Neverwood: The World Writer Chronicles

By M. A. Capley

Brandon Porter got more than he bargained for when his mentor, Professor Bachman, left the Neverwood book in his care. Within its pages lies an adventure beyond Brandon's imagination, and a horror beyond his most dreadful night terrors. Too bad he's a complete and utter coward. A tongue-in-cheek fantasy/comedy in the tradition of Piers Anthony, Douglas Adams, and Terry Pratchett.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 6, 2011
• ISBN: 9781257422791

Book preview

Wood

Chapter 1

The following week was nothing short of a nightmare. Bachman’s estate was locked up in probate due to a supposed distant relative laying claim as next of kin. This served only to further aggravate me, knowing the man had not been in contact with any kin, distant or otherwise, since I’d known him. In fact, he seemed to hold any trace element of being linked by blood to anyone, living or dead, in the deepest of contempt. The only photos on display in his home were of himself. He’d never married, nor hinted at ever having been in a relationship. He’d never even owned any pets. It was a solitary, lonely existence. When I went to visit his home, accompanied by his lawyer, the place was a testament to the hermit’s lifestyle. His study appeared to have been unvisited for weeks. In his living room, a folding tray was sitting in front of his smoking chair, the television tuned to Nick at Nite, of all things. And yet his blood hadn’t had time to congeal before some quack showed up trying to sink her claws into his money.

Her name (according to Bachman’s lawyer) was Stephanie Sonnet, and she’d apparently made it her life’s mission to know mine. She was at the funeral, leering at me from across Bachman’s casket as though I were Victor Frankenstein marking a collection spot for potential raw materials. She wore a black dress with navy blue heels, her eyes hidden beneath a pair of rose-rimmed Ray Bans. Her brown, lifeless hair was tied back in a bun, giving her the appearance of a turn-of-the-century school teacher. She had a wad of tissue in her hand, which she used throughout the funeral to make an act of wiping non-existent tears from beneath her ridiculous sunglasses.

The priest conducting the service completed his closing remarks and thanked everyone who’d bothered to show up, and my deceased mentor was lowered into the ground. I immediately turned and made a bee line for my car, but was stopped by Ms. Sonnet’s nasally Irish brogue. Mr. Porter, she called as she came up alongside me, peering at me over the top of her glasses. I apologize for not meeting with you earlier. I’m Stephanie Sonnet.

Yes yes, I know, I said, and noticed that my car was still a good fifty yards away. I increased my pace, wanting to spend no more time in the woman’s disturbing company than I had to. I was not surprised when she matched my stride, her nauseatingly cheap perfume wafting into my nostrils like a London fog.

Then sir, you must know why I need to speak to you.

I stopped and turned to her, the blood rushing to my face. Look Miss, they haven’t even covered Frederick with dirt yet. I’ve had a very exasperating week, and I’m in no mood to listen to you pining for his money. I’m sure that, being of obvious inbred Irish descent, you have numerous mob debts to pay off, not to mention bar tabs, but in the end, it was his decision, and so it is up to his lawyers, not me. So if you’d please just—

Mr. Porter, if you follow this course, you won’t see a penny of Bachman’s money, that I can assure you. But that’s not why I’m here. His assets are of no real concern to us.

Us? I asked. Just who is ‘us’?

Don’t get off the subject. You have something we want. And we’re willing to end this whole little probate mess if you’ll simply give it us.

I took a step back and gave her what I hoped was a stern look. I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.

She removed her glasses and stuck them in her left breast pocket. We understand that Bachman gave you a book just before he died. Is that correct?

Maybe, I said. What was up with this woman’s cloak and dagger routine? It disturbed me greatly that she could know such a thing, considering the fact that the doctors and nurses present at the professor’s death were too busy trying to revive his dead carcass (or picking themselves up off the floor) to notice the book. Add to that the fact that I hadn’t spoken of it to anyone, and that left me with the realization that there was no conceivable way she could possibly know that I had it in my possession. And yet she did. I might, or I might not. And supposing that I did, why would an old unfinished fantasy pulp novel written by a cranially defunct loony be of any interest to you and your, ah...who’d you say you worked for?

The identity of the group whom I represent is of no importance to you. All you need know is that we are fully aware that the book is in your possession, and we aim to have it. You can either give it to us and receive your inheritance unfettered, or we can take it from you and leave you with nothing.

