Into the Mist

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  were drawing the memory out on a piece of thread and I could only grasp at it. I realize this sounds strange, but we were drawn into Alistair's world in a way that made time seem less meaningful.

  "You come now to a time of training and of reawakening your past," said Alistair. We did not fully appreciate what this meant the first time we heard it, but within a few days under the guiding hand of Sir Alistair Wakefield, it became very clear what he'd meant. In the morning hours he focused all of his considerable knowledge directly on the two of us, as though he'd been awaiting our arrival for a long time and had planned out an entire curriculum for us to learn. There was a brief time of learning together, and then he would single one of us out while the other tinkered on some project he'd assigned.

  To Thomas fell the vast storehouse of Alistair's architectural genius. He taught Thomas how to build all kinds of things, beginning with small scale models of the terrace and the Wakefield House. I was astounded to find that Thomas seemed to already have the knowledge stored somewhere inside him, and that Alistair was only awakening it with the lessons he taught. Such was Thomas's extraordinarily rapid mastery of complicated subjects. Soon they were talking of vast walls miles

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  and miles long, of catapults and towers, of all sorts of things I found no interest in whatsoever.

  My lack of interest might have been a problem had this been a school we were attending, where building unimaginably complicated structures and objects was the only thing to learn. I believe I would have been removed from such a school and regarded by everyone as a student of catastrophically limited ability. Thankfully, Alistair seemed fully aware of my limitations from the start, and in fact had not the slightest problem with it. If anything, it pleased him, for his plans for my education were as different from those he had for Thomas as one could possibly imagine.

  On that very first day - and every day after in our time with Alistair -- he spoke to me almost exclusively of the ways of water. My time was divided between the lake and a certain room on the terrace. The room was hard to find at first, and I often became lost looking for it. The terrace wound through the trees in such a confusing v/ay that I never felt as though I could know all the places it went. I always used the tree in the middle -- where we'd eaten on the first day -- as my point of reference. But I still became lost now and then and had to slowly wind my way toward the water until I knew again where I was. The room had a sign over

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  the door that read The Warwick Room, and the inside was filled with things I came to love. There were piles and piles of charts and diagrams of places I'd never seen, all of them on the water. There were complicated plans for a boat much larger than the one in the lake, and there were books with instructions on sailing and nautical science. I devoured everything I saw, spending hours poring over the books, the charts, and the plans.

  While I was busy learning the ways of water, Thomas was spending most of his time in the modeling room. From the moment he laid eyes on the modeling room, it was his favorite place in the entire world. It was here that he and Alistair built scale versions of all sorts of things. There was a complete model of The Land of Elyon with every imaginable detail. The two of them would explore every nook and cranny, speaking of how the land might change, where new things could be built, and what places could be explored. They used every kind of tool one could imagine -- saws and clamps, boxes and devices, measuring instruments, brushes, glues, paints, and papers of all kinds and sizes. It was a treasure trove of creative implements, and the mere thought of going there set Thomas to smiling and dreaming of what he might build next.

  And there was something more, something that is harder to describe, though I will venture an

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  attempt. There came a moment in our training when I was sitting with Thomas alone. We had long since been given a room of our own, wrapped around a tree like all the others, with desks and beds and a window that looked toward the lake. Alistair was preparing lunch, and we'd come back between lessons to get what we needed for the afternoon activities.

  "Thomas," I said on this particular day, "how long do you suppose we've been here?"

  Thomas began to answer right away, but then he stopped himself, scratching at his chin as he sometimes did when he was feeling particularly puzzled over a problem in the modeling room.

  "Why, I guess I don't know," he said. "I've lost track of things with all the work."

  "Do you remember when Armon brought us here? Can you remember when that was?" I asked. It was very odd, but neither of us could remember. It seemed to us both that he'd been gone only a few days, and yet it felt like we hadn't seen him in years and years.

  "We could ask Alistair," said Thomas.

  "Ask me what?" Alistair had come to the open door of our room and was standing there looking at us both. I suddenly got the same feeling about him as I'd had about the time passing. Maybe it was because my mind was on the idea of time -- I don't

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  know. But all at once, Alistair looked like he was very, very old... and yet very, very young. Everything about that moment hung in a disorienting timelessness. I sat down on my bed, dizzy from the swirling thoughts in my head, and I looked once more at our teacher.

  "What is it, Roland?" he asked. "Is something wrong?"

  "How old are you?" I replied, and for some reason I felt ashamed of asking, like I'd uncovered some secret I wasn't supposed to. Alistair backed up a step or two -- I remember that -- and he had a look on his face I understood. / hoped I wouldn't have to explain this just yet.

  "The both of you, come with me," he said, looking at us not with anger but with resolve - the time for telling something important had come, and he was bound and determined to tell it. He took us to the best part of the terrace, a place where I could see the lake and the boat, the rising trees, and the colors of the canyon walls. There were three chairs -- ones we sat in all the time. This time when we sat, Alistair took a deep breath.

