Karl looked to his left, saw he was outside in a meadow. It was a sunny, beautiful day. He could feel it on his skin, but it was plasticky, like a description of feeling without the real thing. He thought he could smell the flowers, but they didn’t smell right. More like a smell with the word “flowers” attached. He didn’t know how his legs had moved from sitting in the null-space box, to sitting cross-legged and flat on the grass. He looked up, across the meadow, and saw… he did a double take… a Jester doing what a Jester should be doing. He was juggling and working his mouth in concentration.
Karl walked over and nodded, but the Jester paid no attention. “Um, hi.”
The Jester dropped three of his six pins, and managed to clutch the others to his chest. “Hey, you startled me.”
“Sorry, I thought you saw me.”
“I was concentrating.” He shook one of the pins in Karl’s face. “Concentration, my friend, is how you improve your skills.”
“Thanks for the tip. Um… I guess I’m a bit lost. Where am I? I thought I’d be in Mansworld, with the Doctor.”
“Who are you?” the Jester asked in a cheerful tone.
“My name is Karl.”
“Ah, the Savant. Hey,” the Jester shifted his eyes nervously, “want to see a card trick?”
“Why not? I don’t seem to be in a hurry.”
The Jester looked relieved, as if afraid Karl would refuse to watch the trick.
“Are we in Mansworld?” Karl asked.
“What the dickens is Mansworld? There’s no Mansworld around here.” He didn’t seem interested in the answer, though. He rummaged in his clothes, pulling out bouquets of plastic flowers, doves, rabbits that went hopping away, giant saws, wands, dice, every cheap magic prop imaginable.
“Wear this.” He handed Karl a clip on plastic flower.
“What’s your name?” Karl put the flower on.
“I am the Gatekeeper.”
“That’s not a name.”
“Well, it will have to do,” he said in a huff. “Sorry. Ooh, here they are.” The Jester produced a pack of giant Tarot cards. He rifled them up, into the air. They flew, overlapping, and disappeared a meter above his head.
“Nice trick.”
The Jester clenched his face into a wad, under the bouncy, pointed bell hat. He crossed his arms, looked at Karl, and said, “It’s not finished yet,” in a petulant tone. He reached back with his left hand, elbow straight, hand twisted backwards until the palm was up. He was glancing back, trying to make it look as if he was not looking at his hand. He chewed at his out-hanging tongue, concentrating. The cards rifled down out of nowhere into his palm. He only dropped one. Karl was impressed.
“Doo-doo,” said the Jester. “I can’t seem to get that trick right.”
He put the cards into an inner pocket of his costume, holding it open to show off the many pockets he had in there and making superior eye motions. He tried to look as if he didn’t care at all. Or he was being funny. He sighed.
“Go that way.” He pointed.
Karl saw an old man fly fishing and walked toward him. A sense of total peace, like coming home grew with each step. Like the old man was going to turn and Karl would see a father he never knew. He looked up at Karl as he approached.
“Hey,” Karl said.
The old man paused, seemed to search his mind.
“Hello.” A country gentleman, the old man had good manners. Karl thought of RJ, channeled him in that strange accidental way, like having a conversation in the kitchen. RJ loved good manners, they mattered, and were worth the time. Not that RJ always had them, but being from the South, he respected them. The old man had a well-to-do southern hospitality about him, but a Yankee accent. He seemed capable of transcending the small, false morality of the world. Of finding, somehow, a better way which was still simple.
“Who are you? Have we met?”
“I’m the old man.”
“You don’t have a name? Are you Wildcard?”
“I may be an aspect of Wildcard, I suppose. This whole place is an inner aspect, I guess, kind of a… stabilizing face. ‘The center guards against the wound’s madness. Here is where I rest.’” He brightened. “Have you heard of wildsong? Not everybody has.”
“Yes, but the wound? What is the wound?”
“I don’t particularly know, to tell you the truth. But it seems to cause Wildcard …well…fear.”
“Is it part of him?”
“Listen, son, this is a bit hurried for my taste. It feels improper. Let’s be civilized. Would you like to meet my wife? She’s making dinner right now. Please, be our guest.”