Hogwash, I said, coining one of my father’s old phrases. I’m listed as the sole beneficiary, sister. It’s iron clad like Tony Stark, and there’s no way in hell you could ever—

Oh we can, Mr. Porter. And we will. Bachman’s medical records show he was quite senile at the time of his passing. It would take little effort to prove that you’d coerced him into naming you sole beneficiary by manipulating him in such a highly suggestible state.

It didn’t happen that way at all and you damn well know it, I said. There’s no court in the county that would buy such a load of bullshit. It’s all hearsay!

Believe what you will, but it won’t change things. We will have what we seek, whether you cooperate or not. You can either profit by it, or reap what you sow.

She produced a business card (from where I’m not sure, as she carried no purse) and stuck it in the breast pocket of my suit coat. A shudder of revulsion ran down my spine when her hand brushed against me.

You can reach us at that number. You have twenty-four hours to give us your decision. She turned and walked away.

I thought I just did! I yelled after her. She offered a simple wave in response, not turning to look back. I pulled the card from my pocket and examined it. It was blank, save for an eight hundred number printed in small red numerals.

As I approached my car, I started to cast it in the gutter, but thought better of it, and stuck it back in my pocket. Perhaps it could be of use as evidence in a potential harassment suit.

During the long drive home, I couldn’t erase Sonnet’s emotionless face from my mind. I ran the conversation over and over in my head, trying to make some sense of it. The more I thought of her, of her horrendous accent and veiled threats, the more a sense of foreboding began to creep into me, chilling my bones. What the hell had the old man gotten me involved in?

e9781257422791_i0003.jpg

I woke up the next morning feeling like I’d run a five mile marathon through ankle deep molasses. My back ached, my joints were stiff, and my sinuses were clogged. I crawled out of bed, and poured a hot bath as I took time to shave, staring forlornly at my reflection in the mirror.

A thin wisp of snow white hair had re-emerged from my otherwise jet black coif. I made a mental note to book a date at the salon and get that rectified. I finished shaving, then trimmed my goatee, which I’d grown years before to conceal the cavernous cleft in my chin.

That finished, I took a good long look at myself. I was still fit. Daily workouts at the gym had ensured that much. But I was definitely beginning to show my thirty-two years. Frown lines were appearing across my brow. the first signs of crow’s feet were beginning to form in the corners of my blue-gray eyes. And worst of all, a single black hair was protruding from my left ear like a curb guard on an old man’s car. I plucked it out with a pair of tweezers and stared at it.

So it had begun. Before too long, the skin beneath my jaw would morph into a bizarre, wagging turkey neck. My hair would turn completely white. My muscles would begin to waste away. There was no escaping it. One day soon, I was going to look in the mirror, and my father would be looking back at me.

I tossed the tweezers onto the counter and decided to have a shot of vodka to enjoy with my bath. I went back to the bedroom and threw on my robe. The message light on my answering machine was flashing. I hit the playback button, a woman’s voice happily informing me that I had one new message.

Brandon, this is Charles. You know, your agent? Scribner has crawled up my ass and made camp until I can get some word from you on your progress with the new book. I don’t know if this might motivate you to pick up the phone like a civilized person and call me, but I think I might’ve brown-tongued my way into renegotiating your contract—

I wasn’t motivated. I hit the stop and delete buttons simultaneously. It was all bullshit, naturally. Whenever I went more than a month without contacting Charles Ridley, he would leave a message, tempting me to call with tall tales of fabricated incentive meetings and contract negotiations. Reality was that I’d been locked into the same contract for the last three years, and saw no end to it any time soon. But I couldn’t complain, really. I found it surprisingly easy to live with being a millionaire before the age of forty.

Charles, on the other hand, was a different story entirely. A money-grubbing cash hound to the core, it appeared that nothing would ever be enough for the man. I made him enough money in one year to put all three of his kids through college (and into a nice new yacht) for Christ’s sake. But did the calls cease? On the contrary, they increased, and now, instead of just calling when he felt our correspondence was lacking, he sent letters, faxes, e-mails, and on one occasion, a singing telegram. The thought of faking my death flashed before me, then vanished. I’d just have to give him a call later that afternoon. It never hurts to keep one’s agent happy.

I turned and headed down the hall, that morning drink still calling to me. I walked downstairs and through the foyer, where my suit coat (with Ms. Sonnet’s mysterious business card still resting within the breast pocket) hung next to the front door. I crossed the parlor on the way to the kitchen, and caught a glimpse of Bachman’s book sitting on the coffee table, where it had remained untouched since the night of his death.

