'Where Fact and Fiction Collide.'
I went to bed a little earlier than normal. I wanted this done with and swallowed the draught Albert had given me in one go. I felt its soothing effect at once and lay down to sleep.
In the dream, I was a child again, sitting at my usual desk in the library with a special book open before me. The book was called Heidi, by Johanna Spyri; a specially commissioned edition, leather-bound and lavishly illustrated with hand-painted colour plates, originally purchased as an expensive birthday present for the daughter of a long-deceased Lord Lieutenant of the County. Passed down the generations as an heirloom, it was eventually donated by the family to the same public library, of which, by chance or design, I was a junior member.
I remembered all this without effort.
The book was much too precious to be allowed out on loan, but I was allowed to read it under the close supervision of the librarian, Miss Grey, who used to inspect my hands before she would even let me touch it. Later, when she saw the reverence with which I turned the heavy pages, she stopped the inspections.
I have never visited Switzerland on Earth, but the plates in the book were a simulacrum of the mountainside scenery of that country, intentionally distorted by the artist to meet the expectations of the juvenile readers and transformed into a sparkling vista of bright primary colours.
I lingered over my favourite alpine scene, immersing myself deeper and deeper into the painting, yearning to escape into a brighter and happier world than my normal life at home and school, when I experienced a sudden shift in consciousness.
I was no longer in the library but in a dark void. Ahead of me was a rift in spacetime, and my body distorted slightly as I squeezed through the gap. A bitingly cold alpine wind instantly stung my pale cheeks a blush red, and I took deep breaths of clean Swiss air that sent my head ringing.
I was on the side of a mountain, and from where I stood, a band of flat turf stretched upward like a green-carpeted highway to the summit, but as I started the ascent, the worn soles of my boots slipped on the dew-soaked grass, and I fell flat on my back. The ground was soft, and I was unharmed, but my clothes were grass-stained, and, rubbing my wet hands down the sides of my trousers to dry them off, I noticed a half-moon of green sap lodged beneath my fingernails.
I was in a physical world, not an immaterial illusion.
There was a long moment of confusion, and then a plate from the book emerged from the gloom, transformed into a three-dimensional world of snow and ice that I could enter. I was experiencing the hyperreal as a destination, a state of perception where the distinction between reality and fiction blurs.
Information was beginning to filter into my mind's memory banks as my transition completed, and I learnt that entry to this world was restricted to bona fide accredited travellers. Day-trippers to fake realities such as Heidi Land, or the village of Oberrofels, cannily renamed by the worthy burghers as Heidi Dorf, could enter fabricated experiences in the other Switzerland if they were prepared to pay.
This is total immersion in a real world that exists in itself, yet bafflingly, it remains partly in thrall to my mind. I know that I retain a degree of control here and entertain a fleeting moment of doubt as to whether this land is entirely independent of myself.
I retract the thought, but it is too late.
My overseers, for I do not delude myself that this is a solo effort, no doubt outraged by my lack of confidence in their abilities, place me in a form of corrective therapy, and I am made to witness the qualms of another backslider, a fugitive from the dust-blown monotony of a black and white life on a Kansas prairie. A young person, just like me, who found herself transported to a psychedelic world of colour. She found it difficult to reconcile two such different worlds, thinking she was trapped in a dream, even though she had been allowed to return to her former life on a Kansas farm with both sets of memories intact.
'Aunty Em,'… Dorothy spoke the words hesitantly at first, then with increased confidence as the circuits in her refreshed brain became fully active. The old world took shape, and she smiled as her eyes fell on the familiar, white-painted fence of the yard and her little dog scratching at the gate. She was home…
I am filled with contrition; the consequences of sending me back to the library world are too awful to contemplate.
'I get it now – sorry! I promise this will never happen again.'
I could have sworn I heard a snort of impatience, but I feel that I am forgiven.
When I enter the book, the characters are not actualised as three-dimensional animated beings but images that cavort up and down the page, barely rippling the surface but very pretty to watch as they cross the sky. Tenuous wisps of coloured clouds lit by the bright yellow sun, cartoon characters without depth or shade.
