house the sonority to lull the senses as much as the wine had? What a strange place. It wasn’t the place he had entered before his hop in Charminus’ monstrous bed. Still, he was here.
“I know that sound,” he mused, his eyes widening, drawing up his lip corners. “The sea.”
He went to the door and touched the knob, now an exotic latch. Upon his touch, it made a familiar sound.
Bing bong. Bing bong.
The door slid open, revealing the bluest of blue skies. The old El had vanished and, with it, the tombstones and the gray porch. Instead, a stone ramp cascaded from a pink veranda onto a beach — and beyond the strand, as broad as the world is round, rolled a turquoise sea.
Chapter Six
Plageris on the Bottleblue Sea
1
“I’m not in Kansas anymore,” Harris muttered as he descended the causeway.
A warm breeze caught his cheek and he smiled. A blend of anxiety and peace filled his heart with — a tug which kept his eyes fixed to the glorious seascape — a seascape slightly off the beam.
“Not Coney Island,” he said.
How could it be with a pristine strand and tropical sea? He tasted brine in the wind, which beckoned him to take a dip. But restraint ruled him. Was he daydreaming or on an unexplainable trip to Bermuda? He walked backwards, keeping an eye on Mortis House, the Victorian monstrosity, which had been transformed to match the setting, its foundations buried in pink sand. A veranda, smooth and brightly stucco, blanched under a steeply-peaked roof — a modern pyramid, defying time reference. The gables swept into the dune wall like a cornucopia sprouting cascading blossoms and creeping vines.
“Must be a dream,” he said, waiting for his dead Uncle Andy to show up and offer him a job as a chorus girl.
Such were the composition of dreams — Caribbean visions raised on the shingles of a caretaker’s shack, now devoid of tombstones and rusty gate and clattering El line. It had all the ingredients of undigested bits from Happy Pings.
“No, not Coney Island nor Kansas,” he muttered. “Maybe peyote buttons in the bottom of the Corzanthe bottle.”
He shook his head and shrugged, resigned to the dream’s entrapment. He turned, continuing his progress toward the sea. Pleasant. It could be worse. He could be dodging lava flows on Kona. He strutted across the sand, heat pulsating through his shitekickers. Soon his socks would be foot warmers. However, shucking his boots could mean their loss. In this dream, they might turn into fuzzy slippers. No time for impulse. He had to get a grip.
Harris had been on beaches before, but never a deserted one. The place didn’t feel real, but he wondered how real felt? This world was one-off. One-off what? He reached the water’s edge, the tide slicking beneath the sky’s luster. He shaded his eyes, glancing skyward.
“Holy crap.”
He staggered, his jaw held in suspense. Above blazed two suns, near to each other like twin firebrands, except one was smaller than the other, as if the larger gave birth to the smaller. Harris longed for sunglasses. His vision danced; eyes playing tricks only to be compounded by the sighting of three faint moons, He spun around looking for more oddities, if anything could top these. The moons, sizes and shades, were pastel impressions — artifacts in the day sky where they couldn’t compete with the two gas balls.
“Not possible,” he snapped.
He scratched his head, laughing to himself, continually gazing up, hoping the sight would change. If he saw nine suns or a three cows jumping over the moons, it would at least confirm this as a dream, but the double stars held fast and the satellites lumbered faintly in their wake. He kicked the slick and moved back to the sand, marching toward the edifice which once had been Mortis House. Suddenly, he halted. He detected movement on the periphery.
“What the fuck is that?”
Birds hopped along the shoreline; at least they looked like birds. Gulls, but not quite. These were smaller and blue, with red eyes, one leg and spiked crests, which could have been antennae — not like any gull he had ever seen before — even on the Discovery Channel. Cautiously, he approached, observing as these blue gulls pecked through the mud, dining on what Harris supposed were worms. These bugs slithered like lumps in gravy on the water’s margin. The birds whipped their antennae about, snapping and swallowing a wiggling wriggling meal.
One blue gull turned its attention away from the pecking and plucking. It
studied Harris, and then hopped on its single leg toward him.
