Chapter 25

If you believe my tale so far, though I cannot be sure—you seem to have taken lessons from Livingstone himself—you are a saint. It has been so long, so many years. That my memory still serves me is nothing less incredible than this story. Now, when I tell you that Sofi sang Warren free from bondage, this comes as no lie. Truly our musicians have very little concept of the whole of what song truly is. They skirt its wondrous power, but so slightly that all we can gather from this shadow of song is a semi-heightened emotional response. But we live in such a dark history—the light must travel so deep to find us that its potency is lessened to such a degree that abuse of this power does not make your hair stand on end and your insides squirm inside you. We content ourselves with the faintest echoes of what song truly is.
I tell you, in other histories, other ways, centered more closely to the One who is music itself, song has power enough to create worlds! I am convinced that song was at the beginning of all things and will be again, at the end. Ah, I see in your eyes a question! Do I plainly speak of God? Sofi did. And because she was the most intelligent person I’ve ever crossed paths with, I don’t think I could argue. She had a rare mind, I tell you—a gift. And no one knew that mind better than Warren Spicks. They were together so long…but I run ahead of myself.
The song Sofi sang absolutely gripped Warren’s soul. He certainly didn’t want to move, to do anything other than listen—and I’m not convinced he could have done otherwise. Because even in this place of darkness, the currents of musicality ran strong. And though these withered sons of Zoe, these fallen Tokleks had cut themselves forever from this song that had been their life, these deep waters of song existed just a hand-breadth away, forever looming, eternally unreachable. But Sofi bridged that gap easily. And the raw flooding power of her song broke the chains of darkness and bathed them in a circle of the purest white light.
Warren felt it on his eyelids, but he dared not open his eyes—even though it hadn’t been long since he’d been in the light, the darkness he’d last seen still imprinted his memory and somehow kept him from looking for the source of the brightness. The song illuminated his inner being enough as it was. He felt as if he were simply floating. The soft, trilling notes were swelling with power with each stanza that flowed from Sofi’s tongue. And as the song gained momentum, one long solid note jarred his eyelids open.
What Warren saw only enhanced what he had been hearing. A hundred or more of the wraiths were gathered around Sofi, who stood in their midst, arms outstretched, face skyward. These creatures that had been softly glowing in the howling dark were now black as obsidian, with only the faintest hint of blue in their cracked but semi-insubstantial bodies. All of them quivered—some positively shook—at the sound of her voice. At once Warren trembled in spite of himself; he wondered what sense of salvation these beings imagined Sofi bearing. Or was it judgment? Were they so interminably drawn to song, even the song that condemned them, that they had to listen, even if they shuddered at its sentence? And he couldn’t tell. The answer eluded him. But he knew one thing for sure: Ed would have exploded with happiness if he could have heard this. And somehow, Warren figured whatever chasm split this realm, Sofi’s song was incapable of being confined to one—he imagined Ed rowing delightedly for Zoe down some far channel and upon hearing the first small notes stopping his actions completely and listening. He could see those big, childlike eyes bursting with joy as the song grew and filled the tunnel.
When Warren looked above Sofi, who stood, arms outstretched, indeed in the central chamber just as he had predicted—a place very much changed from where he had first encountered Zoe—he found the source of light: what seemed a pinprick hole in the top of the curved ceiling several hundred feet above them. This hazy orb of brightness grew in size, until it distinctly split into three separate points of light. Warren wondered, as the three points spread apart in linear fashion, whether the light was entering the chamber from beyond the convex ceiling or from some other point beyond this realm of darkness. This light certainly must have been from Zoe—he noticed its effect upon the wraiths: they shrunk in size as the light brightened.
The beings that had stood nearly twice his size now seemed but children huddled around Sofi—whose song seemed to beckon the light to grow and the shadows to diminish. Their wide vacant eyes however did not seem to plead for help—rather a quaking, rebellious resolve to stand indifferent to the light while incapable of turning from the song. Except for one. One cracked, crumbling wraith managed to fall forward before Sofi, and reach a long withered finger for the edge of her pant leg.
Warren felt himself gasp at the immediate effect. From the now circling points of light above, a beam of light washed over Sofi and the creature of stone. At the first touch of the light on the stone skin, the cracks glowed brightly, as if energy itself was being infused into the wraith. Pure white light radiated from its eyes, its mouth. Then it pushed itself up and stretched, seeming to grow again—the cracks of light widening as it flexed what seemed weary joints. And like a chicken hatching from an egg, the fractures widened and small dissolving pieces of stone fell to the floor. And where Warren had remembered only a softly crumbling wisp of a tail, two great, powerful legs stood, with feet as large as an elephant’s.
And the very moment it found strength in its legs, and softness in its skin, the son of Zoe fell to its face as its wounds were healed. Its chest heaved and fingers clutched at the darkened stone beneath it. But the brightness that had been seeping from the stretching cracks now made the former wraith feel less fractured as it shed its outer shell and look more luminous. In a matter of seconds, the resemblance to humanity was unquestionable, and Warren knew that the life of Zoe was re-entering this one. Then the creature pulled itself quickly to its knees, and searched around it, as if it were being addressed. It turned and bowed again sloppily—for it seemed to Warren that his joints were still more stone than ligament. But then its eyes reflected something more than the light Sofi had summoned—the son of Zoe reached out and was pulled to its feet by an invisible hand. And it smiled.
Warren was stunned by the smile. This must have been the same captivating creature of Ed’s memories—a son of Zoe as it should have been. Warren knew it could only have beheld Zoe herself. And at once, it began to sing and to stand. But at the same moment, it began to vanish—shifting into an entirely different phase of existence, into the light and presence of Zoe. How content it looked! How absolutely fulfilled! Warren found himself both invigorated and saddened by every second that passed, until the former wraith was gone completely.
Sofi’s song seemed to abate as well; the tone had changed from proclamation to what Warren could only term serenity. He watched as Sofi strode around the now ankle-sized wraiths staring back at here, almost as if she wanted to pet them gently on the head and give them her blessing. But each seemed to cower, in both fear and irritation, when she came to close. When it appeared to Warren that she had sung all she needed to, she beckoned Warren to herself in song—though he never could remember exactly how she had called out to him while still singing. He obeyed, smiling. Livingstone also came out from the shadows, and Old Fred, with Ali on his shoulder, too stepped into the light engulfing Sofi. She smiled a smile of pure grace at her companions and sung them onto the walkways of the air and up through the now quite-large hole of light in the ceiling. When all four of them stepped onto what seemed a well-lit concrete corridor, the hole behind them vanished, and Sofi finished her song. But before anyone could speak, a voice called to them from around the corner in front of them.
Warren recognized the voice instantly; it was the Toklek of light, rower for Zoe, Ed himself. He waddled up to them, shouting Warren’s name. “You found them, I know it! And you showed her to sing, as I had shown you. What a marvelous song!” Warren smiled and enveloped the Toklek in a big hug—and it wasn’t quite sure what to do about it. It fidgeted a bit until Warren relaxed his grip, but seemed to forget its confusion in the hasty introductions Warren put forth.
“This is Livingstone…er…Oscar. And next to him Old Fred with Ali on his shoulder…” Warren began. The wide-eyed creature nodding at each one, but it didn’t go beyond Warren’s notice that he seemed particularly taken with Sofi, as his eyes grew wide and fell into an awestruck stare. Sofi held her lips together tightly, blushing a bit at the attention the Toklek gave her, and Warren, trying to spare her embarrassment, concluded, “and this is Sofi—the one who sang. “
“And what a beautiful song!” Ed praised. “You are the image of Zoe herself, her beauty is your own, shines through you like light through the purest water. And your voice, it was as if she was calling out to me herself! Oh wonderful Sofi, do tell me you’ve come to stay!” Warren watched as Sofi glanced between him and Ed, effectively silenced by Ed’s admirations.
“Ah…” he said after a couple long seconds, “guys, this is a Toklek, loyal servant of Zoe, whom I call Ed.” Livingstone nodded slightly and Old Fred extended a large hand, which Ed simply stared at in curiosity. After another few stiff moments, Fredric pulled his hand back somewhat self-consciously and scratched at his lower jaw—which by now sprouted a swath of pure white scruff. Ali chirped to break the silence—this seemed to remind Ed of something.
“My mistress sends her greetings to you three,” Ed nodded to Livingstone, Old Fred, and Sofi, “and has sent me with a gift for you, Warren.” He fished what seemed to be a large pearl from one of his many pockets on his leather jerkin. Warren held out both hands, palms upturned, to receive it. The dimly glowing orb weighed much less than he expected and was slightly warm to the touch.
“What is it?” he wondered aloud.
“A mapping stone. ‘May it guide you always toward your goal’ she told me to tell you,” Ed added quickly. Livingstone’s eyes lit with interest, but Sofi stepped closer to Warren to gaze at the object.
“How does it work?” she asked.
“Squeeze it,” Ed offered. Warren looked at Ed, then Sofi, then back to the orb in his hands; he took it between an index finger and thumb and pressed upon it lightly. The surface gave a little bit, like a rubber ball, then popped like a pickle jar lid. For a moment the mapping stone pulsed brightly with light, forcing Warren and the others to squint. Then, hanging before them in the air, was a series of what seemed to Warren interconnected tunnels in three dimensions. A small red beacon was flashing in one of them, slowly rising upwards.
“We are here,” Ed pointed to the red dot. “And my mistress has designated your first waypoint, which is here,” it said, stretching and pointing to a glimmering green point of light. The path between the two seemed fairly complex—but not impossible—to Warren. “To reach it on time, you should go, Warren,” it stated, but then looked to Sofi, “but must you take her with you?” Warren chuckled.
“Yes, Ed, I must,” Warren replied. Ed sighed and glanced to all three of them.
“I will remember you well—I will tell your tale for many tides, to every soul I meet. But my barge awaits me, yes, I have many channels to row. Farewell friends and remember to sing! Oh sing, for I will hear it, no matter the distance,” Ed encouraged, walking backwards and bowing several times. Then he spun and waddled back around the corner from which he had come. As the sound of slapping feet retreated down the corridor, Warren looked to his companions, then back to the map hanging in the air.
“Well what do you think?” he asked no one specifically.
Sofi answered him, her eyes focused on the green point of light. “I think we have some distance to cover.”

