The young man wandered his way through the city, his sandy brown hair blowing in his face, effectively hiding his light blue eyes as he walks. He dressed in simple cloths, a worn t-shirt with a logo of some long forgotten trend on it, a pair of denim jeans that are slightly stained with the reemits of lunch and possibly last night's dinner, and a pair of well worn high top sneakers. Over one shoulder is slung a backpack made from a dark cloth of some sorts, what it's original color has been long masked by stains and sun fading, still it sits at his shoulder as if it was meant to be there all the time.
The man weaves in and out of the evening crowd, most of them making their way home after working their mundane jobs and living their mundane lives, he wanted little to do with them, he had little in common with them. Sure he had his mundane job, but his mind was elsewhere, his mind was on the notebook in the pack and the desire to get back to it as soon as he could. It was that desire that drove him into the busy pub, it was that desire that led him to the only open table way in the back of the pub. It is here that he brings out the worn black binder with the computer drawn map on the front of it and opens it. He sits there for a few moments reading what is written within in the fine flowing writing that he uses when writing and smiles to himself before looking up and ordering a pint of beer and some fired fish for dinner. It was time to once again find the portal home.
A gray haired waitress sets his order down in front of him. She pauses, wiping her hands fretfully on her apron. "Son," she says, gesturing toward his plate, "I don't mean to interfere with your dinner there. But do use some caution with those biscuits." She winces. "I don't know about this new cook, and theres something.... funny about 'em."
The man looks up to the waitress and smiles at her, his bright blue eyes taking in her face and quickly commits it to memory, "Thank you mam," his voice is soft but somehow carries over the crowd to her ears. "I'll keep that in mind before I eat them."
"Good," the waitress says, "at least... I think so." With an uneasy shake of her head, she walks away. Tending to the crowd keeps her busy. But she can't help stopping every few minutes to study the young man at the back table.
He sets the plate aside for the moment as he leans over his notebook to write, seemingly intent on what he is writing and not overly concerned about his food at the moment. When he does eat it is absently, reaching out and grabbing what comes under his hand first and then bringing it to his mouth to take a bite.
Cleaning an adjacent table, the waitress watches. She moves to interrupt the young man then stops. //None of my business// she says to herself.
"Hey, Martha," a customer calls out. "Can we get some more beer over here?"
"Sure thing, sugar," she says, taking out her order pad. But before fetching the beer, she leans over the writer's shoulder, stealing a peek at that notebook of his.
The script that he writes in is a flowing cursive writing that is easy to read even from a distance:
He glances over to the four-and-a-half-foot tall bar and then approaches it, hoping someone there will know who this mysterious Allensgate person is. The bar is made of the same stout oak that the doors are. The counter is smooth and polished to a mirror quality. There are places where a cool drink has set too long and left ringlets on the counter. They look like lost links to a giant's set of chain mail. Looking down the bar, he sees a place where it looks like that very same giant took a bite out of this bar. It is a jagged scar about five feet long and two feet deep where a chunk is missing. He sits down stares at it, wondering what could have caused such damage to the bar. It is then that the barmaid softly informs the man that the owner did that when a customer got too rowdy and wouldn't leave. He pales at this, and she laughs at him merrily. "No silly, the owner did it with the Bouncer," she nods her head to the wall behind the bar where a well kept but used double-bladed-two-handed battle axe is mounted in loose brackets. The handle has two groves on it where powerful hands have worn it with use. The blade has a chip in that makes it look as if it has a lost tooth.
That is what is written on the upper part of the page that his arm does not cover. He is writing on the later part of the page, still very intent on what he is doing.
The waitress looks at the pub's shining bar then back toward the writer. She chuckles and starts to speak.
"Martha!" her customer whines, "those beers you promised?"
"Right. Right!" she says, trying to clear her head. "Be there in two shakes."
Reluctantly she dives back into her work.
The young man writes into the night, through the rush crowd, and then through the late crowd, page after page he write, all of it in great detail. Describing flowers, stones, buildings and people. All of it so vividly it seem they could just about walk off the page and into the pub on their own. All he drinks is water, with ice, lots of ice. His plate had long been left empty and ignored for the pages that he wrote.
