Epilogue

“Warren, dear, what’s wrong?”
I don’t know, Sofi. But we need to leave. My friend, I thank you for hearing my tale, but I think it’s time our paths split; I don’t think it wise for us to tarry here much…
“Warren, look at the sky!”
What is…Sofi get down! You, get out of here! Go! Go! Run!
Sofi, here, take my hand! Come on!

Chapter 31

Warren began to notice several different things happening inside him at that moment: he understood Livingstone, he found a knot of uneasiness loosed within him, and, for some odd reason, he didn’t wonder why he felt this way. The only way he could put it was that a fire had been quenched within him—or perhaps the reverse, where there had been dead lumps of coal, flame now burned brightly. Either way, Warren could not deny a change had occurred, though he could not put his finger on what exactly had happened. Beside the fact he had inhaled a wasp.
But regarding Livingstone’s quip, he found it entirely hilarious and laughed heartily. Livingstone was absolutely correct; the absurdity of his journey here made him chuckle—how often had Oscar tried to point out this pointless necessity to understand. Yes, Warren thought to himself, it was this that had changed. What had been lauded, a week ago, as a mindset of critical thought and solid academic inquisition seemed to him a horribly meager and wholly insubstantial method of living. As he thought back, it seemed more and more apparent to him: how much easier his journey might have been if he hadn’t paused to ask why.
Could he have certainly felt entitled to know why he was forced from his home and onto the road with a complete stranger, flung from his own history into the wild garden and its forking pathways, and skipped right to his grandfather’s deathbed just in time to take over as the High Elder Anazao? Even if Livingstone had known, Warren wouldn’t have believed him. No, whether Livingstone knew or not didn’t matter. The fact that, upon looking back, Warren saw his journey to the east Florida coastline as a tailor-made process to shape Warren into a person who would step into his grandfather’s shoes in that moment relieved him.
Livingstone had pin-pointed it; never again would he ask a dumb question of Oscar. Not because he now knew the answers to everything, which he noted he did not. Not because he couldn’t find out what he didn’t know. Not because his inquisitive eyebrows had finally failed him. But the need to know had died within him in that moment he gave up, closed his eyes, and breathed in deeply. It felt as if it was the first breath he had ever taken—indeed he had obeyed the final word of the Keeper. Whatever the future held for him, he did not know. But there was a life within him which he hadn’t had before; this much he felt, and he understood it was quite pointless to wonder how. Warren stretched a bit and blinked.
“Livingstone…”
“Yes Watson?”
“Thanks.”
Oscar nodded with a wry smile. “You bet.” Warren thought he was going to say more, but the hobo remained silent and leaned against the wall with folded arms. Of course, there was nothing more to say. Warren knew Livingstone had fulfilled his charge—Warren had been transformed into the High Elder Anazao. He was also certain the man would sleep well tonight.

Warren took a last look to the bed. There lay his grandfather’s lifeless body, pale and limp, at rest, while he stood strong and refreshed. The pendulum had reached its peak and was now swinging back the other direction. In accordance with that swing, he knew he had to talk with the Elder, the man who had introduced him to his grandfather, and as he took the first step to exit the room as the High Elder Anazao, leaving Warren Spicks behind, Livingstone piped up.
“I’m sure Sofi will be pleased.”
Warren felt poignantly the undercurrents of the phrase. “My grandfather never married...” Warren stated; he knew it as soon as he said it.
“True, in one sense. But in another, he lead the flock with a steady hand and sharp mind. His love for them was never marred or mixed with a different love for a single person. You might have said he was married to them.”
“And Sofi? She knew, of course, I was to become the High Elder.”
Livingstone only affirmed the answer with his eyes.
Warren’s heart collapsed within him—he had to find her and explain. But Livingstone preempted him. “As the High Elder, you’ll be required to return to the Refuge and lead the ceremonies honoring his fall. Then likely, you’ll have your hands full with Maghalis and his lieutenants. They will strike hard at you; you are young and inexperienced still, and without the Keeper’s power behind you, you will have your hands full. Let me deal with Sofi, Watson.”
“You will tell her that I love her, of course.”
“Yes. Of course.”
As Warren nodded and trudged from the room, his heart told him Sofi’s future lay in a different history, on a different path. She was indeed a rose in the garden; one he enjoyed and whose memory he would treasure. But, as he had to die to himself, he had to die to her. He couldn’t imagine Livingstone would put it any other way; he only hoped he would say so with tact. Which, he admitted, was a long shot for Oscar—but something within assured him that Sofi had a bright future ahead of her.
So he tried to push her from his thoughts and left the room. Livingstone followed him out, but turned left in the hallway after Warren had turned right. The High Elder felt that the old Warren might have fretted about how where precisely Sofi was, how Livingstone would find her, how indeed Livingstone had found his way here without her, but these echoes did not disturb the High Elder Anazao. Livingstone had promised to deliver the awful news to her, and he fully trusted his capability to do so. He refocused his mind on his task—of which Oscar had alluded. Of course, he realized it was his duty to explain the necessity of the Keeper’s sacrifice in bringing him here, to fulfill the duties of his grandfather, the late Elder Anazao.
The man in the brown suit coat greeted him with a smile at the doorway and pushed his glasses up a bit on the bridge of his nose. Warren, however, was the first to speak. “Mr. Spicks has passed away.”
“I understand. And the High Elder?”
“I am.”
The man in the glasses sighed in relief. “I suppose you have something to say to them, then.”
“I do. But I have a few questions for you, first.”
“As you wish. Ask away.”
“What is the current state of our struggle against the Mar and Maghalis’ forces?” the High Elder queried.
“Damaged, but not defeated.”
“The state of our allies?”
“Besieged, but holding.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re ready, then.”
Warren nodded.
“I’ll go prepare the video feed. When you see the green light up there flash on, you can enter. You’ll have as much time as you need,” the Elder explained and walked through the door and around the corner, leaving the High Elder with his thoughts.
He thought about the Keeper’s dying words. He thought about how to inspire without sounding brash, to lead without trampling, to empathize without conforming. However, he did not think of Sofi, and afterwards, when he considered this, it haunted him.
But a short time later, when the green light flashed, Warren strode onto the small stage, found the glass podium, and gazed confidently into the feed. “My brothers, my sisters; it has not been such a great time since we last spoke. I told you I would serve you as best I could—I did not mean it when I said so. I was Warren Spicks then, the grandson of the ailing High Elder Anazao. I bring you grave news to rest with the news you received this morning. The High Elder has passed away.
“But do not be troubled. Though our Keeper has been slain, though your High Elder has breathed his last, they did not do so in vain. I have taken up the mantle of my grandfather; I am the High Elder Anazao. And I want to tell you how both of them died.
“I met the first when I awoke in the Refuge one fine morning, after falling victim to a poison of Maghalis. The Keeper spoke to me of life, of hope, of renewal. I heard him, but I did not believe him. Shortly after, Maghalis attacked the refuge, in pursuit of me. The Keeper gave his life for me, and his dying breath bore me to these shores. He took my place; he saved me from the terrible hand of Maghalis. I am to blame for his death.
“But without that sacrifice, I might have not made it here in time. Perhaps the late High Elder could have clung to life, but had he died without an heir…I don’t even want to consider the thought. My point is this: there is a grand design at work here; I believe it is the Keeper’s. It required his life, and freely, he gave it for me.
“I am the High Elder Anazao, now. The Keeper gave his life for me, my grandfather gave his life to me, I can do no less for you. I will not serve as best I can, as I told you as Warren Spicks. But I will give you everything I am, everything I can be, and everything I have, for each of you. For it is no longer I who live, but the Keeper who lives through me. He loved you and guided you; allow me to do the same.
“We now battle a merciless and relentless enemy. Perhaps one strengthened by news of the Keeper’s fall, of the passing of the High Elder to a green and unproven leader. They will strike out hard at us; they will test our strength.
“But they will find us equal to the task. They will find that it is not we who are on the defensive. Our enemies will soon discover the battle does not lie on our doorstep, but their own; it is not our fortress under attack, but their gates which bend and buckle, their walls which crumble and break.
“Take heart, my brothers; keep hope alive, my sisters! This is not an ending, but a beginning; we are not retreating, but advancing. These demons and their servants have struck their deepest blow at us and will find it has only empowered us. Let us hoist the banner of the Keeper high and, for his life’s sake, remind everyone of the greatness of his love and the power of his life. Go now, may the light of the Keeper shine on your faces and guide your footsteps.”
With that, the High Elder Anazao stepped off the stage to the applause of millions. Several of the men in the room immediately approached him. The old man in the brown coat began introductions. “This is Elder Beal,” he said, pointing to the bearded man to Warren’s left, “He serves as the Treasurer; he can tell you where our funds are being currently allocated and how much we can spare and where.” Anazao nodded, and Beal returned it. “To our right, this is Elder Ashcrow; he is the General of our armed force and will advise you on military operations. To his right is Elder Kyrnez, who serves as your Internal Affairs advisor; he can let you know of the condition of our flock as a whole. Directly across from you is Elder Wynn; he oversees our judicial system and can inform you on how we implemented the Keeper’s orders. To his right is Elder Passe; she keeps us all in line and makes sure everything that needs getting done, gets done. And I am Elder Brighton; I am your administrative assistant and will put up all sorts of red tape to make sure Elder Passe doesn’t bother you too much.”
Warren chuckled. “I thank you all and will need to spend many hours will all of you. We have much to do, foremost, a service to plan for the fallen Keeper at the Refuge. But for now, I have a most immediate question for you, Elder Ashcrow.” The old bald man raised his eyebrows. “Do you know where Trent Sutherland is?”

