16 - Footprints in the Snow

 Julia, Geraldine, and Elsevier reach the scene of Paul's disappearance. 

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It became harder and harder to tell what was real, and then one day nothing was. This is reality's end. Footprints in the snow Julia Petawba is deserted, its buildings half buried in snow. The place seems so desolate that I can hardly look at it with relief, and yet, after three days trekking through the cold, I'm grateful to reach a destination. At the very least it promises a distraction. I spent the better part of yesterday hanging back from the others, trying unsuccessfully to raise Lester. If he, or whatever echo of him haunted the chalk, still existed, he was in no mood to talk. The rest of the time was spent worrying about myself. Mr Elsevir's latest response had, in some ways, gotten even more deeply under my skin than when he'd just straight up tortured me. Before I'd been traumatized, now I'm racked with self doubt, which is vastly worse. Doubt can get you killed when you're in a frozen wilderness, walking in the wrong direction. I sidle up alongside Geraldine as the first houses come into view, my stomach growling. We haven't had a bite of meat since that fish she caught two days ago, and I can tell that the spoils that I looted from busted vending machines back on campus aren't going to sustain us much longer, no matter how we ration them. I uh I don't suppose you left any food behind at your place, I try to say conversationally. Hm she shakes her head. Took it all with me. Ah, I sigh. Well, maybe we'd have more luck at one of these other houses. Wouldn't count on it, she says sympathetically, and then she pauses to look around. Strange seeing it like this. The town, you mean? Hm. Yes, it's honestly a bit unsettling, I reply, and then give her a sympathetic look. I assume that the regiment here was called up when the gentry came. Called them all up, she replies. Even the Air Force after the plane stopped working, hell of a lot of good it did. I recall you telling me that Paul's dad was a soldier, I say carefully. Yeah. I'm sorry. Geraldine shrugs. How it goes sometimes. She draws in the cold air with a sniff and shakes her head. Never figured I'd end up back here. Are you two planning to dawdle after we've come all this way? breaks in Elsevier from somewhere behind us. Or shall we find your grandson? Geraldine gives me a look. I try to smile encouragingly. All right, she says. Follow me. We come upon Geraldine's house, which, like the other military homes, is a wide bungalow with off-white wooden siding. After a bit of fiddling with the lock, the front door swings inward, spraying powdery snow into the entryway. My own is your own, she announces. Mr Elsevir and I follow her inside. Cold and gloomy as the house may be, I must still resist the urge to take off my boots. Hacking snow over someone's living room rug just feels so wrong. We follow Geraldine down a narrow hallway stemming off from the living room and into what I presume to be Paul's bedroom. I didn't change nothing after he her voice cracked slightly after he left. I look around. Paul's bedroom is a cluttered mess, as much a studio as a place to spend the night. There's a single sized bed in the corner, a small dresser, an acoustic guitar reposing next to a chair on the far side. But all of these are lost amidst the room's dominant feature art. There are dozens of paintings, drawings, printouts, and sketches on the walls. I count six sketchbooks piled up on his desk by the window, and, just offset from the room center, an easel sits empty. They're all his, I assume. Most of them, yeah, answers Geraldine. I discern a twinge of pride in her voice. He's actually pretty good. I know little about art, but his work stands out nonetheless. By the look of things he's yet to settle upon a distinct style. Some of his works are photorealistic, others look inspired by comics or anime. Others are in what I assume to be a traditional Cree style. But in almost every case he makes a vibrant use of color. His dad thought it was a waste of money, says Geraldine ruefully. But yeah, he's damn good. A little too good, really, says Elsevier, lifting a huge coil ringed book from the floor and holding it up for inspection. For the briefest of instance some strange emotion seems to play across his face, but he buries it rapidly. Tell me, Geraldine, was this by some chance your grandson's last painting? Geraldine studies it. You know, I think it was on his easel just after it happened. I mean the cops moved everything around when they were searching the place, but yeah, I remembered this one. So different from his usual stuff. She's not wrong. The others are bold and colourful. This one, a simple water colour of a foggy winter scape, looks drab and almost painfully muted. The color is difficult to describe, not quite grey, nor purple, nor brown, nor yellow, the precise colour of sorrow, I think. And then it occurs to me a second later that I have absolutely no idea where this thought came from. It's the only nature seen in Paul's room. Indeed, the only indications of any human presence in the image are a trail of footprints in the snow and a lonely tower on a distant hillside, seeming practically part of the forest. How did you know? Geraldine asks Elsevir. He doesn't respond right away, but instead continues to study the painting. I try to discern the fairy's emotional state, but his face betrays nothing. Mr Elsevir He turns abruptly to face her. So I have good news and bad news. Which would you like first? She blinks. Uh good, I guess. Very well. I know where your grandson went. Geraldine gasps so sharply that it becomes a laugh. Se fantastique, but how? And where? Elsevir gestures at Paul's last artwork with a pale finger. This painting. For a moment my companion froze her brow, and then, right as I'm about to demand that Elsevier tell us what he knows, she exclaims Oh what? I stop myself mid question and look to Geraldine. This ain't no paintin', she exclaims. Can't you see? It's real. I don't understand. Your look, says Geraldine, moving excitedly toward me. Keep looking at the paintin', yeah? Now she grabs my head and very subtly adjusts my perspective. I gasp in surprise. The effect is subtle, the landscape is sufficiently drab and uniform, and most of its distinguishing features are far enough in the distance that it's not obvious. But the perspective noticeably changes just as if I were looking out a window. Some kind of holograph, I suggest, though the explanation doesn't sound convincing even as I say it. The painting is very obviously a painting done by hand in watercolor, and yet somehow it encodes 3D information about the landscape it represents. No, it's a wormhole or a bijection