To Peter, climbing the steps of the dream house felt peculiarly unwelcome. A strange sensation for a house that was legally his. The bright, simple hues of the mansion’s colors didn’t look like paint in the morning sun. In the dawn’s light, the colors seemed to glow outward from within, like glinting pools of water. He followed the path of the porch and walked around the house, peeking through each window, as he went. There was nothing to see there. Although the sun was on the rise, the house was dark. Not even the vague outlines of furniture could be seen.
It seemed unlikely that someone just left the house unlocked and he could simply walk through the front door, and it would make him feel stupid to even try it. Looking stupid is always a last resort. Peter walked around to the back and tried the kitchen door. Wouldn’t that have been nice? It was like Willow’s Music had been. Impossibly firm and imbued with a dark energy. He wondered if it would be any different on the upper porch. Besides climbing, how could he get up there? What would happen if he fell? The physics of this place, in general, were a bit dim compared to real life. He imagined that falling would hurt, but it would be more like tumbling off the bed onto a bare wood floor. Of course, one can’t, simply, climb a house. The biggest reason being that houses aren’t built for that, the close second reason being that Peter Huffy was not built for that, either. He went back around to the front.
The light continued to improve. Still, he couldn’t figure out why this house existed. Why recreate it? Why recreate the town of Sparkle? Why not build something new? Something far more grand and ambitious? Why just copy what already existed? This ‘intelligence’ that Douglas mentioned must not be terribly creative. If he was going head-to-head with this thing in a battle of brain power, it was possible he was slightly ahead of the curve. Although, being outright arrogant was not in Peter’s character, merely thinking you’re too smart is always a terrible mistake.
Just how smart was the Onk? Perhaps he needed just to stop and think. He leaned back on the railing. Okay, for the sake of logic, let’s assume it’s thinking a step ahead of me, that it’s pretty smart, and add to that it has magical powers. That puts it two steps ahead of me, maybe even three steps ahead of me. That means that to get a step ahead of it would take thinking ahead four steps from the step I’m at. And where is that? What step am I at, exactly? We have to determine what step this is before we can get a step ahead. But then again, what if the Onk isn’t thinking as many steps ahead of me as I think? What if the Onk is purposely keeping only one step ahead, banking on me shooting several steps past it? Think about that, because if it’s smart enough to think several steps behind me, then that puts it like a hundred steps ahead.
Peter turned around and looked out over the front of his house. He happened to glance down and he spotted a spade leaning against the side of the porch steps, its tip buried an inch in the gravel. He rubbed his chin. He was almost certain it hadn’t been there a minute before. Almost certain. He wondered if he should try to break one of the windows with it. Do we even own one of these? I don’t remember ever seeing one. This could be some kind of trap. Wait! Alyssa got one! She bought one to dig up those old water tanks! It was something he’d, literally, begged her not to attempt to do by herself. Although he got her to agree to hire someone to do it right, he knew deep in his heart, in that place where dark, terrible thoughts dwell, that one way or another he would end up having to dig, someday.
He decided to chance it. He snatched up the spade then walked up to the parlor window. Everything looked normal inside. The sofa and coffee table were as always, but there was a new chair set opposite the sofa that he hadn’t seen before. It was possible Alyssa ran out and bought it today, he hadn’t been paying that close attention to what was going on the last twenty-four hours. She could have picked it up at any time. He lifted the spade, braced himself, and struck.
POW!
The room erupted with a huge clap. The furniture flipped over, struck the walls, struck the ceiling, tumbling like dice in a plastic cup. When the commotion finally ceased everything in the parlor was scattered. He wasn’t sure what happened. The room looked like the inside of a clothes dryer after a good spin. He flipped the spade over, the blade pointing down, and tapped the glass as delicately as he could with the handle. Nothing happened. He lifted it and held it there, poised over the window. He struck again, even harder than the first time.
POW!
