Oblivion, p.6
Oblivion, page 6
"I have a question," Doc said, trying to play to their inherent warring nature. "Who's going to eat my tongue?"
"Me," the biggest troll said.
"Why do you get it?" one of the others asked.
"Because I'm the leader."
"Who made you the leader?"
"I did."
The two trolls began to fight, but the third one snapped, "Both of you shut up! Mr. Gionta is the leader, and our job is to kill intruders. Intruder," he said, pointing at Doc. "Kill!"
So much for that plan.
Doc tested his right arm, exhaling in relief when it moved properly. As the trolls rushed towards him, he waited for a second, then turned and ran around a large tree. They followed after him, but he was faster than them. Much faster. So he quickly caught up to the last troll in line, jumped on his back, and shoved a knife through his ear.
As the troll began to drop, Doc stepped onto his shoulder and leaped to the next troll. He killed that troll as well, but as this troll began to fall, the third troll grabbed Doc by his leg and swung him into the tree.
So many ribs cracked with the impact that Doc couldn't have counted them if he wanted to. The pain was excruciating, but he forced himself to focus on the troll's movement, and when the troll swung him back out away from the tree, Doc grabbed ahold of one of the troll's scales.
Doc's knee snapped from the pressure, sending pain spiking up his leg. The troll tried to smash Doc up against the tree again, but Doc refused to relinquish his hold, even when the troll attempted to shake him loose.
With his free hand, Doc yanked out a knife, and when the troll shook him violently once more, Doc let go. He flew up into the air, and as he came back down, he threw his knife as hard as he could. The knife tore through the troll's ear, killing him; but it didn't stop momentum from hurling Doc onto the ground with the troll's full force.
When he hit, a rock stabbed into his spine, and Doc gasped in pain. For a moment, he didn't move; he just lay there on top of the pointy rock and breathed as shallowly as possible. Then he tried wiggling his fingers. It was painful, but they moved; so he carefully rolled off the rock and onto his face.
He tried to take comfort in the fact that everything hurt, but he wasn't sure he could. He counted, then sighed roughly. He'd only killed nine trolls. If he was lucky, that was all there were; but he wasn't sure how lucky he was at this particular moment. He had a feeling the tide was out to sea and not really that interested in coming back to shore.
He wiggled his legs and found that the pain wasn't as bad as it had been a moment ago. He waited a few more seconds, then rolled to his back and sat up. He was healing, but he could tell that his healing had slowed. Nine trolls and eight dogs was about six trolls and eight dogs too many. Not that he was counting.
He stood, stretched his back, wiggled his shoulders, and headed towards the house with a heavy sense of foreboding. Gionta certainly knew he was coming, and Gionta was a witch of sorts, so who knew what tricks he had up his filthy witch sleeves.
But Doc didn't encounter any further difficulties along the pathway towards the house. There were no more trolls. No dogs. No man-eating plants. Nothing out of the ordinary at all.
The pathway widened as he neared the house, and he had to lean his head all the way back to look at it. It resembled a castle of old, complete with turrets, arrow slits, and parapets. He didn't like it, not one little bit. Castles didn't belong in Denver; they just didn't.
He walked slowly up the stairs, wondering why the door was so ridiculously huge. It was large enough for two trolls to walk through side by side holding hands with a cyclops.
He momentarily considered calling Jury; but he was in the mood to be alone, so he walked up to the door and carefully pulled it open, accidently stepping back in surprise when he did. Whatever he'd expected to be behind the door, this, or rather she, was not it.
"Welcome," she said, her form glittering in the way of a fairy or a tree sprite. "My name is Fiona. I will be your guide."
"My guide?" Doc asked, completely confused.
"Mr. Gionta would like you to enjoy your time here," Fiona said calmly.
"He would?"
"In his fashion."
"Ah."
"There are four levels," she continued. "I will guide you to the entrance, and if you make it through, I will take you to the next one."
"And if I make it through all four?" Doc inquired.
