Garden of Salt and Stone

by A. L. Burgess Jr.

  The blood-curdling noise only served to increase Peter’s level of fear. He searched the area around them, but saw nothing.

  The cloaked figure running behind Peter gestured skyward, “He is there.”

  Silhouetted against the twilight sky was the blacked-out form of one of the demons. He was tracking them, flying just above the building’s rooftops. Fear and panic gripped Peter. His muscles tensed, forcing the out-of-shape professor to slow his pace. “I—I can’t run anymore.”

  The lead man ordered Peter forward, “The road ahead is your salvation!”

  The alley in front of them made a lazy turn, blocking their view of what lay beyond. The buildings near the corner leaned precipitously over the narrow street to the point of forming a faux ceiling to the corridor. The dim light made the street of the alley dark and the corner darker still.

  Their pace slowed as they approached the turn. Peter saw movement between the buildings, but before he could ask what it was, another cloaked individual jumped out and grabbed him. Peter resisted, but the attacker was too strong. He forced Peter to the side of the alley and through an open doorway. Peter lost his balance and fell heavily onto the building’s stone floor. The man snorted humorously at the sight and slammed the wooden door shut behind him.

  Chapter 10

  Exhausted and disoriented, Peter lay quietly listening to the collective clamor outside. The sounds of footsteps, voices, and clattering iron rose to a crescendo and then diminished as the pursuers passed by.

  After a few minutes of relative calm, Peter felt it was safe to move around. He righted his glasses and stared into the darkness. The only illumination available in the building came from the twilight sky filtering weakly through the gaps in the wooden door and window shutter. Cradling the book, he got to his feet and pushed on the door—locked. He rattled the shutter—locked as well.

  Peter’s eyes followed the faint streams of light to the cobblestone floor. It was clean, as if having been recently swept. He scanned the interior space. It was empty, devoid of the usual trappings of a home or an inhabited dwelling. The room was long and narrow—so long in fact, that Peter could not see the other end of it. There were no stairs. The roughly-hewn ceiling continued unabated throughout the structure with no inkling of how one might climb to the floors above.

  A weak scratching noise caught Peter’s attention. He followed the sound to the floor and picked up movement with his eyes. He squinted through the gloom and brought a large, silver-white rat into focus. It stood on its hind legs and squeaked at Peter. He bent down to get a closer look, but the rodent barked a shrill alarm and retreated to the corner.

  The rat trembled and shook violently. High-pitched retching sounds shrieked out from the creature’s lungs as its appendages elongated and deformed. The quivering rat stretched and distorted until it morphed into a flat, fur-covered disc. The disc lay in the corner of the room pulsating with each breath. The mass of fur continued to change, growing in thickness and diameter until it resembled an overstuffed pancake. The transfiguration slowed, but as equilibrium seemed assured, the disc lost cohesiveness and melted into an iridescent pool of liquid.

  The shimmering fluid spread out thinly on the floor, filling the low areas of the stone surface. Peter knelt warily over the shiny puddle. The pool rose and fell as if it were alive and breathing. Opalescent colors flashed across the aqueous substance, seemingly keeping in time with its physical undulations. Cautiously, Peter stretched out a lone finger to touch the unknown goo.

  Sensing the intrusion, the liquid ceased its colorful display and took on the look and consistency of mercury. Waves undulated across its surface creating peaks where slender shapes grew and protruded from the puddle. The forms separated as they rose in height. Delicate filaments of fluid joined together forming thin rivulets that moved hauntingly through the air. Swinging softly and growing in length, they coalesced into a set of proto-limbs around the main trunk of a body. The entire structure found equilibrium half a foot or more shy of Peter’s stature. Slowly and deliberately, the self-morphing liquid took on the physical characteristics of an old woman.

  Peter gasped. He fought the urge to disconnect himself from his senses and collapse in a broken heap onto the stone floor. For the sake of any possible recovery, Peter knew he had to soldier on and give his illusions some type of context. If he failed to do so, the nightmarish dream might consume Peter, forcing him to wander in his psychosis for all eternity. He took deep breaths and calmed himself. He resolved to meet any adversity head on and not allow anything to sway him. Peter steadied his stance and faced the old woman.

