The Dreamer

By Paul Brockman

In a depressed mill town, out-of-work history teacher Jonathan Strange has reached a low point in a life liberally pockmarked with low points.
On a planet many light-years distant, isolated bands of natives offer human sacrifices to their gods.
Deep in the galactic core ancient beings make a decision that will profoundly affect the future of humanity.
In the velvet darkness between the stars a nova-born lump of cosmic slag is on a collision course with a populated space station.
These are threads of a tapestry that bind Jonathan Strange to his destiny.
In the far past a patient and resourceful thinking machine, its purpose known only to its ancient makers, created a prophecy. Now that prophecy is about to be fulfilled in the person of Jonathan Strange. It will lead him from beggar to king; from the bleak winter of his despair to the golden summer of his eventual triumph—and slightly beyond

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul Brockman
• Release date: Jun 30, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476107509

Paul Brockman

Paul Brockman relocated from England to America in 1984. A retired aerospace engineer, he has written several novel-length stories, mostly in the science fiction and humorous fantasy genres, with an excursion into an autobiographical book about hot-air ballooning. These are currently available as ebooks. Brockman has relocated to Somerset, England

Book preview

Chapter One

The Dream

Chill rain slanted from a leaden sky to spatter on puddles that overflowed the cracks and pits of the pavement's neglected surface. Bitter wind gusted in the faces of the few hunched figures driven to venture abroad. With no enthusiasm for his errand, Jonathan Strange drew his chin down into his turned-up collar and leaned into the wind that shoved him first one way and then another to punish him for his failures. At the end of the familiar street lay the drab and depressing edifice that was his goal. The unemployment office stood back a little from the row of shuttered buildings that flanked it as if ashamed to be seen in the company of monolithic piles that had long since abandoned all pretense to grace, and stood now in honest hopelessness. The unemployment office offered at first the vestige of hope and then withdrew it as if to impress upon its supplicants that hope was not for them. You have nothing, it seemed to say. Aspire to nothing and be content for I have nothing to give you. Fighting with the blow that one moment supported and the next opposed him, Jonathan Strange trudged along the street as he had trudged along it countless times before, his expectations less as each day passed and each visit eroded and reduced his self-worth.

What can you do? they once had asked him. I am a teacher he replied―I teach history.

We have no need of history teachers here, they said. Can you work in the mills? Tend the machines? He shook his head. Well, come back another day, they told him. Maybe something will come up.

So he kept coming back. The answer was always the same. Eventually they gave up saying it. Why don't you leave, they suggested. Go somewhere else where they need people who do what you do. They were trying to be kind, he expected. Not helpful, but kind, in their way.

He could do what they suggested, of course. He could use up his meager funds and go to some other place, but have no shelter when he got there, nor money to pay for it. And what if there was no work for him at the other end of that one-way journey? What then?

Winter was coming. The weather held out the first faint foretaste of the brumal savagery to come. To be without shelter now was to know discomfort and distress. In a few weeks more it could mean nothing less than the final journey into night. It was already too late to gather his few remaining possessions and move south to some warmer place. His time was running out.

The daunting portal of the unemployment office stood before him, its doors shut tight against the buffeting wind. A dingy pane of glass, uncleaned for generations, leaked harsh and uninviting light above the double doors. Strange stood hesitating on the lower step. Almost he turned to retrace his footsteps and forego the disappointment of yet another wasted visit to this place of endless disappointments. The chill wind gusted, hurling rain against his back and sent it dribbling down the peeling paintwork of the doors to puddle in the urine reeking recesses of this scant shelter. The door swung open and a man shuffled out and hurrying away into the rain-soaked afternoon, his head pulled down between his shoulders, eyes fixed upon the ground before his shabby boots. The door stood ajar, swaying slightly in the wind. Shortly it would catch a gust and slam shut. The moment would be lost, Strange felt. It was now or never. Lurching forward he almost fell into the unwelcoming room beyond. The door slammed behind him. A clerk looked up in annoyance as her papers ruffled in the transient wind.

Oh, it's you, she grumbled. You're later today.