Chapter 30

“Warren, come here. Let me see you,” a sickly voice from the hospital bed in front of him called. His brain was still trying to figure out how he knew the man in front of him was his grandfather, but his feet found the command simple enough and obeyed. “Ah you look good!” he raised a shaky arm and patted Warren’s shoulder. “Got some muscle to you, now. Have you been lifting?”
“For soccer,” Warren answered automatically, although that world had become nothing in the words that fell from his tongue.
“And how’s that going?”
“I’m not sure if I’ll stay with the team next fall.”
“Found too many other things to do, eh? I understand.” The man tried to breathe deep, but wound up triggering a nasty-sounding cough. Once he subsided, he found Warren’s eyes again. “Same thing happened to me when I was your age.”
“I don’t think so Grandpa. Not quite like this.”
The high elder smiled. “Actually, almost precisely. Tell me Warren, do you dream of corkscrewing pendulums often?” Warren’s eyebrows separated, splitting his brow, high and low. “I have been. And until you arrived, I hadn’t the foggiest idea of what it meant.”
“Listen Grandpa, that’s nice, but…”
“Don’t ask your questions just yet. Besides, you should know better.” And just that moment, a whole host of other questions rushed into his consciousness. Warren did his best to ignore them, but this faint allusion to Livingstone riled them up like a lab puppy chasing a flock of geese. “Wouldn’t you know it, a gang of thieves attacked my father’s store there in Illinois one winter eve when I was home alone. By God’s grace, I escaped and, after I had waited and waited for my parents to come back home, set to wandering where I would, looking to make my own way in the world.”
Warren sat watching his grandfather, dumbstruck.
“Long, long, long story short, I set here in this very room, listening to my grandfather tell a similar tale of how he had been abducted from his father’s cabin while the man was out collecting a few traps.”
It took every ounce of willpower Warren had not to interrupt him.
“And what he told me that day is the same thing I’m going to tell you right now: Warren you are part of a larger cycle than even I understand. You must become the next High Elder Anazao; you were meant to be here, you were drawn here for this purpose. You sensed this, didn’t you?”
Now that Warren had a chance to answer, he wasn’t sure he wanted to. The man before him was as truly his grandfather as the one that had died the previous November, in a fit of hacking and coughing when the results of the presidential election were revealed on the evening news. And not just the mannerisms and the light in his eyes, but sense of overwhelming love and care (and a bit of expectation) he had always felt next to his grandfather told him that the man whom cancer had killed was the very same as the one talking to him now. And though the question burned within him, he couldn’t ask it.
“I guess. I just feel…so…” Warren floundered, looking down at his feet.
“Thrown?” the high elder volunteered.
“Yeah.”
The loving eyes of his Grandfather pulled his gaze to meet them. “If it at all comforts you, I did meet my avatar, the me you knew in your childhood. That was an odd conversation; I really hope you don’t meet yours.”
“What do you mean?”
“I shouldn’t have to answer that question, but I will. Warren, the reason my parents didn’t come back, is not because they left me, it was because I left them. I was given another path, a journey in which they were not involved. But just because I took one, didn’t mean I left the other. Just because you hopped in the Jeep with Oscar, doesn’t mean you left your house. Warren, the only reason you are alive is because my avatar went with my parents. And the only reason you will meet your grandson here one day is because your other self didn’t notice Oscar in the garage. Whether that’s because you went kayaking with your brother, or had received a raid invite on Warcraft, whatever. There is another you that does not have to explain leaving a burnt house with a delusional hob to dead family members. There is another Warren Spicks who might go out for soccer again next fall. A Warren who will fall on his face (probably literally) for a beautiful girl and their son will one day face a separation from his family and journey to meet you, perhaps a week or two before your last.
“It was for this reason that I mentioned dreaming about corkscrewing pendulums—a spiraling oscillation. The thing is circular, but it doesn’t hit every time, just every other. Who knows why this thing was set in motion, but I do know there is a powerful reason behind it.”
“What’s that?”
“Hope, Warren. It is hope. I am privileged to serve the Keeper as the handle to his beaming torch of hope; when I pass, you too will begin to understand. But it is the duty of the high elder to be the seat of this hope for all of mankind.”
Warren suddenly felt a little smaller in the room, a sense of grandeur filled the frail old man on the bed, and the sun seemed to shine a bit brighter through the windows. “Warren my son, come to me.”
Warren closed the small gap between himself and the side of the bed. “This will seem like the most foolish thing you’ve done in your life. To date. Even more so than losing Sofi. But don’t worry, that trumps this. Come closer.”
It seemed fairly obvious that the old man knew that he was fading—but Warren noticed that his grandfather had begun to glow. The high elder motioned him in with his hand, and Warren leaned over, almost touching his grandfather’s nose with his own. The steady eyes gazing into his own asked him to promise. Warren nodded slightly, without blinking.
“When I go,” the high elder rasped between short breaths, “let it in. I guarantee you…you won’t want to. It will seem…ridiculous. But Warren!” A wrinkled hand grasped his own. “You must. You have come…so far to get here…you have sacrificed…so much.”
The light seemed to be fading from his grandfather’s eyes, and Warren clung to every mysterious word.
“Let it in, Warren,” the high elder, “even if you feel…like you’re dying…let it in.”
And with that, High Elder Anazao leaned back into his pillow, exhaled his spirit, and died. But before Warren could think anything, he noticed that the fading light in his grandfather’s face seemed to be moving out his nose. And before he had time to form a question, a softly glowing wasp crawled out of the nasal cavity of the High Elder Anazao. The creature stretched its wings weakly, shivered, and brought them to a flapping life. Warren gazed at the wasp in wonder as it took to the air, then took a step back when it began to hover his way.
But he couldn’t look away from the bug. It’s black fractured eyes mesmerized him and the last words of the High Elder Anazao echoed in his memory like a fascinating and frightening peal of thunder ricocheting down a mountain valley: let it in. Warren shook his head, but couldn’t tear his gaze from the wasp’s.
This was so wrong. Had he been deceived? What sort of imposter had been masquerading as his grandfather? This leach just wanted a new host—perhaps a compatible host, and had probably arranged the whole sequence of events to bring him here. He ought to backhand that wasp against the wall and crush it underfoot. Perhaps then he could get Sofi back. Perhaps then they could find a nice quiet history together, away from the Mar, the Surfside Ping Pong Club or whatever this was, away from demons and harpies and wasps and tokleks and lions and tigers and hyenas and whatever else was out there. This was the most absurd notion he’d ever thought about. It was ridiculous!
“Of course it’s ridiculous. But let it in.” Warren froze. That familiar voice behind him sounded as calm and relaxed as if he were on a midnight bus to Kansas. Or, for that matter, right in the middle of a firefight, surrounded, and running low on ammunition. Warren turned to find a pale-faced and dead-serious Livingstone in the doorway.
“Are you serious?” Warren asked, and shuddered when the wasp landed on his shoulder.
“Never more so,” Livingstone said with eyes that might have beheld a nightmare. “Let it in. Now.”
“You have no idea what you’re asking of me. I can’t.”
Livingstone’s jaw tightened. “You must; you absolutely must,” he said through clenched teeth. “If ever you were to trust me, trust me now; if ever you were to obey your grandfather’s request, obey this one. Let it in.”
“But this is stupid! It’s complete foolishness. Let a wasp in my nose? Are you mad?”
“You’ve asked those same questions before you did similar actions. Now, get on with it. Let it in.”
The smileless Livingstone bothered Warren. Everything about this seemed wrong. Why was it always he who had to face choices like this on the spot? He didn’t want this. He never did ask for it. What had changed a week ago? What had sent him skipping down this path, hardly able to orient himself to one circumstance before being flung to the next. He did feel thrown. And with that thought came another. He was here. He certainly could have been anywhere. He might even be somewhere else, too. But he was here. And he faced a choice between two options: he could swat the wasp on his shoulder and be done with it, or he could turn to the wasp, nod, and…Warren shivered. He couldn’t imagine it. It was too weird. Too other from anything he had even experienced in the past week.
“You have about fifteen seconds to decide,” Livingstone informed Warren in a tone of voice he had never heard from the hobo: anxious.
“What?”
“Twelve now.”
Warren turned to the wasp. A wave of desperation crashed over him. This was crazy; totally absurd. Images flashed through Warren’s mind; his parents at the dinner table, his brother in a kayak, Sofi at the coffee-shop table, Ali gnawing on Old Fred’s finger, his grandfather eagerly relaying his last words, now Livingstone standing in a cold sweat. Could he trust that all of this had hope behind it? Was it hope that told the story, or a deceptive fate hurdling him to his demise? How had it all come down to this little bug on his shoulder?
“Five.”
Questions or not, could he trust? He didn’t have the mettle to trust. He didn’t, Warren told himself; he couldn’t. Then like the flashing bolt of lightning she had seemed to him in Manitou Springs, Sofi appeared in his mind’s eye. “You took a chance on me,” she whispered.
And so on a pleasant Thursday afternoon at approximately 2:35:04 pm Eastern Standard Time in a beach-house on the eastern Florida coastline, Warren Spicks, grandson of S. Ogden Spicks, spun north, held out his hand for a dying wasp, and promptly stopped thinking. The creature inched onto the palm of Warren’s hand and started to glow with a faint, golden light. After pulling his hand nearly to his lips, Warren closed his eyes, tilted his nose into the air, and began to inhale.
When Warren resumed his thought process, he wasn’t sure whether he was horrified at what he had just experienced or if he had imagined the whole thing. He didn’t distinctly remember anything after inhaling, only that he had had made his decision, and that he knew that the wasp knew he had. He had, for half a second thought he had felt the pain of sharp legs in his sinuses and the urge to sneeze..but like failed sneeze, faded with just a little irritation that he hadn’t sneezed.
Livingstone looked as if a hydrogen bomb had just been defused at his feet, and came up to Warren, searching for something deep in his eyes. Warren could tell when he found it; the hobo’s eyes glanced all around his face, then he nodded. “You alright, Watson?”
“Yeah, I think so. Don’t feel much different.”
“Mm. That so. Well, I for one, am glad you decided the way you did.”
“Why’s that?” Warren asked.
“Because I’ll never have to answer any of your dumb questions ever again.”

