Chapter Twenty-Eight

Signs o’ the Time

By the time Leven and Clover and Janet reached the other side of Fissure Gorge, Janet had stopped crying, Leven’s stomach hurt worse than ever, and Clover had tried more times than you can count to convince Leven to let him take care of the key. On the Niteon side there was a giant stone wall running along the entire length of the gorge, protecting Niteon from who knows what. Leven stepped off the bridge, through an opening in the wall, and onto solid ground.

“You’re a beauty. I’ll tell the world about you!” Leven yelled back to the bridge as he walked away.

The sentry bird on the Niteon side was less kind, ordering Leven to move on and stop talking to the bridge.

“They can sense insincerity,” the big bird chirped, thinking Leven was being sarcastic.

Leven moved away from the gorge and into Niteon. He could see nothing but a moonlit landscape. There were small hills and beautiful trees dotting and accentuating everything he could see. A broad stone path, with stone arches randomly stretching over it, ran far enough into the distance that Leven couldn’t see the end of it. The only structure in sight was the giant bird’s guardhouse.

“So, why do birds guard the bridge?” Leven asked Clover as they passed beneath two stone arches and onto the path leading to Cork.

“What else would birds do?” Clover asked, confused.

Leven shrugged. It didn’t feel right to go farther without Geth. In Leven’s mind there was no way Geth could have gotten in front of them, and it made sense to wait a bit for him.

He mentioned his concern to Clover.

“You’re forgetting that Geth could have traveled in a number of ways,” Clover said. “He could have found a sarus and ridden on top of it the whole way. Or he could be traveling on the back of a roven, or maybe he hitched a ride with a Sympathetic Twill and has taken one of the other bridges. You watch. When we get to the turrets, he’ll be there.”

“You’re right,” Leven said, knowing he needed to just focus on their goal of reaching the turrets and let fate do the rest.

Leven motioned for Janet to follow him and began walking quickly toward the turrets. In the distance there was a thick, lumpy patch of black horizon, darker than the night.

“What’s that darkness over there?” Leven asked, pointing toward a gigantic, cystlike growth in the sky. Even in the darkness of the night it stood out, looking like a mushy black hole. It was in the opposite direction of the fire shooting up from the turrets. The blackness looked too substantive to actually be hovering in the air.

“It’s not good,” Clover said.

“Then what is it?”

“Bad,” Clover suggested, sounding as though he wasn’t all that impressed with Leven’s level of knowledge.

“I understand opposites,” Leven said, frustrated.

“We used to have the most spectacular sunrises,” Clover said, leading into an explanation. “It’s been many years, but we in Foo used to wake to find the marvelous dreams of mankind painting our world brilliant colors. Like a kaleidoscope. Sure, there were always spots and lines of black, and mornings of great darkness, but mankind was ultimately moving forward and dreamed of being better. There were some who were selfish, but now . . .

“That blackness is the result of sick dreams. The Children of the Sewn can’t frame the dark dreams fast enough. And the museum expansion where they hang and store the dreams has been caught up in bureaucratic red tape for years. But, if they can frame a rotten dream, then it is less likely to spread and grow. Whereas the good dreams, when properly framed, are much easier to focus in on and achieve—their frames expand. But as I was saying, the Children of the Sewn are behind in both areas.”

“Children of the Sewn?” Leven asked.

“They have the gift of framing the dreams of mankind.”

“You can’t frame dreams,” Janet spoke up, making it obvious that she had been listening in. “Dreams are just your brain trying to sort out all the garbage life throws at you.”

Clover made himself visible. “Excuse me?” he asked.

“I saw it on a TV special,” Janet said with less enthusiasm. “It’s just your brain trying to organize the junk you see during the day. I’m pretty sure that’s what’s happening to me now.”

Clover shook his head.

“This can’t be real,” Janet said. “I can’t even touch you.”

“It wouldn’t be appropriate anyhow,” Clover pointed out.

“I can’t eat. I can’t even sit,” Janet complained. “And I can feel I’m somewhere else. Somewhere, someone just needs to wake me up.”

“Sorry,” Clover said unsympathetically. “You are very much awake, both here and in Reality. The sooner you understand that, the better off you’ll be.”

Janet looked at Leven as if he might have something to add.

Leven shrugged. “I don’t know much more than you,” he said. “But I do know that despite things looking different here, I can feel it’s real.”

Janet didn’t argue, but she did begin crying again.

“Women,” Clover said, disappearing.

Leven and Clover and Janet picked up their pace, running along a narrower, worn stone path that bordered the brink of the gorge. Every few hundred feet the path in front of them would suddenly lift up, move to the right or to the left, and then drop down again, creating a new trail in a new direction. The fourth time the path did that, Leven began to question if they were going the right way.

“We are,” Clover insisted. “Just stay on the path.”

“But it keeps changing,” Leven said, his breathing labored.

“It’ll make up its mind eventually,” Clover said. “No path wants to just lie there. It’s trying to provide you the best journey.”

“That’s nice and all, but we need to get there.”

“We will.”

“Isn’t there a normal path?”

Leven was going to argue the point further, but the path in front of them had heard Leven and was insulted by his ingratitude. It no longer wanted to go to the trouble of providing an interesting journey. So the path picked itself up, rose fifty feet into the air, and then slammed down, making a straight line through some trees and right to the turrets.

“Happy?” Clover asked.

“Thrilled,” Leven answered, running even faster down the trail and toward the flame.

