The Great Wide Somewhere

Chapter 3

My path was distinct, clear and level like a paved road. As I made my way, the emory rustled in a manner that almost felt like whispers were swirling in the air. Out of nowhere, the castle rose like a ghost ship arising on the horizon. It matched the chaotic fauna of the planet as it ebbed with unnatural slants. Its rugged appearance made me falter in my pace. As though the air could sense my fear, a breeze kicked up behind me. This was not a chilling breeze that bit me but rather a warm, comforting breeze of a late-spring day. It was inviting and alluring, pulling my feet forward.

I rose my hand to knock on the towering wooden door before me, but it opened without a single rap.

"Hello," I called into the cavernous space. My voice bounced around the great hall with no return. "Hello," I called again.

The only greeting I received was a warmth permeating from a lit fireplace off this dwarfing room. I was drawn to it despite my lack of chill. The small study was much more inviting than the isolation of the hulking, vacant entryway. The study was furnished with furniture covered in rich, velvety fabrics in reds and yellows. The warmth from the fireplace seemed to sink into the pieces making them even more inviting. Surrounding the space was row after row of books.

I moved closer to look over the many pieces' spines but found myself faced with languages I did not recognize. With a sigh, I realized that many of this Universe's mysteries lie before me, but I could not indulge from my own lack of skill. A reader struck with illiteracy. I slumped to one of the overstuffed chairs and, as I gaped my hand around to pull the blanket from the chair back to my shoulders, I felt a book instead. It was there, on a small side table, that my hand pulled Don Quixote to me. It was as comforting as the blanket I had sought. I let the pages fall open and became immersed in the story I hadn't experienced since I was a child. I was nearly finished with Don Quixote's first adventure when my eyelids betrayed me and pulled me to sleep.

I awoke to a rumble in my stomach and found myself in a bed, not unlike the warmth of my childhood bedroom. It was not extravagant nor dripping in the lush fabrics of the study. It was comforting in its familiarity. I let my feet dip to the floor and glanced around the room. For the years I had longed for space, being on a planet not unlike my own brought its own ease. The hallow chill of space was gone, replaced by a cozy temperature.

I moved to the armoire expecting to find uncomfortable gowns and thick stiff fabrics that would match the castle that I had stumbled to the night prior, only to find options of jeans, t-shirts, and simple sweaters. An audible sigh of relief fell from my lips.

I dressed quickly and went in search of breakfast and my missing host. Uncertain of how I had even arrived in this bedroom, I found myself wandering hallways until I ventured upon the grand staircase to the great hall I had entered the day prior. It was still drafty and devoid of warmth, but this time a second door was open to a dining room. I enter to see a spread of every breakfast food I could recall. Rows of various eggs, breakfast meats, breads, and even cereals; brands of cereals I had thought discontinued and was nearly certain would not be present on this distant planet. I settled on simple tea and a raspberry muffin, feeling foolish as I sat alone at a table for a dozen.

"Hello," I called out to the empty room with no return but my own echo. I sighed and continued my breakfast in lonely silence.

After breakfast, I returned to the study, seeking kinship with Don Quixote once again. Although reluctance as I was acutely aware of the vivid account of vomit that lay before me. As my mind reluctantly plunged into the novel, the pages seemed to fight against me. First, it was just a sheet or two sticking, causing difficulty to turn the page correctly, but then even the words seemed to dance around the page preventing proper concentration. I gave up and tossed the book to the small side table.

"It is difficult to war with one's own mind." His voice did not have the booming effect of the previous night. It came soft and tentative.

"My mind appears not to want to give me the gift of concentration." I stood as I spoke, eager to look on my host in the light of the room.

He stood before me, a tall, expansive man with a broad chest and deep-set eyes, the color of the darkest night. His face was scarred and disfigured as though he had spent years in brutal battle and bore the scars that came with it. There was a slight hunch to his posture, like life may have broken him. As grotesque and monstrous as his looming presence should have been, he appeared precisely as I had pictured him in the shroud of the night. While his appearance was still one that pulled the tug of fear to my mind, there was also a hint of relief that my depiction had been correct.