To my unsophisticated palate, the whole sugary confection here tastes deliciously sweet, filling me with delight as I rush here and there like Pinocchio on Pleasure Island. Yet the pleasure is to quickly fade, and I realise that I must do something worthwhile with my life if I am to equal Pinocchio's ambition in kind, to grow up and become a real, live boy. But even in moments of lucidity, I still find it hard to admit that all these candy floss images, mountains like ice cream cones, and flying goats are tacky, lower-end recreational simulacra suitable only for children.
But Heidi herself is special.
Dressed in gossamer silk, exquisitely pretty with blonde ringlets falling about her face, she is more like a porcelain doll than the sturdy, dark-haired country girl dressed in homespun clothes featured in the story. But Heidi is, and always will be for me, a fairy princess, the rightful ruler of a glittering realm of green and gold.
Now I must leave all this behind.
I dream of leaving my commonplace existence for good to start a permanent new life in cyberspace. I ask Miss Grey for the book.
"Another library has requested it, and I am about to start packaging it up to send off." She said.
My heart pounds so hard I can't think. I must get out of here and through the book portal before she returns. I look hard at the familiar page but find it hard to concentrate, and looking away for a moment, I take a deep breath to clear my mind before turning back to the picture.
But something is wrong.
The snow on the peak of the mountain is rapidly melting, and a river of water is cascading down the mountainside, carrying everything in its path. Now the mountain itself is starting to crumble; great slabs of rock fall away like a calving iceberg, toppling down in slow motion, breaking into massive boulders that fall in the roaring torrent of floodwater, and great spumes of white water splash against the inside of the page, instantly clouding it over.
I can see nothing.
'Heidi!'
Straining every fibre of my mind, I focus on making the crossing and finally burst forward, the opaque page splintering like breaking glass as I break through. Landing heavily on the other side and groaning from the pain in my legs, I am reluctant to move until I find out the safety of my position. The friendly alpine peaks have vanished.
Reassuringly, I find myself on stable ground and not in any immediate danger, but I have landed in a barren wasteland of smooth, glass-like rock that resembles the aftermath of a nuclear explosion: a world devastated by atomic weapons. Looking behind me, I see that the page has collapsed, and with it my only hope of escape. There is no time for recriminations or regret. I cannot survive for long in this wilderness.
When I first set off, the going is easy, and I trek mile after endless mile, seeing no trace of life and getting ever more tired, when the landscape changes, and I find myself at the foot of a mountain. My spirits rise, but I am very weak still, and the going has become a lot harder.
Time passes unheeded as I begin a lonely and monotonous trek upward, walking mechanically with my head down, and suddenly find myself on the edge of a narrow precipice.
I stop abruptly, but it is too late; I have stepped too far over the edge.
Tottering at the edge of the deep crevice, I am paralysed with fear at the sight of jagged rocks hundreds of feet below , and only when my feet begin to slip does my survival instinct finally kick in.
Bending my knees to gain maximum thrust, I hurl myself forward and leap the gap, landing flat on my stomach on the other side of the gully. Clinging precariously to the edge with half of my body dangling in space, I begin to slide back over the smooth rock. Throwing my hands forward to try to gain a handhold, I stab my fingers in like pinions in a narrow crack, immune to the pain. Luck is with me, and I manage to lock three fingers in the crevice, just enough to hold me for another precious few seconds.
Sweeping blindly back and forth over the surface with my other hand, I search for another hold, and just when I think I can hang on no longer, I hit my hand against a jutting spur of rock. No more than six inches high, it is enough to give me sufficient leverage to haul myself back to safety.
I lay panting on the ground for a couple of minutes, exhausted by my efforts, before pulling myself to my feet. I am angry and want to show whoever is running this show that my spirit is still intact.
'Enjoy that, did you?' I say to the empty sky and make a flourishing bow, but as I sweep low, my head fills with blood, and I collapse from fatigue and hunger on the rocky surface.
Unable to move, I slip in and out of consciousness, losing all track of time and becoming progressively weaker.
The temptation to surrender to sleep becomes overwhelming, and I am about to succumb when I am suddenly revived by the physical sensation of a soothing warmth flooding through my body. I open my eyes and see a woman crouching over me in concern.
Aunty Gladys.
She cradled my head in her arms and pressed a beaker of hot soup to my lips, and I drank deeply of it, feeling my strength slowly return. Wanting to thank her, I raise my eyes to look into her kindly face, but I cannot speak. Smiling gently, she presses my eyes closed, urging me to sleep, and I sink into a deep, childlike slumber.
