Part
One
James Chatwin sat in the café staring
at his computer screen. What was the point? He was not going to
accomplish anything tonight. Three copywriting assignments and nine
books waited for him in his hard drive and he wasn't able to provide
a single word for any of them. He gazed out the window, the rain
bouncing off of the sidewalk was illuminated by streetlights and
passing cars, it had a hypnotic effect. He noticed the dripping
branches of the carefully manicured tree, not quite ready to trust
the permanence of spring with its buds. He sipped his coffee, dull,
black, and boring. Where was his inspiration? On any other night, he
would be bursting with ideas; he would jump back and forth from copy
to book to short story, desperately recording the flow of his
subconscious. But not tonight, tonight he had given in to his
disillusion. Maybe a cigarette would turn a clever phrase or a witty
slogan.
The rain seemed to slow in a welcoming
embrace as he stepped through the doorway; it didn't stop but
hesitated, the torrential downpour yielding to a gentle patter. He
allowed the rain to roll down his head as he inhaled deeply from his
imported cigarette. How did that phrase go? The Ayn Rand quote about
the spark in a man's mind relating to the fire within a cigarette. He
let it go, it would come to him in time. The quote was true, at least
for him; nothing provoked thought like sweet tobacco smoke filling
your lungs. The rain had returned to its original downpour, he moved
underneath the awning in front of the shop. Several trendy girls
inside shot him dirty looks as he paced back and forth, unable to
find a comfortable spot to lean. To hell with them, he thought, the
wind is blowing the smoke far from the covered patio. The ever
present march of pop-morality was a thorn in his side. But the rain
is here, the first thunderstorm of the year, the baptismal rain,
washing all of the previous year's sin into the drains. Where the
hell had that come from? He wasn't that kind of writer. Christ, he
must be spending too much time in coffee shops, involuntarily
overhearing the modern beatnik-hippy monstrosities discuss Kerouac
and the “pain of manhood”. The cigarette had burned down to the
filter and his mind was still a blank slate. He tossed it into the
nearby trash can—no need to anger his audience any more—and
walked back into the café. He slung his jacket over the chair and
allowed the heat from the fireplace to dry him.
And there he was once more, staring at
the computer, glancing at the rain, entranced and enthralled. The
bathroom break was necessary and bothersome. He had no desire to see
old friends, avoiding eye contact didn't work when the friend was
right in his path. A strained hello, an affirmation that he was back
in town, and an awkward introduction to his friend's companion seemed
sufficient so he continued on to the bathroom. He stopped by the
counter to refill his coffee, some flirtation with the mildly
attractive barista provided a free refill; was he even capable of
interacting with women in a non flirtatious manner? No, he absolutely
was not. But there are several types of flirting. The harmless
flirtation, which was his closest form of normal human interaction,
was reserved for strangers who held little to no interest for him.
Seductive flirtation, which rarely—if ever—failed to succeed, was
used in desperation; he hated to seduce women who held no interest
beyond their physical attributes but it was ofttimes a necessity.
There was a very specific form of endearing flirtation reserved for
older ladies, it was more heavy charm than flirtation. He loathed his
tendency towards unintentional flirting, many gay men and less than
attractive women had felt the pain of this irksome quality. And then
there was romance, it took a truly special girl to awaken this side
of him.
The rain had drizzled away to an
intermittent drop or two, his writing had somehow deteriorated from
its nonexistent state. He packed up his computer, smiled at the
helpful barista, and walked out into the night. After locking his
briefcase in his car, he felt an uncontrollable draw towards campus.
He walked past people huddled in their raincoats; hateful of their
existence, needful of their presence, and jealous of their ignorance.
Gods, when had he become such a miserable person? It had come to the
surface when his wife had left him but that was not the beginning.
No, his disillusion had begun long ago, as he slowly discovered how
ugly the world really was.
His childhood had been perfect, his
parents had perhaps done too good of a job. They had prepared him for
a world which no longer existed. Raised on the works of Susan Cooper,
J.R.R. Tolkien, and C.S. Lewis; he believed in adventure, he believed
in education, in learning and intellect. He was brought up to believe
that hard work, whether it be physical, mental, or emotional, paid
off. Love, logic, Romance, mystery; these were all ideals which
shaped his young life. The most mundane activity could be turned into
a puzzle, an adventure, a wondrous game, anything was possible.
Drunks stumbled out of the bars, an
event which usually caused him to smile and strike up a conversation.