The contents of the room went crazy, once again. The sound of the chaos was as loud as an exploding barrel of gunpowder. The furniture bounced off the walls, as if weightless, each piece spinning and deflecting off each other. When it all settled down, he leaned in closer, noticing something strange. In the weaker light it had been hard to see, but in the full blaze of the morning sun he could see something odd in the texture. The couch lay on its back, facing him. For some reason the cushions hadn’t been flung off, they were stuck in place, stuck to the body of the couch. He squinted, but what he thought he saw seemed impossible. He thought he was seeing a couch that was all one piece, the pillows looking like they’d melted and fused together, because there was no space between them, nor any space underneath them. He remained there gawking for a minute, then it came to him: the furniture, the whole contents of the room, really, were made of plastic.
Frustrated and confused, Peter struck the window, again. It had the same effect as before, everything began to tumble and spin with a loud crack. He didn’t flinch this time, but watched with interest. What was going on? He looked closer at the chair flipped over right beneath the glass. It didn’t look quite right, either, somehow. He pressed his face as close in as he could, and shaded his eyes with the spade, holding the blade over his head like an umbrella. The whole chair was one large piece of plastic. He was sure he was looking at toy furniture in a dollhouse. That’s why they tumbled like whiffle balls, like they had no weight. What was the point? Was there some kind of message here? What?
Maybe what he was seeing wasn’t even right in front of him. Maybe this window was like a television screen. Perhaps the furniture wasn’t the size it appeared, even. It all might, actually, be very small. He might be looking into an actual dollhouse, one that was somewhere else. Anything is possible. This is Sparkle-Wacko, there’s no "there" here. This place isn’t real, right? Well, Douglas said that Peter wasn’t real. I feel real, though. Mostly real. And I've been real most of my life, so I know the difference. Okay, for the sake of reason, let’s assume that this place was real. If it was, why is the living room filled with toys? Toys that might be somewhere else? Does it even matter why? Behind this glass might be anything. Anything, at all. What was the Onk trying to say? That things were not as they appeared? That seemed rather obtuse. Peter knew that already. That pesky creature was just showing off, and Peter very much resented it. Then it struck him. Douglas said this thing has a sense of humor, or it thinks it does. So, basically, the Onk thinks this is funny.
So what was next? Peter was curious what else made it laugh. Would he even get the joke next time?
Regarding the passage of thousands of years, there is little to say. I fled East. I found a vast, dry land there. Vast enough that I worried little over the interference of men. So hale was my new body, so powerful, I could run almost without cessation. I could swipe trees flat. But I soon learned what real thirst was. And hunger. Impossibly large, my body was a burden I could not provide for, and I did not want. Keeping it satisfied was a ceaseless task. I missed my home and the easy life I’d had. This lonely country could never be Dilman. This new body could never be mine.
I found ways to conceal myself in caves. There were so few of which that could abide the size of my body that I remained in place, whenever I could find one, for staggering lengths of time. This way, I came to understand, after generations for men had come and gone, that I was not aging. On the rare occasion that I found men encroaching upon my territory, bringing their world, their families, and their chatter with them in ragged convoys, I found that I could understand them. Even if the words coming from their mouths still remained nonsense to me, I could parse out meaning. In this, and so many other ways, I was superior to my old self, yet, my life was all the worse for it.
But it was so much more than that. Weeks I could pass without taking water or meals. I suspected I could go longer. Lethal wounds I could receive from a mere slip of a foot and a tumble down a rocky slope, my body dashed upon the rocks on the bottom of a gorge. The wounds would always heal rapidly and never fester. This way, I came to realize that I could not easily die. Though I suspected I could not die at all. I rarely hunted, and that was agreeable to me. Finally, I did not need to endure the endless pathos of the kill. The pain of starvation became a discomfort, at most. The legacy of guilt passed on to me by people was far harder to endure than mere hunger.
So time passed. How long?
Time was a fog inside of which I lived. I stepped out of it, now and then, to view the world. I would find it different only in the way it seemed, but no different in quality. Streams dug deeper, or came to bend, or disappeared altogether, while I remained indifferent. I wandered in the rocky hills, moved by night. Lonesomeness became a being as real as myself. I could stare in its face, look into its eyes. I longed to hear the voices of my king and queen. To live, once again, in their shadow, longing to be their pet. I dreamed of my forest, and the sounds of it and the life within it. Eventually, I found a perfect cave wherein I could rest peacefully, and I kept there, quietly, for the length of many men’s lives. I would weave fantasies of my royalty so that I could be with them. I would lie on my side for months, listening to them have a splendid conversation to one another. Soon enough, in my imaginings, they talked to me, and I to them. Fantasy became my world, they took over my life. Epochs I lost without feeling the sensation of the wind or the taste of water. I needed nothing to live but the peace of my memories, and company of those whom I never met. Soon, I came to enjoy my life this way. For so long a time, it was all I knew.