He glanced around the cavernous space, empty now save for himself, his eye taking in the drab, green-painted walls from which the severe unfiltered light of the overhead bulbs reflected. Wet footprints tracked across the polished linoleum floor, its years of grime sealed beneath a coating of paraffin wax. Curling yellowed posters adorned the single cork notice board above a bench-seat, before which stood a squat table covered with dog-eared magazines with pages ripped away. A wooden counter bisected the room. From the countertop a partition extruded upward, higher than a tall man's reach with, at intervals along its length, windows equally spaced. All the windows but one were closed, the shutters displaying notices announcing with unconscious irony that no help would be forthcoming here. Strange glanced briefly at the open window. The mousy-haired clerk stared back at him, more in irritation than interest.

I don't suppose― he began, letting the thought trail away into expectant silence. She knew full-well why he had come. There was nothing more to say. He already knew the answer. It would be, of course, the same as all the other answers on all the other days. The clerk shuffled papers. The silence lengthened. He sighed and turned back toward the door.

Just a moment, the clerk's voice betrayed impatience, "there may be something here."

He turned again but stood his ground. They liked to play this game. To tease and hold out the slenderest suspicion of hope. To see the light in the eyes of the ones who came before them die as the paper they shuffled and teased to the top of the pile turned out to be not what they had implied. Completely unsuitable, in fact.

The clerk peered myopically at a paper, adjusting her spectacles and turning it as if to catch a better light. It was part of the game. She peered at Strange over the rims of the glasses. Her expression softened just a little. "Yes, this may suit, she said, implying that it may not. Do come over here will you, I'm not going to shout across the room." He shuffled forward, his coat leaving a trail of rainwater drips across the floor, until he stood before the open window.

Here, fill this out. She offered a blank form from a stack. Section A, section B, and section D must be completed entirely. Section C is for official use only. Do NOT write in section C. Sign and initial where indicated. She did not offer him a pen. Come back as soon as you're done. The window closed and a latch snapped into place.

Strange moved sideways to another window where a steel-nibbed wooden pen was tethered to the sill by a chain. An inkwell stood beside the pen. He started at the top of the form and tried to write his name. The pen scratched over the cheap paper but left no trail. He looked about for paper on which to test the pen and induce the ink to flow. Seeing nothing, he practiced on his palm. The blue-black ink ran along the nib's crevice and blobbed on his hand. With his handkerchief he scrubbed at the ink. It did not come off, but smeared on his pale skin. With a sigh he gave up the attempt and returned to the form. Completing section A with the information he had provided to this very office weeks ago, on the same form, he turned to sections B and D, which repeated the demands of section A, but for different purposes, apparently. In the box marked Occupation he wrote teacher, and wondered why he felt guilty for doing so. With the task completed, he returned to the first window, without pausing to wonder what difference it would make, since all the windows were connected to the same room on the other side of the partition. He tapped gently on the wooden divider and waited. After several minutes he tapped again, but harder. The window was immediately snatched aside.

That was unnecessary, the mousy clerk admonished. She snatched the completed form from his hand and glared at the page. Examining the sheet she tut-tutted over it. "You should try to write more legibly, you know, for those of us who have to read these forms." Taking a pen from a drawer beneath the counter, she dipped it into her personal inkwell and marked the form to her satisfaction. Separating the lower section of the page with exacting care, as if it were some arcane ritual, she fussily attached another form to it with a paperclip. She handed the result to Strange.

You must report to this address at nine-sharp tomorrow, she intoned. "And do try not to be late. She returned to the serious business of separating the remaining sections of the form from each other. Seeing him still standing there, she reached to close the window. Go on, go on," she said, waving him away with an imperious flick of her wrist. Strange thanked the closed window and moved to the door, carefully folding the papers and slipping them into the inner pocket of his coat, which now also sheltered the tiny flame of hope.