He frowned at them and gave them a wide berth; weren't they a bit old
to be stumbling around and acting silly? His months of isolation on
his northern peninsula had left him with the need to be amongst
people; amongst the crowd without being a part of it. When he was
able to suppress his disillusion, he found joy in watching the people
hustle and bustle around him. He loved individuals and hated people
in general but he needed to wade through them, to allow them to break
around him as currents in a stream. His perfectly tailored suits
somehow allowed him to pass through the crowds with complete
anonymity, a feat usually only accomplished by the dingiest of
homeless men. He was only properly noticed when he so desired; he
would stop into a small town pub, remove his shielding, and his usual
gentle and removed demeanor would give way to an outgoing and
boisterous façade. He would gain the superficial friendship of all
the locals, tell a few outrageous stories, and vanish after a month
or two. He rarely allowed anyone to get too close to him, only a few
individuals truly knew him. It seemed as if the homeless were the
only people immune to his shielding, possibly due to their shared
technique. He oftentimes would find himself in deep, philosophical
conversations with the city's underground residents. It was a quirk
which confused most of his friends. The juxtaposition of his arrogant
and superior attitude with his gentle kindness towards the insane and
the destitute. He loudly and publicly proclaimed his hatred of
welfare and any form of social policy yet freely handed change and
expensive cigarettes to men and women huddled in alleys. He offended
every young liberal by announcing that he refused to ride the bus for
fear of catching poor yet he knew every homeless person by name in
five cities. He promoted archaic notions of classism yet treated many
homeless men with more respect than most of his peers.
Elementary school was the first blow
to his childhood utopia. The nearby trailer park added a unique
variety to his upper middle class school system. The gifted and
talented program was a joke, instead of progressing in his education,
he was forced to babysit willful troublemakers. His mathematic
abilities were still suffering from a woeful lack of instruction in
arithmetic. Reading, writing, history, logic, science; these subjects
came naturally to him but without any proper education, mathematics
were a constant Achilles Heel in his intellectual prowess. This was
where he learned to rely upon himself for his education. His third
grade teacher had been crucial in this revelation, no other person
had inspired such love of learning in him. He owed his entire
intellectual development to this man. And so, from fourth grade on,
he viewed the classroom as an unfortunate hinderance to his journey
of self improvement.
This was his perfect evening, the
slight misting of rain emptied the paths. Fog wafted from the river,
bringing back childhood fantasies. Campus was perfect during early
spring and late fall, the pastoral beauty absorbed the most
troublesome worries. Lights from dorms and classrooms allowed him to
fantasize about the late night studying in the college experience
which he had never experienced. The wooded paths along the river and
the collegiate architecture combined his dreams of magical adventure
and educational exaltation. The Belgariad briefly collided
with The Dead Poet's Society in
these walks. He was able to imagine himself away at university with a
bright future ahead of him and, at the same time, on a fantastical
quest in a land where magic and Romance still reigned supreme.
As he aged, he
noticed that the magic of childhood was fading within his friends'
hearts. Make no mistake, he had matured at a much faster rate than
most of his peers, he could rarely be described as childish. Except
when the term was used in combination with exuberance, he still
believed in magic and mystery. This might seem strange when combined
with his utter devotion to logic, but if you actually apply logic, it
makes perfect sense.
So he was left as the only child who still heard
the ringing of the sleigh-bell. He quickly learned to hide this trait
deep inside; he never learned elvish, he took part in no larping
events, he wanted nothing to do with the popular image of a fantasy
geek. Instead, he read everything he could get his hands on, he
studied the philosophy and history of Greece and Rome. He learned
Latin in school—another rare teacher who inspired learning—he
taught himself Old Norse, Irish, Old English, French, German, Attic
Greek, Russian, and bits of any other interesting language. He became
pretentiously proficient in the English language and began writing.
His early attempts at poetry had been disgusting at best but he
slowly improved his style; soon he had five notebooks going at the
same time. Fantasy novels, reflective short stories, historical and
political commentaries...he couldn't stop.
The tower loomed
in front of him, he had always been intrigued by the structure. It
seemed to belong in a more distinguished campus, it bespoke years of
wisdom and knowledge. One of his ex-girlfriends—was it his ex
wife?—had been entrusted into the gatekeepers guild or something
along those lines. Academic excellence earned her the right to carry
around a copy of the tower's key, that seemed to be the extent of her
duties and privileges but it still seemed a grandiose and mysterious
honor to him. He walked up to the brilliantly carved door and craned
his entire body backwards to look up at the tower. He smiled at the
door, the walk had cheered him up a bit, and began to speak in
tongues. His private joke was to recite the translation of the word
“friend” in as many languages as possible in front of interesting
doors. After uttering “amicus” and struggling to remember his
Russian, he heard a click. The door had opened, he was now staring
into the dark interior of the tower. He looked around, shrugged and
walked through.
His grades in high
school were intriguingly low. Every report card looked the same;
busywork and homework: zero, tests and projects: one hundred percent.
