Apple of Discord: Chapter 4
You round the corner of the alley and turn right.
On your way into the lobby you say “hello” to Ms. Wynn Jones and up the stairwell you go. It’s been a short enough time that news of the mess on the seventh and a half floor landing must not have reached her yet.
When you arrive at the landing, remove the runic key, and open the doorway, you feel an overwhelming sense of relief. Getting the location of Cat and Master Da’Mon has been weighing on you.
The moment you crawl through the portal and set foot on the spectral plank walkway the scene around you blurs and then just as suddenly resolves.
You are standing in front of the Watcher and his desk. This time you can just make out row after row of bookcases in the background. He looks at you eagerly. “Are you ready?”
You nod.
The Watcher smiles and starts:
“My first question is this: In the botanical world there is a term used for certain plants that have the ability to heal or knit flesh together.
What is that term?” He waits for you to answer.
“Vulnerary,” you reply.
“Correct.”
You notice the turnip lantern begin to glow a little more enthusiastically.
“My second question is this: In the golden age of Athenian democracy, Athens had a ‘gathering of those summoned’.
What was its modern pronunciation?”
“Ecclesia,” you reply.
“Correct.”
The turnip gets brighter still.
“My third question is this: What is the average airspeed of an unladen swallow?”
“What do you mean, an African or European swallow?” you flash him a Cheshire Cat grin.
“Yessssss!” The Watcher pumps his fist and pushes away from his table in excitement, tipping his chair over in the process.
The Turnip lantern flashes brilliantly.
From his back, on the floor, the Watcher clears his throat. “I mean. Correct!”
“That last one almost had me. Pretty sneaky throwing a Monty Python reference in there,” you respond appreciatively.
“The journal on my desk has the answers to your questions and so much more. I finished it just before you arrived.” The Watcher points from the floor to his desk.
You go over to the table and reach for the book, but your hand passes through the spectral tome. “Wait, I don’t have to die to touch it do I?”
The old man picks himself up off the floor, dusts himself off and sighs, while lifting his chair back into place.
“No, nothing needs to happen to you, my dear hero. That is my path to take. In order for the book to manifest in the world of the living, I must move on.”
“No, you can’t do that. We need you. The world needs you,” you plead with him. The full weight of what he is saying hits you like a battering ram.
He smiles sagely. “My time is at an end. My story runs out. I’m at peace with that. Remember that stories are how we pass down wisdom, tradition, and history, demigod.
We express love and loss, confusion and intense focus. They deconstruct and define us. They are a roadmap to the self.
I was selfish to think that my work was more important than the natural order of things. I like who I am, and what I’ve become. As I said earlier, I am content.”
“Isn’t there another way?”
“When I close the book, my light will fade, and the book will transform.
You’ll only have a few seconds to get back to the doorway.
I’ll do my best to send you to the threshold if I have the power left to do it.
Oh, I have this for you as well.” The Watcher produces a piece of the Apple and sets it atop his desk. “I have no doubt it will be safe in your capable hands.”
The Watcher places his hand on the open book and immediately the warm light of the turnip lantern begins to fade. You look up to see a symphony of light flash beneath his exposed skin in quicksilver pops of color before slowly fading.
You reach out to hug him expecting to pass through his insubstantial form, but instead as he begins to fade you can feel solidity, just for a moment. You squeeze him tightly. “Thank you.”
Bright, hot tears stream down your cheeks.
He closes the book, placing the Apple piece on top, and nods at you.
You grab the journal and piece of the Apple, just as the Watcher shimmers out and the light of the turnip lantern gutters and dies.
In one last feat of will, he transports you to the threshold. A master of his own prison to the last.
You just manage to tumble out of the doorway and onto the landing—a hot mess of tears and gratitude. You place the items in your backpack and quickly make your way back to the alley.
You call out, emotionally drained. “Grey, I want to go home.”
<Initiating BELCH>
