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.