“Gosh, yeah. Thanks.” He hungered to, in fact. It was safe, peaceful, a new feeling. Karl relaxed into trusting the old man. “Actually, I’d love to.”
Karl crossed to his side of the stream. The old man packed his tackle box and pole and they set back on a small path through the woods. He had made the path by his frequent trips to the river.
“Wildcard wants to love. The center is that simple. That’s what we do, me and Hazel. Do you understand?”
“I think so. How long have you been here?”
“Oh, a long time. Very long. How long have you been in wildspace?”
“I just got here.” Karl told him about the transfer as they walked. He noticed that the funny dizziness from transferring had almost gone away. They didn’t speak too much; the old man had a way of making it enjoyable and relaxed to not talk. Karl felt more uncomfortable talking, as if he were using it to hide himself. He enjoyed the day. The old man whistled, fishing pole on his shoulder.
The house was a beautiful country place, 2 story, clapboard, high ceilings. A few rooms were wainscoted with deep decorative trim around the ceiling. The paint was light, with airy colors, and there were large windows everywhere. Hazel gave the tour, then shooed the two men onto the porch where she brought them lemonade as they sat on the swing. She went to work in the garden. They had several small gardens, flower, vegetable, and herb.
“How does Wildcard have so many faces?”
“What? What does that mean?”
“Well, like you, and Hazel and the Gatekeeper.
“There’s some technical answer, I suppose. But I don’t know that sort of thing. If you want to ask me why those faces exist, I’d say it’s because he felt so alone for so long. He created them, or they just appeared, out of aloneness. So, he somehow managed a world, all these universes. He split into so much…he faded in, I don’t know how to put it, but I sense it.”
“Would you like a cookie, son? Hazel made some. I love her cookies, but you might not. Nothing here tastes right.” He smiled. “But they sure look great.”
“Oh, yeah, definitely.” Karl looked over at the old woman as she weeded. She had an aged beauty, classic features, not stunning, but, if she had ever been young, she had been pretty. She had a resigned kindness.
She was sweaty and sat down on the porch next to Karl, then poured herself lemonade from the pitcher. The old man returned with a plate of cookies. They tasted like wood. She looked disappointed by his reaction.
“How long can I stay?”
“Stay as long as you wish, dear.” Hazel had a dignified English accent. She reached over and stroked his hair back from his eyes, then ran a hand down his cheek. “We like having you here, it feels wonderful.”
Grandparents, something Karl had never even considered. He wanted to stay. He never wanted to leave.
“Anyone who comes here can stay as long as they want,” the old man said. “Nothing forces them to leave, but generally they get a…feeling, I suppose, and they leave. Everybody who comes here wants to stay, but they never can. Wildcard wants them to be here for a time, but he doesn’t want them stay. He just wants to hold them for a moment.”
“They’re all in so much pain,” Hazel said, “just like you.”
“But if you go,” the old man said, “you can never return.”
Karl spent a few months with Hazel and the old man, and fell in love with them in a hundred ways. They were so simple and the grandparents he never had. She loved to cook and feed people and spent hours in her garden.
He made friends with CJ, the great white half-wolf dog who showed him the secret places of Wildcard’s heart. A pond with a tiny, cheerful waterfall was his favorite. Trees of every different sort speckled the land around and he could lie in the sun or the shade and still talk to his imagined friend, a water something. Fairy? No, too corny. Nymph? No, it was a male. When Karl joked about it, the old man told him in serious tones that it was a naga, and it was really there, to the bold eye. He had sensed it, too, but never seen it. Karl imagined the naga looked like Poseidon, with a crown, a trident, and a golden shirt. He talked to Karl between dives into the pond. Karl told him how much he missed Martha. He wrote a poem to the naga called waterfall. Hazel and the old man loved it; she even dropped a few tears, embarrassing Karl.
Karl felt sad for CJ. Nothing smelled. A dog should be able to smell things; every dog Karl had met loved to. CJ showed him other places, a magnificent, rocky cliff-top a few kilometers behind the u-shaped hills surrounding the old couple’s house. It overlooked an endless rolling forest studded with green meadows and with a wide slow-moving river cutting through. He went on a several day hike with CJ so that he could swim in the river.