"Mr. Gionta will see you."
Fiona spoke each word with a calm and level intonation, but Doc could see the pure despair in her eyes.
"How long have you been trapped?" he asked.
"It is of no matter," she replied, eyes glistening.
"It is to me."
"Four hundred and thirty-two years, seven months, three days, two hours, and twenty-seven minutes," Fiona stated calmly.
And that's when Doc finally understood. Gionta was a collector, and somehow Doc knew that if he didn't win this game, he'd be the next addition to Gionta's collection.
Chapter 6
"And what if I don't want to go through the levels?" Doc asked Fiona, even though he already knew the answer.
"There is no other way to reach Mr. Gionta," she said. "If you try, you will wander the house for all eternity."
"Surely his visitors don't have to go through the levels," Doc pointed out.
"Yes, but Mr. Gionta controls the house. He is the house. The house is him. You must go through the levels."
"Very well," Doc sighed. "Please lead the way."
"It would be my pleasure, Mr. Holliday."
Fiona turned without moving and drifted down the hallway. Doc followed her slowly, eyes taking in everything. Something was very wrong about the inside of the castle. He reached out his hand and brushed it along a tabletop. It felt real, but it didn't quite look real. It almost looked too real. He tapped his finger on a stone block. It looked, felt, and sounded like stone; but there was a texture to it that no real stone had ever had.
His thoughts were interrupted by Fiona's voice.
"Here is the doorway to level one," she said, stopping in front of a vine-covered wall. "This is your map," she added as she handed him a slip of paper. "You must reach the doorway on the other side. Good luck to you," she said plaintively. "I will await you there."
With that, she disappeared, leaving Doc all alone. He glanced at the map, cringing when he saw the landmarks. He wasn't much looking forward to walking through Dead Head Forest or swimming across the River of a Million Sighs.
Out of curiosity, he cast a glance behind him, but where the hallway had been, there was now nothing but darkness. That was when he realized what was wrong with the house. It wasn't real. Not in the sense of stone blocks and wool carpets. It was painted and completely at the whim of its creator. And there was no way out unless Gionta wanted there to be a way out.
Doc frowned, trying to reconcile such a concept with what he knew of the world, but he couldn't. Magic didn't make sense to him. It defied reason. This house defied reason. But he wanted Gionta, so he'd walk through Dead Head Forest and swim the River of a Million Sighs. Besides, he couldn't possibly lose because he still owed Andrew a favor.
He inhaled deeply, then pushed through the strange papery vines and stepped into the next room. Only it wasn't a room. It was a landscape. An absolutely magnificent landscape.
The valley stretching across the horizon in front of him was incredibly realistic but at the same time it was just an impression. The colors were brilliant but subtle. He could see birds soaring in the distance, and each and every blade of grass beneath his feet was individual and distinct. Gionta was indeed a master painter. And perhaps, Doc thought with concern, a master witch.
He glanced at the map. There was a road meandering through the landscape, traveling from point a, the door, to point b, the exit. He shoved the map into his pocket and, ignoring the road, headed out across the field. The colors suddenly shifted, turning black around him; black and empty, and void of anything.
"That's one way to keep me on the path," Doc muttered as he turned around and stomped back to the road.
As soon as his foot touched the road again, the landscape cleared and brightened, looking so cheerful that Doc wanted to retch.
"This is stupid," he hissed. And then he started walking.
Gionta certainly knew how to drag things out because for the first hour or so, nothing at all happened. Doc walked through meadows full of flittering butterflies; he crawled over rocks covered with soft, delicate moss. But ever so slowly the road began to twist; and as it twisted, the landscape changed from cheerful to gothic.
The trees were bare and scraggly; lightning rent the sky. There was no rain, but water seeped from the earth, turning the road into slick and sticky mud.
Doc skirted a bubbling puddle, eyeing it warily; but he still wasn't quick enough to escape the twisted mud that sprang from it and wrapped around his ankle. A single quick breath was all he managed before he was submerged and lost inside the mud.
