Paper Walker

Chapter 4

It's a quarter to nine when I look at the cerulean clock on my wall. I've only been gone for forty-five minutes? It seems much longer since I flew away from my room. That must be because of the strange surrounding I keep entering.

I stare at my hand and realize horrified that the bandage is still there. That means it really happened. And, even worse, I took the injury with me over the barrier of time and space. There goes my theory of being a copy. This is real, tangible and very painful. I moan when I get up, the book slides of my lap and falls on the floor with a thud. Just leave it there. All of a sudden it's a lot less fun jumping into stories. Not a chance in hell I'll journey along with Frodo on his way to Mount Doom. Sorley must have been lying about the fall that caused him no harm. Why would he do that?

A little too rough I pull off the bandage from my hand. Maybe I ought to get the medkit first, before I leave a bloody trail in the house. Although, it's more trustworthy to get the medkit while I'm bleeding. More than walking down already covered in bandage. My mum will never believe it was already in my room. And not a chance I'm telling her about the booklet. My aversion against paper caused us enough trouble as it is. Including complete panic-attacks. Books are probably the main reason for our lofty relationship. Let's not make it worse.

The gauze is stuck to the dried blood and when I put it under running water of my little sink, the wound opens back up. Only a little. I ball my hand into a fist, dry it off as best I can and hurry down to the kitchen where the medkit should be.

My rummaging in the cabinets draws my mothers attention and when she comes in to take a look, I quickly explain: "Accident, stupid scissors, no big deal. The medkit was over here, wasn't it?"

She doesn't comment, merely shakes her head and opens the very last cabinet. Figures, the kit is in there. I don't have to look at her when I open my hand, to know she thinks the wound is a little too big for a simple accident.

"What in heavens name were you doing with scissors to get a slash like that?"

"I dropped it and grabbed it too hard." Will she believe it? I'm usually not such a clutz. The box with band aids for children has never even been opened.

To distract her I hold up a roll of bandage. "I can use some help."

The response I get is a sigh, as if I've ruined her entire evening. Yet, she pulls the kit close and takes out a little brown bottle first. The iodine stings a bit, but the wound already stopped bleeding. With a paper towel I pat my hand dry and receive a new gauze. Exactly the same, how unusual.

This roll of bandage is also too long, but my mother doesn't wind it completely around my hand. A little included Swiss pocket knife has a tiny scissors and she uses it to cut of the remainder. My eye catches the logo on the red metal and I inhale.

"Oh, please, I didn't pull that hard."

What? What is my mum talking about? She washes her hands and disappears from the kitchen, while I'm frozen, staring at the knife.

The mark: a little silvery cross inside some sort of crest-shape, is the same as the one on Sorley's knife. That's what made it look so familiar.

I leave the kit on the counter, bounce up the stairs in five steps with the folded blade in my good hand and open my laptop. Wikipedia gives me the answer I seek. Long live Wikipedia. Swiss Army knife, blah blah blah, pictures, I need pictures. There. 1890. That is close to the year the book was written. The knife on the picture looks just as it ought to look when it's that old. A wooden handle and a blade that couldn't possibly be stainless steel. It doesn't look anything like the knife I'm holding and frankly it doesn't look like Sorley's knife either. That is more like the model beneath it. Completely silver, with smooth, shiny tools. However, the year that is mentioned makes my forehead wrinkle. 1961. Impossible.