Barnaby the Wanderer

Chapter 8: In a Mist of Glass and Mirror

Dark Michael

Absurd, that a man such as I should be put into position of supernatural adviser. I've attended a thousand funerals, never once lingering graveside to brood on life's dark end. I've slept in haunted ruins, less concerned for ghosts than for rats. Dreams I have had, as any man; and on awakening I did not sift them for revelation. I've gazed unmoved upon apocalyptic wonders in the sunset sky. Never feeling least shiver for life's Glorious Mystery.

Alive, I never had use for the unknown, the unseen. The world I knew and saw made challenge enough. And that was wisdom. Life's daily truths are the only real concerns of the living. Never the trash of mysteries beyond the veil. For all that I now stand on the far side of that curtain; one more of its mysteries. Now I peer through the curtain into Life, spying upon the magic theatre beyond. And so for me, daily life is become the realm of Mystery. Nearly too bright and holy for my sight to bear.

I trailed the adventurers as they descended yet deeper, down winding stairs, through dank halls dimly lit by unlikely sources. Passing side passages whose cold winds chuckled of death to those who came without map.

At length we came to an archway opening onto a grand chamber; so large and bright within that it gave the illusion of being outside the tower. On a misty day, perhaps; as the distance soon faded to gray blur.

"Last floor before the bottom," declared Bodkin.

"I see folk moving," whispered Matilda.

"That's us," countered the rogue. "Our reflections. There's mirrors set about. And walls of glass."

The company stepped into the chamber, finding themselves in a corridor of glass. The miller boy tapped upon a panel, face showing his usual delight at anything new and absurd.

"It's like the amazement tent at the Jahrmarkt, where you wander through twisty hallways bumping your nose where you think the path goes."

"Oi, is my hair so tangly as that?" asked the Silenian, pondering a reflection. As it happened, it was. Tangled, I mean. Yet fetching. Her hair curled like wood shavings. No doubt softer to touch than wood shavings.

I almost did. Reached out to touch, that is. But I withdrew the hand. Absurd act. From either side of the veil. Absurd.

The Benefactors stepped into the chamber, finding themselves entering a corridor of glass. Tapping with hands produced the faintest of chimes. Beyond could be seen yet more glass walls, interspersed with mirrors. The total effect could only mystify those wandering within.

The adventurers came to an intersection, pondered.

"Time for the map?" asked the warrior Valentine. She seemed to have recovered sobriety. Looking flushed and angered for having lost sobriety.

"Ah, no need," said the boy thief. "The map makes it simple. Always take the left choice. Right way means death."

"Suspiciously easy," observed the witch-spawn cat. Ominous words; not that we needed omen. The band went on, taking the left way.

Strange, to see multiple sets of Benefactors wandering the labyrinth. Amusing to ask myself, did I follow the true band? Perhaps I trailed mere reflections. How should a ghost know what is real?

I considered testing. I walked unseen behind the Silenian; studying her tangled curls. Perhaps if I reached, my hand would touch glass, or pass beyond as through mist. But would that be a measure of her unreality, or of mine?

Idiot thought. And yet inevitable. Death must turn the most practical spirit to philosophy. Surely as it turns the body to worm and dust.

Bored with brooding, I reached. Touching a single curl of the girl. Soft. Well, it was real; ergo, she was real. I suppose it confirmed I was real, not that I doubted that.