Chapter 29

The kind old woman was, in the end, the one responsible for nudging Warren to go stand beside the man in the shiny black shoes. However, it took far more than a simple nudge to encourage Warren to move. He had not realized that the old man's final statement was an introduction, the steps on which he stood were a stage, and the glass cube decorating the side wall of the fireplace at which he stared held a camera and revealed several different crowds of unthinkable numbers. So for several moments Warren waited for the old man looking at him to continue. But as the silence endured, the lady in the kitchen mouthed the word “go” to him several times, then made a flicking move with her hand, as if to shoo him out of his chair. Warren raised his eyebrows, pointed at himself, and whispered, “Me?” The lady nodded with wide eyes and pointed to the man, who had by that time extended his hand toward Warren.

A knot formed in Warren's stomach. He took a short breath, stood, and meandered up to the stairs. A smile crossed the old lady's lips—slight nod from the old man as Warren shook his hand and turned to face the glass cube. Here the knot rose to his heart, which missed a beat as he took in the display of six different outdoor crowds gathered, which all erupted into frantic, silent commotion when he looked at the camera. He tried a smile. It almost came out right.

The man beside him placed an arm around his shoulder, like a proud father introducing his son, and, looking into his eyes, asked Warren, “Tell us, my dear Warren Spicks, why you are here! Tell us all why you have come!” The smile on the man's lips was as sincere as the light in his eyes, but it didn't help Warren at all. Confusion rightly reigned in his mind; questions leapt at him from every corner—questions he knew Livingstone could banish in a heartbeat. If only he were here, he could take charge, deflect and absorb the questions without having to answer them. If only he had taken more time to study Livingstone rather than to, well, question him. But he hadn't, and Livingstone was not going to jump out of nowhere and rescue him now.

Now, he had only himself; what a flimsy prospect that was. What good had he done in the past week? He had managed to get his family killed, his house burned, several safehouses destroyed and perhaps several dozen of Livingstone's associates killed; to get himself kidnapped, Trent lost, himself lost in the pathways of histories; to win Sofi's heart, but only to immediately lose her several times in a row, to draw demonic forces against an orphanage, to force the Keeper to die for his sake, to wake up on a sandy beach and be introduced as some hero or celebrity with some kind of plan to fix everything.

How was that a list of commendable experience? Everything he touched, besides Livingstone, seemed to fall apart. A bitter taste crept into his mouth. “Why am I here?” was the question echoing in his head. He couldn't say. It wasn't his fault, really. He had done nothing to get here, hardly. But here he was, nonethless. And that thought surprised him. The scope of his past and the prospects of the future melted away as he considered this. However he had come here, wherever he was headed, mattered very little to Warren in this moment. He was awestruck at the very fact that he was, indeed, actually here, in a beach house full of strangers, looking at a camera with several hundred thousand people, if not more, all watching him, waiting for his answer. He was here. He had hardly made a decision to come to this point, and yet here he was.

This thought was quite discouraging. He felt utterly insignificant, in spite of the anxious eyes all watching him. He was here, yes, but had nothing to give. Nothing of value to tell these people. He had news for them, he supposed. But the fact that he felt directly responsible for their Keeper's death was not one he was anxious to convey.

But here was the old man's eyes, beginning to falter. His smile, failing. Warren would have to speak soon. He glanced around the room. The bearded man was scowling, the old lady open-mouthed in radiant expectation. For a moment, he considered walking out of the place without a word. He hadn't had a chance to do that since that fateful morning when he met Livingstone in his garage—except for his brief escape attempt in Manitou Springs. And that had only backfired on him. Perhaps it would now, too.

And so Warren abandoned any hope of being able to escape, or even to say the right thing. Obviously these people were in for a surprise. Why lead them on in the first place? And after that question, a small Livingstone danced in his mind. What did their expectations of him matter at all? They obviously believed him a part of a grander scheme, but he did not. Why should he oblige them at all? Silence seemed the best option.

But silence would perhaps lead them to make their own assumptions—which could land him in a very different situation quite quickly. The little Livingstone agreed: he had to say something that would neither shatter illusions nor feed them. And what more equivocal answer could he give than the timeless mantra of four-year olds giving a defense to their sins: I don't know.