He couldn't see a thing, but he felt the mud rope slide up his body and wrap around his waist. His imagination conjured all sorts of creatures, anacondas, mud monsters, man-eating vines; and he had to work to crush the panic that tried to overtake him. He couldn't think if he was panicked, and he certainly couldn't fight.
It was just mud. But how could he fight mud? It didn't have a body or a heart. Nonetheless, he decided to start with his knives and see how it went.
He forced his hand to move to his chest and pull free a knife, then he sliced across the muddy rope holding him. The glob shuttered, so he sliced again and again. It loosened, but just barely.
His chest was tight, and he knew he was running out of air. He had to break free. He refused to die like this. He refused to drown in a puddle of mud. He refused to let Gionta win so easily.
He pushed his arms out to the sides and tried to swim upward, but he couldn't. He couldn't move an inch. He tried kicking his feet; he tried clawing at the mud; he tried twisting his body, but nothing brought him closer to freedom. His lungs screamed with agony, and his lips tried to open, tried to draw breath.
Andrew! Doc thought, refusing to focus on his fear. I owe Andrew!
He calmed his beating heart and tried to think. He couldn't swim up. He couldn't break free. What did that leave? Suddenly, it was clear to him. He had to go down. Just like in a fairy tale. The worst thing that could happen was he died.
He struggled to turn around, then pushed off the glob holding him and tried to swim downwards. Unlike his earlier attempts, this time he moved forward slightly so he forced more power into his arms, more strength. He made another stroke and broke free of the mud rope. Another stroke and the mud surrounding him morphed into water; another stroke and his head crested the surface.
He gasped, pulling air into his thirsty lungs, and dragged himself free of the puddle. For a moment, it was all he could do to get enough breath. His head spun, and his lungs ached, but he forced himself to breathe slowly and evenly.
When his lungs no longer throbbed, he opened his eyes and rolled to his side. The landscape had changed. He was in the middle of a cheerful green forest now. There were bluebirds sitting on the branches above him. Their beaks were moving, but no sound came out. There was no sound. Just the sound of Doc's breath. There was no sound because sound could not be painted.
Doc stood. He was already completely dry, or perhaps he'd never been wet. He honestly wasn't sure of anything in here. He pulled the map from his pocket and studied it. The landmarks had changed, and the road headed out from the puddle in only one direction. Straight towards the Gorge of Bones.
Doc shoved the map back into his pocket with a sigh. Poker he enjoyed. Chess he enjoyed. This kind of game though was not his forte. There was no luck here, no chance, no skill. It was just madness, madness of the creator, which was going to make it very difficult to win.
He trudged along the road, whistling just to fill the emptiness. Then he started singing. "There once was a man from Nantucket; who carried his head in a bucket."
He stopped singing when he reached the edge of the gorge. There was a rickety wooden bridge spanning it, ropes fraying every which way; and Doc knew he was meant to walk across it. He stepped right up to the edge of the ravine and looked down, wondering if there was another way, but there wasn't. There was no way he could scale the cliff face. It was sheer rock without a single handhold.
It occurred to him that since it was a painting, everything should be flat; but when he felt out over the gorge, he didn't feel anything but air. The detail of the bones scattered between the pointy rocks below him was startling, and he couldn't quite convince himself they weren't really there.
"I hate this," he hissed as he gave into inevitability and stepped out onto the bridge.
He made it halfway across before the ropes behind him frayed the rest of the way and the bridge started to fall. He scrambled forward frantically and grabbed onto a board just as the bridge dropped out from beneath him.
The bridge swung wildly across the expanse, then hit the opposite cliff face with so much force that the board he was clutching broke, and he fell another four feet before he could grab hold of another one.
He hung there for a second, breathing shallowly. He didn't want to fall. The gorge bottom was full of sharp rocks. Pointy sharp rocks. Rocks surrounded by bleached bones. He wasn't sure he could take that kind of hit without anyone to eat.