  To say the frail-statured woman was old was an understatement—she was ancient. She stood around five-feet tall and her slumping posture only added to the illusion of her diminutive scale. The woman’s silver hair was nothing more than an unkempt band of white wisps that ended in ragged ends near the stone floor. The wrinkles in her face, long ago turned into weathered canyons, further attested to her advanced years. Peter found that the woman’s eyes were her most striking feature: piercing dark blue with a fierce determination shining within them. Tattered, torn, and wearing through at every seam, the old woman’s clothes were nothing more than rags. They were made of coarse brown wool that bore no pattern or even the remains of another color whatsoever. The demeanor she cast was warm, and aside from her extreme age, she could pass for anyone’s great-grandmother.

  Sensing that the woman posed no threat, Peter relaxed.

  The old woman cackled loudly, exposing her decaying teeth. “Not what you were expecting?”

  Peter grimaced and shook his head.

  “Boo!” the old woman spat.

  Peter jumped back.

  The old woman gurgled out a laugh. “Frightened of me?”

  “Should I be?”

  “I’m the least of your worries here,” the woman chirped and tottered to the windowsill where she picked up a candle that had been lying hidden in the crook of the shutter. She cupped her hand over the wick and whispered, “I’m sorry.” Then, as if on command, the candle flamed to life.

  Peter saw no ignition source, but reasoned the old woman probably held a match or lighter in the hand that was hidden from his view. The candle burned normally but made a very faint, strange hissing sound. Peter bent closer to listen and could hear a tiny scream.

  The woman took note of Peter’s concern and turned her back on him. Unsteadily and under all the power her small frame could muster, the old woman ambled into the depths of the dark room.

  “Where are you going?” Peter asked. “I could use a little help here.”

  “Help?” the woman asked incredulously. “You would ask others?”

  Ask others? Peter thought.

  “I wanted to see if the stories were true,” the old woman grated.

  “What?”

  The woman cackled loudly in response and continued on her slow journey.

  Peter watched the candlelight fade into the distance. He gave a passing thought to staying put, but as she made her way deeper into the building, he felt more alone and afraid than ever. At the very least, Peter thought he could use the woman as a source of information. He gripped the manuscript tightly and chased after her. “Excuse me, do you have a name?”

  The old woman stopped and faced Peter. The candle’s flickering light cast shadows that danced in the crevices of her wrinkled face. “They call me Isla Dora.”

  “Okay.” Peter nodded. “I’m Peter.”

  Isla Dora chuckled softly. “Of course you are,” she said, returning to her quest to find the end of the room.

  “Could you at least tell me where I am?”

  “You’ve arrived where all eventually do.”

  “Where all—” Peter thought for a moment and his heart leapt. “I’m dead?”

  Isla Dora coughed out a hearty chuckle. “That is for you to decide.”

  “You mean I’m not dead; I’m just dreaming?”

  “What is death,” Isla Dora r
eplied, “if not but a dream?”

  Peter did not initially understand the cryptic response, but took it to mean that he was still in his own reality: not dead. Whatever the case was, he needed to press on for the sake of his sanity. Losing his mind in this place would certainly mean an end to his mental faculties once he woke from his medical state.

  A wall signaled the end of their journey and Isla Dora knowingly turned to her right, leading Peter down a corridor that ended in a small room bathed in soft white light.

  Peter became apprehensive and stopped. The light emanating from the room was similar in shade and color as the light from the faux angels that tried to apprehend him. He did not know Isla Dora and was not sure he could trust her. For all he knew, she could be leading him straight to his would-be captors. Peter ignored his instincts and shook the feeling off. If Isla Dora was working with the demons, they certainly would have found him by now. Slowly, he set his distrust aside and followed her into the antechamber.

