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.