���Her Majesty volunteered herself,��� Asa continued. ���And she would not be swayed. She said that, ‘This was the clearest route to finding her husband, and if it would need to be by the hands of giants, then that was what was required.’ ���
���Oh, I can’t imagine,��� Barbara said aloud, as she stepped over a patch of loose gravel, along the thin and narrowing foot trail.
���Yes, well, our King knew full well that even that would not be enough to appease them, and that giants do not very often keep true to their word, unless pressed to do so. And thus, given that knowledge, and by the King’s orders, we had already chopped a large enough hole in the back wall of the city to lead the horses through, by the time the first wave of hail fire fell. And what did not burn on its own accord, we lit with fire, and escaped westward, concealed within the black thick shield of smoke and ash, and by a lingering dense blanket of fog.���
Timothy spoke out from his place in the rear of the line. ���What I don’t understand though is, how did you know to come save us? Seems kind of lucky, don’t you think?���
���Oh, yes. I’ve skipped that part, didn’t I?��� Asa said, taking a bit of cooked dragon meat from his pouch, for it was nearly lunch time by then. ���It was decided, that I, as the most seasoned huntsman in the regiment, would follow the Queen’s captors at a safe distance, and would report her whereabouts afterward, if I could not easily secure her myself… Which led me then, on a back route up the mountain, and I’d nearly overtaken them, when I heard the far off cries of a lady in dire distress, and so I came as swiftly as I could… and the rest you know,��� he ended with.
���Huh, is that right?��� Timothy said, mostly to himself, and grinning slightly.
���What is it now?��� Barbara asked, not entirely liking Timothy’s now familiar boyish grin.
���Oh, it’s nothing,��� he answered back. ���I was just thinking how we’d both have been roasted alive and eaten by a dragon, if you hadn’t been such a foul jumper,��� he smirked slyly.
���Oh, shut it, will you?��� she said, and pounded him, good and hard in the arm.
Not particularly ladylike of her, to say the least, but she was very sure he’d had it coming.
In the relative shelter of an open cave, by the warmth of a meager coal fire, Asa sat up with them late after nightfall, recounting the histories of Gleomu, but only so far as their written histories would account for, which in their case only allowed for roughly eight centuries of known history. These were the stories of a dynasty of kings, and great battles against distant waring nations, and the construction and fortification of Ismere. And all the while, Barbara seemed to delight in Asa’s every word, like there was no other thing more interesting she’d have liked to hear about.
But Timothy, however, who’d had a natural inclination to history, especially military histories, he began to get a foul taste in his mouth, and grew sick to his stomach, so that he could not stand to even listen, after a short while. His forehead began to pool beaded drops of sweat. And Asa was the first to diagnosis it; He was ill, and what a sorry place for it.
���Was it the dragon meat?��� Barbara asked, while folding a wet cloth over his brow.
And to that, Asa replied, that it was possible, but unlikely that that had anything to do with it. (Howbeit, if I might interject my thoughts about the matter, I would say that given Timothy’s eating habits, while his grandmother was away: How he ate almost nothing but whole custards and tart pastries, and drank only milk, it’s a wonder he had not become violently ill much sooner.)
That being said, it was a bitter cold night for Timothy, in the cave, even with Asa’s extra bedroll blanketed across his shoulders.
When the sun arose, it was suggested that Timothy should be left in the cave with supplies, enough for his remaining time in Gleomu, and that Barbara and Asa would go on without him.
However, Barbara, as a mark to her kindness, said she couldn’t stand to leave him alone, not with dragons and giants, or whatever other foul thing might find him. Likewise, Timothy also would not bear to be left out of the mission. And so, because of their protests, they went along the now rockier trail, at a quarter pace, giving Timothy plenty of opportunity for rest, and more than his fair share of water rations.
And although it may be crude to mention, Timothy, who’d for a long time prided himself on his digestional integrity, and an iron clad constitution, did begin to vomit around midday. And, as a result, has ever since been unable to stomach even moderate portions of dragon meat (which is especially good in soups, if you care for such a thing).
His thigh muscles and knees ached, his joints felt both stiff and warm, if that could be possible, but at last they came to an opening in the trail, as a wet snow began to fall in full flakes onto their faces.
���Finally,��� Timothy said hoarsely, throwing his arms wide and letting the largest flakes melt against his boiling forehead. But he soon began to cough, deeply and grossly, and found it hard to stop.
Their path widened considerably, and as they crested over the top of a small hill they noticed they’d come into what seemed to be a shallow valley, with low walls surrounding it, like the crater of a moon. They continued on for what felt like an eternity. Until the sun had faded into dusk, and the pale condensed moonlight hit upon a very peculiar sight indeed.
These first grainy beams struck upon a house, only a stone throw’s distance away from them, the light from the moon reflecting off it like a mirror, or a pool of water. And then the full structure came into view, as if it had appeared as a ripple out of thin air.
���Dear me,��� Barbara gasped. ���Any darker and we would have passed by this house entirely.���
And then Asa spoke up, as they all stopped to take in the sight of such an elaborate, two-storied stone house, strangely positioned in the center of miles and miles of ravenous sinister mountains.