And thus he answered half a million people. Of course he didn't word it so plainly. It came out something more like, “I'm afraid I cannot yet answer that question myself, as it seems I am the most uninformed person on the planet at this point in time. But my journey has led me here, to all of you, and it is my humble pleasure to serve any one of you as best I can.”

For a few quick moments, his words seemed to hang in the air. Then the smile danced in the old man's eyes, who offered Warren a hearty handshake and began clapping. Those in the room, and in the cube in front of him joined him. Warren smiled grandly and stepped down to greet the radiant old woman, who came from behind the counter to envelop him in a big hug.

While the old man evidently concluded his remarks, she whispered in Warren's ear, “You have been the talk of the land! We're so excited you've come! Don't you worry, we'll get you started soon enough.” Then she held him at arms length, as if inspecting him. “You seem a bit thin; you're sure you've had enough breakfast?”

Warren tried to answer that yes he had, but the old man had descended the steps and interrupted. “It's time.” The old lady cocked her head and smiled with trembling lips and a tear in her eye, releasing him to whatever fate lie ahead of him.

This phrase, however, set off the tiny Livingstone. “It seems you are at the threshold of something you cannot comprehend. But whatever you do, hold your tongue. This is not the place for ignorant questions.” Warren heeded the advice. Observation was his most powerful asset now. He needed to find clues to the answers, not the opinions and ideas of people he had never before met in his life. It was apparent he held a special position in their eyes, and that the Keeper's death the night before had nearly broken their spirits. It almost seemed as though they saw in him a gift from the Keeper. “You'd do well not to mention that you were responsible for his death, you know,” the small Livingstone voted. “At least if you plan to stay in their good graces. Which might not necessarily be your good graces. If you follow.” Warren didn't, but after a brief pause the little Livingstone resumed. “You don't want to be stuck in a beach-front retirement home playing President of the Shuffleboard club for the rest or your days? You have more important things to consider, or have you so quickly forgotten about Sofi?”

A small shiver tickled his spine. He had. Well certainly not entirely, but for the moment, she wasn't at the forefront of his mind. “Until of course, I mentioned it.” Which was certainly true. Warren nearly clutched his stomach as it dawned on him how likely it would be that he would ever see her again. Perhaps this was the place she was attempting to take him. Perhaps she would show up in the next few hours, or days...possibly weeks. He could wait that long and play along with these people. But if she didn't? “Well then, I'd say you've lost and you'd be far better admitting the truth that you were tracked down by the demon lord Maghalis and therefore were directly responsible for the destruction of the orphanage, the deaths of all within, and the sacrifice made by the Keeper. Perhaps then they'd swifly remove your head and therefore any worry of living the rest of your life without her.” Warren could nearly see the ironic gaze of the dreadlocked man as he spoke.

But here the old man stopped walking down the hallway, at the third door on the left. He pushed it open with his right hand and stepped back, as if to usher Warren through. “Right this way, Mr. Spicks.”

“You'd better choose quickly, you know. It's likely you'll be asked any moment now. Do you risk a life waiting for Sofi? Or be done with it and risk the unknown consequences of the truth?” the tiny Livingstone asked of Warren. He bit his lip as he crossed the threshold of the door. If it were to be a choice between Sofi and likely death...he would certainly choose Sofi. But could he wait? Could he pretend for years, decades? Could he maintain an illusion that long? “So many questions! You won't have answers to any of those,” the Livingstone ranted, “so make your choice and be done with it.”

There was a short hallway which opened into a larger room, with several doors on the way in, like a hotel room, he thought, presumably leading to the closet and bathroom. He could make out the foot of a bed, but it seemed more like a portable, rolling hospital bed. There was a curtain hanging, too, but it had been pulled to his left to open up the room, as if in invitation to any visitors.

“What will you tell them?” Livingstone prodded. Warren made up his mind: I will do whatever I can, if only to have the slightest chance at seeing Sofi again.

“It is not every couple that is a pair, you know,” Livingstone mentioned offhand.

“What?” Warren said aloud, and suddenly regretted it.

“Take off your shoes, please,” the old man reiterated with a cautioning hand on Warren's shoulder.

Warren's focus snapped to the present command and he slipped off his shoes before walking past the drawn curtain and into the small room with the hospital bed in it. A withered, dying man seemed to inhabit the sheets, and more than a few different tubes (hooked up to several bed-side monitors) snaked their way under them as well.

“May I introduce High Elder Anazao, head of the Council. Your highness, this is the young Warren Spicks, sent to us from the Orphanage, by the Keeper himself.” The old man took a few steps to the bedside, nodded, beckoned Warren over, and then stepped back with what seemed the intent to leave the two in peace.

Warren's eyebrows hovered low over his eyes. He wasn't quite sure what to expect, but he felt already lighter, warmer, more peaceful in the very presence of the man in the bed. He strode easily to the bedside and looked deeply into the face of the High Elder. His eyebrows rose in shock: it was his grandfather.

Chapter 28

Don't look now, but Sofi has returned. I may need to leave any second, if she should discover I'm here. Has she entered the cafe? Can you see?

Don't make it so obvious, I think we're in an inauspicious corner and that might...you see her? She's coming right for us, isn't she. Okay. Keep your head down; we've got a storm on our hands.

“And you thought you could just show up and it wouldn't matter?”

Sofi, listen. I couldn't.

“You're absolutely right! You couldn't ever! Warren, I thought you were dead! And then Fred told me you were...”

I told Fred...

“Yes, Warren. He told me. He does that. He communicates. Haven't you ever listened to his rants?”

Sofi, I didn't want you to suffer.

“I have suffered, Warren. I have...I...”

I thought it'd be best if I were just gone; I couldn't drag you into this.

“And what about what I thought? Didn't that matter at all to you?”

I talked with Livingstone about it, and we decided...

“Did you propose to Livingstone, too? Or just me?”

Sofi...

“Warren! I loved you! And thought you might have loved me, too.”

I do love you, Sofi. But I could never care for you like a proper husband. Not after that. I'm not the same Warren you loved.

“Yes, Warren, you are! Whatever you think changed within you, didn't. Perhaps the man I knew was buried, or lost, but Warren you are still the Warren I love! Just seeing your face again...look at me.”

Sofi, I can't.

“Look at me. This is the face of a woman whose heart has been resurrected. Can't you see?”

I can't.

“Warren. A young lad came into town one afternoon, but had little idea of where he was headed. About halfway through town, he entered a cafe. He felt very out of place, for he didn't drink coffee or tea at all. But in he walked, nonetheless, and found a girl sitting at a booth.

“From the start, he knew she was incredibly beautiful and decided to make her acquaintance. Their conversation was a pleasant one, although he soon found out she knew a great deal more than he, because all he did was ask questions. But she found something desirable in him: a taste for adventure, a thirst for knowledge which wouldn't be satisfied with half-truths.

“But almost as suddenly as the conversation began, it ended. The boy slipped into the woods to think, but not before stumbling upon a newspaper article authored by the girl he had been talking to. The article addressed God's business in the garden of the universe.

“Now, imagine this lad's surprise when he made this connection, and tell me, Warren Spicks, if you can, what the boy might have told the girl, next he saw her?”

Are you a rose in the wonderful garden?

“And what would have the girl responded?”

Which path do you tread?

“And the young man's answer to that?”

Wherever I must in order to smell the roses. Wherever I must. Sofi, I'm so sorry. Forgive me!

“Oh Warren, don't leave; I can't bear to let you go again.”

Sofi...Sofi, thank you.

“Shall I finish the story then?”

Actually, it is mine to finish. If I might introduce my new friend, to whom I have just been in the process of telling our story. This is Sofi Gio Seville, my fiancee. And yes, I apologize for my distance. I am Warren Spicks, and the story you've been hearing is my own.

“How far along are you?”

I was just about to tell how I woke on that sunny beach in south Florida, after floating on the breeze the night before.