The door to his cheerless one-room flat creaked open. Reaching into the shadowy recess he turned on the light switch and stepped into the room he called home. The bare light bulb, hanging from the electric flex that dangled from the ceiling, flared into life and, with a loud pop, plunged the room into gloom again. Strange groaned. That was his last light bulb. Groping in the dim light provided by the single small window, he tugged on the drawer of his bedside table. The drawer moved out half-way and then jammed. He thumped it until it became free and then eased it open, taking care not to pull it too far lest it fall on the floor as it usually did. He found a stub of candle and a box of matches. By the light of the candle he withdrew the papers from his pocket with shaking hands, and held them up to the fluttering glow. The paper clipped to his application form was a copy of a letter. He recognized the school name on the letterhead as an academy of some renown, dedicated to the preparation of boys and young men of the aristocracy for careers in government service. The academy was many miles away. It would take him a long time just to get there, and it would take a large portion of his diminished funds to accomplish. But if he could only secure the position! His troubles would be over. This was just the sort of opportunity he had been waiting for. He could not afford to fail.

He took some bread from a box and set about preparing a cold and frugal meal. He would need to be on the road very early in the morning to reach the academy by the appointed hour. He would prepare himself and his one remaining suit for the interview that meant so much.

* * *

Sleep would not come. The harder he tried to relax, the more his mind turned in a restless gyre of answers to unasked questions and questions for which he had no answers. He needed to sleep. His performance tomorrow would depend upon it. The hours remaining until morning were becoming few. Strange forced himself to lie still and to breathe slowly and deeply. He had used the same technique before to good effect, but it was not helping now. Everything he could think of to do in preparation had been done. There was nothing left to do but sleep and be refreshed, but he just could not make it happen. Pushing back his blanket, he rose and padded the few steps across the room to the free-standing wooden box that served as his wardrobe. Reaching within, he withdrew his most prized possession―a half-bottle of cheap whisky. He had been saving it for―he knew not what, but it would be pressed into service now. His cup was in the sink where he had left it hours ago. He rinsed it briefly and wiped it on a towel. Decanting a generous measure into the cup he swallowed the fiery liquid gratefully. When it was gone, he returned to bed and snuffed out his candle. The smell of burned candle wick wafted around the enclosed space. Strange ignored it and began to breathe deeply again, counting slowly all the while. After a time he lost count.

* * *

There were sounds that could have been voices. They whispered and murmured and waxed, then faded away like the boom and hiss of the surf on a pebble beach. And then, for a while, there was only sleep.

He floated effortlessly along the golden corridor, its walls at once comforting and protective yet unattainably remote. Though he willed himself forward and the walls fell behind, the glittering motes that danced across its face remained watchfully with him. Behind, though he did not look, lay only shadow, he knew, for he had passed this way before. He was not afraid. It was the Dream, warm and safe as it had ever been, and he fell into it as into the arms of a familiar love. Ahead something called to him, though he heard no voice. An icon of perfection awaited him, if the dream should last. The golden bell would signal an end to the dream and he would awaken, illogically moved to tears as he had been since childhood, by the merest glimpse of the wondrous artifact.

The dream changed, in the way of dreams, to become a woodland clearing. At its center stood a pale tower with, near its base, a single opening with orphic symbols inscribed on its stone arch. The top of the tower was lost in mist. Moving through the opening he ascended a stone stairway, though he did not touch the steps. He floated onward toward the mist-shrouded reaches of the upper tower. He looked up, his dream-vision following the curve of the spiral as it wound toward the top of the staircase. The climb seemed to go on and on, taking longer than it had ever done. His delight at the return of the dream tempered now by a sudden feeling of unease. There was something different now but its nature eluded him. At last there was nothing but the small room, round and bare, save for the golden bell. Come, reach out―touch me. Touch me. The dream should have ended but it did not. He reached out, hesitantly, unwillingly, drawn by the bell's command. Delight and terror mingled as he lightly brushed the golden surface with his fingertips. At once a single note pealed deafeningly from the metal, pure and commanding. Strange clutched his head, ecstasy and pain commingling, overwhelming his senses. The bell wavered as if seen through the wind-blown surface of a pool. The sound, powerful beyond endurance, hammered in his mind and beat him down into blackness.

