By fate or chance, I was never to find out the extent to which my journey was planned; the intersecting currents of interdimensional space brought me to a dusty country lane on a tranquil English summer afternoon.
I knew this to be because Uncle Albert provided a commentary in my head, but his voice was faint and seemed to come from a great distance away.
"You have been transported to England on Earth Major in the period between the two great wars of the twentieth century," he said. This was a period of economic depression, and many people suffered hardship; however, the affluent middle classes, especially in the urban areas of the prosperous Home Counties, were largely unaffected. It was a peaceful time, and in long-established towns and villages, life continued much as it had always done.
"You are in a sub-dimension where I cannot follow, but this is likely to be a short stay, and you will soon be returned to a main dimension. I do not know the reason why the diversion happened. It might be instructional in nature, so learn from the experience, and be prepared to observe the situation as an onlooker rather than a participant . . . sorry Peregrine, you are moving out of my range, will resume contact on your return."
Albert's voice disappeared, and I was on my own.
Flanked by hedgerows and open fields, the lane meandered through the pleasant countryside, and I walked on at an unhurried pace, enjoying the scenery. Ahead, I could see several detached houses with large, well-tended gardens on the outskirts of a country village,
The air was still and somnolent, with only the occasional murmur of bees to disturb the silence. There was no traffic on the lane, but in the near distance, a small gang of four schoolboys and a dog ambled along towards me as if they had all the time in the world at their disposal. The boys chattered between themselves, tracing patterns in the dust with the wooden sticks they carried, and the small dog trotted faithfully behind them, stopping only to sniff out the trail of others who had gone before.
The boys began a game, brandishing their sticks like swords, in battle with an imaginary enemy, all competing for the role of the heroic leader. A tousled-haired boy of eleven in short trousers with long socks bunched around his ankles dominated the melee.
Fresh-faced and sturdily built, he was a wholesome-looking lad with blue eyes that sparkled with excitement as he assumed the role of Robin Hood, beating off the sheriff's men with lightning thrusts of his trusty sword. As they got closer, I prepared to greet them, but to my great disappointment, they never faltered in their game and passed me by as if I wasn't there. I turned to watch their progress, but their images began to fade, and the light dimmed, like the end of a scene in a play.
I was not an actor in the drama, but rather a member of the audience.
When the lights rose, the play continued, but with a voice-over commentary.
"Ten years later, the country was at war, and boys had grown into young men. The carefree, endless summer days of childhood long passed, and two of the gang members seen fighting an imaginary battle on an English country road were missing, killed in action, in a place far from their home.
Nobody was on the stage, but a backdrop showed continuous scenes of modern warfare in the air and on the ground.
"William, the irascible and fearless leader of the gang, found his vocation as a fighter pilot in the RAF. He flew on many missions against an enemy who was trying to bomb England into submission. In the famous 'Battle of Britain,' he shot down two enemy aircraft before being shot down himself over the English Channel. It was his twenty-second birthday, one of the many young men who lost their lives in the defence of their country, defeating the enemy when greatly outnumbered. His parents, Mr. and Mrs. Brown, went to London to receive a posthumous 'Distinguished Flying Cross' from the king, on behalf of their lost son.
"Henry, the only survivor of the war, became a lawyer and wrote a hugely successful series of books based on the exploits of the gang. The four innocents, whose brief childhood exploits proved to be the entire sum of their lives, lived on as perpetual schoolboys, never to age or die, but live on unchanged in the hearts and minds of generations of children to come."
The war scenes on the backdrop transformed into views of the English countryside in peacetime.
The narrator continued with the epilogue to the story,
"Everyone of us appears in a thousand stories and lives a different life in each. The permutations are endless, and every actor, from the protagonist to the supporting cast, has an equal claim to reality. We each possess a core that remains unchanged, and each of us retains certain elements of our personality and notion of self from one life to another. However, nurture and circumstance can alter the way others perceive us.
"In a parallel world where the war never happened, William became a country parson and married a very pretty young woman by the name of Violet Elizabeth Bott. She was a prominent social figure involved in various charities and proved to be a positive asset to her husband's career. A career that culminated with the church ordaining William as a Bishop.
'William the Bishop' sounds like the title of one of his books, but even in this lofty role, the old man acquired a reputation as a teller of the most marvellous adventure stories to his children and grandchildren. When the old man told his tales, his eyes shone, and the years dropped away; the children caught a glimpse of the boy he once was.