Even in math, his hyperlogical mind managed to compensate for his
absent arithmetic. It wasn't that he didn't believe in hard work,
this had been instilled in him from a young age; it was that he
failed to see the point in jumping through useless hoops like a
trained dolphin. He learned the material and would have been able to
teach the class, but the exercises in pure obedience seemed utterly
pointless. While the rest of the class was diligently copying
nonsense from one page to another, he was joyfully composing stories
in Old Norse. He took extensive notes during lectures and hung on
every word but he never looked at these notes again, he had already
absorbed everything from the lecture. He improved his writing during
“homework time” at the end of class. It would all change when he
moved on to college, stories related to him by his PhD wielding
mother bespoke a wonderful place of learning and intellectualism. He
couldn't wait to stay up all night discussing the finer points of
feudal economics. Tolkien's Old English club was waiting to be
re-founded at whichever university he attended. He was ready to join
crew, captain the fencing team, and play cricket with the Pakistani
exchange students. His world was about to open up.
The
stairs were dark and slippery, he took out his pocket flashlight and
managed to keep from plummeting to his death. His longing for
adventure only just overpowered his childhood fears. Images of
drowned women with backwards feet danced in that strange place
between imagination and reality. He took a deep breath and pushed
them out of his mind, this was far too exciting to allow asinine
fears to stall him. What was happening? Had he finally been called to
Narnia? Had his hedge education been noticed by some secret society
of intellectuals? Or had a stray gust of wind blown open a neglected
door? There are no such things as coincidences, he mentally repeated
to himself, Akston's law, examine your premises, one of them is
wrong.
The
view from the top of the tower was breathtaking, campus stretched out
on all sides of him, the lights of downtown twinkled in the distance.
He saw a figure by the big oak tree in the field below the tower, it
seemed to be shining a flashlight at him. Just his luck, campus
security had caught him; did he have time to rush down the stairs and
vanish into the night? Probably not. Hold on, the figure wasn't
moving in his direction and the flashes from the light were
intermittent; morse code? His morse code was deploringly rusty but he
could make out the pattern after it had been repeated several times;
“come”. Interesting, if this was a ruse by campus security, it
might be worth a fine to meet the security guard clever enough to
come up with it. He began to descend the stairs. As he replayed the
details in his mind, he almost tripped and fell down the stairs; the
morse code had been in Old Norse, he had naturally translated it.
Tertiary school,
that's what college was; more pointless exercises, they even deducted
points for tardiness. Where was the higher education? He found
himself surrounded by barely functioning children, memorizing just
enough to gain a degree. His grades held up for a while, classes
which were too heavily based in busy work were quickly abandoned and
dropped, maintaining his 3.5-4.0 GPA. But the inspiration was gone,
even the interesting classes were ruined, this was not the place for
him. He dropped out and became a hedge school vagabond. Traveling
around the state, playing music to support himself, and drinking to
hold the mundaneness of reality at bay. His aimless wondering was
quickly halted when he met his future wife.
As he approached
the figure, he peered through the darkness and fog, attempting to
extract details. It appeared to be an old man, a long white beard and
cloak-like overcoat completed the stereotypical image of a wizard.
“You have got to be shitting me.” He muttered as the man smiled
at him. “Hello Mr. Chatwin, I see you found my note.” James
searched for the man's flashlight but it must have been stored in his
overcoat; a predictable staff was the only accessory in the man's
hands. “What the hell is this? Tonight isn't the right night, my
friend, I have a rare absence of tolerance.” The man smiled once
more. “Tonight is the perfect night, James. You are in danger of
becoming a nithing, a man can only handle so much bitterness.” It
seemed completely natural for this man to know his name and his
innermost thoughts. “So who are you? Gandalf? Aslan in man form?
Merriman Lyon?” James chuckled at his own lack of wit. “You may
call me Vegtam, Vegtam the wanderer.” The man known as Vegtam
smiled at the shock evident on James' face. James shook his head,
helpless, manic laughter bubbling up. “What is this, a Guy Kay
novel?”
She
seemed perfect when he first met her. With a degree in history and
mythology, she had written her thesis on the comparative
representations of the Devil throughout European history. She
understood his strange humor, she had similar goals, and she was able
to keep up with—if not surpass—his intellectual fortitude. Within
a few months of dating, they were engaged; the first year had been
wonderful, he had been truly happy with her. But everything changed
when they moved to Iowa together, she was moodier, less tolerant of
his unique personality, and altogether different. He rarely shared
her bed, the couch became his nightly residence. There were occasions
when their shared happiness returned; afternoons with the dog,
watching movies together, attending social events. But for the most
part, it was a poor excuse for a relationship. He refused to leave
her, he had grown accustomed to their life and hated change. And more
importantly, he had made a commitment; no one in his family had ever
been divorced, it was something which simply did not happen. But it
did, she sent him back to Michigan to work out their issues
separately; a few weeks later, she informed him over the phone that
it was over. He was crushed, his entire life had been upended, his
plans and goals had been formed around her, he was completely adrift.