Leven’s concern for Geth kept him going. But he was tiring. Gradually, his running turned to jogging and the jogging turned to walking and the walking led him eventually right up the front steps of a house that sat at the entrance to the turrets. The house was four stories tall with an ivy-covered porch that wrapped all the way around the ground floor. The roof was made of wood shingles that looked dry enough to spontaneously combust. There was a wide front door that was painted blue and had a fat wooden doorknob on it. On the wall next to the door was a sign that said:

Hours: 8–8

In back of the house, a tall wooden fence ran for miles in either direction. Leven could see the high, distant flames of the turrets. They were still many miles off, beyond the fence.

“What is this place?” Leven asked, wiping sweat from his forehead and pointing to the old home.

“The gatehouse entrance to the turrets,” Clover replied.

“Entrance?”

Clover read the sign. “Gates open at eight.”

“We can’t wait for the gates to open!” Leven insisted. “Geth needs our help!”

Leven stepped onto the porch with Clover and tried the handle of the front door. It was locked. He looked back at Janet, who was still standing on the path. Leven moved to a large window under the porch and pressed his face to the glass. Inside he could see shelf after shelf, each lined with books. A couple of the books slid off their shelves and began to approach the window. Two opened and pressed themselves up against the glass, showing off their pages. Leven jumped back.

“Books are so vain,” Clover said. “Always wanting everyone to know their story. If they think for a second that you don’t know what is inside of them, they’ll strut around showing off their stuff forever.”

Another book slammed up against the glass, trying to get Leven to look at it. It was opened up to a page with a painting of a boat on the Lime Sea.

Leven moved away from the window and back over to the door. He knocked and listened for any response. Something inside banged and rattled. A few seconds later the doorknob turned, and the door opened.

Leven recognized the man instantly. It was Albert, the same gentleman he had helped rescue from the forest. Albert gave no indication that he recognized Leven. Beyond Albert, inside the house, Leven could see a fat sycophant resting in a chair with its feet dangling in a bucket.

“Gates open at nine,” Albert instructed.

“The sign says eight,” Clover said.

“Well, what do signs know? Gates open at nine.”

A couple of books had moved out of the library and were now trying to get out the front door to present themselves to Leven. Albert kicked them back with his foot.

“We have to get to the turrets,” Leven begged. “We need to meet someone.”

“Well, meet them in front of here,” Albert insisted. “There is no one inside, and no one will be allowed inside until the gates open at ten.”

“You said nine,” Leven pointed out.

“That doesn’t sound like something I would say,” Albert claimed, kicking another book. “Gates open at ten.”

Albert slammed the door.

Leven walked to the edge of the ivy-covered porch and looked around the house at the tall fence behind it, then stepped off the porch and walked toward it. He reached out to stick his hand through the slats, but as he reached, the fence shifted to block him. Leven scooted over and tried to reach again. Again the fence moved to keep him from even reaching through.

“Do you think we can climb over it?” Leven asked Clover.

“No way,” Clover said. “This fence would swat you down every time you tried. We’ll have to wait here.”

Leven was going to argue the point a bit more, but he spotted a thick patch of soft-looking green grass growing beneath some tall trees.

“I don’t know about both of you,” Leven said, “but if we have to wait, I could really use some sleep and maybe some food. My stomach feels awful.”

Clover materialized and handed Leven a filler crisp. “Just nibble it. It’ll fill you right up.”

“Thanks,” Leven said.

“So what about me?” Clover asked.

“What about you?” Leven said, kneeling down on the soft turf.

“I’m not actually tired, and you know how much trouble I can get in with a couple of hours of unsupervised time. And in the dark, even.”

“Janet will watch you,” Leven mumbled, lying down on the soft green grass and closing his eyes. “Gates open at ten. Hopefully.”

Clover looked at Leven and tisked. He looked up at Janet, who had begun crying again.

“Wanna play a game or something?” he asked.

She just stood there.

“Come on,” Clover finally said, “follow me.”

Janet followed Clover into the trees.

ii

The moonlight rested upon the secret’s shoulders like a thick dusting of dandruff. A light wind caused the dandruff to swirl. The very tip of the secret’s feet still burned orange from the heat of the soil; the rest of it had cooled nicely and was practically invisible to the naked eye. It swatted a few pesky decoy secrets away from its head.

It breathed.

It then exhaled a torrent of soft whispers and low murmurings. The secret stepped lightly across the ground. It had braved crossing the bridge and was now moving down the same path Leven had traveled earlier.

It sought the soul who had dug it up.

It had not gotten a complete look at who had set it free, but it had seen the eyes, and that should be enough. The secret shivered. It could still feel the hands of the nit who had buried it so many years before. It could also feel the fear and the anxiety the nit had placed deep in the soil along with it.

The secret expanded and then contracted. It wanted so deeply to let go of what it was holding inside. Even in its state, it knew it held a secret that many would kill to hear.

It reached the turret’s gatehouse.

For some reason it was frightened of the sycophant and was relieved to see no sign of it. But there beneath the trees by the fence lay a tall boy sleeping.

The secret moved closer, making no more sound than a pair of bare feet walking in long grass.

The secret whispered, hoping the boy would stir and open his eyes slightly.

The boy moaned and rolled over, his closed eyes pressing into the grass.

The secret whispered louder.

It was no use; the boy was sound asleep.

The secret moved behind the trees. It would wait.