“Ah, the final few hours! I want to hear this.”

Yes. And before I begin, Sofi, understand that it grieved me more than anything to deceive you like I did; perhaps you might come to forgive me in hearing the story from me.

“Warren, you are forgiven already.”

Then perhaps you can understand why I did what I did, as horrible as it was.

“Are you trying to defend your actions then?”

No. No, I stand guilty and condemned.

“And freed, cleared from any charge. Just love me, Warren, as I love you.”

I can do that. I will do that...but back to the story, so we can set everything to rest. And perhaps order another appetizer; it's been several hours since we've last eaten. Besides, you didn't touch your meal, Sofi.

“You!..I'll go get us something; you start talking.”

So. There you have it; and now that you know the ending, you're probably curious what I did to get that reaction. It wasn't kind of me, that's for sure. I can hardly contain my emotions; I apologize. I didn't think in my wildest dreams she'd take me back. I don't know what I expected. Rage. Tears. A cold soul. I don't know. But not that. I couldn't have imagined she'd dare to love me again. But she is a rare woman, I tell you. I put her through hell, yet here she stood and freed me from my chains of doubt. Ah! I can hardly think! Surely you can see I'm the richest man alive!

Well, the end began on that beach, with the morning sun as abrasively hot as the sand on which I (Warren) was laying. What had seemed supremely comfortable to Warren the night before, now felt like bed of solid rock. He stood and stretched his aching shoulders. The small crash of ocean waves in front of him had a somewhat mesmerizing effect, so he kept stretching. He rocked his head from side to side, bent on each side, twisted around, and promptly stopped when he found himself in front of a large, beachfront glass house.

Embarrassed, Warren glanced around, hoping some retiree wasn't drinking his coffee and reading the daily news while watching Warren do some aerobics. He was gratefully spared. But a second glance at the glass house piqued his curiosity. It seemed bright yellow—almost lime. But the more he looked at the glass, the more it resembled regular glass. The hue faded and the crisp clarity of the glass returned. Warren sighed and glanced back at the beach...and gasped.

The sand had turned a light shade of purple. He kicked at it; sure enough, it wasn't a trick of the air. He picked up a handful. Each grain was like a small amethyst crystal. But as soon as he pondered it, a color wheel came flying into his head. Of course if he had it in his head that the beach was white, of course the moment he looked at something truly white, it would seem bright yellow. This color paradigm flip wasn't the worst to get over, he figured, but wondered how on earth a whole beach could have been dyed purple. What in the world had happened here?

He looked back at the house. Perhaps someone was home. Perhaps he could walk up to the front door, knock, and have a regular conversation with regular people. And maybe they'd be a kind old couple who would invite him in and ask if he'd had breakfast yet—for Warren had remembered his stomach and a true hunger panged him. When he thought about it, he really couldn't recall the last time he'd eaten. Something with Ed, the Toklekk, maybe. He decided the remote possibility of an English Muffin with raspberry jam was worth the risk of whatever crazy inhabitants might lurk in this particular history.

Warren took a few steps up the beach towards the house, looking to either side for a path around. But a rather intricate decorative garden on either side seemed to point him towards a glass door on the back porch. He felt a little hesitant to knock on a back door, but then again, what could happen from disrupting the breakfast of an oceanfront couple that could rival the fury of a demon-dragon in that so-called orphanage? He figured his chances here were pretty good.

As he knocked, he glanced right, and then left, trying to keep himself from staring in. He noticed as he waited, that there weren't any other houses on the beach—it was just purple sand and trees as far as he could see. And then this house. He mentally shrugged and knocked again—and realized his mistake as the door slid open the moment he rapped his knuckles against the glass. A sheepish grin crossed his face, and Warren opened his mouth to explain, but a gentle voice from a kind old lady interrupted his intentions to explain. “Hello Warren Spicks! So good to see you! Right on time, I see,” she said, checking a watch on her wrist. “I didn't think you'd want to miss breakfast. Come in; come in!” She stepped to the side and slid the door wide for him.

Warren smiled as he entered and his eyes searched the interior. It was as much as he expected from the exterior design—simple, curved white walls, sleek, polished metal furniture, each room separated only by three-quarter height walls and a variety of levels (all with ramps instead of steps—clearly designed for the elderly), but most of all, it seemed like an indoor coral reef to Warren. Bright tapestries hung everywhere, from all corners of the world, Warren guessed. And paintings, from cubist experiments to hushed impressionists to realist landscape oils, decorated the walls. But it was only after this that Warren began to notice the plants. Ferns hung everywhere, small flower pots filled in what would have been empty spots on counter-tops, coffee tables, and credenzas. Small potted trees filled in corners. The more Warren looked at the place, the more he wondered how he had never seen so much greenery in one house. Of course it dawned on him the amount of light that entered this place—the glass exterior seemed to focus the sun's energy inward; hardly a shadow existed in the place, and he could only spot a few man-made lights which, he assumed, lit the place at night.

The old woman, short but not frail, hurried across to what Warren believed was the kitchen. She had short-trimmed gray hair that just fell over her ears, sparkling eyes, and a wide smile. She wore a thin white long-sleeved blouse with a bright red sweater-vest over it, with white capris and strapped sandals. Warren followed her, somewhat dumbfounded by the fact that she knew his name and the hour in which he would arrive. She turned and beckoned him over with the energy of a grandmother anxious to feed her grandchildren.

As Warren followed her command, he noticed other faces in the place. Two elderly men sat in a tiled sun room, quietly discussing something. A younger man with a thick beard sat reading a book beneath a particularly giant fern. Two middle aged woman walked out from a back room and down the hallway towards the kitchen, talking between themselves. And a child's squeal of joy echoed from somewhere deeper in the house. What manner of place was this? Warren wondered to himself. And did all these people expect him? A question for the lady behind the counter interrupted his thoughts.

“I'm afraid all we have left is oatmeal and one slice of bacon; but I can make you some toast if you'd like.”

Warren's eyebrows lifted a little. “That'd be wonderful; thank you!”

She smiled grandly, dished out the last of the steaming oatmeal into a ceramic bowl, and lifted it to him. “Go ahead and just sit on a stool there. I'll grab you a spoon.” She pulled one from a drawer in front of her, and as she handed the utensil to Warren, she asked, “Would you like some brown sugar to go on that?”

“Indeed!” Warren replied, warmed already by her hospitality. She placed a smaller bowl with a small silver spoon next to his, and turned to grab a slice of bread to toast. Warren slipped onto the stool and took a long blink. Why couldn't the majority of the past few days have been more like this? He took a bite, added a couple spoonfuls of brown sugar, and accepted the gift of buttered toast a few minutes later.

As he finished the meal, a rather distinguished old man entered the hallway and the anterior part of the house. Everyone seemed to notice his presence and drop their preoccupations in the case that he might speak. Warren swallowed the last bite of his toast and examined the man.

He was tall, with broad shoulders. Warren imagined he was quite a brute in his younger years. His jaw seemed set with purpose and was flecked with a thin white scruff that reached from chin to ear. He was bald in front, with short thin wisps of brilliant white hair in back. His eyes glistened with learning, as if he had witnessed the inner workings of the galaxy himself and wanted to share with anyone who would listen. He wore wire-rimmed spectacles, over which he looked to find things in the distance.

The sports jacket he wore was evidently a favorite: brown, old, and worn—he seemed completely comfortable and confident in it. He wore no tie and left the top button of the shirt underneath undone. His khaki pants were in similar condition to his jacket—the color had faded at the knees and ankles a bit. But his shoes grabbed Warren's attention; they were polished black dress shoes. Warren wasn't sure what to make of this...evidently the circumstances of ceremony requiring such shoes wasn't present. Perhaps the old man just liked his shoes.

As he walked out of the hallway, Warren saw, out of the corner of his eye, the bearded man rise. He looked to his hostess; she was standing as well. Glancing over his shoulder, Warren found that the two men in the sunroom had stood to their feet. The old man paused a moment, before descending a short staircase, and stared through his glasses into the space in front of him—as if trying to read something in the air. Warren crooked an eyebrow and looked to the lady who had served him breakfast. She drew him to his feet with a nod of her head. A brief silence, in which no one wanted to breathe, held the room.