The center went on forever. It was huge nature, scattered with trails in high mountains, natural springs with water that revitalized, canyons, and soft rolling hills that made Karl nostalgic for the sweet farm lands of France. The center possessed an encyclopedic representation of plant and animal species. Karl had a vague interest in biology, having studied a bit. The ecological pool was as diverse as Earth, and had a perfect balance matched by a glorious abundance. The resources must have been staggering. He asked Hazel about it once when they were gardening. She taught him wonderful tips. She was a gardening genius.
“I don’t believe it works in such manner.” He adored her well-educated English accent. “I fancy they were less created so much as merely understood to be. They simply are. Be a dear and hand me that claw digger, Karl.” She resumed turning earth; they were planting lima beans. She liked to pack things into her garden, said it manifested the innate richness of the center. Her garden ranged over twenty-five or so rows, each brimming with cherry tomatoes, broccoli, lettuce, kale, and nearly a hundred other plants, including herbs and spices.
She stopped digging, and looked at him. “It’s an absolute delight to have you about. We’ve had others, but you’re the first real human.”
Karl pulled a mint leaf and tore the edge off with his teeth. The texture worked, but it tasted acrid. He felt terribly sad, and moved. Hazel was so devoted, so faithful to a life that lacked the essential elements she needed as the woman she was. All her love created sustenance without taste or smell.
“How do you do it?”
She touched a finger to her lips and looked puzzled.
“How do you… keep going? Gardening, cooking, when it never works?”
“What else can one do?” She tried to stand and had a hard time because of her old body. Karl helped. She dusted her pants and gloves. “Who’s to say it doesn’t work, anyway? The reward is the doing, Karl, not the result. Food without love fails to nourish no matter the taste. And an old, stale loaf of bread shared with a solid friend is about as good as it gets. Speaking of which, I’d better begin dinner. The old man will be hungry after a day of fishing.”
The old man was back and he sat with Karl in the living room while Hazel cooked. He had brought some trout from his fishing trip, and they were already filleted and waiting for the pan. The two men read from wildsong. They had many other books on the shelves, but their favorite pastime was reading wildsong.
“Hey, a new poem.” He gave Karl a surprised glance. “It’s for you, I think.”
“What’s it called?”
“The Stilleto Heel.” The old man passed Karl the book. “You read it.” He sat down in his easy chair and took a bite of apple cobbler and whipped cream Hazel delivered. He turned his head towards the kitchen part of the large room. “This,” he held the cobbler up, and emphasized each word, “is perfect.” He turned back to Karl. “I figure I’m about the luckiest man in wildspace.”
Karl loved it too even though it had no taste. It made her happy and he needed to eat in any event. The old man waited with transparent joy for Karl to begin. He read.
the stiletto heel
only once may anyone enter the heart
thus shall it ever be
to our shared grief, innocent,
our center is not your home, it was not meant for you
though we suffer to see you part
if you do not part, all will remain unchanged
the Deeply Named cannot escape her torment
your presence here is stasis for all
but we will bear it if your happiness hangs upon it
it is your choice to abide at the heart
a promise to all who here arrive
i would like to share with you what i am
our broad and swept strokes,
fading forever across the universe we have found
we hate that we must burden you, innocent, with healing our wound
we offer our cosmic loneliness
which only you may witness and still belay the cold whisper of madness
how may i describe what it means to see all
understand nothing
what it means to see nothing
and strive to understand a single thing perfect
how can i describe what i cannot know myself
Wildcard and its actions are one
experience of Wildcard dissolves as it comes
what is seen can never be known
what is known cannot quite be seen
unsolvable riddles have no design to deceive or betray
they are the scenery of our lands
what authored wildspace, a question sincere
i do not know ourself
come, innocent, live in a land where naught can be known for sure
i am the Poet and no more Wildcard
than the poem you are reading is me
i am the stroke of Wildcard writ into being
i am ink splashed in accident upon his hand
perhaps i am the skin of the great father’s lips
or hair, or a nail
or one lifted word of the infinite void
and perhaps it matters not at all
something desires our joining
go now to the land of the two cubed spheres
then you must father yourself to create your special demise
whatever, however you may phrase it
find me, and be quick
The old man was quiet, and, after, they ate a silent dinner. Nobody wanted to say what he knew, but wasn’t ready to admit to himself. During the meal, he locked eyes to the old man, who returned the contact in his wise way, saying without words that Karl needed to find his own understanding.