  "We've been busy, haven't we?" he started. "It's easy to lose track of time when you're so busy with so many important things."

  He seemed a little confused, trying to find a

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  way into what he wanted to say, and so Thomas helped him along.

  "How long has it been since Armon left us here?" my brother asked. "For some reason we can't seem to remember."

  "That's a complicated question," said Alistair, "though it may sound simple when you ask it."

  Alistair scratched the hair on his chest through his shirt. The hair had always struck me as one of the old parts of him, all gray and fluffy at the edge of his collar.

  "I don't know," he finally continued. He had a bewildered look on his face as he repeated himself. "I don't know how long Armon's been gone."

  "Well, what about a guess?" Thomas prodded. "How long would you guess?"

  "I have no idea," said Alistair. "Maybe ten days, maybe ten years. There's really no way of telling."

  "But that makes no sense," I said with uneasy laughter. "You have to know about how long he's been gone. Don't you keep track of the days or the weeks? It can't be that hard. And we can't have been here ten years."

  "Can't you have?" said Alistair, and this time he was serious, as if he wanted to make sure I knew he really thought it was possible. "Maybe you just don't remember."

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  I asked Thomas later if he'd felt the same way I did at that moment, and he said that he had. We both felt suddenly old. Questions ran through our minds: How was it that Thomas could be so skilled as an artist at such a young age? How could two boys -- ten and eleven years old -- unravel the mysteries of the Lake of Fire and the Wakefield House?

  "This place you've come to, it's ancient," said Alistair. "It's the first place, and it has a certain problem understanding time."

  "How old are you?" asked Thomas, and the moment he asked it I knew the answer wouldn't make any sense.

  "I'm two hundred yea
rs old," said Alistair. "At least that's what Armon tells me."

  "But that's not possible!" My words came out louder than I'd expected them to.

  Alistair scratched once more at the gray hair under his shirt and stood up out of his chair, holding on to the rail of the terrace.

  "We come now to the whole truth," he half mumbled before continuing with a question. "Do you remember what I told you about Grindall, about the giants?"

  Thomas and I both nodded.

  "A long time ago, I lived in a place Grindall passed through, a place that has since been left

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  behind. They call it the City of Dogs now, though it wasn't always so. I built much of what used to be there. In fact, that is the place where I built the first thing I was ever really proud of: a clock tower. It was the center of everything then, the place where everyone gathered. I built the first boats that sailed on the great lake at Castalia; I built so many things. It was a gift I had -- building things. It came naturally to me.

  "The very first Grindall came through there, and I saw him standing before the clock tower. He was just an average man then -- or so it seemed -- peddling potions and remedies that quickly got him run out of town. Something told me I should keep my eye on him, that I should follow him. It wasn't until much later that I realized the inkling I had to follow was the hand of Elyon."

  "The hand of Elyon," repeated Thomas in a whisper, as if it meant something he'd felt himself at times.

  "I followed Grindall out into the wild," continued Alistair, "and found that he'd come into our small town not to sell us something, but to see if we were organized and well armed. He had the race of giants with him, of which there were about a hundred, and he was making his way to someplace only the giants knew of."

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  Alistair stopped short and offered to bring us the things he'd set out for lunch, but we insisted he go on without delay.

  "He was possessed, you see," said Alistair. "By an evil force that knew the way...."

  "Knew the way to what?" I asked.

  Alistair hesitated, looking back over the years in his mind. "The way here. The way to this sacred, hidden place, where all language is the same, and where time stands still.

  "I followed Grindall and the giants, and when they departed with a bag full of Jocasta stones, I remained. There have been times when I've gone away - to build the Wakefield House, to ..."

  He broke off, as if there was something he'd stepped into and wished he could turn back.

  "Where else?" asked Thomas. "Where else have you gone?"

  There was a long silence, during which I had the feeling again of time passing and yet standing still. Did the moment last a second or an hour? I couldn't say for sure.

  "Do you see that boat there, on the lake?" asked Alistair.

  We told him that we did.

  "There's a bigger one, at the bottom of the cliffs, on the Lonely Sea."

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  "You mean below the clouds?" I said, my mind racing with the thought of it.

  Alistair nodded. "The Warwick Beacon. I built it a long time ago, long before your father rose up against Grindall, before there were any lost children. Back then -- when it was only me -- I had years and years to work. Through six reigns of Grindall men I was mostly alone -- alone but for one."

  "Armon," I said. "Armon came to see you."

  "He did. It was his might that made the Warwick Beacon possible. He was often tasked with searching The Land of Elyon for what he might find for Grindall, and so he would sneak back, though none of the other giants ever did. Each time he returned, he would tell me he was sorry it had been so long, and I would say back to him that it hadn't seemed long at all. But years had been passing without my knowledge."