Chapter 24

As it turns out, Zoe’s drink had a little more kick than Warren anticipated, and he was feeling somewhat groggy when she gently lowered him to next to Sofi, who still hadn’t moved. Warren sighed with relief when he noticed this fact. “So…..” he said, squinting and stumbling to one side, “how do I make her move?”
Zoe smiled empathetically. “You wait.”
“Wow, what was in that drink? I can hardly hear myself think…or talk,” he mumbled, rubbing his foggy eyes.
“It’s an antidote for the balm my servant gave you. You will begin slipping into the shadow realm soon.”
“Will you be coming with me?” he asked, turning suddenly to her.
Zoe laughed. “No, Warren; I cannot go against my nature and venture into darkness. But I will be close to you—listen for my song; it will help you overcome any struggle you might face. Now go, find your friends, Warren Spicks.”
Warren turned back to Sophi as Zoe’s voice faded. Find them? he wondered. They were right here, in front of him. He waited for a moment as his head cleared. He blinked his eyes open and closed several times. He was indeed right where he left Sofi, but the lights in the place had certainly been dimmed. It was almost as if he were waking from a dream just before dawn: expecting light, but not quite getting enough. He looked at Sofi’s hand: the note was just as he left it: will be right back. He clutched her hand in his own and kissed her cheek.
Well, he tried to kiss her cheek. And failed. He stepped back. Sofi seemed to have eluded his kiss…but then the warmth of her hand in his own wasn’t exactly triggering. He looked her over. She was disappearing before his eyes. He put his hand on her shoulder (well he tried) and couldn’t really accomplish his task. Every time, his hand slipped right through her. Warren began to panic, waving his arms in front of her, calling out for her.
A whisper replied, “Do not be troubled, Warren.” Sofi’s image faded from view. “Go find her.” And with that silence, and darkness, reigned. Warren put his hands on his hips and took a deep breath. Zoe was right; he had to start searching for them. But then realized he couldn’t see a blasted thing. But when he thought about it, it really didn’t matter to him. He knew the tunnel they were in, knew about how far it was to the grand chamber. It was as straight a shot as they came. He’d just place his hand (or, as he thought about, maybe just one finger) on the tunnel wall and he could practically run there. He knew that if Zoe had made her home (or throne room or reception area or whatever it was) in that domed room, it was likely these sons of Zoe had done the same. From what he had learned from Ed, they didn’t seem to be the creative or artistic type. He expected a sort of imitative corruption on their end. It also helped that Sofi, Livingstone, and Old Fred had been headed in that direction to begin with.
So Warren took off hastily, finger on wall to keep his direction. On his third step, he tripped and fell flat on his face. After a groan, he patted down the area and found a broken slab of concrete on the floor. Perhaps the two halves of the world were not in the same condition of disrepair. So Warren stood himself back up, brushed himself off, put his finger to the wall, and stepped forward without quite so much gusto as the last time. His shin thanked him, but throbbed nonetheless.
After what seemed like enough time to make it to the grand chamber, Warren still felt the wall to his left and decided that his eyes would never adjust. He also found what he thought was silence to be a very busy silence, as far as silence was concerned. But none of the little sounds he thought he heard were substantial enough to warrant his focus. He could have been hearing the buzz of air molecules in his ear, the eternal atomic collisions of air itself, or whispers of long abandoned souls. He did not want to believe the latter—but it rung in his heart as the truer answer.
At any rate, it brought him to an impossible thought: he wanted to yell out for Sophi, but he dared not alert any of these fallen sons of Zoe to his presence. Better to stay hidden and reserve surprise as a weapon, he thought, but then again, how long could he wander this labyrinth without running into his companions? Eternity itself wasn’t out of that question.
It amazed Warren how his sense of space dwindled in the dark—how much bigger the world actually was. Mostly he wondered how wrong his conception of distance could have been. He had been walking for what he would have imagined as twice the length between his original position and that grand cold chamber he sought. But his fingers had found no deviation in the direction of the wall, though he had discovered plenty of holes and cracks in it. His vision however had noticed no perceptible change from blinking for a while now.
So when began to see an edge off to his right, he blinked several times, squinting in between, trying to make sure he wasn’t imagining shapes in the dark. But no, there was a distinct blue line splitting the darkness ahead. He couldn’t tell much more than that, but he saw it more clearly as he approached. Perhaps it was the end of the tunnel, where it opened into the main chamber. There had to be some source of light just beyond the edge. His walk became a half jog, though he still raised his feet a good eight inches off the ground as a precaution with each step.
But when his eyes found that source, his veins froze. A wandering wraith, emitting a flickering blue light—like a frozen firefly—hovered before him. Warren thought of it as like an ethereal, dying glow-stick. It seemed to be cracking, fissured, seeping energy like blood from its wounds. The face seemed to be the only recognizable feature of this specter (except possibly the hands—which had long, claw-like fingers), but like it had been etched into stone.
The glow emanating from the creature didn’t do much to illuminate its surroundings. In fact, the more Warren looked at it, trying desperately not to breathe, the more it seemed lost—like an Alzheimer’s patient in the bathroom looking for that wooden cooking spoon she had set somewhere. And then a thought struck Warren: would being a little light in such a dark place be beneficial at all? Or would it make the darkness that much darker? How much more impossible to see anything beyond yourself! How much more tragic to be set apart from even darkness, to be your own incapable, flickering light, to be removed from participating with anything.
This had to be a fallen son of Zoe. Even as pitiful as it seemed, Warren dared not blink. These creatures of the shadow world had to be dangerous—not just that he had believed Ed, but that there was something about darkness that he feared. Of course, wasn’t that always the case in literature? When wasn’t the light a source of comfort, grace, truth? When wasn’t the darkness a breeding ground for evil, hatred, and malice? It occurred to Warren that it must have something to do with the nature of light as a presence, as an object. Light was something, darkness was the absence of light. Same with heat and coldness, as he thought about it. A dark, cold place can be described only as a place missing light and heat—for darkness and coldness have no substance. Perhaps it was much easier for the mind to relegate fear and chaos to the dark places of the world.
And perhaps that was why these specters were as they were. If indeed they had fallen from Zoe, and Zoe was the epitome of light and warmth, they must certainly have not only fallen into darkness, into coldness, but into insubstantiality. Where they were proud, strong being of light before, they became the tormented wraiths of the darkness after their undoing of themselves.
But certainly regret gnawed at them, and surely they cursed Zoe for her lack of concern for them now—what sort of twisted, self-pitying, revenge-crazed beings had they come? For darkness saps a soul of its will, draws out any grace in its heart—it is a sort of void that will consume anything given it. And Warren didn’t want to test the boundaries of these wretched creatures, absorbed in their own sufferings.
So he waited while the flickering phantom seemed to mourn its own existence in silence, wandering who knew where as it lived out its tormenting days in darkness. When it finally passed the tunnel entrance and moved out of Warren’s sight, he relaxed and took a cautious step forward.
Unfortunately this step elicited a cry from an unknown source at his feet. In the next moments, Warren was tackled backwards by an unknown force, heard another, more-chilling screech further off, and found himself staring momentarily into a pair of large glowing eyes with what he could only describe as insanity. Then a pulse of energy struck him—like the shockwave from a thunderclap nearby. His heart seemed to skip a beat—his head felt light, as if he were beginning to black out from standing up too quickly. The world tilted to the left and he began to slide from consciousness. And all the while those cold menacing eyes glared at him. Then he slipped into the darkness.