He went through the motions of everyday life, fell back into heavy
drinking, and stumbled about, barely alive. Cheap accommodations in
the northern part of the state led him to take a job as a copywriter
in Traverse City. He continued to function in a trance like stupor
until he met her.
“I am here to
see if you're ready.” Vegtam snapped him out of his introspection.
“Ready for what?” He wanted to hope but he even the smallest
glimmer of hope threatened to shatter the fragile strain of the
evening and leave him wallowing back in the dregs of reality. “I
think you know, Mr. Chatwin.” The old man's look was chiding but a
twinkle in his eye revealed his amusement and understanding. “You're
to come with me, James. Leave this dreary world behind, quests,
adventures, magic, learning, everything you have ever dreamed of. So
I repeat; are you ready?” James hesitated, “Why me?” He asked
dumbly. “Don't ask stupid questions, m'boy.” Vegtam's tone was
softer this time James could have asked where, he could have asked
how, but these were stupid questions and to be honest, they didn't
matter one jot to him.
Was
he ready? How could he even ask himself this question? He had been
waiting for this opportunity his entire life. He was miserable,
disillusioned, and obnoxiously bitter; to remain in this world would
leave him a hollow, washed out old man. It would be hard to leave his
family, they were close, close in a way which families no longer were
in these modern times. Not a week went by where he did not speak with
his mother and father on the phone. And his brother, they were closer
than most twins. He would miss his friends but he had gone without
friends more often than most. One friend in particular, a certain
young lady, would be very hard to lose. She had been there for him
time and time again; they had been best friends and for a time,
lovers. But she had a brilliant career waiting for her in New York,
she was going to be fine without him. And then there was her.
He had only met her twice and had no way of contacting her. But he
simply could not get her out of his mind. Was he willing to give up
his lifelong dream in order to gamble on his future with her, the
odds were overwhelmingly against him. This whole trip was about her.
The publishing house in Florida had contacted him; but he had only
submitted manuscripts to the Fort Meyers area. It was ridiculous, an
entire trip based upon a brief conversation where he had gleamed that
she would be in Florida for a week. He managed to ignore the segment
of the conversation which alluded to a boyfriend. Alas, he had never
been one to give in to the constraints of reality.
He looked Vegtam
in his strangely sparkling eyes, took a deep breath, and responded
with the obvious answer. “Can I bring my dog?” Vegtam erupted
with laughter. “I wouldn't have it any other way, I shall be seeing
you soon, Mr. Chatwin.” And he began to walk away. “Wait, hold
on.” James started to jog after the old man. “I said yes, I'm
ready. My dog is in the car, we can get him right now.” Vegtam
stopped walking and turned to him. “We are not leaving tonight, I
was merely assuring that you were ready. We don't press gang our
residence.” He began walking again. James went to follow him around
the corner of a building, more questions at the tip of his tongue.
When he rounded the corner, Vegtam was nowhere to be seen.
Part
Two
Any
more coffee would have consumed whatever remained of his stomach
lining, he popped open something that was marketed as an energy drink
but which he was relatively sure was cocaine in liquid form. The
airport was miserable, it seemed to be competing with the city for
the most disgusting atmosphere. It was an especial affront to him, he
had always loved the magic of travel. He remembered exploring the
shops with his brother late at night, viewing strange towns from the
window of a hotel shuttle at ungodly hours in the morning, and
building luggage forts whilst waiting for his father to bring the
rental car around. His family was a family who loved to travel;
cross-country road trips, transcontinental flights, it was all
wonderful to him. And the airport was the center of that magical
world. He remembered a quote which he had heard one time; “The
impossible and the fantastic are closer to reality during journeys.
Epicenters of travel collect residual magic from each traveler.”
It still rang true after all these years...just not at the Lansing
airport, this place was shit.
It
had been very difficult for him to deal with the disappointment of
his strange hallucination. A few weeks of pure panic and
meta-cognitive introspection had led him to conclude that late onset
schizophrenia was not the culprit. It seemed to be an isolated
incident, unfortunately for his questionable sanity, he was unable to
explain it away. There were few things which bothered him more than
having answers dangling just beyond his reach. Eventually, he had
written it off as temporary insanity; it was a constant bother at the
edge of his mind but he managed not to dwell on it too terribly
often.