Then the old man spoke. His voice was level and easy to listen too, but his accent was difficult to place. He spoke with authority, confidence, and, it seemed, sorrow. “I have news.” Each ear strained to listen although it was not hard to hear. “Last evening, The Keeper was slain.”

An audible chorus of gasps shot around the room. The speaker didn't regard any of them. Rather, he continued to stare before him, as if he spoke to a crowd of ten thousand. “The demon lord Maghalis is to blame; it attacked the Refuge just before nightfall last night and murdered our beloved Keeper.”

Warren's heart began to beat faster. He swallowed painfully and listened as the man continued.

“A response team recovered the body, and has prepared it for burial. The council plans to convene tomorrow to discuss how the Covenant will proceed. But do not despair, loved ones. This trying time in our history will not be without the light of the Keeper—remember how he told us he would not leave us alone.

“Indeed he hasn't. He has sent us one whom he spoke beforehand. He has sent us his power, his strength, his instrument. He has sent us Warren Spicks.”

Chapter 27

I imagine you've never met a demon in person, much less a demon lord like Maghalis. Some, as I've told you, are coy and deceptive and will appear beautiful or appealing to achieve their own ends. Others have a far subtler sense of misdirection, slipping past suspicion in the little things. But others, such as Maghalis, are like a firestorm, anxious only to rage and consume and leave desolation in their wake. The dread of these demons is well-placed, for their glory is in shock and terror, but these types of demons aren't the backbone of the force. They are the roaring head, the teeth and the claws.

The many demons which roam our histories aren't often these terrible monsters. They are the ones which work their havoc in the background, while we go about our daily habits. They undermine our efforts in the day-to-day routine—these we should fear most, because like cockroaches, they fester unseen and the longer we ignore them, the worse we all are for their malevolent work.

But the demon that towered in front of Warren did not care at all for subtlety or a behind-the-scenes jobs. Maghalis had again caught up with it's quarry and Warren could feel the demon's hunger. And he trembled.

A low rumble of the lion's growl mercifully interrupted Maghalis' gaze on Warren, who found himself seated on the floor, scampering backwards until his shoulders hit the wall. Never before had he felt such dread or fear in his life than staring into those black eyes, those orbs of emptiness, of a terrible and inexhaustible void. His stomach had felt cold within him, his heartbeat seemed to have slowed, and his throat felt as if it had turned to stone. The raw fury of the demon, while focused at Warren, had a paralytic effect—one might have even described it as a tightening grip on his chest.

But the small release that came when Maghalis turned to the lion, hardly felt like relief—only Warren's mind was free to think again. He thought he heard the lion speak, but it could have just been another growl. Whatever it was, it reminded Warren to breathe. He gasped as Maghalis spoke.

Maghalis' voice though, in reply to the lion's statement, was deep and steady. “Why? I violate no such terms; I come to claim a wandering servant, nothing more. As soon as you relinquish him, I will go and leave this place in...peace.”

“You will do no such thing. This place is refuge for all who are lost, and, as it's keeper, I cannot allow any of my patients to leave,” the lion stated, and Warren thought he heard it's claws dig into the floor.

“Lost? No, no this one was never lost. A drifter is not lost, for he has no goal, no future, only a past—a past which belongs to me. You cannot refuse me that which I own—look for yourself, my mark is upon him.”

Warren scrunched his eyebrows, and followed the lion's saddened gaze to his hands. There, right at the wrist, on the back of his hand, had grown a curious, dark, twisting tattoo. Warren looked back to Maghalis, whose lips widened in a grim smile.

“I ask you,” the demon said, addressing the lion, “did he enter willingly, or was he brought to this...infirmary by another?”

“He belongs here, in this orphanage,” the lion answered sharply, “regardless of how he entered.”

A dark mist seemed to begin to rise from between the demon's scales, and Warren feared the combat that seemed would be inevitable. Surely the lion could put up a firm fight, but....against such a foe as this? Maghalis shook his head wildly as he answered. “He belongs to ME! Do not tempt my rage, young one! I will tear this place to pieces if I must; I should have done it ages ago. Prepare for oblivion!” The demon fell to his front legs and his form suddenly resembled a dragon far more than the winged human-esque shape he had been. His jaws snapped eagerly as he stretched toward the lion. Warren tried to squirm further into the corner of the room, but with the two giants stretching the limits of the space, there seemed no alternative but to hope the lion would defend him and defeat the demon. The lion crouched, snarled, bristled his fur; and then relaxed, set the whole of his body on the floor, and turned a pained eye to Warren. A whisper invaded his mind: “Breathe, on my account.”

The dragon lunged forward, still growing in size, broke apart the walls and ceiling with a great sweep of its wings, and let out a tremendous roar. The lion laid its head on the floor and closed its eyes, while Warren tried to make sense of what was happening. But then, to his absolute horror, the dragon snatched the lion's neck in its powerful jaws and shook it like a puppy would a rag doll. Then, throwing it back down to the ground, lunged at the cat, tearing and biting in a blood-crazed frenzy. The whole of the serpent's being convulsed in rage as it pounded and shredded the orphanage keeper. The mists that had shrouded the beast caught fire and soon spread to the debris around him. Smoke began to mix with the dust, and after just moments, Warren could only see the silhouette of the enraged demon as it spun and circled and pounced again and again—could hear the gleeful howling of death itself as the life was beaten and bled from the lion.

After a final, terrible roar, the demon paused in its fury to relish the moment of death. “And I thought you were going to fight back, “ Maghalis cackled. “I thought you might have even challenged me. But this! This is all? You are pathetic.” The form of the dragon bent low, his head evidently next to that of the dying lion. “Where is your fabled power? Where is your protection? You have become just like those miserable wretches you sought to aid: worthless, powerless, feeble, weak. You have been abandoned just like them. Now, die with the comfort that all of your so-called children will be joining you soon.”

Warren saw the dragon-head make a last strike and wrestle the final ounces of life from the body of the battered cat. A deep, throbbing laugh echoed across the misty valleys, and Warren huddled into himself, waiting for his turn. But after the laughter had subsided, a small whisper penetrated the smoke, the dust, and mist. “It is finished.”

A sharp rush, like a thunderclap, blew the air free of any obscurity. For a moment, Warren and Maghalis stared at each other, but the surge of hate was gone from the black eyes. Curiosity had replaced it. Then a breeze gently began to blow through Warren's hair. It lifted him as easily as a feather and started to carry him upwards, and off to the east, the western sun at his back. Maghalis screeched and took to the air, his great and powerful wings churning to carry him upwards, but it became apparent a headwind had caught him. The more he struggled, the greater the resistance seemed to be, until finally the dragon was thrown back to the earth and drifted out of sight.

Warren relaxed on the currents of the wind, took a deep breath, and, with a tear in the corner of his eye, thought of the lion. “Why?” was the only question on his mind. It was evident enough that the lion had given himself up for Warren. But why? And Warren could not answer it.

So he floated on, watching the endless countryside disappear below him. He passed over rivers large and small, over forests and long grasslands, through orange trimmed clouds at sunset, and across a large body of water, scintillating under a full moon. His speed must have been incredible, but he felt nothing at all as he rode with the wind. For nearly an hour he watch the stars appear, watched the waves roll on beneath him, until he saw the glistening white of a shoreline beach. As he passed it, he felt noticeably lower, and the tree tops rushing below him began to concern him. But as he lost altitude, his speed began to diminish as well, and after a few minutes, Warren could again see what he assumed to be the ocean, and those silver-lined waves. And although he could reach out and brush the foliage of the trees if he had wanted to, he never did have to dodge a branch or duck a limb. And then he burst from the trees onto a white-sanded beach. The wind swirled him around and set him on the sand like a mother putting her child to bed. Warren felt his weight again, found himself releasing to a sudden gravity of fatigue, decided that sand had never felt so comfortable in his life, and dropped into a deep sleep.