He took a few days, hiked an overnighter with CJ, roaming aimlessly. He found he could go where he wished, get as lost as he wanted, and when it came time, CJ would take him straight home. He wandered among all the animals, deer, skunk, and badger, watched the fish in the rivers. Glorious eagles and hawks pinwheeled between puffs of cloud. Karl was drunk on blissful heartache.
Everything was like on Earth, only more so. Visually, and in terms of hearing, it was, but not feeling, not smelling, not taste. They were wrong, too simple, plastic, or jarring in the wrong place. That wouldn’t change while he stayed. It hurt to think of Hazel, who wanted so much for her cooking to taste right. And he could see that it would be amazing. She really knew how to cook.
Karl had to leave.
The nameless woman was dreaming another who never needed sleep. The Benefactor, who appeared, to hold her, to tell her to stay hidden in the dark place. There was fear behind the Benefactor, darkness, and only the Benefactor could protect her, save her from the awfulness. If she moved it would be far worse.
She was trapped. Or not trapped, exactly. Lost, she wandered in a fog of clarifying bewilderment and hazy images. Dream scenarios warply reflected the waking days. She now realized she was dreaming. She slept at times and forgot, then awoke and was aware that her experience was a dream. She saw herself speaking angrily to Dartagnan, menacing, threatening. He took her seriously. He handed her a piece of paper, saying, ‘Go over when the time comes, not before.’
She dreamed of constant risk, deep ravines falling below, narrow-walled canyons with jagged, razor stones tearing at her skin. A fall below her with no end and a tightrope to cross, extending into blackness. If she fell, she would be gone forever.
Mostly, she just shivered naked in a prison cell, raw meat in a closet of cold cement, terrified to go outside. The cell had no door. She dreamed of drowning, trapped in a blackened room on a boat, the water rising to her chest, then neck, then she had a tiny bubble of air in a corner. She died many times in dark places.
She dreamed of a man with pale black skin and freckles and a long, thin, bony face. Comical orange hair like a brick on his head in the style of some urban blacks. He played basketball with Karl, Karl! They were on the same team.
She was cheering, shouting herself hoarse, wanting them to win. They lost, and the Mechanic, in Seeker’s body, took Karl away in handcuffs. She saw him dragged into an alley, a movie shadow on the wall of a nightstick raised and brought swiftly down, over and again.
She was frantic, trying to get to the alley, but she could find no way around the fence. It appeared to have an end, but then kept going. The other way, the same. She found a gate, screamed, “I am coming,” to the son she loved whose name she had already forgot. She could not remember the name of the son she needed to save.
The gate let into a fence maze, through which she saw the nightstick rising and falling as she found one dead end after another. She screamed for help, for herself and her friend. Shadows walked by outside the fence, oblivious. No one heard; no one came.
Karl spent another month, hiking with CJ, fly-fishing with the old man, gardening with Hazel. He told stories of the real world, which seemed so unreal. They read wildsong. He almost tasted the food, sometimes. It was so close. Hazel encouraged him. “Try to taste it. If you can, then perhaps…”
He tried, but it was no use.
“It’s all right, dear heart,” she said, “’tisn’t your task.” She stood beside him, and pulled his head against her chest, kissed his hair. “I’m just so pleased that you try.”
He tried every meal, Hazel watching him but pretending not to. He wanted to and failed, but when he saw her unwavering diligence in the garden, the endless joyous sadness with which she toiled in the kitchen, he always tried again. Knowing he would fail, he never gave up.
The old man seemed to take a quiet pride in this. Hazel found in his efforts a grandmother’s happiness. He hoped it eased the long-standing ache of their unbegun loss of those three senses. With the effort of trying to make taste and smell a reality here, he beat down the anguish of knowing he had to leave. In spite of the sadness, he was excited. The Poet, whoever that was, waited for him.
He talked to the old man about it.
Who was the Poet? The voice of Wildcard. Why did he have to find the Poet? He couldn’t tell, didn’t know. Karl loved being there, didn’t want to leave. Did he have to? Only he could decide that. He knew he had to go, but why? Something would change, something needed to change. A door would open wider, more human would get through.