He
glanced at his watch, loose and shiny, more decoration than anything
functional. It had reset itself again so he glanced at the clock on
the wall. At least an hour until boarding, he blamed his father for
instilling the ability to be late for everything yet show up at the
airport hours in advance. Every family vacation had been planned less
than a month in advance, it took no less than five trips back to the
house for forgotten items before they were actually on their way, yet
they always arrived at the airport so early that the women behind the
counter seemed to mock them. Perhaps this was where he had acquired
his love of airports, with hours to explore, it was either hate them
or love them, he apparently chose the latter. He put down his copy of
The Economist, every
article had been lovingly read and reread multiple times, at least in
Chicago, he would have an interesting airport to explore. His layover
in Chicago and then again in D.C. had been planned for maximum
enjoyment. Why was he even bothering to go through with this trip to
Florida? He was confident in his ability as an author, the book he
had was very good, but he was equally confident in the overwhelming
numbers of hopeful authors paraded before this publishing house every
day. He hadn't even been able to inform her that
he was coming. He would most likely let her know at some point before
he left. But it would be too hard to spend any amount of time with
her and her boyfriend and even more painful to spend time with her
alone, knowing that she was with another man.
It
had been a very difficult month; he had discovered that she
had a boyfriend, there was the strange Vegtam letdown, and he had
attended the going away party for one of his closest friends. He had
been friends with her for around five years before they began
sleeping together. It had taken several months before they were able
to be friends again after it ended. It had been a month or two of
just being friends before they had begun sleeping together again. She
was one of his best friends, he trusted her implicitly, and their
sexual chemistry was truly incredible. But there was no true love;
they could have been happy in a relationship, they would have
developed a healthy, slightly more than friends version of love—they
already had in a way—but it wouldn't have been Westley-Buttercup
true love. For those
reasons, it was probably best that she was leaving for New York,
neither one of them would have been able to break off their untitled
relationship and go back to friendship without a somewhat drastic
intervention. They would have either been stuck in a comfortable but
less than perfect relationship or ended up hating each other.
Regardless of all this, saying goodbye had been incredibly difficult.
Of course promises to visit and stay in contact were made; they would
be kept but not to the extent which they should be. So it was with a
heavy heart that he made his way to the airport.
The flight to
Chicago was uneventful, as short flights usually are. With most of
the shops closed due to the late hour, he wandered about the near
empty airport. The hour layover between flights, which had seemed far
too short when he booked it, now appeared eternal. The rare
cohabitants of the barren complex hurried by, heads down, no time to
enjoy the magic of their journeys. Oddly enough, it was the vacant
eyes and mechanical pace of the passing strangers which broke his
uncharacteristic melancholy and returned his childlike exuberance.
What did it matter that the shops were closed? There are shops
everywhere, he was on an adventure. He instinctively reached into his
pocket to grasp his lucky pocket handkerchief, another private joke.
He had long ago given up making jokes and allusions for the benefit
of others; his sense of humor was too unique, his references too
obscure; anyone who happened to understand his allusions was
instantly counted as a friend. As he clutched the reassuring
handkerchief, his hands brushed his pack of cigarettes. “Well it's
not pipeweed,” he chuckled to himself, “but it will have to do.”
He glanced about and saw a security guard, diligently staring off
into the distance. “Excuse me, sir,” he seemed to startle the
guard as he approached, “is there a designated area where I might
have a cigarette?” The guard looked him up and down disdainfully,
“outside.” He replied tersely and returned to his staring contest
with the wall. “I presumed as much,” Jame's continued presence
seemed to offend the guard, “but I was wondering if there might be
an area for smoking which doesn't require me to pass back through
security.” The polite tone was apparently an affront to the guard.
“This is a non-smoking airport, if you want to kill yourself, you
can do it somewhere else.” James laughed good naturedly at the
insult, “Thank you so much for the help, I'm off to find an
overpass.” He smiled and walked jauntily away, after a mirthful
chuckle, he hopped in the air and clicked his heels.
It was
uncharacteristically warm outside, the heat seemed to emanate from
the darkness itself, embracing him as he briefly broke its continuity
with the flick of his lighter. With nothing better to do, he opened
his fiddle case and began to rosin his bow. He tuned the old
instrument lovingly and then began absentmindedly plucking a cheery
polka as he finished his cigarette. He shook his head, this would not
do; the night demanded something slow and haunting. He began to play
Fhearr a Bhata, one of his favorite Scottish laments, laying heavy
drones wherever possible. He had never been a fan of too much
variation, he played the melody straight and simple, allowing himself
to imagine the longing felt by the woman pining for her love lost at
sea. He was not quite sure when the singing had begun but halfway
through the second verse, he noticed a man singing along. He looked
around, continuing to play and discovered the source of the singing;
a tall, red bearded man was standing at the edge of the lawn. James
acknowledged the man with a smile and a nod, the man, in turn, smiled
and motioned for James to continue playing. They continued the song
together, the man's voice intertwining perfectly with the haunting
tone of the old fiddle. As they finished, the man took a bag from his
pocket, began packing a pipe, and walked over to James, chuckling. He
smiled an infectious smile as he lit his pipe, “Manny,” he said
as he extended his hand. James took it with a matching smile, “James.