I stopped to pick it up, its old leather cover feeling slippery and somehow alien to the touch. I opened it to somewhere in the middle and perused the contents.

My first impression was that someone had played some sort of ridiculous prank, as none of the text (if one could describe it as such) was in English. Rather, the pages were covered in small, incomprehensible symbols, hundreds of them, page after page. And try as I might, I couldn’t find a single one repeating in the text. Each one appeared to be unique, which made no sense at all. If it were truly a narrative of some kind, even written in such hieroglyphic-style writing, there should’ve been some repeating phrases. But there were none. Only hundreds of pages covered in symbols more confounding than a Taiwanese TV instruction manual.

What I was holding was not the doodling of a man on the verge of mental incompetence. This came from the imagination of a madman, written in some foreign graffiti that only he could’ve deciphered. It was worthless, completely and utterly worthless. There was far greater value in his estate, since that would also give me publishing rights to all those fantasy novels collecting dust in his office. And all I had to do to have it was give Sonnet and her benefactors a book that was of less worth than a John Saul instructional text on how to write fiction.

I glanced from the book to the cordless phone and grabbed it, then went back to the foyer and fished Sonnet’s business card from my coat pocket. I started to dial the number, then hesitated. To this day I still don’t know why. At that precise moment of hesitation, with my future unknowingly hanging in the balance, the phone rang. It startled me, almost causing me to drop it. I hit the talk button.

This is Porter, I said.

Mr. Porter, I know this may sound a little odd, but it would be in your best interest to destroy the business card you’re holding in your left hand.

I stared down at the card, the improbability of the man’s words momentarily lost to me. I stammered, unsure of how to react. It occurred to me that someone might be trying to intimidate me, so I tried to play it cool, and took several calming breaths before replying. And why should I listen to you, Mr. Voice? I asked.

Because the fate of every life on this planet depends on you doing just that, he replied.

Who is this? I asked, attempting to stall the man as I searched for hidden surveillance cameras. I paced the parlor, glancing under the couch and behind my paintings. But I could not find any source of intrusion. I was being watched though, that much was certain.

Mr. Porter, there are no hidden devices in your home, so you can stop looking for them. It is tantamount that you sit down and listen very carefully to what I have to say.

I’d already taken a seat on the couch before realizing that I had obeyed him. He had a distinctly British intonation to his voice, and a sort of sing-song quality to his speech that was hard to ignore. It was almost enticing, as if the very sound of his voice could convince me of anything, no matter how ludicrous. I was fully aware of it, and yet helpless against it. I wondered fleetingly if that was what hypnosis felt like. Alright, I said, the words feeling thick and cumbersome in my mouth, I’m listening.

Good. Your life is in great peril. I don’t think that Frederick would’ve intentionally placed you in such a situation were he fully aware of the circumstances, but his mind, as you and I both know, was not what it should have been. Had we been more aware of his condition, perhaps all of this could’ve been averted. But we must play with the hand that has been dealt us, just as you must. The woman who gave you that business card—

Stephanie Sonnet, I said.

Is that what she’s calling herself these days? How droll... In any event, she represents an ancient organization, and a maniacal one at that. The book is but one of many that must never fall into their hands. You must bring it back to us.

That one statement awakened my general lack of trust, and broke me free of his hold. I know less about you than I do of Sonnet, I said. You’ve given me no indication of who you are or who you represent. Hell, at least I have Sonnet’s name, real or otherwise.

There was a brief silence on the line, with heavily muffled voices whispering in the background. He’s conferring with someone else, I thought. His little Jedi mind trick didn’t work on me, so he’s having a little pow-wow with his cronies on what else might work. Let him try. I’m not buying this drivel.

Mr. Porter, my name is Bridger. I am a member of the Guild. We are the true owners of the book.

Guild? I asked. The professor mentioned a guild on the day he died. Am I to assume that he was referring to you?

Yes, among others. We are the keepers of the books. It is our life’s work to guard them from harm. Please, there’s very little time. You must bring it with you to London, where we can teach you how—

A Londoner, I said, cutting him off. I might’ve known. Listen Giles—

Bridger.

Whatever. Yesterday I was accosted by a snooty bitch who looked like she should be in a classroom somewhere rapping the knuckles of future altar boys, and now I have you watching my every move with cameras that don’t exist, sharing details of the past week of my life that neither you nor Sonnet could possibly know, and yet you’re telling me to trust you. I’ve got half a mind to chuck the book right into the fireplace and be done with it.