*

Warren woke shivering. His head was pounding, his feet were freezing, and his back ached. He blinked his eyes and craned his neck, staring off into the darkness. He thought he saw a few pinpoints of light off in the distance…but nothing remotely close. The darkness was incredible—it was like a terrible inky-black ocean, pressing down upon him as he lay on his back. It was almost suffocating.
He tried to roll over, but found his wrists and ankles tied down. So he relaxed and tried to think of Sofi. Her image came easily to mind—he found himself addressing her with a whisper. “Oh Sofi; where are you? Don’t you know I need?”
When a voice whispered back, “What?” Warren jumped. It had come from behind him; he tried to arch his back and look, but realized the foolishness of this attempt in the darkness. The whisper came again. “Warren, is that you?” Warren’s lungs quivered. Was he hearing things?
“Sofi?” he whispered harshly.
A sigh of relief. “Yes, yes, Warren, it’s me.”
“I thought I was alone,” he said.
“I knew they chained someone else up, but I didn’t know it was you…you were unconscious for a while, you know,” Sofi replied quietly.
“Where’s Livingstone?”
“They couldn’t catch him; so I don’t know. Probably trying to figure out how to get out of here. We weren’t sure what to do after you froze.” She paused a moment. “But they ambushed us. I haven’t heard from Old Fred yet, either.” Warren couldn’t help but think of Zoe’s exhortations not to mourn the loss of the others—perhaps Old Fred, that kind gentle soul, was forever gone now, too. “What happened to you?”
Warren explained how he had seen the figure on the river, that he had found them unmoving, and decided to accompany “Ed” to find Zoe. He told her of how Ed had rubbed something on his eyelids and how he had crossed fully into the light half of the realm. He told her of Ed’s story, of the sons of Zoe, now cursed, cut off from the light, and of the wonder’s of song in this place. With awe thickening his voice, he spoke of the beautiful angel Zoe, how she said she was kin to those Sofi worked for, how she encouraged him in his efforts to elude the Mar, to reach his destination.
He heard Sofi gasp several times during his telling, but it was evident she wouldn’t interrupt him. So when he concluded his tale with his return to the shadow realm, she paused thoughtfully and then spoke. “So she was a Dryad…what did she call her fountain?”
“Cheriel” Warren whispered back.
“She must be part of the Eastern Orchestral Grove. She likely knows the Lady Aurora—that’s great news Warren. Perhaps she will pass on the information to her that she met you, alive and well. And if she does, that means will should expect to find help in the next few days. Oh Warren, this is a great thing that has happened.”
Warren was pleased that she found such hope in this. He imagined her smile. And that thought illuminated his mind more clearly than any bright summer sun could possibly hope.
“But,” Sofi whispered, seemingly collecting her thoughts, “if we’re in the Eastern Orchestrals…we have some distance to go to get back on course. But that should be relatively easy, since we know generally where we are now. As a matter of fact…” she paused again, searching for something.
“What?” Warren wondered, waiting in anticipation. Sofi shushed him. Warren’s eyebrows, if they could have been seen, raised a little in chagrin.
But then Sofi began to sing. Softly at first, and not in English. But Warren still claims that this was the most beautiful moment in his life, lying there, chained in the darkness, immersed in the sound of Sofi’s song—and did she sing! It was like the sweet melody of a songbird. It completely paralyzed Warren—he didn’t even want to breath for fear the sound of it cloud her song. He felt light, as if he were floating the music itself. And then his hands felt different—a freedom. He pulled one hand to his chest as the bindings fell loose. The other came undone just as easily. But he didn’t want to move—oh no. He wouldn’t be doing anything until she stopped singing.