Chapter Two

The Tower

Panic startled him to wakefulness. Even before the gummy grit under his eyelids let him focus and peer at his cheap alarm clock he knew he was already too late. Daylight penetrated his closed eyelids and brought with it the dreadful realization that he had missed his job interview. There was no way he could have reached the academy in time unless his journey was begun in darkness. Forcing his eyes open he reached out his hand to the accustomed place where his alarm clock stood, but his fingers met only a dry and dusty roughness. Even as his vision came finally into focus, Jonathan Strange knew that something else was wrong. The clock was not on the nightstand beside his bed. There was no nightstand and there was no bed. The rocky floor on which he lay was patched with bird droppings, old and new. He rose painfully to his knees and shook his head, immediately wishing he had not. When the pain subsided he looked fearfully at his surroundings. The floor of the room was circular and perhaps twenty feet across. The wall which bounded it rose to a ceiling of rough-hewn wooden beams supporting transverse planking. Soft and even light entered the room from small glassless apertures set at regular intervals high in the wall. In the floor behind him a small opening led to a narrow staircase. The sole remaining feature of the room was a golden bell, mounted on a solid-looking metal bar set into a pair of adjacent ceiling beams. Strange rose shakily to his feet and backed away from the bell in consternation. The realness of it terrified him. In his earlier dreams the bell had been a thing of surpassing beauty and wonder. A thing to be sought after, desired, touched. The object now before him, stark and real, seemed, for all its gleaming perfection, dire and strong with purpose. He backed away until his shoulders pressed against the rough stone wall, his eyes darting left and right seeking menace; finding nothing but the monotony of the room.

The slight but omnipresent soughing of the wind at last impressed itself upon him. He glanced up at the windows. Turning, he found he could grasp the lip of the nearest opening and pull himself up to peer over the sill. The effort proved fruitless. Fog obscured his view completely. He slipped down the wall and sat with his back against it, gathering his knees to his chest and whimpering in frustration. His hands were smeared with bird droppings from the window ledge. Reflexively, he wiped his hands down the legs of his pyjamas to clean off the sticky mess. The ineffective effort served only to spread the malodorous slime.

Nothing was heard in the room for the longest time, save for the sound of the wind and the muted sobbing of the man against the wall. No birds fluttered to the window ledges. No movement disturbed the brooding self-pity of its occupant. When at last he raised his head Jonathan Strange had come to a conclusion. The dream had waited a lifetime for him. It had hidden in a small and seldom visited corner of his mind, emerging rarely to seduce and tantalize him; baiting the trap. And now the trap was sprung. He was caught. Sealed into a place and purpose of which he had not the slightest notion. That the dream had captured him for a purpose he was certain. Such craft and single-mindedness, spread over a lifetime, were not the random acts of fortune's dice, but rather the product of planning and vision such as a single human mind is seldom capable. Of this Jonathan Strange was sure. He was not a stupid man. But he was now a very frightened one.

So afraid was he that he could scarcely bring himself to move from the small room. He knew he must leave it eventually. As a child must leave the womb to be born, so Jonathan Strange must make his exit to discover where the purpose of the dream would take him. That he was completely insane was a possibility he had considered and dismissed. Had he been insane from the moment he first fell into the dream, embracing it with such avid lust? Had he lived a lifetime of mediocrity, punctuated by brief moments of insanity, or had the insanity lurked in the shadows of his mind, guiding every conscious thought and act? He believed none of this but of one thing he was certain―he must soon leave this room. There was no sustenance here; no nourishment for his body or his mind. The bell which hitherto had compelled and attracted him was now a source of repulsion and dread. He could no longer look at it without experiencing the need to turn and flee. The feeling grew stronger as the minutes passed. Whimpering in fright he slipped sideways along the wall until he came to the hole in the floor. With a final fear-stricken glance in the direction of the bell, he set foot on the stairway that would lead him from the room.

A very narrow staircase led downward. It spiraled around the tower. Strange knew it well, though he had only followed it up the tower, never down, and on his previous visits he had floated gently, touching nothing. Now the rough stone felt cold against his bare feet. He shivered in the wind that blew constantly down the narrow passage, rippling his pyjamas and reminding him he was ill prepared for whatever awaited him at the tower's base.