���I’m not so sure of that,��� he said.
���What do you mean?��� Barbara asked.
���As I see it, we’ve been walking along in this odd valley since before sunset, and how is it that we’ve only just now seen this strange building?��� Asa explained.
���You mean like… an invisible house?��� Timothy said frailly.
���Just the sort, dear prince,��� he replied. And then to himself, ��� …Or a house that can be invisible when it wishes.���
And then Asa spoke these words, which made apparent what should have been plainly obvious this entire time.
���What curious place is this?��� he said, as they kept their gazes upon that now visible house, with its meticulously trimmed lawn behind a rod iron gate, and the familiar welcoming glow of lamp light in the upper glass-paned windows, and the tasteful stone moldings and cornices near the entryway.
And it was at just that moment that Timothy, even as sickly as he was, and Barbara both, had realized a simple truth. To them, this was not a curious place, to them it was exactly what they might expect from any respectable english estate. And to them, both coming from wealthier parentage, it was something that they had seen so often that they’d hardly taken notice of it anymore. But to Asa, who was not an Englishman, to him this was an entirely peculiar residence, unlike any he’d ever seen.
This was a house of Earth. And with that realization, Timothy’s head began to swim, and his eyes blurred their focus. The exhaustions of the day, and of the previous night, had finally overtaken him. And the last thing he could hear, echoing and fading into a thick darkness, was Barbara’s expression of shock.
���Oh!��� she gasped, trying to reach for his head before it hit the hard sanded ground.
Darkness.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Awaken
His eyes squinted. Little fingers of warm sunlight peeked through the dense blood-
red and gold woven curtains. A moderate flame burned in the fireplace, and a cold rag was rolled upon his forehead.
He was wrapped up snuggly in an embroidered feather blanket, but startlingly and most disturbingly, was an unfamiliar old man and a metal spoon in his face. The old man spoke, and the words mushed inside Timothy’s memory, ���Eat this. You must eat. You’ll feel better, I assure you.���
But these words drifted and quieted in his mind and were lost in the place of dreams. And darkness, once more.
In the morning, he awoke to a spectacularly wonderful and properly made up bedroom quarters. His pillows sunk in like clouds, and he was both comfortable, and noticeably and gratefully warm. But that was soon hard to fully appreciate, being that his stomach began to growl loudly, for he had not eaten.
This unexpected situation was both familiar and unnatural, pleasant and yet strangely unsettling.
���Where is everyone?��� he thought to himself, as he slid into a pair of fur lined slippers that were set out for him.
And he began to rehearse in his head the events that had led him to this point: First Hrim, and the cliff, and then the dragon, and Asa, and the invisible english home. Upon examination of the room, he found that both his satchel and his sword had gone missing, and he felt at first ashamed for letting them out of his sight, but had soon realized that that had been unavoidable.
And so, given his newly unfortunate situation, he did what he thought to be the only reasonable course of action. Stoking an iron fire poker into the hottest coals in his fireplace he waited, and still famished and utterly weak from having been so sick, he crept out that beautifully carved door, and down the elegantly carpeted hallway, his footsteps hushly silenced inside furry house shoes. Paintings from all corners of antiquity hung upon the walls as he lightly stepped down the wide illustrious staircase, with a high stained-glass window, and with a blazing hot fire poker held up and ready to strike at any fiend who might dare attack him.
Which given the present setting does sound silly, but you must remember that they had not so long ago been tracking the horse prints of an obvious enemy, who had watched with displaced apathy the burning of Hrim, assuming every soul in that city to have perished in a restless, unquenchable fire, and who had taken his grandmother away, captive, and this might very well have been that enemy’s hideout. And, to be true, an enemy’s lair is an enemy’s lair, no matter how comfortable or fancy it might appear.
Once down the stairs, he heard a rattling sound ricocheting off the marble floors and high coffered ceiling, and not a loud sound but a discernible and casual noise; Timothy heard pleasant conversation. And then, strangely a voice he’d thought to never hear again, with a chuckling wobble in the way that he spoke, as if he were always laughing, or never without a joke.
���Oh, oh… and tell them, Darius, if you will, about how you’ve got here. It’s such a remarkable story, and I know I’ve grown rather found of hearing it,��� said the voice of his grandfather, Wilbur.
Timothy let his hot iron poker dip to the ground, his defenses had been almost instantly broken with shock. His grandfather, whom he’d thought to have been dead for nearly a year, was now alive, really alive. Stepping forward, as if drawn uncontrollably, he came quickly into a festive and lavishly prepared dining hall, in which three sizable tables were pressed together to form a ���U��� shape, and covered over with goblets and silver serving trays, grapes and hams, hard-boiled eggs, and juices and porridge oats. And there at the tables were Barbara, and Matilde, and his grandfather, Wilbur. All seated around, and presenting their full attention to a slender and stately old man, who was most obviously their host, and who had been just about to begin a story, before Timothy had barged in to break the mood.