Brandon, he stated, the music gone from his voice, that would be... most unwise.

Don’t even try to threaten me, Higgins. I’ll burn this piece of shit right now. I pressed the igniter button, and the fireplace roared to life.

Brandon please... don’t make me take actions that I’d rather avoid.

Ah, a nice warm fire. Nothing else like it, wouldn’t you agree?

It mustn’t come to this!

Then you damn well better give me one good reason why I should listen to you, or the book’s going in the fireplace!

Bridger sighed into the phone. Very well, Brandon. I’ll give you two.

Glass broke from somewhere behind me. Two quick, sharp stabs of pain shot up through my neck. I reached around, and pulled from my shoulder two small, silver darts. Son of a bitch, I said into the phone, and then the world went away for a while.

Chapter 2

One thing I’ve learned about consciousness: you don’t really notice how much you enjoy it until you go without it. I floated in an endless sea of gray for what seemed like an eternity, not knowing where I was, or who I was, or why I was there. But I wasn’t alone. various apparitions came and went. Some I remember clearly, some I can scarcely recall at all, other than their presence. The two I remember most were Professor Bachman, who said nothing to me, but just stared at me, as though I was the biggest disappointment of his life. Then, there was Lanie, dressed in a pink summer dress and frilly lace chiffon, her auburn hair flowing down over her shoulders.

I love you, she whispered, you and all your wonderful flaws, my precious fool... Then she vanished, and my sense of self went with her.

When I awoke, I found myself in a small, bare room with gray walls and a window some seven feet above the floor. Sunlight was cascading down into the room, particles of dust floating through it like dandelion spores caught in a March breeze. I sat up slowly, the effects of whatever I’d been drugged with still affecting my equilibrium. I dragged the cot over to the far wall and pulled myself up onto it so I could steal a look out the window. I squinted, the sunlight stabbing into my eyes. Once I’d adjusted to it, I saw that I was several floors up, at least eight stories. The London Bridge was about a quarter mile to my right, the river Thames flowing past me. I couldn’t believe it. The asshole had kidnapped me.

My rising anger cleared away my remaining haziness. I hopped down from the bed and took two steps to the cell door. It was a thick, steel number with a small sliding portal at eye level. I pounded my fists against it. Bridger! I yelled. Let me out of here, now!

The portal slid open immediately. A pair of green eyes topped with bushy brown eyebrows stared back at me. Terribly sorry. Mr. Maitland is not here at the moment.

Then tell him I said to get his limey ass up here! I said, accentuating each word with another rap against the door.

Don’t get yourself into a tizzy, Mr. Porter. He’s en route, and will be here shortly. He asked that you remain here in your temporary quarters until he arrived.

For what reason?

Didn’t say. I’d guess he wishes to explain everything in person.

And I take it I don’t have a choice, is that right?

Not if I wish to keep my job, no.

I gave the door another solid punch. Fine. But I want him to know, I plan on having a lengthy conversation with the U.S. Ambassador’s office as soon as I get out of here!

Do as you like, Mr. Porter, the guard said, and shut the portal.

So I waited. And waited. And waited some more. I sat there on my uncomfortable, mothball-smelling cot and waited, with nothing else to occupy my time than watching the sunlight leak out of the room until it was gone altogether, leaving me in the dark. I lingered there in the black, with only my thoughts of what I wanted to do to Bridger to keep me company.

Hours later, there was a click as someone released the lock. The door swung open, bathing the room in a queer rose-colored light. A short, square-shouldered man in a three piece suit stepped into the room, his facial features still hidden in shadow. My word, Mr. Porter! Why on earth are you sitting in the dark? He reached over and flicked a switch on the wall that I had not previously noticed. The room was illuminated instantly, my kidnapper lit into full view. I’d never felt more idiotic in my entire life.

His hair was pepper gray, a thin beard gracing his square face. he wore small, wire-rimmed glasses, the strength of the prescription evident in the magnification of his hazel eyes.

Bridger Maitland, I presume? I asked. Pardon my tone, asswipe, but a more astute question would be why I’m sitting here at all.

I do apologize for that, but I assure you, it was necessary. I don’t believe you would’ve survived the night had we not spirited you away. For now, we can breathe a sigh of relief that, in the least, you are safe.

Safe? I asked. Safe from what?

