Knight of Shadows

It seemed a vast, shadowy plain that was spread below, with here and there a few isolated dots of light, some of them constant, others appearing, then fading, all of them stationary. There were no other lines, however, than my trail and the one which intersected it. There were no sounds other than my breathing and that of my footfalls. There were no breezes, no peculiar odors, and the temperature was so clement that it claimed no notice. Again there were dark shapes at either hand, but I'd no desire to investigate them. All I wanted was to conclude whatever business was in progress and get the hell out and be about my own affairs as soon as possible.

Hazy patches of light then began occurring at irregular intervals, both sides of the trail, wavery, sourceless, blotchy, popping into and out of existence. These seemed like gauzy, dappled curtains hung beside the trail, and I did not pause to examine them at first, not till the obscure areas grew fewer and fewer, being replaced by shadings of greater and greater distinction. It was almost as if a tuning process were in operation, with increasing clarity of outline indicating familiar objects: chairs; tables; parked cars; store windows. Before long, faded colors began to occur within these tableaus.

I halted beside one and stared. It was a red '57 Chevy with some snow on it, parked in a familiar-looking driveway I advanced and reached toward it.

My left hand and arm faded as they entered the dim light. I reached to touch the left fin. There followed a vague sensation of contact and a faint coolness. I swept my hand to the right then, brushing away some of the snow. When I withdrew my hand, there was snow upon it. Immediately the prospect faded to black.

«I intentionally used my left hand,» I said, «with you on the wrist. What was there?»

Thanks a lot. It seemed a red car with snow on it.

«It was a construct of something picked from my mind. That's my Polly Jackson painting, upscaled to life size.»

Then things are getting worse, Merle. I couldn't tell it was a construct.

«Conclusions?»

Whatever's doing it is getting better at it, or stronger. Or both.

«Shit,» I observed, and I turned away and jogged on.

Perhaps something wants to show you that it can baffle you completely now.

«Then it's succeeded,» I acknowledged. «Hey, Something!» I shouted. «You hear that? You win! You've baffled me completely. Can I go home now? If it's something else you're trying to do, though, you've failed! I'm missing the point completely!»

The dazzling flash which followed cast me down upon the trail and blinded me for several long moments. I lay there tense and twitching, but no thunderclap followed. When my vision cleared and my muscles stopped their spasms, I beheld a giant regal figure posed but a few paces before me: Oberon.

Only it was a statue, a duplicate of one which occupied the far end of the Main Concourse back in Amber, or possibly even the real thing, for on closer inspection I noted what appeared to be bird droppings upon the great man's shoulder.

«Real thing or construct?» I said aloud.

Real,I'd say, Frakir replied.

I rose slowly.

«I understand this to be an answer,» I said. «I just don't understand what it means.»

I reached out to touch it, and it felt like canvas rather than bronze. In that instant my perspective somehow shifted, and I felt myself touching a larger than life-size painting of the Father of His Country. Then its borders began to waver, it faded, and I saw that it was part of one of those hazy tableaux I had been passing. Then it rippled and was gone.

«I give up,» I said, walking through the space it had occupied but moments before. «The answers are more confusing than the situations that cause the questions.»

Since we are passing between shadows, could this not be a statement that all things are real - somewhere?

«I suppose. But I already knew that.»

And that all things are real in different ways, at different times, in different places?

«Okay, what you are saying could well be the message. I doubt that something is going to these extremes, however, just to make philosophical points that may be new to you but are rather well worn elsewhere. There must be a special reason, one that I still don't grasp.»

Up until now the scenes I'd passed had been still lifes. Now, however, a number occurred which contained people; some, other creatures. In these, there was action - some of it violent, some amorous, some simply domestic.

Yes, it seems to be a progression. It may be leading up to something.

«When they leap out and attack me, I'll know I've arrived.»

Who knows? I gather that art criticism is a complex area.

But the sequences faded shortly thereafter, and I was left jogging on my bright trail through darkness once again. Down, down the still gentle slope toward the crossroads. Where was the Cheshire Cat when rabbit hole logic was what I really needed?