Chapter Text
The snow house stood on a border line. William saw it when he was looking for grass under the snow. His hand reached reddish stone instead of the black mud, and he cleared two more feet of ground to make sure the line was really there.
Borders and edges were harsh in this world.
“Ever noticed having a problem with undertones?” Wilson asked amiably, once.
He had to acknowledge it: Wilson had grit. William thought about it, putting on a mechanical smile to call his companion over and show off his discovery. All this time… it was what, day eight, but even before… ah, to hell with it. All this time he lived side by side with someone who he thought was responsible for his troubles. It was all from his insanity, of course, but madmen believe their own delusions. In any case, that was a lot . Pretending to trust, pretending to care, helping, sharing food and pretending William wasn’t just a walking supply of pemmican.
And he’d pretended so well that sometimes William - the dunce, the absolute idiot - really believed him.
He didn’t know how good of a scientist Wilson was. Sure, the man could do great and terrible things, but William wasn’t well versed in the sciences or their adepts. There was one thing he knew, though: had Wilson entered the stage, the crowd would be at his feet. Everyone: cynics and elders, children and workers, villagers and city folk. Broadway, New York, San-Francisco.
“It’s the greatest illusion ever,” William thought, looking at Wilson. He smiled so genuinely, crouched over the border, pointing somewhere and saying something. “Not a single mistake in sight. I’ve got a lot to learn before I reach that height.”
Who knows, William may even surpass him.
He would have his whole life to do that.
If everything was to go well that night.
“It’s a wasteland,” Wilson announced. His fingers felt the side of his backpack, taking out the map almost on instinct. The parchment was so wrinkled and dirty that it looked like a piece of crumpled grey paper.
the letter
the smoke
Even Wilson squinted, looking at his own creation.
“Would you look at that,” he mumbled absent-mindedly, turning the dirty patch side to side. “You know, Carter, you were right.”
“Right?” William asked politely, amiably.
“The wormhole wasn’t connected to a different island, it was another end of the old one. We’re still more or less where we were. I might be mistaken, but… remember, when we were on the meadows in the early summer, uh, you got scared by a gobbler then, there was a patch of wasteland to the north, but we didn’t go there. Remember that?”
“I do,” William said. Politely. Amiably.
“I still believe traveling over this type of terrain is a last resort. There’s almost no thorn trees there, and obviously no shrubbery. Anyway, I- I don’t want to jump to conclusions here, but putting together the information we’ve got, this might be the wasteland we saw.”
William thought it over.
It was probably a lie, meant to lull him into a false sense of security. Wilson knew how desperate he was to reach the old camp. The wasteland was still in the way, so if he was to keep moving in the same direction, he’d cross it anyway.
“...if we are very lucky, of course, but the probability is around sixty percent. Carter, are you listening?”
“Yes.”
Politely. Amiably.
“If we keep the course, don’t wander around and move quickly, we’ve got a chance of coming out a little lower than the old camp, around this forest… And from there it’s two days and we’re at the chess fields.”
***
They cut down the second tree, splitting the firewood, and walked as far from the snow house as they could. Even Wilson didn’t want to stay next to it. He came out of the crawlspace empty-handed, giving no comment about what he saw. He just waved his hand towards the wasteland - let’s find a place to rest there, Carter.
The whispering and phrases were almost constant in the background, like radio. William was nauseous. All his strength went to concealing his plan. Later, they were sitting next to the fire, the twilight darkening around them. William was late to notice that Wilson, rustling through the map, having eaten his part of the pumpkin, was talking to him.
“...rter. Wilson snapped a dangling corner of the map to look at William. His expression was one of vague disbelief and disappointment. “Aren’t you glad? Your theory has been confirmed.”
“I am.”
Wilson whook the map and looked over, into the dark covering the horizon. Then, his gaze wandered back to WIlliam.
Uncle Henry would chastise him for running his mouth, but left a more important problem unattended. It was no wonder, since anything that demanded a length of thinking flew right over his head. William noticed and accepted the shortcoming himself. It was quite unlucky for a magician: he had trouble keeping the role straight.
He always thought, subconsciously, that the audience understood it was all a game and accepted it, in a way, when paying for a ticket. When he, a magician, an artist, had to bring the situation to a peak, stretch the pause, look at his audience and play in earnest, he got a little taken aback.
He looked at them, all players in the game, almost like him, with surprise and disbelief. Should we really overact? Do you really not know the truth?
And he stumbled, opening his cards, so that he could finally see who was on the stage and who...
“You just weren’t all that enthusiastic about this. About the old camp, the platform.”
About the gate.
“I think this is the way to go.”
Wilson shrugged and folded the map again, staring at it, then unfolding it again. A movement as automatic, as absent-minded and as perfect as the movement of pebbles in the fingers of the greatest magicians.
“That’s true. I was sceptical about this whole idea, because I’ve had, well,” his shoulders moved again, '' a certain kind of experience. A negative one. I told you the truth, Carter. Last time the gate took me to a world just like this one, but worse, the next one to another and so on. Until I reached the… the throne. And then everything started over. That’s it.”