That was fantastic, your Gaelic is incredible, but what accent is
that?” The man known as Manny smiled, “I was told that you were a
perceptive one,” his English held a similar accent to his Gaelic,
“I was technically singing in Manx. As I am quite sure you know,
the languages are similar enough to allow this translation to fit the
song.” James was flabbergasted, he had always been fascinated by
Manx culture and language, possibly because it was so similar to
Irish and Scottish, with which he was intimately familiar. Despite
the similarities, it had always seemed alien and mysterious to him,
his knowledge regarding Manx was limited to its overlap with the
other Gallic languages.
This was his
element, talking to strangers, exchanging knowledge, he knew how to
deal with this. It was akin to his interactions with the homeless;
despite his classist mentality, he judged each person as he spoke
with them. He could be drinking with a successful business man in a
bar and an hour later, sharing a half pint with a traveling hobo in
the alley; they all had a story to tell and James lived for stories.
This personable attitude had not always served him well, many awkward
situations had sprung from engaging the wrong person in conversation.
His friends loathed when he showed up with a dirty homeless man in
his car, he would profess that the man was interesting during their
conversation but the public urination and vile remarks to passing
females spoke to his poor judgment. Most people who truly knew him
decided that contrary to his cold-hearted façade, he was too nice.
He gave everyone a chance and even after they had proven their
worthlessness, he rarely had the heart to shoo them away. It required
an active insult for him to show cruelty to most individuals.
In a rare
instance, James was able to reflect while still maintaining a
conversation with Manny. They spoke easily, as old friends united for
an evening. Eventually, Manny tapped his pipe and rose, “Let's hear
that fine fiddle sing once more, my friend.” James was a natural
performer when it came to crowds but in a more intimate setting,
false modesty threatened to limit his interactions. “I suppose I
might be able to squeak something else out, any requests? I take them
but I don't usually play them.” He mentally kicked himself, this
was an on-stage joke, it was out of place and slightly foolish in
this situation. Manny laughed naturally, “In this singular night, I
need a singular performance; play me the violin.” James
intrinsically knew that Manny was well aware of what exactly he had
asked. James loved classical music, he was a sucker for operas and
anything from the Romantic Period. But he was a fiddler, he had no
training when it came to playing violin and he was content to remain
a fiddler. “Sorry, Manny; I'm a pure fiddler, I would be lost in
the world of violins.” Manny seemed to look straight through him.
“Come now, my friend, I don't care that it has a traditional timbre
to it, play it. You know that it is perfect for tonight.” James
gaped at him and took up his fiddle. He began to play the only
classical piece he had ever deemed to learn. He had revealed this
private study to no one, it was a secret project; learning the piece
and changing the lyrics to reflect his feelings for her.
Slowly, sweetly, and carefully, the fiddle sang Angel of Music
from Phantom of the Opera. Manny smiled and seemed to lose
himself in the melody. Eventually, he came in, singing both parts.
Although it was written for two women, Manny's single voice seemed to
naturally fit with the song. Perhaps it was James' traditional
fiddling mixing with Manny's traditional singing but it was
beautiful, truly beautiful. As they finished, James simply let the
fiddle drop to his lap, “that was perfect, I've never played this
song for anyone before tonight, and it was perfect!” Manny smiled
and removed a watch from his pocket, “I know. Are you ready?”
James was taken aback, “What did you just say?” Manny tapped his
watch, “you said you had a one o’clock flight, it's quarter to
one, are you ready?” “Shit!” James erupted from the bench,
carelessly arranging his bags and—more carefully—returning his
fiddle to its case. “I still have to pass through security, I'm
going to miss my flight.”
Manny kept pace
with James as he frantically fled to the security checkpoint. Ten
minutes and a line for the security check, there was no way he was
making this flight. Manny wandered off as James paced back and forth,
willing the line to move faster. He noticed Manny speaking to the
guard at the checkpoint, a point in his direction and a wave of
invitation brought him over. “This is the man, here, Daniels. He's
fine to pass through, inspected him myself.” The guard seemed
completely in awe of Manny, he opened the gate and respectfully
allowed James to pass through. His gratitude and confusion caused him
to match Manny's casual amble, combatting the need to rush. “How
did you pull that off? Hypnotism?” Manny laughed, “nothing so
crude, I still have some sway in the world of travel; they are afraid
to cross me so my word is gospel.” They arrived at his terminal at
three minutes after one, the plane was miraculously still there.