Chapter 26

If a single word could ever hope to describe any one person at any one place in any given history, the word exhaustion would have described Warren as they walked the lonely, well lit tunnel, which wouldn't have seemed out of place as a subway tunnel just a few days ago to him. It's one thing to shovel sand and lime and gravel all day to mix concrete and to collapse into bed for a deep evening's sleep. It's quite another to wear your mind thin at the same time—as if he had not only been pouring concrete, but trying to explain how to do it in a foreign language.

Warren's mind felt overloaded—like the chaos of a long-running dream just before waking—almost as if that's precisely what he needed to do. So much life had been packed into this day alone (which, for all he knew, still had many hours to go before it ended) he felt like an overloaded light bulb, ready either to explode or to fizzle and then burn out entirely. Yet here was walking once again on weary feet, following something foreign without anything substantial for a destination. Yes Florida had been mentioned. Yes, he thought he was still somewhere in Kansas, if Kansas were even a state still, or ever had been, or might still be. As they passed several intersections in the tunnel, Warren tried, but couldn't imagine what might lie down those tunnels. More Tokleks? Or a card-playing Otter with a taste for the dramatic? Or a even a little teacup, short and stout, that liked to dance and whose favorite flavor ice-cream was Rocky Road. Warren chuckled to himself at that thought—and even contemplated telling Livingstone, just to get a good rise out of him.

But his tongue wouldn't move. Walking took every bit of focus he could muster—and only then he walked on because of Sofi's hand in his own. That had to make everything a dream, didn't it? Every time he stole a glance of her face, he felt color come to his cheeks. Yes, real or not, this was a dream. And exhausted or not, he would continue on as long as her fingers kept asking him to walk. He felt it when she knew that he was lagging—just a slight pressure forward on his palm.

Livingstone led the way, and Warren gladly followed, relieved to relinquish leadership to Oscar for as long as possible. He was quite content to zone out and to hold Sofi's hand and to walk as far as the little round device demanded of him. Sofi seemed just as content to let Livingstone mumble to himself about the details and to keep her Warren as close to herself as possible, while Old Fred took his turn holding Ali on his shoulder and asked her all sorts of questions about the nature of communication to which she delightfully squeaked what Warren assumed were answers—mostly because Old Fred responded to each squeak as if it were a legitimate rebuttal.

And it seemed as though the world, as crooked and off-camber as it had seemed, had finally managed to quit tilting so drastically as to avoid sinking completely. Warren settled his mind, relaxed a bit, and smiled into Sofi's eyes.

Until the walls turned an off-dark shade of green. Or so he thought. The moment he focused his vision on them, they were as bright a white as he remembered. He kept walking while an alarm in his mind threw him into a mental huddle; he braced for another assault on his paradigm. Sofi's hair seemed to him bright pink, until he looked for the pink; of course it faded when he turned his head towards her. The hallway all of a sudden seemed very like a trampoline; a smell of ammonia registered in his nasal cavity; a song he was pretty sure he knew was playing off in the distance, but just softly enough that he couldn't place his finger on it. He tried Sofi's name several times, but all he managed to say was something rather muddled and quite unlike her name: “Sasha, er Fiona, er Tasra.” She only stared at him, while Warren was quite overcome with the sensation of eating pumpkin pie to say anything more. He shivered as though it were the dead of winter, glanced from blue wall to crystallized Livingstone to a dissipating Old Fred and a fiery, smoking Ali flying in the air.

And promptly lost all consciousness.

Warrens dreams weren't so very strange, but did, however, induce a fair bit of nostalgia in him. He was again a boy with a brother, with a warm, friendly family crowded at dinner. Smiling aunts offered him more food, while his mother demanded he finish his greens. His father smiled silently—ever chewing, but never looking away from him. Pride lit his eyes. His brother poked him suddenly with a fork and a small wrestling match ensued. Cousins joined the dog pile and laughter reigned. Until an uncle called them off—for his grandfather had left the room. Ashamed, he did what his mother's eyes told him and walked solemnly to the living room to apologize to his grandfather. But the old man in a sweater was nowhere to be found.

But then he was traveling; back to the city of his youth—yes in college again, headed home (snow obscured the highway) for the holidays. On the bus, his roommate and several friends, all jabbering about the horrible traveling conditions. Upon arrival, however, the sun shone, and here came a bright, bubbly girl skipping up to him with short blonde hair and a grand silly smile on her face. She held out two rings in her upturned palms: a green ring and a red ring. She made the lighthearted point with grand sweeping gestures that the two of them should get married. When Warren asked why they should get married, she shrugged and said, “Why not?” Apparently this logic was enough to convince Warren for they joined hands and trotted off to find a pastor.

On the way to the ceremony, the two found a bridge overlooking a deep-running river. Was it deep enough to jump off, the grinning blonde wondered. Warren replied that yes, he thought it was, and jumped off to prove his point—and found that it was actually a much further leap than he expected. His heart jumped into his throat when he saw a thin faint line of blue far below him and realized that the river could have been miles away and he was surely going to fall to his death.

Whether that was the extent of the dream, I cannot recall, but soon after, Warren came again to consciousness in a soft bed with flannel sheets and a thick woolen blanket draped over him. His arms grasped a plush pillow supporting his head. He stretched and rolled over onto his back, but no sooner had he done this, a small middle-aged Asian woman (he would have guessed Korean) burst through the door with a tray of indiscernible utensils which she set behind a partitioned wall. As she raced past, the woman exclaimed in excellent English, though with an undeniable accent, “Good morning! We are so glad you are awake!”

Warren tried to take control of his mind and reign in the rush of questions as his thoughts drifted to Sofi, Livingstone, and the others.

The woman, over a clattering of small metal objects, however, continued. “You did not sleep as long as we expected.” When she received no response, she seemed to feel obliged to add, “This is a very good thing; many of our patients do not wake for years!”

Concern swept Warren's face and the questions could not be contained. “What? How long have I slept?”

The woman bustled back to his side with what looked like a syringe. She grabbed his arm, searching for a good vein. “Oh not long at all; you have only slept for ten days. Seven in this hospital.”

“What? Ten...there's no way! It's not possible!” Warren tried to shout, but failed, as voice was thin, his throat dry.
“You think you have not slept long enough?” she answered and stuck the needle in his arm.

“No, I've slept too long...wait, what's in that needle?” Warren asked as she pushed the solution into his bloodstream.

“This? Oh this will only help you walk when you feel up to it. But it will also make lifting your arms much easier, too. Would you like to try? If not, do not worry; we will have you out and about in a couple weeks without issue. As long as you try everything I...”

Warren interrupted her, his irritation expressing itself in his dropping eyebrows. “Wait? A couple weeks? I can walk right now!” She feigned surprise.

“Is that so?”

“Yes,” Warren stated unenthusiastically and hopped out of the bed. He did two jumping jacks to prove his point. This time, her eyes widened in true shock and she scurried from the room, slamming the door shut behind her.

Warren figured the door was locked before he tried, but nonetheless, he gave it a shot. The handle wouldn't budge. So he sat back down on the bed and pressed where he had been pricked to stop the bleeding. Had he really been out for ten days? And where was Sofi? She wouldn't leave him if she had a choice.

A window beside his bed caught Warren's attention; the blinds had been closed and only small slits of light managed to penetrate the room. But the slats glowed brightly enough that he assumed he was back topside and a morning sun shone on the other side. He reached for the cord and raised the blinds. The landscape before him rolled in a series of tree-laden ridges receding into the distance with channels of mist flowing between them. A higher plane of cloud cover kept the sun obscured, but did little to hinder its light. All around, everything seemed washed with a bright gray, dark purple, or heavy blue. When he shook his gaze from the landscape, he was shocked to discover that his room was colored a bright yellow, with a deep red trim, and green accents. The difference between the inside and the outside was astronomical. The room seemed so much cozier now, and for a moment, Warren forgot it was, for all practical purposes, a prison.