Why, the Necranostra, of course.

The Necranowhaty?

Sonnet’s organization. Had you not called them, they simply would have killed you and taken the book from your dead hands, and all would now be lost.

But why? I asked, and rose to my feet. Why go to all that trouble for a book written in gibberish by a certified nutcase?

Bridger punched me square in the jaw, his fist moving so fast that all I saw was a large, fleshy blur. It knocked me off balance, sending me face first to the floor. I rolled over on my back and glared up at him, his face the epitome of calm. I made to get up, but hesitated. A man who can punch like that without batting an eye has pterodactyl-sized bats perched in his belfry, I thought, not to mention a good vat or two of steroids running through his veins. What the hell was that for? I asked.

He leaned down, and offered me his hand. I glanced at it for a moment, unsure of whether or not to stay on the ground where it was relatively safe (unless he was equally sufficient with his feet.) And then for reasons I’m still unsure of, I took it, and was yanked to my feet in a display of strength that I would’ve thought impossible for a man his size and apparent age, had I not been on the receiving end of it. There was more to this unassuming little Brit than was readily apparent.

Frederick Bachman was a well-respected member of this establishment, he said, and then proceeded to brush the dust from my back. He was also my friend. I’ll thank you not to speak poorly of him.

No small feat, I said, considering the situation he put me in. I’ve had my inheritance brought into question, my life threatened, and my happy ass kidnapped, all in the course of one week. All thanks to him.

Bridger finished dusting me off, then again offered me his hand. I assure you, Brandon, he would not have done so had he any doubt that you were the right man for the job.

I paused, wary of what he was getting at, then took his hand, and shook it. What job?

e9781257422791_i0004.jpg

After helping myself to what can only be described as a five star meal, (which came none too soon, as I’d had nothing to eat since the night before) Bridger encouraged me to follow him.

We weaved in and out of numerous unmarked corridors, my confusion growing more acute with each turn, my sense of being totally lost expanding exponentially with every unmarked door. We rounded one last corner and came to an elevator. Bridger motioned for me to enter first.

It was unlike any elevator I’d ever been in. First of all, there were seats, both facing a screen built into the wall opposite the door. Stranger yet, there were no buttons on the wall panel, nor even a wall panel, for that matter.

Have a seat.

I looked down at the padded leather chair. I still knew next to nothing about Bridger or his organization. Was this another trick? Could a man who had no reservations about kidnapping a perfect stranger be in any way trusted? I pointed to the chair on the left. You first.

Bridger shrugged and sat down, motioning for me to do the same. I slowly eased myself into the chair, fully prepared to leap out of it if I felt anything out of the ordinary. But I felt nothing. On the contrary, it was one of the most comfortable chairs I’d ever sat in. I glanced down, and noticed a set of black plastic panels on each of the arm rests.

Place your hands palms down on the panels please, Bridger said, and then did so himself.

I followed suit. A bar of light appeared beneath the panels, and moved from the tips of my middle fingers to the bottoms of my palms.

The screen in front of us flashed on. A woman stared back at us, a welcoming smile spread across her face. Hello Mr. Maitland. Hello Mr. Porter. Where may I take you today?

I turned and looked at Bridger. He grinned and spoke, as if knowing what I was thinking. She’s a simulation. Just a part of our security system. She can instantly recognize anyone who puts their palms on the panels. If you have access, she takes you wherever you want to go. If not, you receive an electrical shock of ten thousand volts and are restrained until a security team arrives.

I had no response for this. Obviously, the Guild was an extremely well-funded organization. But I still couldn’t make any sense of it. Why such stringent security just to guard a bunch of musty old worthless books?

Take us to the Atrium please, Bridger said. The woman on the screen nodded. Safety restraints rose from within the cushions of the chair and wrapped themselves around us. The elevator sprang into motion, propelling us downward at an alarming rate of speed.

My grip on the arm rests tightened. I could feel my five star dinner beginning to rise up in my throat. Is this normal? I shouted over the roar of our descent.

Oh, quite, Bridger replied. There are over seven hundred floors in this facility. If we had standard elevators, it would take us hours to get where we’re going.

And where is that, exactly?

The Atrium, a city hidden deep within the earth.

My stomach churned. The grip of claustrophobia clenched around my chest, robbing my lungs of air. My vision began to blur, and I realized that I was going to faint.

