keeping watch over this mysterious energy that I have captured within the key, is using powerful magic to reclaim it. Fierce Djinn wait beyond the exit of this cursed moment in time.
It doesn’t feel right to have stolen this. A visionary account of the history behind this stolen treasure shows that what I possess is not Solomon’s essence. The circumstances are far more complicated, involving a wicked creature which I refuse to recognize as being my mother.
The soaring dragon, appointed by the designer of this era, gazes into my heart.
In its fury the sentinel may destroy me, as I remove the kingdom crown, found amongst the ruins of father’s castle. The lifted coronet does more than dignify hierarchy. When activated it protects the wearer from harm and detection.
If the keeper will not accept my offered sacrament, then all hope is lost.
Kneeling on one knee I place the diadem of protection on the red shimmering circle of glass. My body returns to visibility. I imagine the fierce custodian spewing chemicals that will deteriorate my flesh, such as acid, with the shield relinquished.
Its giant wings whoosh as it lowers to the ground, fanning the glowing trees and sending scorching ash my way. The scalding particles singe the hairs of my face and sizzle against my skin. Anxiety pulses through my nerves with the beacon key held out for the warden to reclaim.
Sinus pressure builds in my head. Equilibrium dizzies. Weakening sensations flush through my muscles. All I want to do is find a comfortable place where I may curl up to sleep.
The dragon changes shape with its feet on the ground. An unclothed creature, covered in shimmering scales, half man, half woman, and reptilian in appearance, walks toward me. It takes the key from my hand and cups the item, where it becomes a large, orange glowing egg.
“This creature will develop for you. Through care the two of you will bond.”
The Naga defender backs away with worried eyes, before I can inquire about Father.
“You have brought a plague to this place, Prophecy. Your only hope to survive this curse is to nurture your sibling, Sivil, to full health, and travel to the land where all is forgotten. When you find the door handle fastened to a tree, turn it. It is never locked.” The stranger turns to flee.
Sibling? I quietly question, gathered from the Naga instructions. Are the visions true?
In this cursed realm, referred to as “the land of naught,” there are passageways of time that lead to additional worlds where we gain essential materials for the rearing of Sivil. While journeying through this transitional land, the experience triggers a change in my being. Nervously I realize my attributes are similar to Sivil’s.
With the region successfully crossed we arrive in an abandoned grocery store, barren of supplies. In the time it takes to reach this place of forgetfulness, I bond to, nurture, and train our newest party member. I must constantly be alert while around this fellow creature. A Naga’s ruthless nature drives it to determine an individual’s weakness, before overtaking them.
The concept I hold of who I am advances, from watching the development of my brother. This broadens my mind to greater purpose. I detect the traces of mindlessness at this grocery store. My thoughts are irregular. A residue distorts intellect.
Detachment suggests life could be made simple by the disbandment of our group. By forfeiting my life, remaining party members would lose track of the group’s set passage, becoming self-serving nomads. Or they’ll assimilate into a sub-sect within society, blending in with this world of the forgotten. The burden of our final days could dissolve if Sivil would force back my head and tear my throat out. Alarmed intuition alerts Sivil is strengthening his grain.
The Keys to Destruction: Two Doorways
My head is in a daze. There is only one thing I remember. My name is Abraham.
Dense fog hinders the visibility of further surroundings. I stand on an unfinished, second-story wooden deck, attached to a house that too is incomplete. This lumbered skeleton remarks someone’s defeated hope, burdening me with gloom by its neglect.
Sickening stomach pains accompany the taste of metal with each exhale.
In search of nutrition I embark along the balcony stairs. The lower level is void of walls; support beams outline empty pens; the concrete-foundation is damp from dew. I walk past the studded doorway into an abandoned area with a table. A repetitive pattern is carved into the furniture’s surface; there’s a list of notes in the wood. The debilitating ailment I’ve awakened with is causing reality to seem overwhelming, deterring focus and daunting my motivation.