between points and different space times. Or a magic painting, quips Elsevier. But please don't let me interrupt your floundering attempts to rationalize. I feel a blush rise to my cheeks. That's another thing you could call it. It's a door exclaims Geraldine, too enraptured to care. Then these footprints belong to Paul, don't they? she says, reaching out her hand. Oh, they look fresh. If we could just her fingers brush up against the paper. Only paper. For a long moment her hand lingers there. And then, finally, Geraldine brings it down to her side, her whole body sagging like her muscles were made of lead. For what it's worth, you were right, says Elsevier, returning the book to the floor and laying a hand on her shoulder. In fact, it was both a painting and the landscape itself, for a time, but magics of this type are notoriously unstable, hmm, particularly when you use water colours. The gateway is gone. I suppose that's the bad news, I remark, tamping down my distaste for the idea that space-time geometry could depend upon paint. Actually, the bad news is that Paul is almost certainly dead. Geraldine suddenly stands bolt upright. I apologize if that was unclear. Even after everything, I can scarcely believe Elsevier's callousness. Geraldine bawls her hands into fists. That's a lie. It's not, retorts Elsevier. And as you are grieving, I shall excuse your impugement of my honour once. But you will understand that I wish to be released from my contract. Paul's not dead. I watch in mute horror as the two face each other. I feel for Geraldine, but this could end very badly for her. Elsevier's voice is level when he replies. Oh no. This painting abuts on to true sorrow, one of the most dangerous locales in all fairy. Tell me, dear Geraldine, if I am afraid to go there, how do you suppose that a fifteen year old human boy would fare? I search Geraldine's features. I hate to admit it, but he makes a compelling argument. In fact, come to think of it, he goes on. He disappeared before the cold set in, didn't he? From out of a locked room? Tell me, Geraldine, did he habitually keep supplies for winter travel in here? Or even his boots, or even his coat? He pauses to let his point set in. Geraldine's face remains stony. Pray, what odds would you give his survival? Elsevir demands. A hundred per cent, Geraldine replies, not skipping a beat. An interesting assessment. Yeah, she says. Not if he were in his right mind, maybe, says Elsevir. But true sorrow is a place of despair, and a boy in his right mind wouldn't have painted it in the first place. Something must have driven him to it, and were I to guess, he lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. I would say that it was probably you. Shut up. Oh I've struck a nerve. Do tell. I've heard art always comes from a place of suffering. Did you make him suffer, Geraldine? I said shut the hell up. Look, I say, interposing myself between them. Elsevir, stop being such an ass. Geraldine I pause. What? she demands, crossing her arms over her chest. W Well, we've been walking for hours, I say after a moment. We haven't had a real meal in two days. I think that before we leap into anything, I ain't leaping into nothin', she says coldly. Me and Elsevier, we have a deal. I took him to this portal and now he's gonna fucking cough up on his end. I'm trying to do you a favor, you vainglorious human fool, he exclaims. Like fuck you are. Geraldine, I plead. She glares at me. My words die on my tongue. Teened with both of you, Elsevier murmurs, breaking the silence. Very well. You want true sorrow. Follow me. With that he snatches the art book back up in his hand, turns on one foot, and walks out the door. Geraldine is hot on his heels before I can even process the situation. Wait up, you bastard. What are you we can't leave now? I protest, following them into the living room. We're exhausted. We've we're almost out of food. We need a chance to rest and resupply. Elsevir waves his hand, and Geraldine's front door explodes in a shower of splinters. Without even breaking his pace he stalks off into the yard, Geraldine following. Or maybe not, I murmur. We left our snowshoes and supply laden toboggins resting at the foot of the front steps. Elsevir breezes contemptuously past them. Elsevir, slow down shouts Geraldine. Slow down, he retorts. But poor little Paul is in trouble. Surely every moment counts. Wait, I exclaim. You said the main gateway to Fairy was guarded, and there must be some way to reopen the painting. But Elsevier is already powering along. Geraldine's gaze follows him, her expression angrier and more determined than I've ever seen it. Before I can even find words to say, she's already ploughing after him, not even taking the time to put on her snowshoes. Geraldine, this is insane, I exclaim. True Sorrow could be a thousand kilometers away, and we barely have rations for another day. Come or don't, she tells me. But I ain't losing sight of him. No sooner has she said these words than she is off again. I'll uh I'll catch up with the supplies, I shout. She acknowledges with a perfunctory wave. A moment later the pair of them round a bend, leaving me alone with the Toboggins. There might be enough food for one person to make it back to Ottawa, I think uncharitably. From a strictly rational standpoint, it's the obvious choice. The odds were never good that I would actually secure an apprenticeship, and that was before I'd known that the knowledge that Elsevier had offered to share was potentially a threat to reality itself. I'd already probably killed Lester. Now my quest showed every sign of becoming a pointless suicide march. Carrying on would be a textbook example of the sunk cost fallacy. With the food I could make it back to the city. Maybe things have improved there. Maybe I could live out the rest of my life ignorant of everything except the fact that I'd let my friend die in the forest. Shit. With that thought in my mind and a few bags of hickory sticks in my toboggan, I set off towards certain death. You have been listening to a serialized audio adaptation of the novel Reality's End, A Theory of Magic, Book One, by JP Babb as narrated by JP Babb. The novel is available from Otter and Osprey Press and can be purchased in trade paperback on Amazon or as an electronic copy wherever ebooks are sold. The podcast, Reality's End, A Theory of Magic Book 1, is licensed under copyright by JP Babb. Special thanks to Elec Kachan for composing our theme music, an epic arrangement of the Quebec Waff folk song La Le Bon Bon, Sarah Clark for her services as a sensitivity reader, and berserk design for the cover. You can support me on Patreon at patreon.com slash JP Babb for early access to new episodes, bonus commentary, and material from the unpublished sequel.