The lights went down and then rose again, and I was back on the outskirts of Arcadia.
* * *
The experience had been both sobering and uplifting, but I had more practical issues to deal with; finding the Green Door was my priority, but to make things worse, the strain of my journey had finally caught up with me, and I felt exhausted.
The road out of the woodlands was mostly straight, but at one point it curved slightly, and I found myself walking down a steep incline that took me below ground level. At the bottom, the land flattened out, and directly ahead of me were the ruins of a huge stone building.
Protected by the steep sides of the valley, it had partially survived whatever calamity had befallen this world, because at the front were the remains of a long ramp or drawbridge, now broken into unequal sections, which led to the ruins of what would have once been a very imposing main entrance. I walked around the side, looking for a way up, and found that I could climb the fallen walls. However, it was a long way to the top, and due to my poor physical condition, I often had to stop and rest.
At the summit, I walked around the parapets of the castle, if it could be called a castle, but there was no way down to the inner chambers; the staircases had collapsed into an impenetrable mass of rubble. The enclosed upper courtyard lay under a layer of rocky ash, and I scraped my boot across the surface to reveal an ornate marble floor.
The colours had faded, and the marbled surface was a spider's web of deep cracks, but the fractured tiles bore images I remembered from the books that I had read on ancient folklore. There were dwarves and giants from Norse legend; fauns, centaurs, minotaur's, and dryads from the myths of Greece; and strange creatures from places I could not even guess.
In the far corner stood a broad, brick tower, shaped like a chimney, tapering upward to form a narrow turret. Originally, it may have been a lookout point over an inhabited land, long since lifeless and laid to ruin, and I struggled to imagine what kind of country it once was and who built this fortification.
The outer wall had fallen, but there was a gap in the stones at the bottom, and I could see space beyond. Pulling the rocks to one side and looking up, I made out the shape of a spiral staircase. The treads were missing, but the stairway itself was intact. I forced my shoulders through the gap and began the climb. The twisting flight of steps went up a long way, and on its curved walls were names and short messages in different scripts that were the work of generations of bored sentries, whiling away the time, on a long watch. Some were so old as to be barely legible.
On reaching the top, I emerged onto an enclosed viewing platform that gave panoramic views in every direction. Two of the sides had fallen away, and the platform was leaning away from the supporting column in imminent danger of collapse. I tested the floor's strength with my foot. It gave way slightly but was otherwise reasonably stable, and I cautiously moved out to the centre.
A raised brass plate covered in Verdigris adorned the upright wall opposite, and I edged over to examine it more closely. Above the plate was a relief carving choked with dust, but I scraped a section clear and saw that it was part of a sculpture in polished white stone. With both hands, I removed the surface dirt and then, more excitedly, dug it out with my fingers until I had freed every line. It was the head of a huge, wild lion, mouth wide open, showing bared fangs. I stood by the carving for a long time, looking at the lovingly rendered depiction, and I thought of the unknown sculptor who must have once seen this wonderful being in the flesh.
A sudden thud awoke me from my reverie, and standing before me was a woman, the jewels on her green robes rattling like sabres in the fierce wind. She turned to face me, and I saw the form of the immortal Ayesha, a queen of great power. Beautiful beyond description, she was terrible to look upon and radiated a cold power that could kill a man.
"You tremble like a leaf in the wind, boy. Do you dare to look upon my face?"
I raised my eyes and had to 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 paused, and I stared resolutely above her head. I was determined not to succumb, but my mind was racing ahead of me. Had I somehow crossed the border and entered 'The World of Fiction?'
Ayesha was the legendary, 'She who must be obeyed,' from She by H. Rider Haggard. A novel set in the time when England was a world power and explorers from that country were venturing far into the continent of unknown Africa.
"You look afraid, boy; you have no reason. It is refreshing to talk to a man who is immune to my charms. What troubles you?"
Ayesha was looking at me kindly and was no longer a threat. I knew how dangerous it was to look upon the beauty of the immortal goddess, but I had to ask her a question.
"Ayesha, is this the world of fiction?" I asked, keeping my eyes averted from her face.
"No, boy, this is the Badlands; the next world lies a great distance away to the north. There was a great battle to secure the border long ago, after this land had fallen to weapons of war. All who once lived here are dead, but I am immortal and have survived. The years have been endless, but I have foreseen in the waters of the enchanted fountain that a great flood will soon descend on this land and wash away all traces of the evil that once befell it. Look, boy, it arrives even as we speak!"