Chapter 23

Warren’s lack of musicality was not his own fault—he had tolerated piano lessons for two weeks straight in seventh grade! The math behind music intrigued him, and he was a scathing critic of it—if it were literature, his critical theory would certainly fall under the umbrella of reader-response. But he would never claim to be a musician. He knew music was beneficial, exciting, and necessary from experience, but what singing had to do with anything in a strange boat, in an unknown labyrinth, in a foreign history, Warren didn’t know. What he did know was that he would not be singing. He had told Ed so before and did so again.
“I don’t sing.” Ed pulled away quietly at the oars, his large eyes fixed on Warren.
“This may take a while then.”
“Why? What does singing have to do with anything?”
“We Tokleks were not gifted with song, as were the sons of Zoe. But there was mighty power in their voices, power to command the waves and tear through rock and stone.” Warren’s eyebrows raised in half-amusement, half-wonder.
“You see, the Reckoning wasn’t an apocalyptic judgment of Zoe, it was an anthem of praise from the sons—for themselves. They rose up against their great mother and sung themselves into oblivion, into the dark side of the world. The power of their song unchained them, and unsupported by the light by Zoe, they fell into ruin.”
“How did your kind fall with them then?”
“They listened to the song; they heard with wonder the claims of the sons against Zoe. And those who chose themselves over Zoe crossed into shadow. Alas, the great power of the Way Walkers was all they had seen, all the happiness they thought they had known came from them, and the lie of their song convinced them to follow in rebellion. There are few of us now left in the light—I credit the death of my father for preparing my heart for the Reckoning. When the song presented me with the choice for the sons of Zoe, or a great and mysterious mother I had never known, my choice was clear. I would have none of what the sons were, nor what they could do.
“So I ignored their song, and now row long weary days in the light—but I bear my lonely burden easily. I am content in rowing for Zoe—in fact, she sent me to fetch you, and she expects us. But if you could sing, we might make more haste—and perhaps bring a smile to her wondrous face as we arrive.”
This story intrigued Warren immensely. He wondered if Zoe were another demon, like Sylvara, exiled perhaps to an underground factory in a dusty corner of the garden. He was anxious to meet this being of “light” and so he fumbled through his memory searching for some simple song.
“What about a poem? Do you think that would work? I have a couple of those memorized…” he asked, but nothing registered in Ed’s eyes.
“What is a poem?” it asked.
This silenced Warren for a minute, trying best how to explain poetry to a creature who knew both song and story.
“It is rhythmic like a song, but more emphasis on the words, like a story.”
Ed snapped his beaklike mouth a couple times. “Well perhaps I will like this poem you speak of. Sing it to me?”
Warren collected his thoughts—with which would he begin? How about Shakespeare:

“When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.”

Warren glanced about. The concrete tunnels remained silent. The water slapped lazily at the side of the barge. Neither creature spoke for a moment. Then Ed shook his head, “I’m afraid there just isn’t enough song in this poem you spoke. It doesn’t have any power in it.”
Warren scratched his head. He remembered a friend’s poem he had memorized—the lyrics had been based off the rhythm of a song. The words were a long way off in his memory. He dove after them, closing his eyes, holding his breath. He found the first words—and after that they came back quickly. He started speaking:

“When will we
afford that it might seem
beneath fallen lightbeams
a statement of reverie…”

The water seemed to sway in response.

“…we stare as a star gleams
across moonlit paintings
of pale midnight meetings;
the water runs deepening.
we walk as if meaning
will find us retreating
from shadow’s brief gleaning
in bitter swamp sufferings…”

A groan erupted through the concrete above them.

“the dusk leaves us fleeting,
forever completing
this mystery of ceding

ourselves to our passions
declaring our actions
to fit preset fashions.
We walk nature’s mansion;
we break and we crash on
the simplest of bastions:”

Warren had closed his eyes and felt, rather than saw, a surge of water beneath the barge.

“our hearts beat between us
and lock to redeem us
from empty receivers
but wind has deceived us
with whispering breezes
and should fate retrieve us
to forge its own Jesus—
but who will believe us
when wolves finally seek us?
we waltz between seasons
abandon said reasons
to quit all our reaches.”

When a fresh breeze lit his face as poetry escaped his lips, and Warren opened his eyes. The tunnel glowed warmly, but passed by them quickly—they rode a wave of longing forward.

“We’ve lost our demeanor:
un-courtly procedure:
with what shall I please her?
a wink or a whisper?
the darkness which kissed her
has mirrored her grandeur;
my anxious behavior
requires a savior.

These raindrops are endless;
they add to an ageless
defeat of defenses—
her eyes are relentless
her beauty, her essence
lays siege to my senses.”

The tunnel suddenly vanished and the wave deposited them in a grand, circular chamber, where motes of light danced to the rhythm of his words. Warren dared not stop until he had finished the poem.

“a sodden reflection
of half-trodden sections
in marshy confections
completes our defection
to natural deception
our final election
of willful collections.”