Manny approached the attendant, “Thank you, Jamie, we're good to go
now, our VIP has arrived.” Before he was able to thank Manny, James
was ushered onto the plane. “Anything for you, Mr. MacLear, he
heard the woman say as the door closed. Manny MacLear smiled at him
with a twinkle in his eye, “Goodbye, my friend; I shall be seeing
you soon.”
Part
Three
James
stepped off the plane in a very good mood. His upgrade to first class
had been most welcome, as had the top shelf vodka martinis. He wasn't
drunk but he wasn't quite sober, he was in the majestic gap in
between. The D.C. airport was even more inviting than the Chicago
airport. As he walked to the exit—tobacco and tipsy are perfect bed
partners—he noticed a large room with glass windows. People inside
were smoking! He walked in and inhaled the sweet smell of second hand
smoke. A chorus of hellos greeted him as he sat down and lit his
cigarette. He was surrounded by a group of boisterous marines on
their way back from Afghanistan. In his element once more. He
listened to stories and tall tales of the mens' adventures overseas
as he passed his newly purchased pint of brandy around the room. They
demanded that he play his fiddle for them, an enclosed room in the
middle of the airport seemed like a poor place for fiddle music so he
removed his tin whistle from his carry-on instead. This brought
cheers and whoops from the inebriated soldiers, a quick set of reels
and polkas brought amusing attempts at dancing. After giving up the
slightly mocking mimicry of step dancing, they evolved to swinging
each other by the arm, letting their partner go and sending him
crashing into the chairs from time to time.
After
several more sets and several more stories, James took his leave of
the men, shaking hands and giving them the pint to share amongst
themselves. This was what he loved to do; show up, make friends,
bring joy, and disappear. Considering his close call at the Chicago
airport, he decided to seek out his terminal right away. It was in a
part of the airport with which he was quite unfamiliar. Following the
signs—none of them listed his terminal but he could infer—he was
led down stairs and escalators. The new, sterile architecture gave
way to older brickwork; he was in the bowels of the building.
Thinking he must have taken a wrong turn somewhere, he turned to
retrace his steps. But he stopped, out of the corner of his eye, he
saw an old, decrepit sign. On closer inspection, he saw his terminal
listed above an arrow pointing down the brick corridor. He had
planned on a budget but this was ridiculous, the corridor didn't even
seem up to code; what would the plane look like? After what seemed
like miles of unchanging corridor, he saw a large wooden door ahead
of him. It must have been installed during some sort of Renaissance
revival in architecture—yes, he was well aware of the redundancy in
that thought—it looked like a door in a medieval castle. To add to
the oddity of the situation, there were runes above the door...and
they were accurate, there's a first. He started to transliterate and
translate. As he slowly pieced the sentence together, he heard
footsteps behind him, “speak friend and enter.” He turned to see
Vegtam strolling down the corridor, staff and all...and Jame's dog,
prancing next to him as an old friend. “You're not the only one who
appreciates your private jokes, Mr. Chatwin. Shall we?” Vegtam
motioned to the door with his staff.
The
sunshine blinded him as he walked through the door with Vegtam and
the pup. He was walking out of a castle, he looked back and let out a
manic laugh. “It's bigger on the inside.” Vegtam laughed, as did
Manny who was now striding up to them. “I hope you enjoyed your
flight, my friend.” James was still in shock, he looked from Manny
to Vegtam, across the field that stretched before him, back at the
castle, and back to Vegtam. “Odin?” he asked stupidly. “Don't
tell me you have yet to figure it out, m'boy. Tell me we have
selected properly.” James took a deep breath. “If you are truly
the All Father, and he,” he motioned to Manny, “is Mannanan
MacLír, we must be in some sort of alternative universe for gods.
Obviously it is interdenominational,” both men laughed at his
wording, “but is it just Celtic and Norse?” “Don't be a dick,
one-eye,” Manny shouted to Vegtam, “he's figured out more than we
thought he would, fill him in.” Vegtam motioned to a nearby
outcropping of rocks, all three of them sat down.