“Shoo,” he said. The bird was determined, hopping closer. “Shoo! Fly away. Whatever the fuck you are, I’ll kick your ass if you come closer.”
The bird didn’t understand English. It sprang forward, landing near Harris’ right foot and proceeded to attack his shitekickers. While this appeared to be a fruitless mission on the bird’s part, its beak couldn’t be underestimated. It had a thrust, breaking the instep’s shell.
“Shithead,” Harris barked. “Go ‘way, or I’ll stomp you good.”
The bird ignored him and pecked again. Harris saw interest rising from the flock. He had to stand his ground or he’d lose a toe at a minimum and who knows what if the blue-feathered gang went berzerk.
Harris raised his hands like a crane (a move he recalled from The Karate Kid) and squawked. The gull froze and squawked in reply, perhaps incited the flock. Harris danced about, stomping and contorting his face like a teenage zombie, a part he played a few years back in music video for The Underground SOBs. The bird attacked again.
“Aggressive little bastard.”
The other hoppers bounced toward him, so Harris converted the squawk to a Peter Pan howl, and then spun about like a lunatic loose from the asylum. It did the trick. The idiot bird sprang away like a blue feather ball on a pogo stick. The remaining flock arose, protesting in unison, but Harris continued his corny dance. If anyone saw him now, they would have called for the white jacket brigade. The one-legged wonders whooshed off over the sea. Harris whooped and yelped, mocking them, flapping his arms and cantering down to the slick. Then he took one final run at them, forgetting the creepy bugs slithering in the tide. His boot hit them, sending him flying like a novice ice skater flat to his ass.
“Fuck!”
His hands met the worms and the creepy crawlers and the pincer earwiggy things. He moaned, and then pushed up, slipping again, sliding until he reached purchase in the sand. He scrambled backwards, all the while flicking hideous creatures from his pants and boots. One got as far as his face.
“Fuck! Get off ‘a me!”
He flipped it off and slapped his cheeks a few times, breathless. One final check to confirm he was critter free.
“Stupid bugs.” He gazed over the waves at the retreating gulls. “Idiot birds.”
And two fucking suns and two extra moons. He panted.
Dream or not, he wanted out. He didn’t recall any dream that physically attacked him. Well, he did, but he woke up in a sweat before anything harmed him. Now he just had the sweat. He began to realize there was no waking up, because this wasn’t a dream.
“And where’s Charminus?” he muttered. “Why isn’t she down here doing the bunny hop with me? I’m a star, after all.”
Then he regarded the double star — two gas balls, dancing the hokey pokey for all he knew with a suite of phantom moons hanging like lanterns on a back lot over a marmalade beach with CGI birds. Harris Cartwright didn’t feel like a star now. He felt in trouble. Then another flock caught his attention.
2
These birds flew over the sea in a V-formation.
“Pelicans.”
He was sure. He had seen pelicans at Fort Lauderdale during Spring break. But these pelicans were odd — larger than their Floridian cousins. As they came nearer, they cast massive shadows over the waves. Their bills were double-pouched. Fascinating. However, as Harris observed them amble across the sky, he noticed they headed his way, aiming for the beach. An idiot gull flock swirled beneath them like dive bombers.
“Shit,” Harris croaked, backing toward the house.
It might be prudent to get in out of the way of . . . of what? An attack of killer pelicans, lumbering like B-52’s on a bombing raid. The lead beast squawked and flapped its wings on a beeline to Harris. He was glued to the spot, oddly, his mouth agape — heart racing. He was transfixed to the hot pink sand.
Perhaps this is my purpose. Bird food.
Then, from the sea’s depths, a massive jaw arose, clamping the point pelican, snapping it from the sky. The bird screeched, its companions winging away. The jaw’s long teeth viciously ripped its victim apart, the pelican squawks ceasing. By its length, this creature must be a sea serpent. Mottled brown, it cut the waves like a torpedo, its tail swiping the idiot gulls that hovered for morsels of the beast’s quarry. Harris had seen a creature like this one in a painting — in a coffee table book on prehistoric critters. Dumbfounded, he sat on the sand, ignoring the bugs.