Warren sat back, heart pounding from the effect of the words on the environment, on himself. He glimpsed his hands; they were aglow with a steady, warm light. He looked to Ed who seemed completely mesmerized by the occurrence.
“Are we here?” he whispered to Ed, who could only nod vaguely in response.
Then something across the calming waters caught his eye: a speck of dazzling light dancing on the surface. Warren squinted a little. The reflections of the water painted wondrous, flittering patterns on the seamless dome above them. Everything to him seemed golden—as if lit by something in the center, a light source not definitely above or below the waters.
“Row a bit more, Ed,” Warren instructed. The paddles dipped lightly and pulled them forward, generating small, glistening ripples which only slightly bent an otherwise glasslike surface. Warren clambered past Ed to the front of the boat, attempting to make out what approached them. He thought he heard a chime, or the ring of a bell, or the chirp of a bird—he couldn’t quite place it.
Then a clear, beautiful feminine voice filled the chamber, resonating into Warren’s very being. He sat back and listened, drinking it in like cool clear water. Every muscle within him relaxed in the reverberations. Then from the light before him appeared what he could only think was an angel. She hung in the air as a fish might in water—as if gravity hadn’t the slightest hold on her. Yet she possessed great white wings, outstretched but still, as if gliding on the light itself. A flowing, spotless silver dress clung to her figure perfectly, tapering to an end just above her toes, which were pointed down and just skimming the water’s surface as she walked forward.
Her voice quieted a bit, and she sang a sweet, simple melody. Warren felt her gaze on him alone, but it didn’t disturb him in the least. He watched affectionately her approach—found he looked into kind, caring eyes which returned his gaze steadily, without hint of anxiety, worry, or fear. He didn’t feel he should need to look anywhere but into those endlessly abundant eyes. Still her song wrapped itself around him, warmed him as if he had just come in from a winter storm and sat by a brightly glowing fireplace. She reached with firm fingers to his cheek and smiled. The song echoed into the waters and faded from his ears.
“You are the one called Warren?” she questioned him. She might as well have simply sung it, Warren was so delighted at the sound of her voice.
“Yes,” he answered and hated his own voice—so gruff, so brutal, so barbaric it sounded in this place of light and clarity and beauty.
“Welcome then, to the Fountain Cheriel; I am glad my servant brought you. We have much to discuss.” Then turning to Ed, she affectionately dismissed him. The creature bowed and began to row away.
But the lady of light took Warren’s hand, and he found himself rising with her from the deck of the barge. Yet he felt no profound tug on his arm; it was as gravity itself had given up on him. Near the center of the domed room, just below the ceiling, was a small circular patio, of what seemed pure carved crystal. They alighted, and she directed him to a small floating glass table next to gleaming silken sacks. Warren walked as lightly as he could, out of what he could only guess was courtesy, and relaxed into the chair—he had never felt so comfortable in his life. She came lightly stepping back to him, her wings now folded behind her. After placing two glasses on the table and taking one, she sat next to him.
“Your poetry was delightful,” she began, and then sipped from her glass. Warren smiled and bowed.
“Thank you; you do me great honor in saying so—your song, your self, everything about you is beautiful. You cannot be any other than Zoe.”
She smiled again with soft eyes. “You judge rightly, Warren Spicks. I am she.” Warren sipped at his glass. The liquid was cool and refreshing. He tried to say something about how he had come there, but found himself lost in her gaze. “Warren, I am glad to have found you,” she said at last. Warren’s eyebrows lifted.
“Oh?” was about all he could manage. A broad smile crossed Zoe’s lips.
“I am not as secluded here in the fountain as you might think; you have many hunters, though not all of them foes.”
“And which are you?”
“I am your friend and ally, Warren; I will help you on to your destination as much as I possibly can,” she soothed.
“I thank you, but I cannot go on without first going back for my friends,” Warren explained. Zoe’s eyes softened.
“I wouldn’t ask you to. The sweet, darling Sofi is a perfect match for you, dear Warren. And Oscar is a titan; no other bodyguard could keep you safer on your journey.”
“Wait, you know them?”
“I am kindred to those they serve; their goals are my goals, their losses my own. You must stick with Sofi and Oscar, as far as it concerns you from now until you arrive at your destination. As for the others, do not mourn their loss.”
“Does that mean you know what happened to Trent?” Warren asked.
“Such questions should not be bothered with at this time, Warren. For I will reveal only what benefits you. And that means you must finish your drink; for we must find Sofi and Oscar before they pass beyond my sight, before they drift too far into the shadow realm. But trust my song, Warren, and we will find them.”
Warren finished his drink as instructed and reached for Zoe’s hand.
“What will happen to Ed?” he asked.
“You mean my good and faithful servant? He will row proudly in the light of the fountain for ‘many tides’ in my service; I will cherish his presence until his death. Do not worry about him; he will be well taken care of, even after he departs my service.” She took his cup from his hand and set it on the table. “Shall we?”