The stairway emerged onto a narrow platform. So sudden was the transition that he almost stepped over the edge to a precipitous drop. Several things changed at once. The platform was on the outside of the tower. It curved away around the bulge of the building in both directions. There was no fog here, and he could see a green landscape laid out before him for miles. Above his head the tower disappeared into mist. Below the chill mist, the air was warm and humid. There was no guardrail to stop him stepping off the edge of the platform into the vertiginous fall. Shaking with fear he inched his way around the tower. His legs felt like rubber. His grubby palms were slick with sweat, and his mouth was dry. The cheap whisky hangover had not yet run its course. But even in his present condition, reason drove him. Since there was no way down from the stair behind him, and since a way down must exist―his dream told him so―then this platform must lead him to it. The dream had captured him for a reason, and that reason would not be served by trapping him in this tower to die. Bizarre though the dream may be, it must follow some pattern that had a more apposite end than his own summary extinction.

Minutes passed as he inched his way around the platform. The opening from which he had emerged was now lost from sight around the curve of the building. Nothing remained in his world except for the harsh stone at his back, the narrow strip of platform beneath his feet, and the wind. There were no handholds. Rough though the stone was, it did not provide a grip to his questing fingers. The wind terrified him. It whipped and fluttered his thin pyjamas, threatening to topple his balance and pitch him over the edge. Holding panic at bay by constant effort he drew deep breaths and moved slowly onward with the realization that to give way to the feeling that screamed and gibbered behind the precarious grip of his self control would inevitably bring about the very end that he most feared.

A lifetime later the dark contour of an opening appeared in the wall ahead. Whether it was the same opening he had left behind, or another, he could not tell. Now that he could see his goal he shuffled forward a little faster. In his haste to reach the entrance he stumbled and fell to his knees, leaning outward from the wall and waving his arms frantically for balance. One hand caught the rim of the opening and his grip tightened. Heaving his not inconsiderable bulk through the entrance he fell against an interior wall. His shoulder became the focus of pain that made him gasp. Panting, he looked around the small space. Apart from the aperture through which he had entered, the only other feature was a ramp leading down into gloom. Gratefully he started downward, clutching his bruised shoulder all the while.

The ramp was comfortably wide. This much he could see by the light that entered from the small opening behind him. The slope was steep but not so steep as to give him trouble on his descent as long as he moved slowly. It hugged the outer wall of the tower and spiraled downward into the thickening dark. Peering over the edge, Strange saw a faint glimmer of light far below. Retreating to the outside of the ramp he made his careful descent, running his hand along the wall and trusting that no pitfall would swallow him and plunge him to his death. Had he been able to see his progress he would doubtless have been dizzied by the constant spiraling, but since he was walking in darkness he was spared this result.

He knew the bottom of the ramp was near when he began to notice the texture of the walls by the daylight from below that became stronger with every step he took. At last the exit was before him. It was larger than he expected, being suitable for several people to walk in at once. Cautiously, he stepped out, blinking, into the daylight and the humid and unexpected stillness of the forest clearing. Short-cropped grass surrounded the tower and extended unmarked by shrub or weed to a boundary of close-ranked trees, perhaps a hundred paces distant. Jonathan Strange looked around fearfully. This landscape was alien. True, the grass was like any other grass he had ever seen, and the trees could have populated any landscape he had ever visited, but there was an alienness here that he could not identify. Country born and city raised, he was no stranger to either, but in this place he was at a disadvantage. There was much unknown here that he needed to know in order to survive.

There was birdsong. The trees were alive with birds, though he saw few. Their avian chatter incessant. There were other sounds that may have been birds, or something else. A shrill scream rent the air. Strange reacted badly. As he whirled around wide-eyed and cast about for the source of the fearsome noise he became aware of the watcher. The man was short and slightly built, with a thin face and hooked nose. He wore a black eye patch over his left eye. Dark hair was gathered in a pony-tail that ended between his shoulder blades. His leather jerkin and knee-length pants were decorated with a stitchery of loops and whorls. Sandals provided minimal protection for his feet. Seeing Strange turn and look at him, the fellow stepped hesitantly forward, stopping a few paces away and bowing in a curious jerking fashion. Words issued from his mouth but Strange could not make out their meaning. He shook his head.

I don't understand, he said. The fellow's eye widened in surprise. He looked up at the tower and then at Strange. He gesticulated upward and mouthed a string of meaningless sounds. Strange merely shrugged. Disappointment, fright, and frustration were taking their toll of him and he was becoming weary. For lack of any better idea, he knelt on the grass and sat on his heels. Without hesitation the strange fellow mimicked him and entered into a long monologue to which Strange was not able to respond for lack of understanding. How long this interview would have lasted will never be known because it was cut rudely short by the appearance of a score of savage-looking men who burst from the trees and surrounded the pair.

