The Fountain Pen

Sundays are typically the day I take some down time. After church my wife arranged to have my parents watch Emma and we went on a walking tour of some of the locales in my story. We had lunch at Boone’s Treasury, which is scheduled to make an appearance in Chapter 3 (though Chapter 3 may get split into 2 chapters). Despite the down time I did manage to pound out a little over 1,800 words, and I think I’ve learned a few things about me. First of all I do better if I can have two one thousand word writing sessions. Second, I can concentrate on my writing after Emma has gone to bed; even a nap or quiet time is still a bit of a distraction.

Here’s today’s progress on the story:

Joe followed Mortimer down the winding steps to the teeming city below. Now face-to-face with the streets a greater sense of awe and wonder overwhelmed him. Where the buildings and people seemed quite normal from his vantage point on the platform, down amongst the people milling about and the buildings standing proudly he came to realize how wrong his first impressions were. The buildings, while bearing a similarity to the architectural details he’d witnessed in other cities, had a style and a romance all their own; each building was a harmonious blend of at least two different architectural periods: baroque crossed with victorian, colonial mixed with art deco, craftsman combined with classical; Joe even spied an entire family of gargoyles nested in amongst the roofline of a building. Many buildings were impossibilities: entire floors were cantilevered out over open space without proper bracing, balconies that spanned more than one story, and yet were braced one against the other in some Escherian self-referential loop. One building even sported a perpetual staircase, and another a waterfall whose source flowed uphill. Joe’s head spun with the wonder of how buildings could be constructed that violate the natural laws of physics, let alone how they could be even useful to the denizens.

As strange as fantastical as the buildings were it was the people who lived in and among them that brought Joe to a standstill in the middle of the street. All around him were men and women of various sizes, shapes, and even colors. Joe had never considered himself short at 6’4” but people towered over him, easily twice his height. Others only came up to his knees, making Joe think of the little people his mother used to tell him about when he was a child. Few people dressed with contemporary styling; many went about in costumes Joe had only seen in history books, or read about in period novels. There were men in bowlers and silk hats, women in petticoats, boys in knickerbockers, and to Joe’s astonishment an entire regiment of men in kilts. In and amongst all this display of variety and diverse cultures and periods of history, no one thing stood out against such an eclectic backdrop, even the small contingent of albinos attired in pure white robes, didn’t stand out. There was but one who caught Joe’s eye, though it was brief and he doubted he saw it: a man walked into a store on the right side of the street, then briefly appeared on a balcony of a building on the opposite side, but Joe swore the man’s skin was royal blue.

As Joe was flagging behind Mortimer had to turn and shout Joe’s name several times, finally resorting to walking back to Joe and jolting him back to his senses with a clap on the shoulder.

“Sorry,” mumbled Joe. “It’s just so … unexpected. I lost my head.”

“You can lose a lot more than that if you stand about gawking at people. I warned you before, there are people here you do not want to cross. Some of them have short tempers, and some do not like to be stared at as if they were a circus side-show. Come along quickly now.” Mortimer grabbed Joe’s arm and escorted him through the busy street.

After a few minutes of winding their way through the city, passing through quarters with cobblestones and gas lights, brick and electric lights, and even large flagstones and candles, the came to a remarkable two story building. The second floor of the building was reminiscent of an old gypsy caravan wagon, the kind which fill folklore tales of ages past. The ground floor had thick wooden doric columns, covered in gold leaf, which gave off an air that someone important and powerful resided within; the building itself was painted a rich red, and the many bay windows were filled with small diamond shaped panes of crystal, each catching the flickering candlelight within and casting a shimmering rainbow without. Joe immediately knew that whoever lived here must surely be able to help, but he couldn’t help but wonder if they would be willing. “Surely someone who is as important as all this must be too busy to help me,” Joe thought to himself. “I’ve read enough of The Brother’s Grimm to know I’ll be sent off on a quest to satisfy some crone’s whims.” Joe chuckled aloud.

Mortimer looked at Joe quizzically, “Something funny, kid?”

Embarrassed at being caught in his amusement Joe attempted to cover it up. “Nothing really. It’s just this place reminds me of some fairy tales I used to read as a kid.”

Mortimer nodded sagely. “Don’t believe everything you read in books.” Joe grinned and nodded. Seeing this Mortimer added, “But in this case, you should.” With that Mortimer walked up to the door and using the gold knocker announced their presence. Joe stood rooted to his spot, dreading who or what would answer the door.

“What did he mean by that?” he wondered to himself. “Surely he’s just jerking my chain. But then again, look at this place, this whole city. Who knows what fairy tales I’ll run into down here.”