Warren remembered his arm; it seemed all too convenient for strange people to give him shots at will—what concoctions were flowing within him now, he could only imagine...and really didn't want to. A small shiver shook him, though the air didn't have any hint of chill to it. He felt as if he needed to stretch and yawn; but at the same time, the fatigue seemed to have seeped through the sheets and dissipated. And for just an instant, he almost felt that if he closed his eyes, he might be sitting in his own bed on a fresh Saturday morning, wondering what he might do that day.

Until the door was unbolted and a figure entered the room. Warren turned to find a jaguar slink into the room, its eyes carefully ignoring him. The woman who had administered him the shot closed the door again, but Warren's gaze remained fixed on the jaguar, which plodded to the far corner, gave a half-leap, and set its paws on the window sill. So far as it was a comfort to Warren, the cat didn't seem to notice him—but it still seemed aware that it was being watched. And for several moments of silence, neither moved, except small twitches of the jaguar's tail.

When the giant cat spoke, Warren was not at all surprised. “On fine evenings and early mornings, the scent of fresh air invigorates a soul. Why do you think that is?”

Warren couldn't help but assume the cat had addressed the question to him. Nevertheless, he decided against answering for the time being. Livingstone would have approved. But then his thoughts snapped back to the the lady who had given him the shot—he had been quite willing to chat with her. Would Livingtone have encouraged that conversation? Almost as certainly not as one with a jaguar. No, either intelligence was foreign and therefore primarily untrustworthy to that man. Warren wasn't sure if he had more faith in animate beings that Livingstone or if he really still lingered in a state of blissful ignorance.

Perhaps he had a bit of a grasp on the exponential size of the universe, including a brand new and ever increasing perspective on the immanent dangers to himself. He could not afford any ill steps. One wrong move and he could be flung forever distant from his goal. And perhaps that mistake had already been made and he was as a castaway drifting on sovereign currents to times unknown in thickening mists of doubt. Perhaps he was being carried away from all he knew—but it wasn't the first time. He had already lost everything he loved, everything he knew, even his very identity. What could round two hurt? What could he experience that he hadn't already.

And when had any of this been his choice? Sure he had been able to choose little things like when to sit, when to walk, when to talk. But how was he here, listening to a jaguar talk of the passions of the soul? When had he decided to do anything that lead to this consequence? He determined that despite his decisions for the past few days, he had been pushed, flung, bounced, or skipped towards the goals of anyone but himself, and he wasn't sure if that was a comforting thought or not. But in a moment's evaluation, Warren reminded himself that now, only his relationships were valuable. It was only Sofi's smiling eyes and soft hands that mattered—only Livingstone's confident gaze, Old Fred's laugh and Ali's squeaks that held any importance to him. Of course, they had other ends in mind, but they had proven themselves trustworthy, and Warren at last understood that however his story ended, these new friends had become his family, and they alone deserved his efforts. And whatever he did, he promised himself it would be to keep this little family together.

Which he found only slightly ironic since he stood in a locked room with a jaguar with no idea how he had come to be there or where his friends had gone. But with his priorities firmly grasped in mind, Warren looked back to the large cat gazing out the window.

“I don't think I can recall the smell, it's been so long.”

“Not surprising, with the extreme lack of the sense your race has. I'd bet you can't even remember the smell of your mother's cooking, of late afternoons fishing on the lake, of even your dear Sofi's neck.”

Warren's heart leaped within him, but he managed to keep his poker face, as it was apparent the jaguar wasn't finished.

“All you travelers who come here are the same, you know. So reluctant to trust, completely incapable of rehabilitation, eager to be rid of our care, enticed by some luring idea or dream or figment of their imagination that they cannot see the necessity of what we do. Tell me, will you resist our help, too?” the Jaguar asked, as if resigning himself to the reality that Warren would not.

Warren decided against replying, to which the Jaguar simply sighed. “Of course. Why reply to something foreign? Alright; count your losses, then, and don't risk a thing more. I cannot help you any more but to warn you that traveling further down this path of doubt will only lead to an eternity of dissatisfaction and regret.”

This statement intrigued Warren; he had only ever had conversations like this with his brother, who could fill in the unspoken with such clarity as to rival the best seers in any video game cut-scene. And on account of his brother's memory, Warren spoke. “What do you offer? And at what price?”

The cat finally turned, its luminescent yellow eyes peering, as it seemed to Warren, into his very soul. “I offer breath,” it replied.

“I breathe now,” Warren retorted, but those round eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and made Warren wonder whether his answer were indeed the truth.

“Do you...” it sighed, and looked back out the window. “Do you, indeed?”

Warren waited. He figured to say anything in this pregnant pause was to invite disaster.

“And what is it that you breathe? What is it that you eat? What is it that you drink? Is it mere matter that keeps you're heart beating and your mind conscious and your body operating through your life?”

“Yes,” Warren had to reply.

“And so it is. But what is the habit of inhaling and exhaling, of digestion, of all other bodily functions but the gears of a tiny clock, ticking off the years, winding inexorably down to the finish? I tell you again, I offer breath; I offer it because you lack it.”

“What must I do to breathe?” Warren asked, trying to wrap his mind around the clearly non-physical breath to which the jaguar was alluding.

The large cat, walked up to him, found his gaze, and held it tight. “Understand that you are not now breathing. Understand that you are far past drowning, you have died. And believe that I can give you this breath of life.”

“How? How can you give life? How am I dead? The very fact that I talk to you should prove that I am alive!” Warren tried to keep an authoritative tone on the conversation; he knew he was clearly right. He thought and moved and spoke. What more definition needed the word “alive?”

“Just as you think you breathe and eat and dance and rejoice in Sofi's company, just as you think you are yet alive and well and competent, I tell you, you know nothing of life. If you indeed have ears and can listen, hear me now: you are dead inside. There must yet be a renewal of your spirit. If this does not happen, the ticking countdown of your body will count for nothing. I will say it again, Warren. I offer life. Trust me, and you will be made complete.”

Warren's mind spun. Something in the pit of his stomach resonated with the words the jaguar spoke. It just didn't make any sense to him—it was just ridiculous. What could breathe and move and yet not live? There wasn't an answer to that question. Was there? A small, dim memory lit in his mind. What had only happened a few days, or hours, earlier seemed already a faded photograph from a distant past. But the more he scratched at it, the more it came back into focus—a weary awakening among purpled, scrubbing friends. Each of them breathed and moved, but he couldn't have called them “alive.” They were Sofi, Livingstone, Old Fred....Trent. But they were not themselves. They were gone. Absent. For all practical purposes, dead. It was only by his action that they were restored. But how had he been awakened? He had solved a riddle. Was this then another riddle? What the jaguar spoke seemed just as ridiculous as the scribblings on that sliding glass door. If he could just figure it out.

A thundrous clap outside broke his train of thought. He looked back at the jaguar, whose teeth were bared, lips held open in a silent growl. It's gaze was directed at the furthest window, and the cat had placed itself between Warren and the glass pane. When it shattered, along with half of the wall, Warren found himself unscathed behind the cat, who had shielded him perfectly from the blast—and had seemed to have grown, as well. What had been a large jaguar was now a perfectly monstrous lion, standing as tall as a horse, and crowding the room. Warren, found himself content, however, to stand behind the lion as a host of shadows began to form on the floor from beyond the mists outside. But as he waited, none of the shadows ever stretched into anything substantial. They simply hovered, the twisted and gnarled shadows around the still-crumbling opening.

Just the smallest hint of a growl from the lion, however, brought a long shadow through the fog and into the room—and the mere sight of the demon struck Warren motionless. He knew, without a doubt, that this was the demon Maghalis, who Old Fred had described. He seemed at once a serpent and a gorilla and a bat—perhaps a dragon was as close as Warren could place him. But the eyes of Maghalis were his most prominent and terrifying feature: they were black as night...but burned with a heat greater than any fire he had experienced. And Warren felt those eyes find him and focus on him. And there was nowhere to hide. Not even the lion felt big enough.