I was known by some men. I must have been. Nothing as large and terrible as me can go unseen forever. But the world wanted nothing to do with me. None ever returned. I was a monster.
What intelligent beast can live forever, I ask you? Who is prepared to see the sun rise and fall until the image contained no wonder? One day, after just so long a time, it would even provoke contempt. What delight would not, one day, become murderous disdain? After too long, what heaven would not be a prison? Eternity is the real horror. I know, for I’ve tasted it.
One day, however, thousands of years having gone by, I felt a pull from beyond the horizon. It was a sensation that I had never forgotten. I awoke one morning from my daydreams and there it was. Something, a calling, yanked me to my feet. Somewhere, the manna had fallen to the earth, again. A new garden had risen from the ashes, and it drew me yonder. I made my way out of my cave, caring not for the daylight, and walked for many days to the ocean, seeing it for the first time in all my centuries. As I stared out across the waves, I slowly came to understand that more water than I had ever known existed now lay between me and the magic. But what could I do? I could think of no means of crossing. There was no man I could trust to give me passage, and none that would trust me. Besides the elusive beasts of the sea, only men crossed water like this. However, the calling was so loud, so strong, that I could not refuse it. Forward was the only way, for I could not turn back. The wanting was so powerful that I believed not even the ocean could defeat it. I leaped into the water, slashing and kicking to propel myself, and I would keep at it until I was done. But the horizon was further away than I’d ever dreamed.
How many moons came and went as I swam is of no matter. The loneliness of the ocean was nothing I’d not experienced. The mindless toil of the swim was, alas, a novelty. Just one more new pain in a life that had almost known them all. Though it was the worst pain I’d ever felt, it was not the worst I would ever know. I came to land, time and time again, only to have to jump, once more, into the water and start kicking, once again. A day did come when, with my head bobbing in and out of the water, I caught a glimpse of the right land. Soon I felt soil beneath my feet. When I opened my eyes, expecting to find myself climbing up a beach, I was, to my astonishment, on a river bank. In my mindless toiling toward land, I had, without realizing, crossed from ocean into the mouth of a river. I clawed my tired, sorrowful body up to ground. I rested, but did not sleep, though I longed for it. I cannot sleep on open land, I must have cover. So I stumbled across this new world until I found my place. How long, It was not so hard to do. The length of a breath to me. I was more exhausted than any living being had ever been, I’d wager. What I found was a great mound of dirt. Once the proud burial place of a primitive king, now barely more than a large lump of clay covered with grass and wildflowers. I clawed open a hole big enough to admit my giant body, then I crawled inside and slept there next to the bones of forgotten nobility.
So, again, time passed for men. As for me, I am inviolate. Change happened all around me, and through it all, I slept. I did not dream, so soundly I rested. In a sense, these were the happiest years of my life, for there was nothing for which to suffer for. No guilt to abide. No memories to cherish and, by doing, long for. I did not stir when I was discovered, as people came and went, children marveling at me until they were, themselves, elderly. My eyes opened one day. I had come to the natural end of my slumber. I remained there for some time, slowly coming to life, again. Again, the question: How long had it been? Who can say? To my astonishment, I heard a voice address me. It was a man’s voice, but it was also the Voice of Destiny, as I came to call it. It was the call of the Garden.
“I have been waiting,” he said, as pleasant a human voice as I’d ever heard. “The day has come, finally. I, alone, knew it. What do you call yourself, creature?”