And Hazel’s food…
And Martha… He couldn’t bear that thought. He drove it away.
As long as he stayed, things wouldn’t change. Hazel’s cookies would never taste wonderful, as they should, would never smell delicious, as they were meant to.
The old man told him something he hadn’t wanted to say. Wildcard would wait, as long as Karl needed, but it would break his heart. He was meant to heal something, something dangerous. Wildcard was afraid of his own madness. Held at bay for too long, his insanity threatened all of wildspace, and possibly Earth.
Karl had never met anyone like Hazel or the old man. They were so simple and unconflicted, so plain, without the useless ornamentation of society. They were happy with what they had. He might grow a bit bored, but in the way one grows bored with grandparents. He wouldn’t stop loving them.
The old man had been around apparently for thousands of years of subjective time. He possessed an ancient wisdom, a letting go quality. If he cut his finger or lost a fishing fly or if one of his animal friends or a favored tree died, he took it with a sanguine attitude. He was glad they had lived, or it was wonderful to have known them. He hoped they were happy. When he cut his finger, he remarked in wonder at the redness of the blood, or wished he could feel pain better. Pain just had a rubbery and unpleasant quality, without particularities, like on Earth. It lacked sharpness.
The day came; Karl awoke and knew. He lay in the bed, built by the old man out of maple, with a comforter sewn by Hazel’s skilled hands. A dying art, that. The window was open and a lark landed on the sill, mocking him with all that he would soon leave and lose forever. The day was brilliant, begging for an endless meander with CJ, a striding out to nowhere. A hummingbird flew in, hovered a challenge above the bed, dared him to be a warrior. He sat up and it remained there, quivering in front of Karl, deciding if his face was a nectar filled flower. It disappeared out the window.
Downstairs, Hazel had a stout canvas pack already filled with tasteless goodies, enough food for weeks. She had sewn up an extra pair of pants and two shirts. Multiple pairs of socks were in the pack, as well. He hefted it. The weight was right, not too heavy, but filled with enough for travel.
During breakfast, the old man said he had a present for Karl. A young man couldn’t go adventuring without a Swiss Army knife, could he? He felt in his pocket, but it wasn’t there. “I must have lost it somewhere. But…” he shook his head, hiding his disappointment which rapidly grew worse. Karl had never seen the old man even mildly upset, and he fell into a frenzy of distress over the absent gift. He started to cry, then covered his face.
“It’s OK,” Karl said. “I would have loved it, but I don’t need it. I’ll be fine.”
“But…but…you were…” the old man looked around helplessly… “you were supposed to have it. I wanted you to have it, Karl. I wanted you to have it.” He repeated it softer and softer. He seemed to think something was terribly wrong. He walked into the bathroom and returned a few minutes later. He was pained, but controlled it with a wandering smile and a kiss on the cheek from Hazel.
She smothered Karl with hugs and worries, then kissed him on the cheek as well, and the two men set out to the stream with CJ. Maybe Karl should stay just one more day and they could find that damn knife. He wanted to, but it was a bad idea.
They didn’t say anything else until they got to the little bridge that led across and out forever. Karl didn’t want to leave. Maybe he should stay. The old man wanted him to have the knife so much. Just a few more days, a little more grandparents. The old man would be so happy if Karl had the knife.
Karl couldn’t do this again, though. If he turned back he wouldn’t leave, he would stay in that sacred place forever. And he wanted somebody to taste Hazel’s apple cobbler. He wanted the old man to smell her bread when he walked back from the stream with a fresh trout. And it would break the heart of Wildcard if he stayed. He had to heal the great father. And Martha…Martha would trapped inside the Benefactor’s darkness.
He hugged the old man for a long minute, said goodbye to CJ, and left.
The Jester gatekeeper appeared on the hill-top as Karl crossed the little bridge from the Center. He was balancing a long pole on his chin and hopping from foot to foot. He winked at Karl and kept going.
“I’m so happy you showed up. It’s been boring since you were here last, and pretty much forever before then. Let’s hang out.”