  "But why didn't Armon grow old as well?" I asked. "He should have died out in the world, away from the power this place has over time."

  "If you were from around these parts -- from Castalia or the City of Dogs -- you would know that giants don't age in the same way humans do. They can be killed, but they grow old ever so slowly.

  "I came here before the first Grindall overtook

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  Castalia. Your father rose up in the sixth reign of Grindall, a hundred years later. I was here that entire time, and yet I was not."

  "Tell us where you went, Alistair," I pleaded.

  "There were many years away, building the Wakefield House, followed by many years building the Warwick Beacon. And then there were journeys to the Great Ravine and the Lake of Fire."

  He saw that we were surprised he'd been to these places of our past.

  "Oh, yes, I know all about those places. I had a little something to do with the iron doors, the signs and symbols along the way ..."

  He trailed off again, deep in thought.

  "That time away aged me, but there was something else that aged me even more."

  "What? What else took you away from this place?" asked Thomas. We were both terribly curious.

  "The Lonely Sea," answered Alistair. "Time on the Warwick Beacon aged me a great deal."

  "You've sailed the Lonely Sea?" I asked. Something about the thought of it thrilled me. I'd been sailing in the lake with the small boat for - how long? -1 didn't know. But the idea of taking a bigger boat on bigger water to unfound places filled me with excitement.

  "You must believe what I'm about to tell you," said Alistair, a desperate tone in his voice that I had

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  never heard him use before. "I have known many daunting tasks in my life - the construction of the Wakefield House and the Warwick Beacon, immeasurable travels by land, sailing the Lonely Sea alone. In all these things I was led by an unseen hand. I've often thought I was a lunatic -- a madman following dreams and feelings that seemed to have no purpose. But there came a time when everything I'd done made sense -- the day Armon came not alone, but with the two of you strapped to his back."

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  ***

  CHAPTER 24

  The Five Stone Pillars

  We could get no more out of Alistair, and he wandered off to retrieve our lunch. While we ate, we pestered him with questions, but he sat quietly, unwilling to add to what he'd already told us.

  The day was drifting by. It was strange to think that night would come, followed by a new morning, and yet I would not have aged. I would be the same. It struck me that I could be a child forever in this place, that I would never grow old or grow up. There was something altogether wrong about the idea of it, and I tried to put it out of my mind.

  After a while we were finished with our lunch, and Alistair told us to prepare for a long day of walking in the mountains.

  "When morning comes, I'll take you both to the Warwick Beacon," he said. "It requires all of a day to get there, and Armon will be coming again soon. When you've been here as long as I have, you get a feeling about such things, and I sense him coming. He won't be alone."

  Thomas and I glanced at each other and knew

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  what Alistair meant. We would soon share Alistair's affections with an unknown number of lost children.

  I couldn't get to sleep that night, and neither could Thomas. He sat at our little window with a blanket wrapped around himself as he painted pictures by candlelight. He seemed to be going through more pages than I'd seen him use up before, as if he were trying to empty his memory of images he'd seen along our way so that he could fill it back up again. I watched him at the window for an hour or more, and then I forget what happened, so I must have fallen asleep. I awoke early to find him snoring beneath the window, clutching the book in one hand and a brush in the other.

  "Thomas," I said, kneeling down beside him, "it's morning. How long did you stay awake?"

  He came slowly to life and stretched his arms over his head. "Too long." He said this at the tail end of a yawn and it came out garbled. "But time stands still here, remember? So I might have slept an hour or a year. Who's to say?"

  It was a good point, tho
ugh it confused me. I was finding time to be a topic that could drive me crazy if I thought about it too much, going round and round in circles and never reaching the end. I was quickly getting in the habit of thinking about

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  something" else when it came up, which I imagined was how Alistair came to have no idea how long he'd been alive. He'd probably resolved not to think about time anymore after a hundred years. It had taken me only a few days.

  There came a knock at the opening to our room.

  "Are you ready to leave?"

  It was Alistair, a very large pack I'd never seen before over his shoulder and a jug of water on a sling in his hand. He held out the water.

  "Thomas, would you mind carrying this? We'll need it for the first few hours. After that there are waterfalls and streams we can drink from."

  Thomas untangled himself from the blanket and took the jug of water. The three of us started off, out of our room to the end of the terrace.

  "That's a very big pack you have there," I said. "What's inside?"

  Alistair didn't answer me as we made our way down the stump stairs to the ground below. He said nothing as we rounded the lake and ventured into the trees on the other side. Somewhere along the way I sensed an odd feeling and realized it was only odd because I hadn't felt it in a long while.

  "I'm a little tired," I said. "Can we stop a moment and have some of that water?"

  Alistair took in a deep breath of mountain air

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