15Author's Note: Hello, and thank you for taking the time to read (or to consider reading, in any case) my story. I've only just begun, but I see great things for this and I plan on continuing it for a long run. I'd love to have you along for the ride.
If you do take a look at it, I would really appreciate a comment. Thanks again so much, and happy reading.
- Spencer W. Hensley
Chapter I :: Out of the Desert
The sky dripped the final spatters of a light shower as the Traveler came to a halt, readjusted his pack, passed a folded scrap of paper anxiously through his fingers, and examined the world about him. The red Arizona desert laid before him, vast and flat and open, a dirty-pink, textured canvas smattered with green and brown brushstrokes of sagebrush. The landscape had sipped the rainwater gratefully and each color beamed with deep and rich appreciation. Above him, the clouds, though dark and pregnant with water, allowed for patches of blue to shine down rolling splashes of sunlight over the wide desert carpet. In the distance, he saw the horizon shoot up harshly toward the sky to form the rocky figure of a small mountain. Not more than one hundred yards from the base of the mountain (though still a considerable distance from the Traveler) sat an old mobile home, decrepit and tousled.
Again, the Traveler passed the scrap of parchment between his fingers before setting off at the determined stride of one who has nearly reached his destination. That, indeed, was his situation. With a quick look over his shoulder, he made a mental appraisal of his journey. Behind him he saw only the miles of empty dessert that he had trod. Father behind that (though the Traveler could not see it) laid some road, which the rain had by now, no doubt, turned to a silvery river upon which rested his car. Beyond that there was likely some airport and subsequent city. And even farther behind the Traveler than those things – certainly much too far for the Traveler to see - perhaps there stood the sturdy walls of a home, or grew the untended vegetables of a garden, or perhaps even sat the worried figures of a family.
Whatever the case may have been, he turned round and livened his pace ahead.
He was a shorter man in his early twenties; square shouldered with an eager gait, though skinny enough that he had about him a slightly unhealthy look. A tangled mass of thick brown locks fell in a lazy cascade across most of his vaguely wrinkled forehead, rogue strands springing out at all angles. In his thin lips and sharp features there was an air of worldliness and privacy, the impact of which was quickly supplanted and surpassed by the mild, gentle properties of his deeply green eyes.
Gravel crunched loudly under his quick, sure steps as he broke into a light jog, reaching the old trailer huffing and excited. Balancing precariously on a number of cinderblocks, the dilapidated motor home was in shambles; the red canopy had been shred into tattered strips, lawn chairs laid strewn about the entrance, and some sickly yellow stain crept from the borders of the structure.
Without knocking, the Traveler pressed the door open, which protested with a loud creak, and stepped inside. At first, he thought he might have stepped into some abandoned, ancient library; the floor was stacked to the ceiling with books - large antique books bound in leather and tied with silky cloth. Rolls of aged, yellow parchment filled baskets along the floor at every step. All the shades had been pulled down so that only thin, white bars of natural light snuck in from the edges. The only other light to speak of (little though it was) came from the bottom of a shaky ceiling fan, whirling nosily above.
A kettle of water boiling over trumpeted his entrance into this dim and cluttered world.
"Excuse me," came a deep voice from somewhere within the murky clutter, as a wisp of a figure darted in and out of sight, disappearing as quickly as it had revealed itself. A moment later the whistle ceased, and the Traveler thought he could hear liquid being poured. "Like tea?" the voice called from somewhere that sounded far off - impossibly far off considering the dimensions of the trailer.
"What?" the Traveler said.
"Tea. Do you like it?" Before the Traveler appeared a man, thin and haggard, his long, spidery fingers wrapped around a tin cup. He offered it to the Traveler.
"Ah… thank you."
The figure grunted and vanished again. "Well, come on in, then," he said. The Traveler obeyed and maneuvered through the volumes, noticing then that many (the vast majority, in fact) of the books had been bound by hand, and much of the work was sloppily done. He eyes fell on an open book, laid across a modest desk, noting that the text was all hand-scribbled in ink.
"Did you write all of these?"
Something akin to a laugh rose from the darkness before the Traveler, and the voice answered, "No, no. One or two I wrote, sure. Those are just notes, though, mostly. But, no, I found these old tomes." His voice had the gravelly, inexperienced quality of one seldom used. As they passed into an area beyond the books, or rather into an area where the forest of literature had thinned, the home became a strange mixture of luxury and squalor. Among unwashed dishes and dirty clothes were ornate wooden chairs and tables, exotic artifacts whose origin the Traveler could not identify (bowls, coins, chalices, and things of that nature), and a lush tapestry depicting a young woman bathing. "Sit down," he said after a time. They had arrived at the rear of the structure where a deep maroon leather couch and a frayed wooden chair had been placed around a table.
"I'm sorry," the Traveler said, "Did you say you found the books?"
"That's right. Came across them down in…" he paused a moment, and turned to the Traveler, a look of purpose upon his face. "Well, you'll see soon enough, eh?"
"Oh. Um, well, actually I'm not even entirely sure why it is that I'm -"
"I know why you're here," the man interrupted. A handful of thin hairs fell across his pointed scalp, and he brushed them aside. Now that he had stopped moving, the Traveler was able to get a better look at his host. He was almost impossibly thin, and nearly as tall, with a pronounced hunch in his back liking him to an insect of some sort. His nose (upon which rested a pair of dirty, round spectacles) curled into a beak over his thick, moist lips, which he licked incessantly.
"Ah…"
The man eyed the Traveler closely, and the Traveler imagined that he even saw the whisper of a smirk pass quickly over his lips.
The Traveler tapped his foot, waiting patiently, expectantly, for his host to say something – anything. He had trekked long and hard to reach this point, and found the mysterious old man to be something of an anticlimax to his tale. He didn't know what he had expected, but surely something more than sipping tea in a makeshift living room with a spidery old recluse. The silence began to grate his nerves.
"My name is Joel Lewis," he blurted out, suddenly, releasing what he had built up within him on his journey, "and, I know this sounds crazy, I think that you can help me. I've been walking for miles and miles to find it here. I've just been walking on foot though this desert. I'm not normally the type of person to do this, but I've got, this map, see? You can see how I got here. That's the mountain just outside, isn't it? I got it from… Oh, well, I guess I'd better start with… okay, you see, about a year ago I started having these-"
"Dreams." The man leaned back and took a long sip of his tea.
"Well, yes, dreams." Joel was genuinely taken back. "How - how did you know that?"
The man cleared his throat and set the tea down, steepling his fingers together. His voice carried, quite suddenly, a surprising calm quality in spite of its harshness that put Joel at ease. "We will have time for talk later. Right now I'd like to show you something." He rose from his spot, and extended a slender arm towards Joel. "My name is Dr. Henry Zend, by the way. It's nice to meet you Joel. I think we're going to get along very well."