He allowed himself to think of all the ways he'd torture Gionta as he climbed slowly and carefully up the rungs of the swaying bridge towards the top of the gorge. Another rung broke, and he grabbed the rope, sliding down it and flinching as it tore into the flesh of his hand.
When he'd stopped falling, he started climbing once more. "Slow and steady wins the race," he muttered as he went from rung to rung. "Unless, of course, the bridge is on fire."
As soon as the words left his mouth, the light around him changed. He glanced down, laughing when he saw that the rungs below him were now burning.
"Dirty pool!" he snorted. "Dirty pool."
He doubled his pace, barely reaching the top of the gorge before the fire reached him. He pulled himself up and sat there for a moment, watching the bridge burn until it tumbled to the rocks below.
When he finally stood, he found that the exit was right behind him. At least he hoped it was the exit. He opened it carefully, relief filling him when he saw Fiona waiting for him on the other side.
"Very good, Mr. Holliday," she said emotionlessly.
She didn't seem at all buoyed by the fact he'd made it through the first level, which just reinforced Doc's suspicion that no matter what, Gionta was planning to win.
She turned and drifted down the hallway once more, eventually pausing in front of a blood-streaked iron maiden.
"This is the next level," she said. "There is no map."
Doc shrugged. He had to follow the road, so having a map didn't do any good anyway.
"Good luck," she whispered as she faded away.
I'm not sure luck can follow me here, he thought as he pulled open the door.
Horror crawled through him when he saw there was nothing inside but spikes. He wasn't going to do it. He refused. There had to be a different way. He'd go back outside and scale the walls. But he knew better. He didn't even need to look behind him to know that his only option was the iron maiden.
He turned around and stepped inside. The spikes may have been painted, but they certainly felt real. He could feel them pressing against his back, pricking his skin. He took a deep breath, kissed the air over his shoulder just in case Lady Luck was still there, and closed the door, letting out a hiss of relief when he wasn't impaled.
Instead the darkness of the iron maiden disappeared, and he found himself standing at the top of an endless flight of stairs. And then the floor beneath his feet disappeared, and he was suddenly hurtling head over heels down the stairs.
He didn't fight the fall, just let the stairs carry him downward. When he finally landed with a crash at the bottom, he closed his eyes and wished for a whiskey bottle. A spasm of pain surged through his head, and he held himself completely still. After a long moment, he wiggled a toe cautiously, feeling somewhat surprised that nothing seemed to be broken.
He gave his head another minute to heal, then stood, sighing heavily when he found himself surrounded by more stairs. Some went up; some went down; some spiraled into the clouds overhead. There were no doors, no landings except the one he was standing on, and nothing to indicate one stairwell over another.
He took a staircase at random, but found himself back on the landing a few minutes later. "So not that one," he muttered. But everything had shifted, and he couldn't tell which set of stairs he'd taken. It's a good thing I'm immortal, he thought. Because I'll be here forever.
He studied the stairs carefully, trying to figure out a way to differentiate them, but if they shifted once he left the landing, how could he ever be sure which was which?
He carefully slipped his wrist knife free, palming it gently, and then he started up another set of stairs, slicing into his palm as he did and making sure a few drops of blood splattered on the steps.
A few minutes later, he was back at the landing. He circled it carefully, searching surreptitiously for the blood. When he finally located it, he grinned inwardly. Gionta couldn't paint over what he didn't know was there.
Doc took another staircase, leaving blood behind once more. And another and another and another. Fourteen staircases later, he found himself walking out into a gigantic hall of paintings. There were hundreds of paintings, and each painting held someone different. There was a painting of a minotaur. One of a mermaid. A unicorn. A troll. A tree spirit. And somehow Doc knew that each and every one of them was real. And each and every one of them was trapped.
He walked past the painting of the unicorn, watching from the corner of his eye as the paint shifted. Just as he was past it, the unicorn tore from the painting and charged towards him. Doc leapt to the side. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt someone Gionta had trapped.