Sometime during the night, the writer is interrupted mid-scrawl by a voice. The voice comes from an pleasant looking fellow in a brown jacket, holding a glass mug of frothy beer in one hand and a red handled umbrella in the other.
"Excuse me, friend, but I was sitting at the bar, enjoying my ale, and after watching you scribble in that book of yours, I couldn't contain myself any longer. Do you mind if I join you? One is the loneliest number, after all." The man smiles genially at the writer.
The young man looks up, and lets his eyes focus on the newcomer. "No.. no not at all, just trying to get this down on paper and out of my head, or I'll forget it all again." he sighs lightly, "And it takes forever to remember it. You know what I mean?" There is an intensity behind the young man's eyes that might be considered borderline insane, or just extremely driven.
The man with the pleasant face sets his umbrella against the table and sits, eyeing the feverish writings with a bemused look. "Ah, I know the work of the Lady Muse when I see her. A fickle creature, isn't she? One minute, she's all over you, and next she's off with some other fellow."
Nodding to the man, "yes.. she is a very fickle lady, but also very alluring."
He sips his ale, his lips lingering for a moment on the rim of the mug. "You say forget it *again*. I don't wish to bother you too much, but what is it exactly that you're in danger of forgetting?"
This time the young man does truly stop and look at him with an intense look from his blue eyes. "Home, and the way to get there."
Setting his mug on the table, the man with the pleasant face begins to tap his nose. "Now, that is an interesting story. Are you speaking of a physical home, or a home of a more metaphysical sort?"
"Home, as in where I was born, and where I grew up for part of my life." As he talks his eyes change slowly from sky blue to a slate gray. He suddenly seems much older than he appears, which is in his late twenties, and as if he has seen a great many amazing things in his life. Then with a grin he ass "Would you like to see?"
"I think I would," replies the man across the table. "That's actually what brought me to this table, you know. A glimpse at the product of an all-consuming fire, if you will," he says with an amused tone, as if the very act of speaking the words provides pleasure.
The man shifted in the chair a little then closed the notebook and looked out the window to the pub. He sees that night still has a firm grip on the world outside he nods and places the notebooks in the pack and fishes out is wallet to pay for the tab, leaving a twenty dollar bill on the table for the tab and tip he starts for the doors. "Well come on then if we are going to make the gate site before dawn we had better hurry.
The other man looks askew at the writer moves away from the table. Gate site? he wonders. He fishes a few exotic-looking coins on the table, and grabs his umbrella. "Right-o," he says, following the young writer to the door of the pub. "Thanks for the ale, Martha. I'll be back next Tuesday, same time!" he calls to the comely barmaid. He collects a small Panama hat from the hatstand by the door and plops it on his head.
As the two exit the pub, the man with the hat chuckles. "I'm sorry, my friend. I've forgotten my manners in the interests of a fine tale. My name is Henry Warrick. And yours would be..."
The young man was already out of the pub and looking at the night sky, seeming to check his position with the stars. Then nodding at Henry as he comes out. "Oh.. I'm Jonathan Smith," he absently offers his hand for a shake all the while looking at the stars once again just to double check before he moves.
"Jon Smith. Haven't met too many of those," Henry says with a grin.
Seeing the writer watch the stars with a certain intensity, Henry looks up at them himself. Millions of years, he thinks, for the light from one of those twinkles to reach Earth. Almost unbelieveable.
He swings his umbrella as he walks. "It's a nice night, isn't it? Nothing like a breath of fresh air and a good walk to lift the spirits. I'm curious - as always - where are we going, precisely? I take it you don't live in this neck of the woods."
"We need to be under that star, there," he points to an odd green star not too far from being directly above them. "It shouldn't take too long."
Henry begins to fiddle with the ends of the scarf around his neck. He eyes the star with a wary gaze. "One of those more obscure interfaces, I see. Travelling through them always makes me a little queasy. Still," he says, raising a fist in determination, "my curiosity knows no bounds. I must see this place that you've been writing about."
Jonathan slows for a couple of steps, "You've been there?" there seems to be a questing in his voice, seeking something long lost. Jonathan doesn't keep the slow pace long, he again picks up the pace, wanting to get to the place for the gate.