A bag of tools rests below the table with “ABE” pressed into the satchel’s leather side. Searching within it I find a scribing tool. With a drop cloth I cover the portion with notes, and muster my strength to repeat the carved message. Uncovered, terror dramatizes my stomach aches. The style of writing is identical. Each engraved sentence is constantly repeating!
Confusion tinges on the brink of panic as I search for indicators to establish or enforce the notion that this is my house, this is my project, and this is the place where I live. Grabbing my tool bag, I inspect the next room, proposed to be the future den area. There’s another table. Spread across it is the home’s blueprints in my penmanship. The smell of lumber evokes memories of measuring, sizing, and hammering each beam into place.
Most of the house is checked off. The next step of the construction project is the deck.
I consider bringing the drafted copy and start rolling it up. Beneath the sheet, etched words cover the whole of the surface. Softy I sob, finding the message the same as before…
Try Working On The House Today
I leave the plans as a precautionary resource for later and ascend from the opposite side of the house, to find the second story handsomely manufactured to near completion.
My handiwork ties a homely connection, knotting inside me a ball of excitement.
I pass by my, or rather our bedroom, to find my spouse knitting a blanket for our unborn son. Fond memories bloom, enlivening joy as one might experience from viewing flowers opening to a bright morning sun, melting the night’s haze and cold frost away.
Trying to think back, I still can’t remember what led me to stand on the deck.
The hallway is painted a soft blue. The flooring is finished with polished granite tiles, and the ceiling is well insulated with attic space. At the end of the serene corridor are two rooms.
It feels impossible to move forward. Portions of clarity and a sinking intuition clue me in as to why only the upstairs is complete. Whatever is in those rooms has halted this project.
Determination bolsters my will to walk past. It would be asinine for me to turn back.
Gripping the toolbag handles, the second story porch refreshes my memory. That potion is an important part of the project. By completing the lookout deck, after erecting the building’s frame, I can remain focused, while taking brief relaxing breaks. I envision stepping outside onto the overlooking patio, to clear my head of distractions and keep my day on track.
The rooms hold a dark void, absent of features, imparting emptiness as I pass.
Outside, rays of sunshine break through the dense overcast, thawing the fog and presenting a crystal blue sky. Neighbors emerge from their homes, taking to associated projects.
Here we are a linked society comprised of twenty-five homes, which my wife Rechelle and I have temporarily lived in through the course of that dwelling’s construction. The neighborhood residents contribute by developing the rest of our community. Concrete sidewalks paved. Gardens cultivated. Furnishings built. Provisions made. Property features enhanced.
Just before lunchtime I accomplish what I’ve put off for too long. Rechelle brings cucumber sandwiches and iced tea for our luncheon. I’ve just finished setting up two hand-crafted chairs and a simple patio table built for use on the finished deck.
Biting into two fresh triangular slices of bread and crisp cuts of cu
cumber, my nagging curiosity returns. Ignoring it, I envision working on the downstairs after lunch, as an ice-cold pour of tea washes down my throat. The ice chimes in the perspiring glass placed on the lightly lacquered table top. The sun is energizing as it warms my face.
I can’t help thinking about it. I recall one of those rooms is my wife’s, and if I bring up the idea, there may be no way of avoiding the notion. I hesitate before suggesting:
“So what would you like to do after lunch?”
Bashful guilt flushes her face and glosses her eyes.
“Well you always know what I’m thinking, Abe,” she softy answers.
I consider mentioning an alternative topic.
“You were thinking about going back into your room, weren’t you?”
Her smile cracks. After dabbing the side of her mouth with a cloth napkin she answers,
“That does sound wonderful. It beats knitting the day away in our room!” smiling politely. “But you have so much work that needs to get done, don’t you?” she leads politely.
Slowly breathing in, my heart is tugged in two directions. Finishing the porch has spurred a revitalizing sense of self-pride and motivation. And yet my thoughts also convince,
“You deserve a break to enjoy time with your companion, for the short rest of the day.”
“Yes,” I admit to her. “But the porch is done, after all. And I can always get more work accomplished this evening.”
“It will be