Chapter 9: Back in the Real World

After a momentous battle of sorcery with the dragon Tang Jan Dun, Robert Dean Skinner finds himself waking again in his native world - in Springfield, Illinois . . .

 

Chapter 9: Back in the Real World

Skinner awoke. Odd noises seeming to come from everywhere assaulted his ears. Yellowish light filtered through a dark room. He tried to rise, but something in his chest seemed to tear or sear or tense too much, making it feel like there was a great weight on his chest. He gasped for air. Wheeze. Wheeze . . . his breath came in with the sound of a dozen children experimenting with horsehair across catgut, poorly tuned violins. Cats fighting in the distant night.

He lurched with recognition. Fell out of bed. Smashed his head into something solid, wooden. Blood ran into his eyes. He gasped. Struggled toward breath, chest iron heavy. His brain rebelled at the impossibility of his surroundings, eyes coming to focus on the hard edge of his oak nightstand. He lurched, trying to rise.

“You ‘kay?” a woman’s voice—his wife’s voice. He had not heard it in . . . how long?

“Fine,” he gasped. Breathing out was not difficult. It was the act of pulling air in through the constricted inflammation of his bronchial tubes that challenged him, distressed his body. How could this happen? He had been free of the asthma for so long . . .

Habit led his hand to the top of the nightstand. His eyes watched as the hand grasped a blue cylinder and brought it to his lips. He gulped in while squeezing. Something bitter shot into his mouth, down, and into his lungs.

He calmed himself. Stress adds to the constriction. Relax. Breathe. Be calm. He closed his eyes, pushing the angry redness from his inner eyes and visualizing the pale, calm blue of Anandamere . . .

His eyes shot open. Anandamere? Could it really exist? Had he simply been dreaming? No. Dreams don’t pass so much time, don’t allow the recall of so much knowledge and memory. It was real. Was Springfield? His mind foundered. Dark mist closed in. He triggered the steroid atomizer again and gulped, able now to force more of the medicine past the constriction.

“Sure you’re ‘kay?” her worried voice, cobwebbed with sleep.

Okay? He screamed internally. Gone for a score or more years . . . some welcome . . . Words failed. He could no longer grasp a cogent thread of thought. Memories and emotion flooded through him, a tsunami against which he was defenseless: grief, guilt, shame, unintentional deceptions and betrayals . . .

 

The bathroom mirror stared back at him with a stranger’s bloody face. He washed the blood away and gaped at the stranger. Silver streaked his hair in uniform locks on either side, just behind the ears. His beard, singed by the lightning he had summoned, was a fraction of the length he was accustomed to wearing in the Vale—but he was certain it was far longer than the night he had awakened in that distant mountain forest.

He leaned heavily on his palms, braced against the sink counter. His lungs labored, but the squeaking of dry bellows diminished with each passing minute. He looked at the scar on his left cheek bone below the cut, which insisted on seeping despite his ministrations. Had that scar been there before? Was it not from one of his encounters with the bears near Kandor’s Locker? How could both worlds be real? How much time had passed? His wife was unalarmed; had no time passed? The memory was too distant, he could not recall what time he had gone to sleep that long ago night—this night?

Why was he in such pain? He looked down at where the dragon—yes, there had been a dragon—had torn troughs through his thigh. Fine white lines like old scars ran the exact course he recalled. Ripping his tee-shirt off, he scanned his body for other scars he could only have if the Vale were real. The light was too dim; he summoned his luminorbs—nothing happened.

Light switches. He walked over and turned the light on, cursing and covering his eyes as four clear orbs suddenly radiated 60 watts of light each throughout the room. Spots danced before his eyes as he gradually opened them and forced himself to acclimate.

The mirror still showed a stranger. He was thirty pounds heavier here. And in terrible physical condition. As though he were merely a sedentary scholar, a pedant, a regular office worker. How could this happen? Transmigration of souls? His mind turned the question every direction, spinning now with the influence of the atomized medicine as well as his own frantic search for meaning.