The newcomers were large and muscular specimens. This was readily apparent because, for the most part, they wore only loincloths and scabbards for an assortment of edged weapons. Some carried heavy, metal-tipped spears that they brandished with a familiarity borne of long experience. The apparent leader of the group, a sour-faced individual with a prominent scar running from ear to chin, strutted up to Strange and addressed him in the unidentifiable language he had heard from One-Eye. Strange climbed to his feet but before he could begin to reply that he didn't understand a word that was being said to him, One-Eye stood up and jabbered at Scar, who eyed him contemptuously and, applying a hand to One-Eye's chest, administered a shove that sent the small man sprawling. Far from intimidating One-Eye, it had the opposite effect. Scar found himself on the receiving end of a tirade that would have tried the patience of a powerless milquetoast, much less the leader of a well armed band. One-Eye gesticulated at Scar, pointing repeatedly at the white tower and then at Strange. Scar's eyes widened at one point in the harangue. He regarded Strange with a searching stare, and his features took on a crafty expression. As One-Eye continued to remonstrate with him he shifted his grip on his heavy spear and prodded Strange on the thigh with the sharp point. Strange squealed and stared in horror at the blood that was slowly soaking the leg of his pyjamas. Apparently satisfied that he had proved a point, Scar gestured curtly at his companions, two of whom rushed forward and grasped Strange by the arms. In short order he found himself hanging by his bound hands and feet from a spear suspended between the shoulders of two brawny warriors. One-Eye was similarly treated but, though his philippic continued unabated, he was ignored. The warriors set off in single file into the forest, the two captives dangling uncomfortably in the middle of the procession.

Chapter three

Rasto

The forest closed around the band. Jonathan Strange was no stranger to humiliation. Physical pain, however, was quite another matter. It was an experience he had thus far managed to avoid by dint of self-confessed cowardice and the cooperation of Fate. That he was currently suffering both in generous measure was, he considered, one of the lowest points of a life liberally pockmarked with low points. The pole from which he hung swayed and bounced as his captors negotiated the uneven trail. His hands and feet hurt. Even more painful was the cut in his leg administered by the spear's sharp edge. Sunlight filtered through the leafy canopy, sometimes shining into his eyes, and sometimes not. Light―dark, light―dark, until he was dizzy with the changes and the motion. He thought he might vomit but hoped sincerely that he would not. To do so with his head hanging backwards as he hung like a game animal would be the ultimate indignity, which he was determined to avoid. He closed his eyes and concentrated on not vomiting. If nothing else, it took his mind off the pain.

It took almost to an hour to get where they were going. An eternity to those hanging beneath the poles. There was little banter between the members of the band, perhaps because the narrowness of the way made conversation difficult, or perhaps because it was not their habit. Even One-Eye's tirade had long since wound down by the time they arrived at their destination. Possibly a smack to the side of the head with the flat of a sword had influenced One-Eye's decision to desist.

The band entered a village of about a hundred huts, mostly small, though some looked capable of accommodating large groups of people. The party marched directly to a large hut in the center of the village and unceremoniously dumped their burdens on the ground in front of it. Scar yelled something unintelligible and waited. The other members of the band laid down their spears and sat or squatted in the dust. They were not kept waiting long. A white-haired man emerged from the hut, followed by two young women whose attitude implied that, while they did not know what was about to happen, they hoped it might provide some entertainment.

Scar nodded in the direction of the captives and provided the white-haired elder with a summary of his encounter at the tower. Strange presumed that this was so as he studied Scar's apparent superior from a worm's eye perspective. White-Hair eyed the captives without enthusiasm. His interests apparently lay in another direction. He glanced often at the two females while he listened to the report, which ran to some length, and seemed to include considerable detail about One-Eye. Scar seemed to be stressing his indignation at One-Eye's conduct. He placed himself close to the object of his ire and poked him none too gently from time to time with his sandaled toe. White Hair's patience reached its limit before Scar had completed his report, or litany of complaints. With a gesture and a sharp command, White-Hair dismissed the group. He turned and moved swiftly into the entrance to his hut, the two pouting females following in his wake.