His fingers traced the bend of the derelict parchment again.
“It’s hard to ignore the experience here. The only way to survive here is to be mindful of your experiences, you must know that by now. And you believed in the gate from the very start, from the very first word, you believed in something that isn’t even there yet. It probably won’t work in a broken world, anyway. No, it wasn’t faith, it was a conviction, like you were a prophet from the middle ages. You weren’t willing to think about the experience, and you weren’t willing to listen.”
“I think this is the way to go. Do you?”
“You explained, quite logically, why you don’t like the gate idea, but my question was the opposite. Why, Higgsbury?”
Wilson folded the map so it was the size of a penny, gripped it between his fingers and pushed. The square slipped under his index finger, but Wilson didn’t have the skill, and it almost fell. He managed to catch it with his other hand.
“Well,” he looked at William and smiled awkwardly, “you know, you’re quite contagious.”
There was barely a foot of space between them. They were sitting on what remained of the sleeping bag. The axe was there, but to reach it Wilson would have to turn around or stretch over. If he did the latter, he’d leave a side open, and if he did the former, his neck would be vulnerable.
The sabre was under William’s right hand.
“I think this idea was a failure from the start.”
The awkward smile looked out of place on Wilson’s face, turning it, with all the scars, the lines of the skull under his skin, the ruffled mess of hair, into something warmer than it should be. Than it really was. Than it had to be, because Wilson was just a deceitful madman who liked to torture people. Who could eat someone alive.
William’s fingers touched the transparent hilt. He hesitated. He didn’t know why, but he did.
“Maxie, this is our chance.”
No… It was too early. He had to be sure when he’d make his move.
“Oh, about contagion.” Wilson slipped the square of the map into the backpack and shuffled closer. “How are you feeling?” he raised a hand, then seemed to remember something and lowered it again. “You seem to have a fever.”
“Maybe,” William said mechanically, touching his own forehead. His hand was bare, the wrappings drying over the fire. His forehead was hot.
“Do you really think it matters?”
“Just spent too much time in that frozen crypt. Nothing serious.”
“The stitches?”
“Long since healed,” William peeled off a part of the complicated mess of vest and patching to see one of his scars. It looked pale and old. “It’s okay.”
“You worry too much. It won’t get worse if we just try, right?”
“Don’t worry, Wilson. I- The supper really helped, and if I just sit here in the heat I’ll be better in no time.”
Wilson frowned. William tried not to shake. He felt chilly, but wasn’t going to show it.
“What about your head? You talked about sounds. Words and other hallucinations. Some woman.”
“Right as rain. You can go to sleep, I’ll be fine.”
“It’s all made up.”
“It’s just, we don’t have any flowers anymore. And that thing you had is useless, too, right? I knew it, the fabric couldn’t keep the effect longer than the flowers themselves.”
“Yes,” William looked around helplessly. He had no more ideas. “But the food is helping. And the light. And- um, your company keeps my head in check. I’m not sure why, but it’s true, I really… feel okay right now.”
“It’s quackery. Fraud.”
“I’ve noticed something like that too,” Wilson said slowly. “I mean the company. I didn’t think I’d ever tell you this, but you know, Carter, I’d be long dead without you.”
William shook his head.
“Come on.”
“No, Maxie. Look, here… I’ve made the translation of two passages…”
“I’m serious. Damn,” Wilson grinned and rubbed his arm, “if I was to just wake up on the grass alone after the throne, I probably wouldn’t even have lit the fire in the evening. I mean, what’s the point?”
“...it’s stunning, even if it’s all just a joke, whoever made it had brains the size of the French Academy. So many connections. Strong conclusions. They look insane, but…”
“Survival.” William couldn’t bear it. He clutched his temples. They seemed to be pulsing with fever, his head was spinning, the two distant voices argued, it was growing more and more heated, and the heat was dark and full of smoke. “Don’t starve, remember? You told me… that’s how you live around here. Just for the hell of it. Food, safety, warmth and light. Everything you need.”
“Basically, umbra? Like “smell”?”
“Did you skip all the latin lessons at school? Like “shadow”. And don’t do anything to the vowel at the start of the word, that’s not english, you know.”
“I lied to you, William.”
“It’s nonsense, Charlie, and you know it. We don’t live in a fairy tale.”
“Will you forgive me for that?”
“Maxie… Will… please. Haven’t you ever wanted something real?”
“S- sure, what’s the problem, I- forget it, I-”
“Fairy tales aren’t real, Charlie. In the best ones you just get bled dry by the charlatans throwing a talentless show, and the worst have really expensive tickets.”
“And for everything else, too. It’s just a habit. I haven’t had company for a long time. Even longer than I’ve spent here. Now I see the difference all too clearly. I care about… you and… everything else. I was wrong.”
William grinned, but it turned into a grimace. It felt as if his head was full of thorns, and the thorns moved.
“Fine. Fine then. Let’s just throw it out. We should have done it from the start.”
“...William? Listen- damn it. Alright, you go to sleep, I’m standing guard first.”