Just then, the elevator decreased its speed, and game to a gentle stop. Welcome to the Atrium gentlemen, said the pixilated attendant. Thank you for using the elevator. The screen went blank, and the doors behind us opened.

I turned and stepped through the door, and gasped in shock. Before me was a vast metropolis, with buildings as tall as any I’d ever seen in New York, stretching off as far as the eye could see. High above the streets, a monorail system twisted in and around the towering structures, whizzing past at phenomenal speed. I don’t believe what I’m seeing, I muttered.

This is just the beginning of what I have to show you, Bridger said. As I said before, we call it the Atrium. It is the heart of our operation. It encompasses an area of fifty-seven square miles, and can sustain a population of sixty-two million for fifteen years without contact with the outside world.

It would take decades to carve out all the rock, much less the construction time. How was this done?

Bridger reached into his pocket, and pulled from it a long white quill, its tip stained with black ink. We did it with this, he said.

A feather, I said. You expect me to believe that you built all of this with something that looks like it came from Big Bird’s ass.

Bridger shook his head, frowning at me. I’d forgotten how vulgar Americans could be. No, we did not build it with a quill. We wrote it.

A real dandy of a headache was coming on, not unlike the one I had after trying to decipher the professor’s death bed ramblings. My temples felt as though I had two rivets drilled into them. Tell me something, I said, rubbing my temples with little effect, do all members of ‘The Guild’ speak in riddles?

Bridger returned the quill to his pocket. It’s no riddle. All will be revealed shortly. The World Room is just a tram ride away.

I followed him down the street, weaving in and out of the crowd of people walking along the sidewalks, and marveled at the sophistication of the city before me.

I saw no trash cans. In fact, the sidewalks themselves moved like the beltways at airports, though I saw no belts, only twin beams of blue-gray light that ran along the left and right edges of the walkway.

As we walked down the street, a young man carrying a large assortment of papers came rushing by. A single, crumpled sheet fell from his hands. I stooped to pick it up, but it was sucked into an opening under the moving sidewalk before I could grab it.

This is a pollution-free community, Bridger explained proudly.

We turned left and ducked into a nondescript building. Just inside the door was an escalator. A young woman in a pale blue uniform was standing beside it. Good afternoon Mr. Maitland, Mr. Porter, she said.

I’d never seen the woman before in my life, but it was abundantly clear that she recognized me. I think you have me at a disadvantage, ma’am, I replied.

Oh, everyone knows who you are, she said. To think, Brandon Porter himself standing in my tram station! I’m deeply honored, sir!

As are we all my dear, Bridger chimed, a slight hint of that melodious trance-speak returning to his voice.

Are you taking him to the World Room? she asked, her voice bubbling over with excitement.

As a matter of fact, I am.

How thrilling this must be for you, Mr. Porter!

Oh yeah, I replied. I can hardly keep from jumping up and down.

You’ve gone from a romance novelist to a World Writer in the course of a single day! she said, oblivious to my sarcasm. I’ve never seen the like!

Patience, Catya, Bridger scorned playfully. He’s not quite a World Writer yet. But we’ll see shortly.

Yes sir, she said with a wink, and offered me a smile.

We stepped onto the escalator and began our ascent. I looked back and saw Catya watching us, her face struck dumb by awe, as if Christ himself had just stopped by for a visit. What was that all about? I asked.

Oh, don’t mind her. Word of your arrival spread quickly. We’re all anxious to see what you can do.

Ah, well, that explains everything, doesn’t it?

Curb your pessimism, young man. Don’t pass judgment until you’ve heard us out.

The escalator continued its slow climb. Bridger was silent, his back to me. What is a World Writer, anyway? I asked, my voice echoing off the walls.

You’re not a man of faith, are you, he stated without turning to look at me.

I have faith in my bank account, I said. I have faith that my publisher will continually try to screw me. That’s about it.

I guessed as much. I’m afraid you’re going to be confronted with a truth you won’t be readily willing to accept. But you must, if all is to end well.

That still doesn’t answer my question, I said, my patience wearing thin.

Let’s not put the horse before the cart, he replied. Much like Thomas, you will be allowed to see the truth before believing in it.

Wonderful, I thought. I’ve bungled my way into the middle of some crackpot Jesus cult. You’re not going to offer to send me a prayer cloth in exchange for a high dollar love gift, are you? I asked.