Scar seemed less than pleased with the result of the interview. He became angrier by the moment. With much snapping of fingers and pointing, he indicated to his crew that the captives should be moved elsewhere. The men jumped to obey. Not bothering to use their spears they lifted Strange and One-Eye and carried them to a solid-looking hut on the outskirts of the village. Here the pair were hurled into a bare and odiferous cell. Their captors departed, slamming a heavy wooden door behind them.

Strange struggled to sit up. Having achieved that feat he found himself in the middle of a dry packed-earth floor unable to decide what, if anything, to do next. One-Eye suffered from no such constraint. Stretching out on the floor he rolled his way to Strange and attacked the ropes that bound his reluctant companion with his teeth. Seeing that a source of extreme discomfort was likely to be removed, Strange presented his bonds in such a way as to aid the fellow's efforts. After a few minutes' single-minded endeavor, One-Eye managed to free Strange's hands. Massaging his wrists, Strange turned his attention to his companion's restraints, freeing the fellow's hands and leaving him to take care of his own ankle rope. With his bonds removed, Strange gingerly probed his thigh. The bleeding had long since stopped but the wound was starting to throb. Unused to such trauma, Strange was unsure what to do for the best. He used his fingers to feel the extent of the damage.

Ouch! he exclaimed.

One-Eye looked sympathetic. Ouch, he replied, thus proving that they had at least one word in common. Pointing at his one good eye he gestured toward Strange's injury and raised his eyebrow inquiringly. At Strange's nod the small man took hold of his fellow prisoner's pyjama leg and tore the fabric sufficiently to lay bare the wound. Hardly daring to look, Strange peered at the opening. Although the area was stained with dried blood, the wound did not look as bad as it felt. One-Eye made a rotary motion with his hand above the wound and said something unintelligible. He waved to indicate their surroundings and shrugged helplessly. Strange got the general idea. One-Eye repeated the word, which Strange took to mean clean or perhaps wash. He repeated it back to One-Eye, who seemed inordinately pleased, pointing to himself and saying, "Rasto. Strange got the idea. This was to be a language lesson. He pointed to himself and said, Jonathan Strange". Rasto tilted his head to one side, his sharp-featured face expressing confusion.

"Jonathanstrange?" With words and gestures Strange attempted to resolve the confusion. Their impromptu language lesson was interrupted by the sound of approaching feet. Rasto snatched up the ropes from where they had fallen and, stuffing them beneath his vest, put his hands out of sight behind his back, his glance urging Strange to do likewise..

With the noise of a heavy bar being lifted, the door swung open. A burly guard peered within. Apparently satisfied, he gestured to someone behind him. A gray-haired woman entered the room bearing a bowl of food which she dumped unceremoniously on the floor between them and turned to leave. Rasto stopped her with a volley of words. He pointed his chin in Strange's direction. The word for clean featured more than once. The woman looked at the spear wound without interest, shrugged, and shuffled out. The door slammed shut behind her. Rasto withdrew the ropes from their hiding place and regarded them thoughtfully.

Strange rose to his feet and moved around the room, as much to restore his circulation as anything else, but while he was about it he took the opportunity to examine his surroundings. There was a small, barred window above head height. On the side opposite the barred door was an opening, which he examined. It led into a small and windowless alcove which by the smell of it Strange took to be a toilet. By the scant light that penetrated into the recess he was able to see that it was nothing more than a hole in the floor, covered by a wooden trap. There were no other outlets from the room.

Turning his back on the noisome alcove Strange returned to sit in the center of the room and reached for the food bowl. The sight of it reminded him that he was very hungry. Having no idea what form of food awaited them in the bowl, he resolved to investigate. His hand had almost closed over the rim of the bowl when his wrist was grabbed and moved firmly away from the food. Rasto held up a cautioning hand and, releasing Strange's wrist, took the bowl and carried it to the smelly alcove and emptied it into the hole. He returned with the empty bowl and the wooden cover of the toilet hole. He examined the cover, which was a solid piece of wood about two hand-spans wide. Apparently satisfied, he placed the cover on the ground and sat on it, setting the empty food bowl on