“A mosasaur,” he muttered, remembering the monsters name. “But how?”
The giant crashed through the sea, its hump displacing the waves. Pelican blood tinted the foam to pink. The flock turned from shore and the idiot birds scattered, the feast having concluded.
Harris shook his head. Flabbergasted, he had enough for one day. He’d get his bearings, get in the house and find Charminus or perhaps the lovely floating being — the Trone. He’d thank everyone for funny wine and the strange sex. He’d insist on a hitch back to the El and the bing bong and the gum-chewing inquisition in the world he knew.
He managed to stand, watching the sea dragon jumping the waves — a leviathan, noble in its way, but not a great attraction for a seaside resort. This certainly wasn’t Coney Island. Slowly, he screwed his courage and walked toward the incoming tide, this time staying clear of the creepy crawlers. As he watched the mosasaur, he felt strange — as if being watched. He thought about Charminus. He turned quickly, expecting to see her on the veranda, but was surprised again. Watching him was a man with blonde curls and sideburns. He wore an emerald green cloak and a kilt.
“I would not venture too close to the waves,” the man said.
“Who are you?”
“A friend,” he replied. “I thought you were venturing too close to the drink, my boy. That would never do. This strand is nasty, but nastier if you venture into the water. Never into the water.”
Harris cocked his head. Unbelievable. Who was this fool? Where did he come from? The house? Nothing surprised him now, because he stood in a place with two suns, three moons, blue gulls, carnivorous pelicans, creepy crawlers and a sea serpent. There was bound to be other wayfarers on the path. But this stranger, despite the ludicrous garb, was British — and not your Tony Bentley-Jones Eastender, but someone posh — a Kenneth Branaugh knock-off.
“Excuse me,” Harris said, marching toward the intruder. “I’m not that stupid.”
“I did not say you were, dear boy.”
“Why are you calling me dear boy? I’m not a boy and there’s nothing endearing about me. I’m fucking pissed off.”
“And who can blame you? Certainly, not I.”
The man raised his hands in a welcoming gesture. He might have been ten years older than Harris. Behind him sat a strange contraption — a round canister platform. Harris wasn’t in the mood to ask, but the friendship offer couldn’t be ignored, regardless of form.
“A friend, you say,” Harris snapped. “If you were my friend, you’d get me the fuck out of here. I don’t know much about the effects of drugs — especially that Corzanthe shit, but I do know when it wears off, you and everything else in the loony world will be gone and I’ll wake up in a back alley with my pants wrapped around my head.”
“Now that is a fallacy, dear . . . Well, a deep fallacy.” The man frowned, but then cocked his head. “Despite your inclination to the contrary, this place is a reality. True, it is different from our realm, but you shall acclimatize to it. Eventually.”
Harris didn’t receive this news in the spirit intended. He shook his fists.
“I don’t buy it.” He pointed to the sky. “And why am I seeing double — triple even. What happened to the old ramshackle house that stood there? And what was that thing in the water, and . . . and . . . who are you?” He trembled. “And where’s . . . the . . . exit . . . out of this dream?”
His shout resounded to the sky, scaring the blue gulls. They matched his yelp with yelps o
f their own. The man shrugged, and then approached cautiously, probably to comfort Harris.
“Firstly,” he explained. “You are not seeing double, unless you consider the double-star of this realm unusual. But, of course, you would. I did when I first was drawn here.”
“Drawn?”
“I shall tell you in a bit. Not all at once. Preliminaries are necessary. As to the creature in the waves, it is a misancorpus, although I heard you call it a mosasaur, and that is close enough to understand it if that is your reference. I know no such reference, but I assume time has marched on and such things are discovered daily. Misancorpus grow to over one-hundred and forty stone, they do. I must say, they are not bad eating — at least the few times I have had the pleasure. As for Mortis House, it is still there — changed, no doubt. But take cheer, it shall change again.”
Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1) Page 6