His hair. It was changed. He stared in the mirror. Yes. His hair was longer. But shorter than he wore in the Vale. It had grown down to the middle of his back in Diahlar. Now it was only down to the shoulder. His eyes moved to the cause of the throbbing in his head. A gash from the nightstand. But it was more. Skin along the gash was cut cleanly, puckered on the left where the mark from the nightstand made its indent. Something sharp had cut, not torn, that gash. He couldn’t recall anything from his battle with the dragon causing it, but there was nothing here to explain it.

“Infection,” he told the mirror, kneeling to the undersink cabinet and rummaging through. He pulled a cocoa-brown bottle out and twisted the cap off. Covering his left eye with his palm, he poured hydrogen peroxide down from where the cut began half an inch into his scalp. It stung. His eyes teared up, but he kept a trickle of the cold fluid running to cleanse the wound.

“What the . . .” his wife stood in the doorway, staring shocked and concerned at his head wound.

“Fell out of bed,” he shrugged.

“What happened to your hair?” her eyes were wide with incredulity.

“What?” he feigned ignorance.

“You look worn,” she grabbed a cloth from a towel stand and dabbed at his head.

“Maybe we should get that stitched . . .”

“No,” Skinner’s voice was strained. He suddenly ached all over. His thigh felt like it was trapped under a train. His head throbbed. His shoulder hurt. His chest felt as though a moose was using it for a recliner. His hands ached and tingled as though they had been clenched too tightly for too long.

“I’m taking you . . .” she walked out of the master bathroom, into their bedroom, and began to dress.

“No, Siobhan,” he said resolutely. “I can take care of myself.”

“Obviously,” she said smartly.

“I’m serious,” Skinner took a deep breath, appreciating the effects of his inhaler. His breathing normalized, and his mind had settled back into its rhythm of pragmatic survival.

“Hey,” he forced his voice to a lightness he could not force himself to feel. “A bit of arnica ointment and a good night’s rest’ll fix me right up.”

“Right,” she walked back in, clad in jeans and a linen top.

“Good,” he said, his tone serious despite her sarcasm. “I’m glad you agree. It’s settled.”

She stared at him a long moment. Something in her attention begged reassurance. Skinner tugged at the threads of thought trying to unravel in his mind. What did she see? Did she know anything? Should he tell her? Would she think him crazy? Was he?

“Fine,” she nodded at last, giving him an external focus. “But the first faint sign of infection, you’re going to the doctor.”

“I will,” he nodded.

“Try a couple of aspirin,” she suggested.

“Brilliant!” he crowed. It had not occurred to him to take anything. There was no aspirin in the Vale. He raided the medicine cabinet and joined her back in their bed after a moment, careful of his bandages as he lay his head on his pillow.

 

W          W          W

 

Life in the ‘real world’ took getting used to—again. He had grown accustomed to near celebrity status in the Vale. His coworkers at the museum, however, had no idea about any of that. Computers were again new to him. His fingers retained their memory of the mouse and keyboard, but he spent his first week relearning the nuances of technology.

What technology enabled, he decided, was no recompense for the loss of magic. He could not get away from comparing this mundane world to the glories of the Vale. And yet he found a great deal of excitement and fascination in things he had not recognized missing.

“You know,” he said to his wife as she drove him home from work the next Monday. “I despise automobiles. They’re too blessed noisy! Especially trains. And planes. And busses . . .”

“Rather walk, would you?” she smiled wryly, reaching to turn the radio up.

“Well . . .” he stared into the horizon. “I think I would.”

“How about we focus on what you do like,” she glanced sideways at him. Her degree in communications and career in quality improvement led her to concentrate on solutions instead of problems. She was so good at it that her coworkers had taken to calling her the ‘evil-positive-one’.

“I like flowers,” Skinner shrugged, gazing wistfully at the spring blooms passing by the car window. “I like fresh-ground pepper and the convenience of microwave ovens. I really like refrigerators and having a choice of wines. And electric beard trimmers. And coffee makers. And fine-tipped pens . . .”

“Oh,” she teased. “Now there’s a surprise: the stylophile likes pens.”

“And laser printers,” he ran a palm over his cropped beard and scratched his neck. “And I love soft textiles—really love rayon. And socks! Gods have I missed socks!”