I understood the man. This alarmed me, for I was not hearing his thoughts, I was hearing him speak words I knew aloud. I have a talent for language, endowed upon me by the garden’s magic, but it did not come so quick and easy as this. This was uncanny. I realized that he was speaking my old tongue. The oldest. The first one. That of my king and queen. My heart leaped to find any familiarity with them. My body shivered with delight. I lifted my head and spat the dirt from my mouth. “I don’t have a name,” I spoke with a croak. My voice was as deep, and raspy, as a storm at sea. The whole crowd of men was taken aback. Even the bravest of them had to steel themselves to keep their wits as I pulled myself out of the earth and to my feet. Then I sat there, innocently staring back at him, little more than a doting pet, surrounded by a small army.
Slowly, my limbs began to feel alive. I could see that they had cleared away the top of the mound, perhaps a lifetime before, exposing me and the dead king it had been made for(he had, without a doubt, been picked clean of his belongings). I was frightened, strange as it may sound for such an imposing creature, as I am. I was still an innocent, and these men were not like the fishermen I had known back in Dilman. These men were pale-skinned, they carried weapons and wore armor. They were the product of a harsh land. It was a lively country, full of men such as these, shaped and hardened by wars and invasions. As brave as these men seemed, they were careful of me. The one that had spoken had long, gray whiskers on his face. He carried a staff and wore a crimson robe. He stood before me, unafraid. I could tell he was more than the others. More intelligent. Distinct and superior in all the ways that matter most. He watched me and knew what I was. How childlike. I might have stayed that way forever. All the better for the world.
The old one did not seem the least bit alarmed by me. He smiled as if he knew all he would ever need to know. “I know who you are,” he said. The man stepped forward and pressed his palm to the top of my head. I started at his touch. He scratched my brow, as if I were truly his pet. He ran his fingers through my fur. “Come with me, beast. I am your friend. I am Mehlman.”
I had never been touched, not in all my millenniums. I had never felt affection, though I had imagined it. As a whelp, I must have know the touch of my mother, but I do not recall it. For that reason, alone, I was his. I think, now, that he knew what he was doing. In an instant, he owned me, and my devotion, like any parent. It happened that quickly. So I pulled myself up, shook off the layers of consecrated dirt, and followed this man. He had hard, bare feet. Skinny legs with bulbous knees, which slid in and out through a cut in his robe as he walked. His soldiers surrounded him, always at the ready, clutching their weapons. Even with my size, I was fearful. I watched them the way they watched me.
“Years ago, when I was a boy, I was brought out here to the mounds made by the old people. I was sent here to view the slumbering dragon. I could share the minds of the Holy Ones, so it was thought that I could know your mind. I followed the voice of destiny, and it told me that you could, as well. Do you know what voice I mean?”
I said nothing in return. The priest’s men were upset enough. Though I was more frightened of them than they could ever have been of me. I stood, possibly, twice as high as the tallest man among them. To my size, they were as infants, yet nothing but the promise of more petting and affection, something I had longed for, kept me from running from these rough-looking men and cowering in the trees. I walked along with him, still dizzy from the priest’s act.
“I know where you have come from, beast,” Mehlman said to me. “I know who you are.”
Once again, this man spoke as if he knew me. But how? Nobody knew me. I didn’t exist to anyone. So what could this man know? As my head shed its fog, I came to feel what Mehlman was. The way I could hear some of the thoughts men had, he could do something much like this, as well. Even if the voice was not, nearly, so strong as mine.
“You were there, weren’t you? In the Garden. Weren’t you, son?”
My heart soared! Son? Was I someone’s son, now? Did I have family, again? Could it be that easy? Such a glorious notion would have knocked me from my feet, were it possible. Bit by bit, this man was laying claim to me. With a few gestures, I had been conquered. Even my eyes would not leave him. I could not look away. Mehlman, my new father, led us all away from there. I followed without complaint. My legs and back became soft and loose, again, as we went. What strange company we made - I, a giant infant, they a tribe of hardened killers and an old man.
Later on, we came out of the woods at the top of a steep hill that overlooked a valley. Beneath us, as if springing from a dream, came a sight I would never forget. I had no name for it. Only from afar had I ever seen a human settlement, and those were clusters of huts made of stick and daub. I had never seen a home built of brick and stone before, and here before me was an example of one of the highest order known in that world. It was a Roman villa. Neither was a word that I knew. The villa was two stories in the center, with columned wings like outstretched arms reaching to embrace me. It took my breath away. I understand now that the villa was aging, that it was abandoned by a wealthy man. It was now occupied by new tenants and only strenuous upkeep kept it from slipping into a house unworthy of nobility. Mehlman noted my uneasiness. I was like a bumpkin visiting the Roman Senate. He calmed me with another stroke of my ear. I whimpered at his touch, my eyes rolled around in ecstasy. Drunk I was on his love for me. As little as it was, it was more than I had ever known.