He turned to me then, frown lines forming across his ample brow. I think it would be best for you to refrain from criticizing what you can’t comprehend. But to answer your ridiculous question, no. I did not bring you here for a baptism, nor have I any intentions of entering into a dogmatic debate with you. This has nothing to do with religion, Brandon. But it has everything to do with the world we live in, a world you don’t understand nearly as well as you presume.

We reached the top of the escalator, and walked left to the tram loading dock. We waited no more than a few moments when one of the bullet-shaped silver trams came rushing into the station and coasted to a slow, easy stop, its engine giving off a low, almost imperceptible hum.

Electro-magnetic propulsion, Bridger explained. Pollution free.

We boarded the tram, and took our seats. We were the only people aboard, so far as I could tell. A vidscreen rose up from the partition that separated our seats from the other side of the car. The woman from the elevator appeared, still smiling. Hello Mr. Maitland. Hello Mr. Porter. Where may I take you today?

World Room Station, Bridger replied.

The tram accelerated, rocketing out of the tram station and heading towards the heart of the city. I gazed out the right hand window as the improbable cityscape blew past. The enormity of it was overwhelming, eclipsed only by the sight of the horizon, a sky made completely of rock, illuminated by the city below.

Breathtaking isn’t it, Bridger said in a near whisper. No matter how many times I see the Atrium, I can never quite grow accustomed to it.

I can see why, I said, as we sped past a statue of a man that was easily three times as tall as Lady Liberty. He was dressed in a button down vest and cuffed trousers. His left foot was propped up on a large rock. A book was in his left hand. Who is that supposed to be? I asked as the stone visage sped out of sight.

Sir Mason Wellstrong, said Bridger, a twinge of awe in his voice. The greatest of the World Writers, and a humanitarian without equal. He was the senior Guildsman during his time, in the late eighteen hundreds. He was murdered by a Necranostran assassin.

I sensed a change in the tram’s speed. I looked ahead, and saw that we were pulling into a massive domed structure, its circular frame covered in hexagonal blue tiles etched in silver. We came to a stop, the blue light from the tram station casting a topaz hue into the car. The doors slid open. World Room Station, the attendant said. Thank you for using the Atrium Tram System.

As astounding as the sight of the Atrium was, it almost paled in comparison to the World Room. Encased beneath a mammoth, cavernous dome, the room was the size of at least two football stadiums, and vibrant with activity. Scores of workers went about their various tasks, observing monitors, conferring with supervisors, making adjustments at computer stations every few feet. Mounted on the wall of the dome, positioned liked the hours on a clock face, were twelve screens, each depicting what appeared to be live video feeds of alien landscapes. On one, an endless, sprawling sea, its water as pink as cotton candy, a fishing village of sorts floating above the waves. On another, a city that eclipsed the Atrium in size, but with buildings that seemed to have been carved out of preexisting stone. On yet another, a lush jungle teeming with life, creatures of such unusual configurations that I could not readily make sense of their respective anatomies.

Beneath each screen was a kiosk, in the center of which was a clear dome made from what appeared to be Plexiglas. Beneath each dome was a book similar to the one Professor Bachman had given me.

You look confused, Bridger said, startling me from my observations.

You’re right. I don’t understand any of this.

Then allow me to enlighten you.

Bridger stepped over to the nearest kiosk and activated it. The screen flickered on, exhibiting the image of a quaint countryside with rolling hills of mossy green. At the foot of one lay a small, primitive community, packed with villagers. This is what Frederick entrusted to you... the Neverwood.

What is this place? I asked, gazing up at the screen.

This is the world within the book.

So these screens play back these books like...well, like a video recorder?

Bridger laughed and patted me on the shoulder in a manner I found rather condescending. No, these are live images.

Live images? I said. Live images of what?

As I said, the world within the book.

I looked at him then, and could see from his expression that he wasn’t joking. So this village, these people, they’re all real? All real, and...and inside—

The book. Yes, exactly.

It was ungraspable. How could it be true? Had this annoying little man any idea of how insane he sounded? This was the real world, where flights of fancy were only just. Wasn’t it?

How? I managed to ask with some considerable effort. Why?

Bridger deactivated the kiosk. That, my friend, is a story almost as old as history.

He led me deeper into the complex, out of the World Room and into the lower level of the structure, which housed a labyrinth of gigantic shelves, all lined with books.

This is the library of our history, accounts of every World Writer, back to the beginning.

Am I expected to read all these, or is there a Cliff Notes version?

Bridger pointed at a nearby desk, lit by antiquated table lamps. Sit down, and I will explain.