Karl stayed with him for a few days, learned to eat fire and juggle garden snakes. The jester taught him all sorts of fun stuff like flips, games, riddles, and silly kid’s jokes. They made faces at each other for over an hour, laughing. The Jester had magic ways of getting food, too, so that Karl didn’t need to dip into his precious Hazel supplies. That was good, he had a feeling he might need it soon. After three days it was time to leave.
“How do I get out of here?”
“The silver spire.” The Jester pointed. “Act without thinking.”
Karl found and climbed the spire, shouted “land of two cubed spheres” as he leapt. There was a moment of disorientation; he felt as if he was looking back as he fell forwards. He had a flash of being in outer space, surrounded by millions of stars, but he could breathe or didn’t need to. Then one of the stars turned deep blue, flew at him, and he was inside a pub. The crowd turned to look, then went back to their conversations and pool games. They were rough looking customers.
“Where am I?” Karl asked the bartender.
“Uncle Slimmy’s 8-ball drinking and beer playing emporium.”
Karl wrinkled his face.
“The 8-ball. You’re at the 8-ball. You just came in through the Portal.”
RJ! He would be here. This was his place, and Karl sensed him, somewhere, out there.
“How can I find somebody?”
“Look for ‘em.” The bartender picked up a drained beer mug and washed it, chuckling. “You want that Gambler fellow, if my guess is no mistake.”
“Yeah. Yeah, something like that.”
“We sent him off on a donkey a while back.” He clucked his tongue, thinking, then nodded. “Is your name Karl? Somebody left this for you.”
He handed Karl a doll with a pull string, and a pouch full of money. Karl pocketed the money after his initial surprise, then drew the string. The doll spoke in a recorded voice.
“Someone will contact you. To save his life, you must persuade him to put on the thing he fears. You will have 10 seconds. You cannot give reasons, but must convince him to act immediately.” The doll’s head blew open with a puffing noise and a trail of smoke.
“Uh, thanks, I guess.” He handed it back to the bartender who wouldn’t take it. Karl put it down on the bar. “What did that mean?”
“No idea.”
“Who gave it to you?”
“Oh, him. The swordsman. Nobody knows his name, but he’s been here a lot. He comes and goes through the Portal, and he’s the only one that does. Nobody else has ever left before.”
“He didn’t say anything else?”
“Not really. Well, maybe. Actually, he talks a lot.”
Karl waited. Finally, the bartender nodded. “Yessir, I remember now. When he handed it to me, he said, ‘everything is connected, and if you are no fool, this you understand.’ Something like that. He talked about some wound a lot.”
“The Wound? What did he say?”
“He said it’s what makes this place so… different. The wound is trying to get in. Stupid, really. He just seemed like a big wind-head. Talk, talk, talk, never shut up. Kind of an asshole, to say truth. Said it was at the end of the desert and if anybody wanted to find out anything important, go there, that the rest of old 8-ball world is just fluff and stuff. It was a crate of camel dung by my notion.” The bartender snorted and wiped his hands on his apron. “Ridiculous. ‘The wound wants in.’ Come on, then, I’ll point you to your friend. Though I do think you should keep better company.”
Karl followed him out the cowboy doors, into an old west town. Wisps of dust blew along the dirt street. There were wood sidewalks, sheriff’s, even a brothel. RJ’s kind of place. A few doors down, past a corral, the bartender pointed, out into the rocky, dry lands.
“He went that away, to the leftish, past the cabaret. They back horsed him.”
“Backhorsed?”
The bartender looked at him as if he were stupid.
“Yeah, brother. Put him on a horse backwards with a blindfold on and sent him off.”
“You said it was a donkey.”
“I did? Doesn’t matter, it’s still called what it’s called.”
“Great, then. How can I follow?”
The bartender walked back toward the saloon, signaled Karl to follow. They stopped at a building called Higgins Camelry.
“What’s Higgins Camelry?”
“Damn, you’re about as dumb as a post, aren’t you? It’s a camelry owned by Higgins.”
“What’s a camelry?” Karl didn’t like what he thought was about to hear.
“It’s a place to rent a camel.”
“Why not a horse?”
“You a dimwit or a suicide attempt? You need a camel. Nobody going to rent you a horse, anyway. Camels, Higgins’ll rent.”
Karl looked from bartender to camelry back to bartender.
“Well