When I awake, the side of my face is pressed into the hard rock, and I groan as I realise where I am. My body feels cold and stiff as if I have slept for some time, and I struggle into a sitting position. I remember my saviour and can still taste the saltiness of the soup on my lips, but when I wipe my mouth, it is only blood where I have grazed my face against the rock.
Postscript: What follows is a distorted and different perspective on some events that are yet to happen, but I knew nothing of this at the time.
A sudden thud from above me breaks my reverie, and I quickly stand and see that I am no longer alone. Standing atop a bluff above me is a witch, the jewels on her green robes rattling like sabres in the fierce wind.
"I am Jadis, Empress of Charn, Lady of the Green Kirtle, the White Witch of Narnia, Queen of Underland, Empress of the Lone Islands, and Queen of the Deep Realm. I am the serpent; I am the apple."
I make no reaction, and her voice changes.
"I am she who must be obeyed."
A black shadow passes over the figure of the witch and revealed in its wake is the exquisite form of the immortal Ayesha. A goddess of great beauty, but terrible to look upon.
Another book.
Ayesha radiates a cold power that can kill a man where he stands.
'You tremble like a leaf in the wind; dare you yet look into my face?'
I raise my eyes and must fight with every ounce of my will against an overwhelming compulsion to prostrate myself before her.
'You can resist me, 'said Ayesha in surprise.
She pauses, and I stare resolutely above her head, determined not to succumb.
Knowing that she will not succeed as Ayesha, she again becomes 'The Lady of the Green Kirtle, ' and in my fury, I go on the attack.
"Where is your power now, you loathsome hag? Why should I fear you when you are nothing but a commonplace shapeshifter?"
The witch visibly diminished under my onslaught, and immediately, there was a shift in my perception, and I saw her as she truly was. Faltering in her role for a moment, I glimpse the frightened girl behind the mask, and instantly the scene freezes, and all movement stops.
The atmosphere is fraught with tension, like a collective holding of breath.
Terrified and now utterly alone, the girl stands motionless, all fierceness gone, and biting her lip like a lost child, she turns her head to the side in a silent plea for direction, but none comes. Her time seems over, but she will not go easily. With a superlative effort of will, she delivers the performance of her life, her voice ringing out over the wasteland with all the authority of one born to rule.
"I am Jadis, Empress of Charn, Lady of the Green Kirtle, the White Witch of Narnia, Queen of Underland, Queen of the Deep Realm, and Empress of the Lone Islands. I am all of these."
It is a virtuoso performance and enough to save her, but I remain in great danger. She has the power to kill me in her character, but I will show no weakness and never concede.
Suddenly, she turns away and, looking beyond me, curses angrily.
"You are a fool, boy, and you will regret this moment, but I leave now to return at a more opportune time, your friends approach."
I look up and see an approaching cloud of dust on the other horizon.
The witch begins to chant an incantation, her bejewelled arms cast up imperiously to the heavens, her face glowering with hatred, sending her words hurtling upwards, each time returning stronger, and soon the whole sky reverberates with deafening thunder.
The foundations of the mountain begin to quiver and shake, supporting columns break away, and great slabs of masonry fall down the side, crushing everything in their path. The avalanche gathered speed in one great gathering rush of bricks and debris, and I was caught in the flow and knocked unconscious but rose like a wraith and looked down upon my own body from above as it continued its hazardous flight downward.
The witch has transformed herself into a giant eagle, and, swooping down from the top of the mountain, she sinks her talons into my inert body, picking me up like a rabbit and soaring away. She is fast but not quite fast enough to escape a huge silver arrow launched from below that screams across the sky and hits her in the wing.
Mortally wounded, the huge bird falls from the sky, hanging on to my body until the very last instant before dropping me to the ground. I hit the rocks, and the eagle, now released of its burden, shoots upward in a mass of flame. The fragile heap of broken flesh below looks close to death, and I try to hold myself back, but the instinctive drive for life triumphs, and I return to my body.
Even in these extremes, I still struggle to separate imagination and reality, my life surging through both states like a raft on a deep and turbulent river, riding the changing ebb and flow without ever knowing any difference. It is all the same river, and I can get injured or killed any place it takes me, and that is real enough for me.
My vigilant friends, the guardians of those selected to cross the hidden line between one reality and another, have another recruit. We work towards the day when our multi-reality universe will be revealed in all its glory.