I did as he asked. He sat across from me, and took a moment to clean his glasses. Tell me, he said. How was the world made?

I shrugged, unsure of the meaning of his question. No one knows for sure. Some say the Big Bang, others have more fantastical theories... and not to mention what the bible thumpers have to say about it. What does it really matter? We’re here, and that’s that.

No, not quite, he replied. Whether the earth formed over billions of years via a cosmic coincidence like the Big Bang, or was created in a week’s time, the process was set in motion by a higher consciousness. Some call that power God, others call it Allah, Yahweh, Zoroaster, Nature, and countless others. It all boils down to the same truth. This planet is a product of design, a design based on a finite set of laws. And as it has often been pointed out, laws are made to be broken.

Bridger reached across the desk and set a book before me, a musty old volume with a cracked leather cover. He opened it to a book marked page, on which was a crude painting of a woman in the throes of labor, scores of newborn children lying at her feet.

Most people are familiar with the Judeo-Christian depiction of Earth’s creation, Bridger said, but few are aware of the full scope of the story. According to Hebrew mythology, God created two beings from the earth: Adam, and his first wife, Lilith. Lilith was a beautiful creature of vast intellect. It is said that she acted as the Earth’s architect, aiding to the actual design of what God had created.

You’re right, I said, staring down at the primitive depiction. I’ve never heard of her.

And for good reason, he continued. She viewed herself as equal to God, and would not accept the subservient role that he had chosen for her. She rebelled against him and was banished from paradise, her punishment to bear one hundred children in a single day. It is said that she took the recently fallen Lucifer as her husband, her children joining the ranks of his rebellion.

Bridger turned the page, revealing another painting, this one depicting Lilith standing amongst a group of men dressed in ceremonial garments, their arms outstretched towards her.

Several centuries later, Lilith enacted a plan to prove her equality with God. She made herself known to the Kabalist high priests—

Kabalists? I asked.

Kabala is an ancient form of Hebrew magic. Think of it as Jewish witchcraft. She gathered together the most powerful of these high priests, one from each of the twelve tribes of Judah, and revealed to them the power to make worlds. And as with any power, it was easily abused. The minds of mortal men could not be trusted with such a gift, which Lilith knew all too well. They created worlds for themselves, detestably evil places where the laws of God were not only ignored, but loathed. They became the gods of the worlds they’d made, ruling over them with tyrannical control, the populations of each existing only to serve them as slaves.

I glanced up from the book. Assuming that I accept this fable as anything more than that, I said, where was God while all of this was going on? Was He too busy planning Joshua’s career to notice all these new worlds popping up everywhere?

Bridger sighed, his eyebrow arched. Of course He knew. Why He allowed it to happen is not known. How can any of us ever know the workings of such a mind? But He did know, and His retribution was swift.

He turned the page once more. This painting showed a pit engulfed in flames, the twelve high priests roasting in its depths. Around it stood twelve men, each holding a scroll, and a quill.

God condemned the Kabalists to the flames and, knowing that their abominations were bound to Earth by the creation magic, hid each of the twelve worlds they had created into parchments. He entrusted them to the twelve most righteous men, chosen from the twelve tribes. To each He gave a quill, which held within it the power to mold the worlds. Over the ages, these parchments were bound into books and passed down from one World Writer to the next, regardless of race. And they have remained in our safekeeping since that time.

I sat in silence for a good while, Bridger leaving me to my thoughts. Despite all I’d seen that proved what he’d just told me, I still couldn’t bring myself to believe it. The closest I’d ever come to organized religion was when I (in a state of severe inebriation) stopped to ask for directions at the local Church’s Chicken. I’d never given any weight to talk of God, the Devil, or the possibility of an immortal soul. Given the life I’d led up to that point, I wasn’t holding out for a chance at a happy afterlife. Perhaps that’s why I was denying the truth of it, because I suspected then, inside, that not only was there a Heaven, but Lanie was living a new, unending life of bliss there, with no chance in hell (no pun intended) of me ever being a part of it. And wasn’t that just apropos? A man who had achieved almost all of his dreams in life would be denied the chance to rectify his one true regret in death. It wasn’t fair. I wouldn’t accept it, and began running Bridger’s story through my mind, searching for some flaw that would reveal him to be the colossal fraud that I so wanted him to be. A thought occurred to me then, which I voiced, rather vehemently, without a moments hesitation.

"One