���Oh. You’re awake,��� the old man said, as if a blink of unsettledness had just blown through his mind, but that he had quickly brushed aside.
���Good morning, Tim,��� Barbara almost shouted, welcoming him to have a seat, at that bountiful table, next to hers.
This was perhaps the most pleasant Barbara had ever been to him, and so Timothy could not help but to stare, pondering for a brief second at why she had been so uncharacteristically cordial. And in so doing this, Timothy set his now much less heated fire poker down on the marble floor by his new chair.
���Where are we?��� Timothy asked, pulling up to the table.
���Well, at my house, of course,��� said the old man, as if that had answered it.
���Yes, yes, Timothy,��� his grandfather spoke up, while cutting through a slice of baked ham. And looking down at his plate first, he said, ���This man here, is Darius D’Moncure, as good a scientist and an Englishmen as you would hope to meet.��� His grandfather finished, chuckling peculiarly.
Timothy scratched on his chin, and through his hair, trying to get his brain around this thought.
���So… you’re not a prisoner, here?��� he asked.
But his grandfather did not answer right away, though he hardly could have, because of the way that Darius had interjected himself, leaning forward and placing his hands on top of the center table, for he had been standing.
���No, no. Don’t be silly… have you ever heard of such a thing?��� Which caused such a strange laugh to go up from the group.
And Matilde, who was seated across from he and Barbara at the other table, in a seat pushed up closely to Wilbur’s, she said very convincingly, ���Ha! No, child. We’re his guests.���
And although this had seemed to be the most ideal turn of events, it had also felt strangely eerie. Which is possibly why Timothy began to ask this next question.
���How long was I asleep?��� he turned to ask Barbara, who looked blank faced, as if she were trying to remember something told to her.
���Since…��� she began to say, drawing out her words.
���Since yesterday,��� Darius interrupted, helping her along.
���Oh yes, that’s right. Since yesterday,��� she answered more confidently. ���We’ve just arrived last night.���
And that is when Timothy remembered something, so vitally important. ���No,��� he said scratching his head, and then pointing at the old man. ��� …but weren’t you in my room yesterday?��� he asked.
For a flash of a second the old man’s eyes appeared to shift, as if taken by surprise, but then he smiled reassuringly. ���Oh no, of course not, that was this morning.���
���Oh, I see,��� Timothy answered, feeling himself becoming more docile, as if the smell of that great meal presented before him was all that he could clearly think of.
���Are you hungry?��� the old man grinned.
���Ye-Yes, very much,��� Timothy answered, fumbling over his words at first.
And like he hadn’t barely a choice in the matter, and because he was in actuality so feverishly hungry, Timothy nodded blankly that he would begin to eat, and Barbara helped him with a plate full of turkey, and sliced baked apples with cinnamon and crumbled breading, chocolate whipped puddling, and creamy danishes; And more food than would be natural for anyone to eat in a normal breakfast.
A golden spoonful of baked apples, and the world and his mind grew foggier.
And as he licked the sugared syrup off the spoon of his first bite, he turned to ask Barbara a very serious question, and one that should not have been overlooked.
���Where’s Asa?��� he asked.
���Who?��� she asked in return, as if she had not understood his question.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The House
What a perfectly splendid home, in every way. After only a few hours, Timothy was fairly certain that he’d never had so much fun in all his life, nor had he ever wanted for anything less, than when he was there, a visitor in Darius’s spectacular estate.
His was a house of invention and science, and on that account Timothy’s grandfather had not exaggerated, when he called their host, ���as good a scientist… as you would ever hope to meet.���
A lawn, made specifically to be always green and trimmed, without water. Beds that would tuck themselves in, and a kitchen that could make food through compounds and formulas, and chemical equations and appropriate temperatures, so that anything you wished to eat could be made for you, as quickly as a modern-day microwave oven, yet even sweeter and more appetizing than regular foods. These were the exact ideal variations of every dish and delicacy, the bests of every food, in their juiciest and most gratifying state. A house where all things were given freely and nothing was required, no work nor labor for anything, nor lack of comfort at anytime.
And the whole building, in all its glories, was run entirely by the light from the sun, which was Darius’s particular field of interest. For truly, though he was no amateur in all the areas of science, and indeed a master at most, he would more rather describe himself as a luminologist.����
And every mealtime was a wonder to behold, and Darius told the most magnificent stories. For as it would appear, in our world, this man had dedicated a prominent portion of his life to the study and collection of artifacts and antiquities. (That is to say, things of the past that were at one time brilliant and revolutionary, but have long since faded from our memories, to be forgotten.)
���And when I retired,��� he told them, around a dinner of crepes, and caviar, and radish salad with sweet dressing. ���I’d decided to make a home for myself, here, where I would have plenty of freedom to imagine the world as it should be.���
Barbara’s eyes filled with concern.
���But don’t you ever get lonely?��� she asked.
���Of course not,��� Darius said, holding up a glass of dark red wine, as if to toast to them. ���I have my guests.���
The Histories of Earth, Books 1-4: In the Window Room, A Prince of Earth, All the Worlds of Men, and Worlds Unending Page 18