Without
getting too deep into theology, we have always been here. The gods
have always existed in one form or another, on some plane of
existence or another. We are not creators, we are caretakers, we are
responsible for our “flocks” for lack of a better term. Manny and
I are cousins in the fact that both of us presided over groups of
people on earth. But he was a member of the family which presided
over the Celts, my family presided over the Nords. We have held
alliances and waged war against one another. Sometimes, these wars
were instigated by our people, sometimes we would steer them in the
direction of war. We have never held complete sway over the minds of
our people, we have simply guided and protected them. This plane of
existence was created as a residence for the gods of earth; each
family has its own territory and its own access to earth. I reside in
Asgard which is predictably in the North, Manny has a wonderful
island resort on Tír Na Óg. This plane is something between a break
room and employee housing. Normally, it is a gods only zone but
occasionally, we are allowed to bring humans who show singular
traits; these humans have a free pass to travel throughout the
kingdoms. They are allowed limited access back to earth and usually
bring some form of residual magic with them. Unfortunately, the
ability for both gods and humans to travel back and forth has been
severely limited in the past few centuries.
It
began when our cousin, Yaweh, decided to take power. It started out
as a simple feud between two families in Asia Minor; gods and entire
god families are able to be wiped out, we are not fully immortal.
Yaweh fought his way to the head of his family and waged war on all
of the surrounding families. A vast majority of gods in the Middle
East were wiped out during this war. As you may have guessed, his
family conquered the area. But this would not satisfy him, he began
to turn on his own family members, turning humans against them. The
rest, as you say, is history; Yaweh either destroyed the other gods
or managed to remove their people's faith. Certain families were able
to survive by pledging fealty to Yaweh, giving up their identities
for a pantheistic acknowledgment as part of a “higher power”. He
closed most of our pathways to earth, disconnecting us from our
people. Without our presence, our people transformed us into saints
and legends.
But
even Yaweh wasn't prepared for what was to come. People grew to a
point where they felt that all gods were superfluous, even “The
Great I Am”. They started to worship governments, they started to
worship science, they started to worship nothingness. A truce was
called, Yaweh gracefully allowed us limited access to earth. But it
was too late, he had erased us to such a degree that only crackpots
still were willing to give us the time of day. We would attempt to
contact a person only to watch them turn into an Alistair Crowley,
creating nonsensical cults. Even more troubling is the tendency to
ally our worship with that of Atheism, as if we were so dead that we
presented no threat to the worship of nothingness.
So we
began an evacuation of earth. Yaweh has his judgment day, my family
has Ragnorok, everyone has something; we all saw the possibility.
Each family is scouring the earth for worthy people to rescue from
this dying ship. Once we are sure that every human of worth has been
removed, we will cut all ties to earth; allowing them to tumble into
nothingness without our guidance. This is a line thrown to a drowning
man, James, you are being brought onto Noah's ark, we are inviting
you to Galt's Gulch. So, I will ask once more, are you ready?
James
paused, “I think I am,” he said after a moment, “could I get a
tour?” Manny laughed and led him to a nearby lagoon where a ship
was waiting. With Manny and Vegtam as his guides, he visited the
world of his dreams. He met gods, minor deities, and heroes. He was
taught magic by beings from faerie tales. It was incredible, it was
everything he had ever wanted. He witnessed every story he had read
as a child, every dream, every wish come true. He impressed mighty
warriors with his knowledge of swordsmanship, he sailed through
oceans of seamonsters, he discussed philosophy with the greatest
minds from earth. But something was still tugging at the edge of his
mind. He was an escapist by most modern standards but he had never
been a quitter. It seemed somehow wrong to abandon his world, the
world he hated. Every dryad or mermaid reminded him of her. There
it was, he wasn't ready to give up on her. He pushed these thoughts
out of his mind, he was on the adventure he had been waiting a
lifetime for, don't let doubts ruin it.
One
morning, after eating an incredible breakfast in Asgard, Vegtam—he
still thought of him by this title—asked him to take a walk. They
met up with Manny along the wall famously built through Loki's
grifting—Loki had been a close friend in these past few months,
attempting to trick James into believing his innocence in the stories
told of him. They came to a small outbuilding, small talk about the
weather and other potential humans drifted away as they entered the
building. James looked around, they were in an airport. The baggage
claim machine was spitting out luggage in front of them. He looked at
the two gods standing beside him as his bags slid onto the conveyer
belt. “I don't understand.” Vegtam gave him a sad look, “I
think you do, m'boy. You aren't ready, there is too much left for you
here. You may not be able to admit it to yourself but it is obvious
to us.” James was crushed and relieved at the same time. “Are you
Aslaning me out of Narnia?” Manny gave a forced chuckle, the big
man seemed to be fighting tears. “No, my friend, you are Dagny
Taggarting us; we should have known but after all, we're only gods,
we're not omniscient.” James laughed, holding back tears himself.
“Thank you.” He said as he took his bags from the belt. The two
gods began to walk away, Manny turned back, “I would check that
terminal.” James followed the line of Manny's finger just in time
to see her step off of a plane. He took a deep breath, looked
once more at the empty hallway where Manny and Vegtam had stood
moments before, and jogged up to her.
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