“Missed?” her brow furrowed.

“Oh, yeah,” his voice was mocking. “I’ve been in another world for a hundred years. Didn’t you notice?”

“Nope,” she shrugged. “Guess time flies when you’re in your own little world.”

“Not really mine,” he shrugged. “I just act like it sometimes.”

“And that’s different how?” They both laughed as she pulled the car into their driveway.

 

W          W          W

 

He threw himself into a strict regimen of exercise. Weights and yoga stretches twice a day, and progressively more miles on their elliptical exercise machine. He also forced himself to finish numerous home maintenance projects, happy that he retained skills from his other life. Keeping himself busy with studies, work, and chores, he allowed himself very little time to consider the implication of his time in the Vale. He pushed on, stubbornly refusing to face questions of reality and possibility.

His wife, delighted at first, grew concerned about his obsessive productivity. It had been his habit previous to their marriage, but he had seemed to mellow over the past eight years. Assuring her that he was quite fine, he pushed on until the season changed and he could no longer work long hours outdoors on weekdays.

So it was that he sat on the couch reading his fifth volume of the Foxfire series, determined that, should he ever be in the position again, he would thrive on wilderness living. He was laughing over their text on bear-hunting when he experienced the first echoes of loneliness since waking back in his own bed. His stomach tightened with memories of Socrates. He looked up at his Pomeranian, Steiner, and smiled wanly.

“What a choice,” he muttered.

He forced himself to continue reading, and to ignore the stinging memories, his pining for the Vale, and his guilty loss of Tang Jan Dun. But the words brought the memory of scents—bear, musty caves, kulu, guweg, and so on.

“You look so sad,” his wife stared down from the stairs leading down half a flight into their living room, sympathy in her eyes and voice.

“Just . . .” his throat seized. He coughed, drank from his glass of scotch, and smiled wanly. “Thinking about the last time I went fishing.”

“Fishing?” she laughed. “Been awhile. What; two years ago? Three?”

“Forever,” Skinner shrugged.

“What was it you wanted to talk about?” She joined him on the couch.

“The museum wants me to tag along on a jaunt to southern Mexico,” he told her.

“Mexico?” Her eyes grew wide. “What’s in Mexico?”

“Not sure,” he shrugged. “It’s all very cloak and dagger. They tell me it’s the chance of a lifetime. Some new dig. That’s all they’re saying.”

“Why you?” she asked.

“Thanks,” he poked her in the ribs, smirking.

“No,” She brushed his hand away. “You know what I mean. You’re their editor, not an archaeologist. Why take an editor into the field?”

“I assume they want me to write something,” he shrugged. “Besides, I think the Director was impressed with the illustrations I did for the magazine this issue.”

“You did those?” she stared in amazement. “When did you learn to draw like that?”

“Been in the closet all my life,” he shrugged, trying not to consider the years of frustration it had taken him to get to a skill level he was content with.

“So . . .” She raised her eyebrows.

“So they want to go light,” he frowned. “That means I go alone. And without technology.”

“Without technology?” She frowned.

“No towers in this part of the country,” he shrugged. “And they seem to insist on being secretive.”

“Anything else?” she asked.

“Nope,” he smiled again. “My guess is that we’re trying to scoop something pretty huge. As far as I know, only the Director and a handful of others know about it.”

“How’d they get involved?” She was making conversation now, not really interested.

“One of the Board members went down there for vacation, looking for a place to retire,” he smiled.

“Oh?”

“He’s been there six weeks—on a two week trip. I hear he’s a hack, that is, amateur, archaeologist with a senior BS in Geology,” he told her. “Never considered field work.”

“What’s it going to cost us?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he grinned. “They’re being coy about it, but hinting toward big rewards on the back end.”

“Which means?” she asked.

“My guess,” he ran his hand through his collar-length hair. “They expect a book deal, and they want me to edit and illustrate at the very least. Something commercially viable to raise funds for the Society.”

They turned in early that evening, but Skinner was too excited to sleep. Nothing better than a good mystery. He turned over the possibilities in his mind. It eventually led to reminiscence of the Vale and on into dreams of a dragon, trolls, snake-men, and sorcery.