Just as Joe was regaining his courage the door swung open, revealing an empty foyer. Mortimer stepped inside, then turned his head and said to Joe, “Are you coming? It’s too late to change your mind now. She already knows you’re.” There was a hint of something sinister in Mortimer’s voice as he said these words, and the dread of what might happen to him made Joe walked forward into the house. As soon as he cleared the doorway the door swung shut behind him. Startled he turned around expecting to face an old crone, or at the very least a wizened old butler. Instead there was nothing there.

“This way. She’s upstairs,” Mortimer said, and began ascending a sweeping curved staircase.

Joe swallowed, desperately trying to convince himself that he’d be alright no matter what happened, yet with trepidation he surmounted the stairs, his dread increasing with each labored step. Mortimer waited for him on the landing at the top of the stairs, silent and imposing, his expression giving no indication of what Joe was about to face. An imposing pair of ornately carved double doors stood firmly shut at the top of the stairs. Each door was covered in scenes from fairy tales, some of them decided not suitable for the little eyes of children. The entire tableau served to intimidate Joe, who was already uneasy about his oath, Mortimer’s warnings about the people who dwelled here, and the weird power behind his current predicament. With deliberate steps Mortimer walked over to the doors, slowly turned the gold handles, and pushed the doors open.

A bluish cloud of smoke wafted out onto the landing. It smelled sweet, and vaguely of apples. Joe could see incense burning in the room beyond the imposing doors, and wondered what manner of creature this person was, and what fell rites she performed in this hidden world of impossibilities. For a brief moment the thought crossed Joe’s mind that this person here might be the very person responsible for his being in Salem. That caused a shudder to ripple its way down his spine. Deciding it was far too late to have second thoughts he put one foot in front of the other and shuffled his way through the doors, which mercifully did not close on their own.

Joe peered around him trying to get his bearings. He stood in what appeared to be another foyer. Cabinets and display cases stood on either side of him, proudly housing an impressive array of curios and statuary. Some of the baubles Joe recognized from art history courses he took in college, but others were wholly new, obviously the work of mind not quite normal. Everything was lit by candles and lanterns, the flickering light of a fire casting a warm, pleasant, and comfortable glow onto everything. The many flames, added to the incense burning, added a certain heaviness to the atmosphere. Had Joe not been keyed up to either fight or run he might have succumbed to an involuntary nap. Joe could not see into the room for a series of silk curtains hung at the end of the foyer, and beyond that there appeared to be embroidered tapestries hung to form a box in the middle of the room.

“Is this the young man?” came a silky feminine voice from somewhere deep in the room.

“It is,” came the recognizable voice of Mortimer.

“Welcome to my parlor … ” the woman said.

Joe finished the sentence in his head, “… said the spider to the fly,” and braced himself to run out the door.

“No need for that, young man,” the silky voice intoned. “I am no spider. But if you would be so kind as to shut the door?” It was hardly a request and more of a polite command, and Joe complied, not sure why he did so.

“Come in, come in. You’ll be far more comfortable in here, I assure you,” she said with such assurance that Joe had no doubt she liked her young men relaxed, as they probably tasted better. No sooner had the thought crossed his mind then she giggled, a sound much like the sound of thousands of tiny glass beads falling into a still pool of icy water. It was at once pleasant, and disarming, and yet disconcerting, as if she might be toying with her food.

Mortimer’s strong voice broke out, “Will you waste her time and mine? Come!”

Figuring his fate was sealed Joe parted the silk curtains and, like a man walking to his doom, trudged up to the embroidered tapestries. He had but a moment to realize that the scenes depicted on these hanging curtains were a continuation on the theme set by the doors: fairy tales of all cultures were depicted in every possible detail, filling the expansive tapestry with hundreds if not thousands of tales. Steeling his nerves as best he could Joe put out a shaking hand and made just enough of a hole for him to walk through and stopped. The face that greeted him on the other side of the curtain was Mortimer’s, contorted into the most extreme expression of humor Joe had ever seen: Mortimer was laughing.

Joe’s face turned red. “You should see yourself,” Mortimer said through laughter. “You look like you are about to walk to your death.”

Embarrassed Joe retorted, “You were the one who warned me dangerous people lived here, and that I might be in mortal peril if I crossed them.”

Mortimer chuckled. “I also told you I would protect you. No one down here will do anything to harm you while you are with me. That’s the Law down here. It’s true there are dangerous people here, but none more than I, and I am your ally. I am sorry for the cruelty, but it was necessary that you take this seriously, and soberly. Besides,” Mortimer winked, “I couldn’t resist.” Mortimer pulled Joe in and clapped him on the back. “Come in. Sit. I would like you meet Katarina Keystone.”