“Never!”
“ William.” He flinched. Wilson’s palms were full of snow, he pressed to William’s face, holding his head, looking him in the eyes. The darkness receded. “Can you hear me? Can you speak? Say something!”
William could swear they looked at the knife at the same time. He didn’t know what Charlie saw, but his sight didn’t just take in the dull prop blade, but the picture frame standing next to it. The photograph depicted two smiling people, a man in a new suit and glasses, a woman with a flower in her hair. For a second he didn’t know why they kept a picture of strangers, even if said strangers seemed so happy.
It’s been too long, he thought numbly.
Charlie stood opposite him. The awful book bared its teeth - the notes between its pages. His notes, Charlie’s writing, the translations they made and the commentary. It was lying on the floor between them. He threw it there, and it hit the floor with a sound like a mountain fell with it.
The floor was dark, almost black. It seemed like there was smoke clouding over it. Those were the visions, of course. William smoked a lot of tobacco, but smoke never behaved this way.
The smoke was hanging in the air. That’s a place where it could be, and it was.
Charlie silently pulled back a strand of hair hanging over her eyes. It didn’t help much. Her empty hairstyle pulled apart and fell into something befitting a Shakespearean witch. It’s been a while since she’d put a flower in her hair. Nowadays it was only during shows, and those happened less and less.
Too long? “When did it all start,” William thought. He felt his lips stretch in a pathetic, tearful grin. A year ago? A year and a half?
“I’m sorry”, he said. “I didn’t mean to.”
“It’s okay.” If his smile looked the same as hers, dying would be the better option. “We both said too much.”
She bowed down and picked up the book. The smoke came up with her, the pages with notes fluttered and grew still. A melody from a gramophone was coming from behind the walls. Someone was having fun. Putting on a little show for himself.
William focused on his memories. He tried to remember what he was doing there, why he was there at all. He tried to remember where ‘there’ was, and his inner vision flooded with visions that looked like postcards, burned postcards coming from smoke and flames. The squares and the alleyways, stages, better and worse but never really brilliant, never wonderful. What is this place, he thought through the pain, was it San-Francisco? How could he remember that city, all he’d managed to do was… buy a ticket.
He saw other things, too: himself, waking up next to a dormant campfire in the snow. A drifter hugged him and William was warm. Both of them, thin and ragged, wandered across an endless wasteland, keeping each other up. A few feet from them the stone ended, falling away into the tumultuous winter sea. They walked along the line, determined like explorers seeking the South Pole.
All of it couldn’t be true. Something was a lie.
“The tickets are sold. We can’t back down now.”
“We won’t. It has to work,” he said, barely able to hear himself. “Do you believe me?”
A year ago, or a year and a half - when did they start?
Why did they do it? Who was the first?
Who is the first now?
Why does this thought anger him so?
Since then it was all smoke-filled endless twilight, the power and fame escaping him. The miracle escaping him. It slipped through his fingers, all smoke-wrapped and slippery, it made him walk forward, run on, it never gave him any hints and left only questions.
What kind of an enormous, twisted mind could make all of this? Who’s to blame, and if the questions are so terrible, what would the answers be?
They walked on and on, faster and faster.
“I believe you. And I believe in myself. We’ll get them all, Maxie.”
“I know.”
“...we’re not going back,” Wilson said stubbornly. “Stopping in the winter without a camp is a small death in itself, but going back - no, never. There has to be a way forward. We’ll think of something. What matters is… you feeling better?”
William opened his eyes.
The cold, wet wind moved his clothes and pierced his skin. He felt weak, but much stronger than before.
How did he manage to get here?
Two drifters dragging their feet along the sea.
He looked at the plateau again. It had changed. There was still the sea left and right, leaving open the narrow isthmus and the wall of smooth black obelisks. It didn’t look natural. It didn’t look like they could get through.
“There… Is the platform there?”
“Yes. Let me think. Swimming is not an option, as we’ve already discussed. You forgot. I see. That’s okay, you’re feverish again. Sit next to the campfire, William, eat some pumpkin. Here’s your cut. You’re very weak. I’ve pretty much carried you the last couple of miles.”
The fire was lit, a faint smell of food slipping into the darkness. Around him, it was getting darker. Was there a sunrise today? Was there anything but that book, and their greed, and the thirst, and the road, the darkness, the gnashing teeth?
His memories were mixing together. He didn’t know where the truth stopped and the delirium began, and there was so little he could do to escape, there were barely any answers.
“Anyway, we’ll deal with it tomorrow.”
‘Just one answer’, he thought, looking at Wilson. His back was turned. He was probably using the dying daylight to look at the barrier. The wall he’d dragged William to, just to mock him one last time.
A great, terrible, colossal mind.
The way to the platform was severed.
It was no more, and Wilson showed him that. There was no way out. He’d be stuck there, forever.
Now, in the moment of his triumph, Wilson got so reckless he didn’t even carry the axe. He left it by the fire.
What a mistake.
The fire crackled and smoke rose. Moment by moment, the darkness grew.