Chapter 22

Now when I tell you that Warren was far beyond frustrated with the past twenty-four hours of life, I do him far too little justice. You see when a man finally adapts his mind to a new mindset he expects consistency. It happens once every few years in what you might call a normal life. A child comes to love and cherish his home, her mother, his father, etc. Then comes school—and a change must be made. Once this is handled, very little changes for a great developmental period. Then the breaking from the family, the flying from the nest, per se, occurs and a mindset change is in order. Same with marriage. Same with having children of your own. Same with retirement. And maybe a final change to an old-folks home. But that’s only what, six changes? Maybe eight if there’s a move involved.
I ask you to consider Warren at this moment in time: right now his worldview has been so flipped, stretched, shattered, pasted back together, and dropped again outright. And somewhere in the back of this bruised and battered mind of his, Warren must have been thinking to himself that it was on purpose. He couldn’t shake the feeling that what seemed to be a string of extremely unlucky events could pin him on a rickety barge with a turtleseapigduckfrogthing whom he had decided to call Ed for short was actually a carefully calculated and arranged route. But his mind wouldn’t expand out big enough to comprehend what purpose might lie behind such a view.
So he discarded that thought every time it came up, counted himself among the unluckiest people in history (next to Adam, Brutus, JFK—or any of the Kennedy family tree, for that matter—and Han Solo). Then he remembered he had to qualify even that thought—on of the unluckiest people in his history. Which he really wasn’t sure was his anymore—or that he’d ever be able to return to it.
And now he had left the woman he’d never imagined would love him but did, the only man he could trust his life to in whatever universe he was in, and…whatever Old Fred had become to him. He really couldn’t place that one. But for the third time that day (if indeed days really mattered anymore) he was forced apart from his friends without an inkling of an idea of where he might be headed or what he’d have to accomplish to get back to them. How much more could he possibly do?
Of course, the moment he thought of that, he shuddered. There was no way he would have believed any of this possible but three days ago. When he really thought about it, he had no idea what was “possible”. That word and all of its connotations now meant absolutely nothing to Warren.
With this supreme frustration in mind, it comes as little to no surprise that when Ed asked Warren to “sing” nothing of the sort happened. It wasn’t that Warren didn’t like music. It wasn’t even that Warren was an incapable singer. As a matter of fact—as his shower at college might prove if it could talk—he sang often enough.
Instead Ed found Warren’s left eyebrow cocked high in disbelief. “You won’t? Why not?”
Warren resisted the urge to answer as Livingstone might and instead satisfied himself with a decisive, “No!” Ed slumped a little and toyed with the handle of an oar, as if wondering why such a simple request had received such a bitter rebuttal. The thought obviously occupied his mind for much longer than Warren seemed fit, so that Warren’s patience grew thin, and finally shattered. “Why would you want me to sing? That’s absurd!”
This awakened Ed a little. The large eyes rolled towards him. “Are you sure you’re a son of Zoe?”
“I don’t what you’re talking about; and that’s a good question for you. Why do you keep calling me that?”
“So you are not? Why did you not object earlier if I was wrong in my assumption?” Ed asked curiously.
Warren sighed. The brightness was giving him a headache—only closing his eyes brought any relief in darkness. “I don’t know. What is a son of Zoe anyway?”
A sort of epiphany lit Ed’s eyes and he turned away. “A Way Walker.”
Warren’s eyebrows narrowed in confusion. It was meaningless information to replace meaningless information. So he tried to clarify and asked, “What?”
“Come sit over here while I row, and I will tell you a tale.” Warren massaged his temples with tired fingers and inhaled deeply with intent to refuse, but obeyed. “When I was two tides a hatchling, my father, a bargemaster following ancient custom, took me for my first barge-drift. We had stacked supplies so high—enough for half a tide, it seemed—that I hardly found room to sit!
“I still remember the first feeling of floating so freshly. The bob and chop of the short stiff waves, the slap and push of the oars in the water, the smell of freedom itself clung to the channel. We left the nest behind—our destination was a delivery point three channels to the east, but very far down. I thought we might find the sea itself if we weren’t careful to spot our landing.
“My father assured me that nothing so tragic as that would happen; he would land us perfectly, I knew. But the thought of a sea! Of water without walls, legend told. Who could navigate such a thing? Nevertheless, I wanted to come to the last wall, grab ahold, and peer out at it.” Warren waited for Ed to continue, but found the creature lost in its own imagination, searching an infinite sea, a place without walls. He almost pitied it, something which had lived comfortably in what sounded to him like an underground labyrinth of water works—like a lab mouse, comfortable in searching the maze for cheese. At length, Ed perked up and continued.
“That never did happen. Though I did venture far past the last landing on a Major Fifth once, looking for the sea—at least until my supplies were short and my determination had failed. But that doesn’t matter. We were on a Minor Third when I saw my first Way Walker. He walked like we Tokleks did—but oh how straight, so smooth, so powerful a stride did he have. And bright! As you cannot imagine. He strode right toward us, above us, glided past my awestruck eyes. I remember his gaze, when his eyes found mine, he smiled. Such joy lit my heart. It was as if I had never lived before that moment. I asked father why they were so bright; he told me it was to keep everyone happy. But that was a half-truth, hidden wisely from my growing heart. It was under much different conditions that I learned their true commission as sons of Zoe.
“As my forty-second tide passed, my father gifted me with a barge of my own—that I should help speed his deliveries. I gratefully accepted the charge and began solidifying the process of memorizing the Ways I had started learning as a hatchling. At first, I actively searched the tunnels for any sign of a Walker, but as tides came and went, I found they were much rarer than I had hoped. Still, I managed to see them about twice as often as any of my friends. I always thought they liked to be wanted to be seen, and if they made everyone happier, why wouldn’t everyone want to see them, and thereby improve how often we saw them? It made perfect sense to me—but I found I was an idealist, a rare hatch if there ever was one among the Tokleks. For most find pleasure in fulfilling their purpose, grinding their noses day after day in the channels, never wondering about the sea.
“The trip on which I discovered the true purpose of the Walkers was a rather short one. It was but a half-step change from our Major Third with a single landing in-between. As I passed that landing, I heard some sort of commotion on the docks—it turned out one of the young bargemasters had absconded with his father’s boat, looking for adventure. The last thing I heard before I drifted out of earshot was his father praying a Walker wouldn’t find his son. That didn’t reconcile within me—but instead of chewing on it, I tossed that bit aside and settled into my seat to enjoy the last third of my journey.
“Shortly thereafter, that tell-tale glow on the water, which always made my insides quiver with anticipation, glistened past me. I turned and saw a Walker striding calmly above me. I caught his eye and he smiled at me. I shivered with delight and watched him recede into the distance before me. But before he disappeared, he stopped and turned. Something I had never before seen—and never have since that day. He had come down to water level! I grabbed my oars and rowed for all I was worth, hoping to catch him while he had stopped.
“As I came around the side of the barge, I saw the Walker standing on the deck of the boat, smiling at another young Toklek who sat enamored and unblinking in the rowing seat. Then the Walker turned his gaze to me. He mentioned my name and I trembled.
“He said, ‘Come here,” with such a sweet, rapturous voice that I immediately obeyed, tying my barge off on the other. He placed a hand on my shoulder—I was filled with such warmth! ‘I need your help,’ he told me. I nodded hastily. ‘Hold this tie; do not let this barge move.’ I gladly took the rope in hand, and he smiled and thanked me—then turned his attention to the other young Toklek. I felt a twinge of envy, that he held the Walker’s focus. Until he started speaking: ‘Is this boat your charge, young one?’ The little one didn’t know how to answer, so enthralled to be the center of a Walker’s attention. ‘Are you to deliver C4dL5 from Dt5s to Et4e?’ A slight shake of the head with wide-staring eyes. ‘No?’ The shake was somewhat more confident. ‘Then by the code of Zoe, I sentence you for pirateering, obstruction of good and orderly flow, and improper trade conduct.’ The Walker’s words, however, fell on deaf ears and the young Toklek only stared at the magnificent figure before him. ‘As you make no plea of innocence to said charges, I, a son of Zoe, will henceforth carry out your just punishment.’
“Then the Walker stretched out his hand and took the young one by the neck. He pulled a long, thin shining object with a pointed end from somewhere within his clothing and pointed it at the throat of the now-squirming Toklek. I was confused, but far too mesmerized to interrupted with a question. Then the Walker honored Zoe briefly and forced the object through the Toklek’s neck, just above the grip of his hand. I remember most distinctly the sound of liquid dripping into liquid and a faint gurgle from the young one. And then something happened which I had never before seen—the light faded from the young Toklek’s eyes and he stopped moving. The Walker then dropped him into the water—he fell straight to the bottom and passed beneath the barges, then was no more. I looked up anxiously at the Walker who smiled brightly at me. I’ll never know where I got the courage to speak, but I managed to ask him a single question: ‘Will he be back for the barge?’
“He laughed and patted my shoulder. ‘No. He will not. Now tell me, what is your charge?’ I pulled my orders from my pocket and handed them to him. ‘Very well. Can you tow this barge to the next landing as well? You will be rewarded for your trouble.’ I nodded happily. ‘Excellent. Take heart little one and forget this day,’ he told me and then ascended to the walkway.
“When he had vanished from my sight, I busily roped the barges together and made my way to the next landing. When I arrived, I found that the Walker had made good on his promise and I had a double portion of supplies loaded on my barge for the return trip.
“As far as the fate of that young Toklek, I never thought more, until the passing of my father many tides later. When he lay, wracked with the pains of old age, on his deathbed, he assured me that his death meant nothing as horrible a thing as it was. I still didn’t understand what was happening. He told me he would no longer be with me; I asked if he were leaving on a barge trip without a return. He answered that yes, in a way, that was the case. And then the light faded from his eyes and his breath stilled.
“In that instant, understanding poured into my soul like water into a broken barge. What had happened accidentally to my father, happened purposefully on that barge so many tides ago. I was at once filled with sorrow for the absence of my father, indignation at the Walker for taking that young one’s life so easily, so cheerfully, rage at myself for standing by, for watching the event like a channel-side juggling act.
“Fortunately, I never had another chance to see a Walker before the Reckoning. It’s been too many tides for me to remember the last time I even saw another Toklek after that, much less a son of Zoe.” Ed trailed off and silently kept rowing.
Warren didn’t figure he’d get any more of the story—but wasn’t sure he could attain any more information about these sons of Zoe, these enforcers of whatever system these Toklek’s were a part. But he still couldn’t figure why this Toklek hadn’t tried to murder him on sight—if indeed its story were true and if it thought he were a son of Zoe. So he decided he had to ask, and Ed’s response intrigued him.
“You weren’t bright enough to be one—but you looked like one.”
“So you thought I meant you no harm?”
“No, I knew of no other name for you. But it really was your companions that worried me.”
“You said yourself you couldn’t see them,” Warren pried.
“But never said they weren’t there.” This was true enough.
“Let me explain something to you; the Reckoning did more than simply isolate me from my fellow brothers.”
“What do you mean?” Warren interrupted, “What is this Reckoning?”
“Because of it, I am bound to row in channels of pure light; my brothers in channels of total darkness.”
“But you said you were alone!”
“I am alone.”
“But…what?”
“The Reckoning sundered our world: those true to Zoe remain in the light, those against her wither in shadow. I know not how you straddled both worlds, but because I could see you, I knew you were not with the usurpers of the other world—those fallen sons stalking the eternal night. But I cannot say as much for your companions. I fear them, but I also fear for them. If they could not see me…I don’t know what horrors might find them.”
Warren’s pulse had been rising. “Where are we going? I can’t just leave my friends back there to whatever nightmares this opposite world of yours might throw at them!”
“I told you.”
“Yeah. ‘Somewhere safe.’ What is there to be afraid of in your light?”
“I did say that to get you on the boat, but I also told you we needed help. Just because we live in separate phases doesn’t mean the boundaries are absolute.”
Warren’s eyebrows didn’t match his voice when he sighed and agreed. “So where are we going?”
“To visit Zoe.”
Warren wanted to thank him for a straight answer, but wound up asking him how long it would take. Ed’s answer did not please him.
“Depends. How well can you sing?”