  The room was the about size of a large bedroom and contained the only furnishings Peter had seen in the entire living space. A heavy wooden table with chairs occupied the main area of the floor, while a bookshelf-hutch type of arrangement sat against one wall. Odd knickknacks cluttered the entire space. Some were on the shelves, others rested on the table, with still more gathered in groups on the floor. There was no theme to the trinkets. Small toys, everyday household goods, sporting gear, and an unusual assortment of clocks made up the bulk of the items, but Peter’s heart skipped a beat when he pinpointed the source of the illumination. Glowing children were perched among the knickknacks, on the furniture, and in the corners of the room. They sat with their legs drawn up to their chests in a fetal position. They spanned the gamut of races. Some of the children were from eras long past and none appeared to have reached their teen years. They stared forward with unblinking eyes. None of the children seemed to notice the presence of the two adults whatsoever.

  Peter inspected the nearest youngster. “Hello?” he said, waving a hand in front of the child’s face.

  “Do not trouble yourself,” Isla Dora remarked.

  “They’re children?”

  Isla Dora ignored the question and blew out the light. She cradled the wax taper as a mother might a baby and laid it down on the table. “You can rest now,” she said softly to the candle.

  Peter cocked his head at the old woman’s strange behavior but shook it off and went about studying the rest of the room. While some of the objects sat lifeless in their positions, others moved of their own accord. Some vibrated and bounced in place while others rolled haphazardly within the areas they occupied. On the floor in front of the hutch were two objects. One of them was a box of colored pencils that flipped over from side to side in what appeared to be an effort at moving forward. Stopping the pencil box’s efforts was an old toy robot moving in the opposing direction. When they met, the objects would simply bounce backward and resume their attempt again unaware of the other’s presence. They seemed to be stuck in a perpetual loop. Peter looked for wires or controls behind the motion of the two items but found none. The painted tin robot was of a type too old to run on batteries, and the pencil box was exactly that—an old, cardboard box containing colored pencils.

  Isla Dora picked up a leather shoulder bag hanging from the back of a chair and handed it to Peter.

  Peter took the bag and held it between them considering it curiously.

  “For the book,” Isla Dora affirmed, gesturing to the old manuscript.

  “Good idea,” Peter replied, placing the tome inside the leather satchel.

  “Your life, was it worth living?” Isla Dora asked.

  “What?”

  “Your life, did you live it well? Did you make the most of it?”

  Peter shrugged. “Sure, I guess I did okay.”

  “Did you fight for the weak and frail?” Isla Dora inquired pointedly.

  Peter cocked his head.

  “Did you come to the aid of those in need?” she asked slowly, as if Peter had a comprehension problem.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t—”

  Isla Dora waived him off. “The decisions you make here will matter greatly—there’s still time.”

  “Time for what?”

  Isla Dora cackled at the young man’s naiveté. “To save those who are in peril, of course.” Before Peter could ask another question, she took hold of the shoulder bag firmly. “Do not allow others to possess the book. Free will is key.”

  “Key?”

  “Strength does not serve you well,” Isla Dora replied, gesturing to the young man’s obvious lack of physical fitness. “You need to believe in yourself and serve those who would sacrifice all for you.”

  Peter cocked a brow at the crazy old lady.

  Isla Dora pointed to the moving objects in the room. “Do not trust what you see.”

  “Oh, I won’t,” Peter assured, sheepishly giving a wide berth to the seemingly possessed items.

  “Do not fail or we will all suffer the doom of creation,” Isla Dora warned. Her demeanor became alarmed and she backed away from Peter. She began to tremble and shake. “They’re coming.”

  Peter reached out to Isla Dora in an effort to help, but the old woman evaded him by morphing into a small white kitten. She continued her transformations through various objects and everyday items. With each metamorphosis, her body changed shape sharply and violently. Her mass expanded and shrank to unbelievable sizes. After a multitude of variations, Isla Dora arrived at a diminutive ball of sliver-white yarn.