"No I haven't lived here too long, just a few years, but it is time I went back home, things are happening, I can feel it,' he pauses then speaks again, this time more to himself, 'I just pray I am not too late."
As Jonathan moves on ahead, Henry pauses for a moment and looks back at the pub. Something tells me I might not be back for ales next Tuesday, he thinks. Oh well, I've seen much worse than that. Henry strides ahead to catch up with the pre-occupied writer.
It doesn't take too long, about twenty minutes of a brisk walk before Jonathan steps off the sidewalk and into a small park. Again he checks the green star and nods to himself, heading straight for a small grove of trees. Upon entering the grove of trees it is more like a small circle of trees than a grove, and in the center is bare ground. It is here that Jonathan stops and looks at the sky, at the green star, and nods. After the nod he drops his pack to the ground and sheds his light jacket as well, then he starts to chant in a low voice, speaking words that seem to slide off his tongue and vanish as soon as they are spoken. For two minutes he chants, and for two minutes the air seems to get very still, then as he finishes the chant the air inside the circle of trees seems to explode with sound, a rushing, sucking sound. In front of Jonathan is a circle of sliver light about five feet in diameter. With a grin to Henry Jonathan screams over the rush of air, "Ready?"
"Ready as I'm going to be, my good boy!" Henry shouts in reply. His hat flies off his head in the sudden wind; he deftly catches it and holds on to it firmly. "Be a good fellow and count to three, will you?"
Jonathan grins and start to count, "ONE...." Gives Henry a shove, "THREE."
Night turns into day as they stumble into a small alley. The air seem fresher, crisper and full of life. The colors seem a little brighter here as well. The alley is formed by two fitted stone buildings, built without any visible mortar, and they looked as if they had been standing from the beginning of time.
Henry blinks rapidly, his eyes adjusting to the change in light. He turns on Jonathan with a slightly sour expression on his face. "When I attended school, they informed me that the number *two* went between one and three. I gather they neglected to impart the same wisdom to you?"
Jonathan chuckled a little, "Sorry about that, but I have been abandoned before, and I needed to share this with someone, just to make sure that I was not going insane."
Outside the alleyway is a large bazaar which greets them with sight, sound and smells. At once both noise and smells assault their senses. The sounds of the bazaar at first seems a little overwhelming but once one listens to then they seem to form a song, a lively tune. The steady beat of the blacksmith's hammer, followed by the hiss of white hot steel cooling in water, clang, clang, clang, hiss. From down the way there is a bass voice calling out "Ale for sale, Ale for sale," blending in with that is a woman's voice, "'Ot Buns, get your Sticky 'Ot buns here." and finally just about lost in the voices and sounds comes a small voice, the voice of a child "Flowers, flowers, who will buy my flowers."
Henry smiles as the sight of the bazaar greets him. "I tell you, my boy, the Christminster farmer's market has nothing on this. Oh, this is delightful, absolutely charming!"
Jonathan smiles slightly as he too takes in the sights, then frowns slightly as he note that himself and Henry are not quite fitting in with their style of clothing. He goes to say something to Henry about it and discovers that he has already stepped out into the Bazaar.
Henry's eyes alight on the small girl whose plaintive cry of "Flowers" filled the air only moments previously. Without saying anything to Jonathan, he walks over to her, pulling some coins out of his pocket at the same time. He winks the flower-seller, and drops the coins in her basket. "I want the best flower you have, young lady," he says with a grin.
After examining the coins, the little girl hands him a fine-looking tulip, which he subsequently affixes to his lapel. "Who are you, mister? I ain't seen you 'round here before," she says.
Henry laughs. "Oh, I've never been here before, as far as I can recall. I'm just a visitor."
The little girl eyes him suspiciously and wanders off into the crowd. Henry adjusts his flower and strolls back to where Jonathan is standing. "Do you like it?" he asks.
Jonathan chuckles lightly, "Nice touch, but I hate to ruin your fashion statement but I think we had better find a local store.. I think that there is one close by, we stick out a little too much for my liking, there are only a few here that know of other places besides their own" He looks about nervously, "And I would rather not attract their attention at the moment."