Chapter 21

Of course Sofi wasn’t the slightest bit intimidated by Old Fred’s suggestion, and so she curled the rope around her legs and slid down into the hole. They heard a soft, “Oh,” drift up through the hole, and they saw the rope relax.
“I know, right?” came Livingstone’s voice.
Old Fred shrugged at Warren and made a curious face at the opening. Just as Warren was going to ask who would go through next, Trent collapsed next to him without a sound of complaint.
“Huh,” was all he could manage at first. Fredric glanced over and added a profound, “um,” to the conversation. The two still standing possessed matching faces of bewilderment and couldn’t accomplish anything worthwhile as they stared at their fallen comrade.
When Livingstone queried their status with an echoing shout, Warren and Old Fred followed the voice back to conscious thought and both stooped to check Trent more closely. He lay rigidly, arms flattened to his side, legs pressed together, toes pointed straight up. Old Fred found his pulse and sighed; Warren peered into the far-gazing eyes searching for a response. Fredric cupped his right hand and lightly tapped Trent’s left cheek.
“Hrmm,” Warren hummed.
“Ehhh,” Old Fred added, pausing for thought.
Warren sighed.
Fredric took a breath and opened his mouth—but not a word ventured forth. Warren raised his eyebrows in positive bafflement.
“You know, my motto used to be ‘procrastination pays’ but I changed that years before I met you guys,” Livingstone yelled through the opening.
Fred screwed his eyes on the hole; “Seems we had a little…hiccup in our plans,” he shouted back. “Trent’s practicing to be a mummy.”
The pause from the hole told Warren that Livingstone was actually considering this a possible explanation. Old Fred fidgeted and must have decided to elaborate so Livingstone wouldn’t ask, for he walked over to the opening and stuck his head through.
“Non-responsive, unconscious, but alive,” he shouted through the hole. Warren decided to join him at the edge of the hole, but Livingstone’s dreads emerged from the blackness. He pulled himself through the opening, propped himself on his elbows, and glanced around the two. When his eyes narrowed and focused back on Fredric, Warren felt an electricity of sorts tingling the atmosphere.
“I hate to ask the obvious,” Livngstone began, “but where exactly is this ‘non-responsive, unconscious, but alive’ Trent?”
Old Fred spun, gestured towards the floor, and then actually looked where he was pointing. His mouth closed and Warren couldn’t help but glance back to Trent. Or where Trent had been. Only a few random butterflies occupied the space where Trent had been lying. “He was just there!” Warren spurted and began searching the room with his eyes, though his legs were rooted to the spot.
“Indeed,” Livingstone mused sarcastically. “Well if people are disappearing, we’d better not stick around until it happens again.”
“If Trent’s gone, so is our hope for finding the next waypoint,” Sofi’s voice echoed from below. This statement seemed to affect Old Fred particularly, though he attempted to disguise his frustration with humor: “You mean we have to choose between butterflies and a sewer system for living out the rest of our lives?”
But Warren noticed Livingstone’s mind churning; he could practically hear the gears grinding in there. “No,” Livingstone said, “Not at all; there seems to be a certain demon interested in our success. Perhaps it will keep intervening; now let’s go before the Mar find us…or Trent,” and slipped down the rope. Warren followed him down, and Old Fred after him.
What surprised Warren was that his feet hit a glass walkway before he was even halfway to the water beneath him. He almost asked a question of such absurdity that Livingstone would have murdered him for it, but he reigned it in before it escaped his tongue. Instead he let his eyes adjust a little more to the darkness of the tunnel. A set of dim florescent lights on each side of the tunnel, about where the glass floor met the concrete walls, blinked away into the darkness on each side.
Sofi grabbed his hand and pulled him to his left, leading him towards what seemed a cavity, or recession, in the wall of the tunnel. Strange, geometrical shadows greeted his adjusting eyes. “What is it?” he whispered to her. Sofi sighed, chuckling, and didn’t answer him. Rather they took a rusted metallic staircase down around several giant cylinders and some scaffolding which seemed to be just barely holding everything in place—and everything groaned with each step they took.
Warren looked back to Old Fred and Livingstone, their silhouettes were unmistakably different as they crossed over to the staircase: Livingstone’s solid, set, and smooth, Fredric’s like he were tip-toeing on thin ice.
“So,” Warren whispered to Sofi again, “why aren’t we staying on the easy glass walk above?” after nearly tripping over a broken-loose pipe. Sofi kindly returned an answer.
“We think it’s a dual-layered sewer system: the lower half for solid and liquid waste, the upper for gaseous waste. As far as that concerns us, it’s far easier to avoid contact with solids and liquids than gasses.”
Warren nodded.
“That and they might use flame jets to clean out the upper layer, while simply flushing out the lower with a burst of water. And while Old Fred might prefer fire to water, I don’t.”
“What’s that?” Old Fred shouted, and clicked the safety off his handgun. “Prepare fire on what?” Livingstone shook his head and lowered Fredric’s gun with the palm of his hand.
“I’m getting you hearing aids, next pharmacy we find.”
“What?” Old Fred complained.
“Exactly.”