  Peter took stock of the yarn that was once the old woman. “Isla Dora?” he asked. As if in response, the ball of yarn rolled peacefully toward him and bounced gently off his shoe. He shook his head in disbelief.

  A loud SNAP reverberated through the small space of the antechamber. Peter whirled to see the joints between the hewn rocks expanding in size. A lone finger appeared within the ever-widening fissure. As space permitted, more fingers appeared in the gap until they eventually formed a complete hand. Shortly after, another hand appeared and together, the hands worked to move the stones out of the way. As some blocks moved forward into the room, others were withdrawn to an empty void behind the wall. The heft of the stones was obvious, but they parted effortlessly, without conferring visible strain to the pair of hands manipulating them. Within moments, a large opening exposed the empty space beyond.

  Without hesitation, a black-haired, blue-eyed young man in his early twenties stepped into the room. He was a bit shorter than Peter and of an even slighter build. The young man’s clothes were straight out of the era for sock-hop dance or some sort of mid-twentieth century play. He sported a pair of well-worn blue jeans and a white tee shirt. The ensemble was rounded off with a pair of black boots reminiscent of the 1950s. The young man studied Peter and unenthusiastically extended his hand to shake. “Thomas.”

  Unnerved, Peter retreated a few paces. The day had gone from strange to bizarre, but the laid-back youth seemed genuinely friendly and his gesture was a welcome one. Peter put his fears aside and stepped forward to shake Thomas’s hand. “Peter. Glad to see you.”

  “Yeah, same here, pops.”

  “Pops?” replied Peter, adjusting his glasses. “I’m not that old.”

  Thomas chuckled. “Yeah you are.” He pointed at the shoulder bag the man was carrying. “Is that the book?”

  Remembering Isla Dora’s advice, Peter cradled the attaché. “Why do you want to know?”

  Thomas gauged Peter’s response and nodded his appreciation. “Good answer. Never let that book out of your sight, got it?”

  “How do you—”

  Thomas shook the question off. “It’s why I’m here.”

  “Why you’re here?”

  “Yeah,” Thomas replied, smacking his lips dryly, “to get you and that book out of this place.”

  “Sorry.” Peter said. “I don’t understand what’s going on. All of this is really strange to me.”

&n
bsp; “Ain’t that the truth,” Thomas agreed, studying the interior space carefully. “I ain’t ever been in this room before.” He pushed past Peter to study the hutch and knick-knacks. “I’ve been all over and never seen some of this stuff.” Thomas picked up a few of the items. He scrutinized them before moving onto the candle resting on the table. “Incredible,” he said, turning the candle over in his hand. “This is somethin’.”

  “They don’t have candles where you come from, kid?”

  “Sure,” Thomas replied, smiling at the sly retort, “but none like this.”

  Peter gestured to the collection of inert and moving objects. “What are—”

  A sharp pounding echoed down the hallway.

  Peter stared nervously into the corridor. “That’s coming from the front door.”

  “The heat—I knew they wouldn’t be fooled for long.” Thomas pulled Peter toward the opening in the wall. “We’ve got to split!”

  “Through there?”

  “It’s either this or with them,” Thomas said, motioning down the hallway. “Trust me, you don’t want to go with them.”

  “What about the kids?” Peter asked, gesturing to the glowing children.

  “Nothing we can do.”

  The banging on the front door grew louder until it became a splintering of wood. Voices barked orders and footsteps grew into a cascade of running.

  Thomas pulled on Peter’s arm. “Now!”

  Peter followed the young man into the dark opening and watched as Thomas manipulated the stones back into place. Like magic, the gaps between the blocks narrowed and then disappeared. Peter placed his hand on the stones. “That’s amazing.”

  Thomas shushed Peter. The young man breathed anxiously as he listened to the intruders ransacking the small room. He kept his hands at the ready, awaiting any movement in the blocks brought on by the pursuers.

  Peter whispered, “Can they move the wall?”

  “It depends if a demon came with them or not.”

  The sounds from the other side of the stone barrier diminished.

  “Sounds like they’re gone,” Peter said.