The little girl wandered off until the strange man could no longer see her, then she quickly made her way through the merchants and people in the Bazaar as only a child can. She finally stops near a tall wall that separates the Bazaar from the rest of the city. There she stands and picks through her flowers all the while talking to the wall.
"Two strangers came to the Bazaar today, dressed like you said they would be?"
A soft, feminine voice answers "Thank you Lilly," a gold coin is dropped into her basket, "You have done your job well."
*****
Henry raises an eyebrow. "Well then, lead on, MacDuff. I would be willing to trade this jacket of mine for a bit of sackcloth if an adventure is to be had in return. I doubt that we have exactly escaped attention, though," he nods towards the market crowd, where some of the commoners have noticed the pair and are sneaking glances their way, whispering in hushed tones.
Jonathan mutters something under his breath, "Then we had better hurry, I do not want to draw too much attention to myself."
He starts on down the bazzare, moving briskly but not running. Weaving in and out of the crowd with a practiced ease all the while his eyes darting back and forth seeking something.
Henry scratches his nose. "I wonder if there's really any point in trying to blend in now. Funny thing, you know," he says, looking at Jonathan, "I always get into a few scrapes whenever I go travelling. Damned annoying."
Jonathan sighs slightly, "Now you tell me,' then grins, ' well just don't get into any that we can't finish or outrun."
"I'm here now, aren't I?" Henry says, returning the smile. He points out a small building to the west, with a display window of fine clothing. "I don't suppose those threads would do?"
Jonathan grins and looks to the shop with a nod, "Just the place that I was looking for Henry." Leading the way Jonathan walks across the way and enters the shop. Within it are hand made clothes made with great skill and care. The cloth is of a standard that is just not done in the modern realms. The ones that are died are done so with vibrant colors that seem to jump out at a person. From the back of the shop comes a thin man of average height, black hair and even blue eyes, wearing a bright blue shirt and dark black pants. He walks with a feminine walk his one hand lifted slightly, as he sees Jonathan he smiles broadly, "Chance... I see you have returned." Then he frowns at the cloths. "No... no they will never do.. come on, come on.... we MUST do something about your clothes." as he says that he spies Henry and fixes a predatory grin on the man "And who is your 'friend' Chance?"
The look on the tailor's face startles Henry for a few seconds, making him blink rapidly. He quickly recovers, and returns the grin with a smile that is at once most genial, yet with an undercurrent of menace. "My name is Henry Warrick, ladies man at large."
The tailor sighs and snaps his fingers "Why are all the good ones that way? Oh well what can I do for the two of you? Out for an adventure or have you come home to stay this time Chance?"
Jonathan frowns a little, "I'm here for just a little while, Henry was interested in a good story and he looked as if he could take the change, so I brought him over."
The tailor looks Henry over once more "Well I say he came over rather nicely," again he give Henry one of 'those' looks.
Jonathan clears his throat, "I hate to rush but we kind of stick out here and well I need to blend in a little better."
"That you do.. do you know that there a reward for you head Chance, with or without your body."
Jonathan pales a little "So he finally made it into power? That is trouble." Turning to Henry, "I need to tell you now that being seen with me can get you killed here. If you want to go home I'll be more than happy to send you there now."
Henry shakes his head. "Nonsense. I came here to see what it was that was driving you to write so furiously, and I intend to see it through. As for being killed, that's happened several times to me in the past, and I've always enjoyed the experience."
Jonathan blinks a few times then and only then understand that Henry is joking with him. "Careful about talking like that Henry, there are people here that would take you seriously."
He grins toothily at Jonathan. "Just kidding. As I said, I always find a way to get out of the worst scrapes. Now, let's get some of these new togs on, and you can tell me a little more about this home of yours."
Jonathan nods and then smiles openly. "Good, I have been wanting to show someone this world for a long time, and it looks as if the fates have chosen you."
Jonathan then gathers the clothing and pays for it in coins that are not from the city that Jonathan brought them from.
"How about something to eat then, and I will answer all of your questions."
Do not copy or quote the above material without the express consent of the owner of this page.