*

The trio of soldiers, made quartet with Warren, walked up-“stream” in the relative darkness for hours. I’ll have you know that nothing very exciting happened, other than the occasional badly framed question by Warren which was badly answered by Old Fred, while Livingstone trudged on silently in the back and Sofi strained her eyes in the dark before her. She still grasped Warren’s hand in her own, but Warren felt changes in her grip as they plodded forward. Perhaps she wasn’t only struggling to find direction physically.
Warren wanted more than anything a few hours to be alone with her. Whatever excuse he could find would work, but he knew that Livingstone would see his intention clearly, no matter how he disguised it. So he trusted fate, hoping it might throw them another curve ball, distancing him and her from the other guys, if only for a bit. Of course, that only led him to consider that the opposite effect might happen, that he might find himself isolated from Sofi just as easily. So he clung to her grasp and counted his luck for the day.
Ali seemed to sense his longing and squeaked in his ear to remind him that she to wanted his love. Warren stuck a finger of his free hand to his shoulder and she nibbled on it contentedly.
"Does she ever get tired of your shoulder?" Sofi asked.
Warren chuckled. "No, it doesn't seem so."
"Do you mind if I hold her for a bit?"
He was surprised--this was a first for Sofi. Excepting the night Ali talked, Sofi had hardly recognized Ali's existence. "Not at all," he answered, squeezing her hand ever so slightly. "Here," he said as he picked Ali from her perch. "She'll probably go for the side without your hair."
Sofi's shoulders seemed to tense when he set the rat on her, but she relaxed soon enough and Ali found a comfortable spot. "Hi," Sofi whispered softly to her and smiled. "She really is a cute one."
"I'm glad you gave her to me...even if technically you didn't," Warren laughed. She just squeezed his hand and they walked on in the darkness.
The first sign of change they found was slight and completely imperceptible to Warren at first. But the more Sofi pointed and explained, the more he thought he saw what she was talking about: a slightly iridescent moss growing in the corner of the walkway through the tunnel. Apparently this meant profoundly to Livingstone and Sofi—and I think Old Fred pretended it mattered as well. But Warren couldn’t see what was so special about a patch of moss, and decided that asking about it wasn’t going to get him an answer. So he let them to their thoughts and kept walking next to Sofi.
The second sign of change they found was clearly audible to Warren. But when he mentioned this sound he heard, no one else, as much as they strained, couldn’t hear it. But Warren was listening to the distinct sound of oars slapping the water.
Old Fred said something about buying everyone hearing aids at the next pharmacy, but Warren quieted him as the sound seemed to be approaching them, traveling upstream, as they had been. When Warren thought he could distinguish a figure on the water, he called out.
“Hey there!” After a moment’s pause in what had been a consistent rhythm of paddling, Warren thought he saw the figure move. Then the slap of the water continued.
“I hope you’re still hearing things, because it looks like you’re seeing things now, too,” Old Fred quipped. Livingstone silenced him with a motion of his hand.
Warren stepped as close as he could to the edge, peering through the shroud of darkness in the tunnel. When what appeared to be a small barge clanked up against the concrete, Warren stepped back. Two large glowing eyes turned his way and blinked. They bounced from the barge, landing on the walkway with a wet slap. Warren turned to his companions to point out that he wasn’t going crazy, but they had quit moving. In fact, they weren’t breathing, blinking, or even thinking, apparently. Sofi’s hand in his own was limp and non-responsive when he squeezed it.
Warren turned back to the eyes which sidled up to him with what sounded like a man in sopping flippers walking around a swimming pool.
“It’s been such an eternity since I’ve seen a son of Zoe or heard the language of the ancients,” it said, stopping just a few feet from Warren.
“What did you do to my friends?” Warren asked with a hint of caution tingeing his voice.
“You are not alone, you say. Are you sure? I see what I deem to be a single son of Zoe walking the Sepial Way, and no others.”
Warren clutched Sofi’s hand to be sure he wasn’t dreaming.
“Perhaps it’s too dark in here for you to see them,” Warren suggested. The eyes beamed back at him.
“You do seem to be struggling with your perceptions in here. But I assure you there is no shred of darkness here to trained eyes. Not like some of the other Ways.”
Warren thought the creature had laughed as it turned and leapt onto its boat. “Where are you going?” he called after it. He received no response, but a muddled cacophony of scrapings, rustlings, and clangings. Then he heard the sound of those flippers landing on the concrete and saw those luminous eyes fixed on him again.
“It has been far too long since I aided a son of Zoe; in fact, I’m not quite sure I’ve forgiven the last one I helped.”
“Why do you call me that? A ‘son of Zoe’?” Warren asked him.
“Because, that’s what you are. Are you not?” it replied as it approached him. “Close your eyes.”
“What? Why?”
“This will help you see,” it stated simply. Warren took a heavy breath, clutched Sofi’s hand for strength, and closed his eyes.
What he felt was something akin to an aloe gel one might apply to a burn. Except that it was warm and applied by snakeskin. But then the heat increased, and began to burn. He reached to wipe it off with a hand, but the creature quickly restrained him. “Let it work its course. It’s not going to kill you, but keep your eyes closed for a bit.”
Warren used every bit of his willpower to trust the creature and tolerate the burn. It felt as if Tabasco sauce had been squirted up his sinuses and he started snorting in an effort to relieve it. But the words of the reflective eyes had been true, and once it began abating, total relief came quickly.
“Now what do you see?” it asked him. Warren opened his eyes and was stunned. The tunnel sparkled exquisitely, the lights lit everything radiantly—shadows were even difficult to find. The water glistened like the finest Carribean lagoon under a brilliant summer sun. The moss Sofi had been pointing out glowed with the purest, easiest light to look at he had ever seen. Livingstone stood stock still, squinting at the barge. Old Fred was crouched inspecting the moss closely—so close Warren almost cringed at the brightness he would have endured at such a distance. But Sofi took his breath away. She positively glowed under the light—every part of her beauty enhanced as she bathed in the light. “Better?” the voice wondered.
Warren turned to his helper and had to stifle a gasp. He turned what he saw over in his mind several times—trying to figure if it was more duck, or turtle, or walrus, or frog. It sat, hunched somewhat, like a frog perched on a log. It wore a heavy pack (or shell…he couldn’t decide which) with all sorts of flashing trinkets attached to it. But its eyes were still its most distinctive feature, though no longer glowing as they had been. Rather, they shone with interest, reflected intelligence as well as the light. The rest of its head reminded Warren of a sea-turtle, with a fairly beaklike mouth, but a thick leathery skin under its eyes and on its cheeks. Its hands and feet were more flipper than anything; but it didn’t seem to lack any grasping power from a human hand. It had a stout, stocky build to it and wore what seemed to be a ragged leather outfit.
When Warren remembered he had been asked a question, he cleared his throat and tried to answer. “Ye..yeah. Uh. Thanks.”
“Well let’s go then,” it stated and began to climb back into its barge. Warren’s eyebrows scrunched together.
“Go? Where?”
“Somewhere safe,” it replied without turning.
“But what about my friends?” Warren asked.
“What friends?” it asked, looking back at Warren.
Warren demonstratively pointed out Livingstone, Old Fred, and Sofi…squeezing her hand once for good measure. The creature laughed. Or at least, Warren figured that was what it did. “These. Don’t you see them?”
The creature hopped back off the barge, shuffled over to Warren and stuck his flipper right through Sofi—waved it around a bit and stepped back with what Warren took to be an indolent smile. “If you think that everything exists in the same place for everyone in that place at the same time, my good son of Zoe, you have much to learn.” It sighed, walked back to the edge of the crystal water, and hopped on the barge. “Are you coming or not?”
“But,” Warren protested.
“They won’t budge, I promise you.”
“So you know they’re there!”
“So surely as you believe they exist, I believe they won’t move until you can help them make the transition. Now are will you come with me to help them or not?”
Warren sighed and looked in Sofi’s vacant eyes. “I’ll be back for you; I promise,” he whispered and kissed her on the cheek. Then an idea lit his mind. He grabbed a pen from Sophi’s pack and wrote a note on the hand he had been holding. “Will be right back.”
“Okay, I’m ready. Let’s go,” he called to the bargeman and jumped on board.