“Welcome,” said my new father. “I see that this is all new to you, this world of men. I shall lead you through it.”
Though I trembled, I believed him. “Thank you, Father,” I said to him. The words leaping from my soul, not my throat.
He grinned at me, and I bowed my head to have my ear rubbed. Then he led me down the rocky hill, all the way he made sure that I was aware of his presence. I was aware of nothing else, truth be known. He was more glorious than this palace that rose up like the horizon. His attention was more than welcome, it was savored. We crossed the tall valley grasses at the bottom, then up the marble stairs, through the grand entrance we went. In an instant, wonders crowded in all around me. It was a flood of illimitable glory. Mosaics, murals, and statues, all vying for my attention, competing for the startled wonder of the baffled animal that I was.
From their pedestals, august gods and goddesses stood presiding over tiled floors and painted walls. From below, the faces of nobles stared up from underfoot, alongside countenances of Medusa, Paris, and Aphrodite. Depictions of fierce heroes on raging horses fading into a bliss of lazing nymphs and lovers in dalliance. All the splendors and terrors of life as it is lived by mankind, enlivened by walls of plaster painted red, green, and blue. The colors of the world. I had never witnessed ostentation, and my head was dizzy. Who can say, really, how opulent it was? The memory is that of the child I was, both foolish and trusting. That would end this very day.
I was led through the hall to the square courtyard at the heart of the palace. A great crowd resided there, surrounding and fawning over a pair of figures. The eyes of most stretched wide as I dipped my head beneath the height of the door. I emerged out onto old walkways of stone squares that were swarmed by tall, tended grasses and flowers. Then I saw them. At the center of it all, or the first time in millenniums, I saw them. The pair at the heart of a ruckus of people, a commotion of attendees that parted to reveal my king and queen. The glorious ones. Adhman-addu and Eawla, those beautiful children of Dilman.
They were dressed in linens and furs, sitting side-by-side on thrones carved of dark, polished wood and embedded with ivory and glinting stones. Their expressions did not change, though their eyes fixed upon me and would not stray. They kept passive and dignified, as is expected of gods. The shock of seeing them was too great. My legs gave way underneath me, again, and I fell to the earth. My head spun at my father, my eyes implored him for answers while my throat whimpered like an infant’s seeking succor.
Father smiled at me, as if proud. “You know them, my son, don’t you? Though you may have forgotten them. Look upon them now and remember,” my father said to me.
From the silence, Adhman-addu spoke. His voice as strong and sure as a bull’s back. “It is, indeed, you? After all this time, you have woken from your slumber, as my adviser said you would. This is expected, yet, untimely. Like an omen, one such as you does not turn up without a purpose.”
Until this day, I had not heard that old tongue for centuries upon centuries. Though I understood them, my king’s words mystified me. I looked, again, to my father for help. His eyes met mine, but no words of comfort came. He deferred, now, to his master. Adhman-addu leaned back on his throne, his eyes meeting those of his queen. Some silent communication passed between them. A nod. An acknowledgment, perhaps, of the distant epoch that my resurgence had made, yet again, consequential. Their hands met, clasped, and comforted the other. Their ancient love seemed as obvious as the looming moon. That aside, their appearance was startling to me. I, who had not seen them in an age of ages, had known them with but a glance.
They defied time, the glorious ones, having remained in the blossom of youth. Yet, the change in them was incalculable, somehow. Their skin was smooth, with subtle peaks and rounded lines. They’d never shed the fleshiness of youth. It was most apparent on my queen, for the king, now, wore a beard, sable and braided. It seemed, merely, an illusion of maturity. Like a boy dressed up in a mockery of men’s accoutrements. Something in it, however, threatened me. This boy was a king, one who contained within him, the ancient, voices of his deceased forebears, still calling out to him from the past for justice for the salty waters that swallowed up their world. The queen, as lovely and noble as I remembered her, looked upon me with a hint of something I did not expect. Something hidden beneath her radiance. I wondered if it was hatred. But why hate me? What had I ever done?
My king went on. “Seeing you now, I am reminded of our time in the Garden. How can I not be reminded? That was our home. And what became of it? Do you remember, creature? Does our home ever cross your mind?”
I did not understand the question, nor did I know how to answer him. I dared meet his eyes. What to say to him? I had never spoken with my King and Queen. I had never spoken, at all, until this day. Not in the way that these people did, with words spoken back at you. What was expected of me? In answering his question, was I being obedient or was I taking a liberty? Perhaps I was not supposed to think before speaking, but answer, forthwith, without fear or pretense. This deliberation within myself lasted no more than a few ragged breaths. “I remember, my King,” I replied. The old words delighted my tongue, like the tingle of a snowflake. The low boom of my voice startled most of the regular folk. “I was there. I remember you; my Queen, my King, and my Princes. How my heart delights in seeing you, again!” I set down, comfortably, on my rear, with my front arms out in front of me, and I bowed my head. I took in their glory. Though I had mentioned their sons, in truth, I did not see them there. “Can this be real…?” I went on. My deep voice drawing out into one long, bewildered breath.
My king attempted to smile. “Real it is, beast. We are all very real. The garden, millenniums ago, was real, as well. Our memories of that place still enchant us. Do they make you feel the same?”
If I had ever known the gesture of refusal, shaking one’s head from side-to-side, then I had forgotten it by then, or I would have made that gesture. As I stood there, I realized that I did not miss the Garden. Not anymore. This place, right here, was so much preferable. Here I could be with the Holy Ones. Speak with them. No, no, the Garden was lonely. It was they who enchanted it. This was the real paradise now, for I could serve them. My life would have a purpose here. I could see that this was not the kind of answer he was looking for. “It was my home, Lord.” I did not know what else to say.
Adhman-addu nodded. He was satisfied with my answer, but not happy. “I see. I see,” my king said. There was something very alarming in his voice. “So, you remember, but you do not feel wistful? Is that what you are saying?”
Again, I did not know what to say. I did not understand what I heard in the tone of his voice. There was anger in it, just as there might have been in the fiery gaze of Kakra, the Picker of Fights, were he there. “I must. I must feel…wistful,” I replied. In truth, had I ever known the word, I could not recall it now, and I could not know my king’s thoughts as I could any ordinary man.
“We shared our home with you. Our holy ground,” said my King. “You, a beast of the field.” I was immediately alarmed. Frightened is the better word. My heart rang like a bell. Those were the words from my dream! All those thousands of years ago! I had never forgotten. “My Lord,” I stammered. “My Lord, I…”
“Say no more, creature! Say no more!” Adhman-addu said. “It is not necessary. It will always be known to the world that Eden was lost. It should be known that it was lost by you! You whose mere presence there provoked the wrath of God! You are to blame. You. A degenerate! An abomination! Born of a dead heritage justly smote by God for their wickedness!”
I whimpered. I crawled backward. An innocent, terrified. This was the dream! I had never felt so confused. I looked to my father, but his eyes would not meet my own. Not now. I was lost to him. The look on his face was dire, even frightening, to a shivering child like I was. What was I missing? My king looked, too, at my father. “Thank you for bringing him here, Mehlman, for this shall be the beginning of resolving a great injustice. But I think now that you have always misunderstood how we feel about this thing. This horrible thing. Perhaps we have not been explicit, enough, but that is easy to resolve. We do not pity it, Mehlman, we loathe it. You must address the evil that it has wrought. You must do it, for I want it.”
Father’s face became solemn. Why was my King rejecting me? Calling me an abomination? Why did he look at me like he was doing? Like I was truly a horrible thing. I was not horrible. I was ugly, but they made me beautiful, did they not? I wanted to serve them, to bask in their beauty, like a good animal. Their burro. Why was my dream coming true? I looked at him, my eyes streaming with tears of fear. Soon, I would understand. He was the first, and last, man I would ever call my father.