Imagination

(An Excerpt from White on Black : Part 2 )


A nightingale called softly from the oaks that lined the fairway, their bows swaying in a gentle breeze.  King stood examining the situation carefully, his brow creased with concentration. Then his jaw rippled with determination and he turned back to the caddy.
“Hand me the woods, Mark.”
The bag clattered as the boy selected one of the clubs and passed it to King.  King flicked stray, light brown hair back under his cap with one hand, grasping the club with the other.

It was a tricky shot.  The fairway drifting around to the left, lazily placing the oaks between King and his objective.  But with any luck, King would make this next shot, and then only a simple putt would be in the way of his success.  A spare for sure.

He  gripped the club carefully, feeling for a stable hold, then went taut with concentration once more.  The woods teased the white ball twice, then caught it slightly to the side, sending the innocent sphere hurtling up into the air. King scowled as a “thunk” of wooden impact and the startled cry of the Nightingale echoed back from the oaks. He was in the rough.

King blew out is breath.  So much for a spare. He sighed reflectively and turned back to the golf cart and caddy.

Except they weren't there.  In an instant, they had disappeared.  Instead, the long cavernous library of the VMI Academy in Richmond, Virginia, stretched out before him.  Golden rays of sun causing the drifting dust to dance lazily among the book-laden shelves.
          King looked back in bewilderment. Gone was the green grass, the offending oaks, and bright blue mid-day sky.  In their place were books.  Classics of literature as far as he could see.  Homer, Dickens, H.G. Wells, and Verne peeked out from the groaning shelves.
“Ah, Cameron.”
King whirled towards the reedy voice, golf club raised in defense.  A tall, thin man stood quietly behind him, in a gap between shelves, an open copy of Plato's republic in hand.  Small bright eyes peeped through horn-rimmed glasses that perched on the man's beak-like nose.  His sparse, pale blond hair was combed from ear-to-ear, covering his bald pate.
“You won't need that anymore.”  He said, closing the book with a flick of his bony wrist. The wooden thump echoed through the sleepy room and in King's hand the heavy club flashed, disappearing into thin air.  King gaped at his empty hand, then let it drop to his side, eyes narrowed.
“Where am I?”
A small smile quirked the corners of the man's mouth.
“Surely you recognize it?”
“Yes, it's just. . . “ King's brow creased in confusion, and he passed his hand across his brow.
“Ach.” The man raised his hand, forestalling speech, then waved towards a table  that stood underneath a golden sunroof pouring down light like liquid honey.
“This all easier to take . . .” The energetic thin man hauled out a chair from the table. “sitting down.”
King sat slowly, not altogether trustful of a chair that, just moments before, had been a patch of manicured grass. It held his weight however.  He stared at the other man unsure how to react to what was happening. Military protocol was helpful in the field, but  the field kept changing.

The thin man perched upon the edge of his seat, gnawing on his bottom lip slightly. Then folded his thin hands and peered over the top of his glasses at King, his face the picture of serious contemplation.  King almost laughed at the incongruity.  Here he was in   Oz and the tin man was going to lecture him.   If the man had had feathers, he would have ruffled them.  He pushed his thick glasses impatiently.
“Wait a minute. . . I know you!” King leaned forward incredulously. “You're Professor Limbeck! You taught social theory and personality complex.  I could recognize that look anywhere! “ King laughed merrily, Limbeck looking on nonplussed.
“  Well,  I'm glad you remember me after all these years. Do you remember anything I taught you?”  Obviously Limbek was trying to be positive.
“Not a word!” King was still laughing. Limbek's face fell. Then King stopped laughing abruptly and leaned across the table, troubled.  “But. . . you were killed in an accident! I remember.  Pushed off the road and into a light pole or something. ”  He paused in bewilderment. “You're dead.”
          “Of course I am, you Dolt!” Limbek bristled.  “ And you're really not in a library right now.  That should be obvious to someone who's supposed to be as bright as you are.”  King frowned in anger.
“Now just hold on a minute. . . “
“And I had such high hopes for you too.” Limbek shook his head sadly.
“Really?”  King was rather astonished, his anger forgotten.
“No.”
King stared at the man across the table.  This wasn't making any sense.
“Wait a second,  are you trying to tell me I'm having a dream?  That is so cliché!”
“Well I'm sorry for insulting your sensitive nature.  Normally, you would be right.  However, at this point you're in a state of shock caused by loss of blood and a strange toxin that is slowly leaking through your veins. Shock mixed with venom can do interesting things to people.”  Limbek sneered.
“Are you always this obnoxious?”
“Only when I have to interact with idiots.”

King rubbed his chin thoughtfully, putting his feet up on the round table and looking around but not really seeing his surroundings.  This was all sort of confusing.
“So,  why did I bother coming up with you? I mean, it's my dream right?”
He looked back at Limbek, but instead there was an older, rounder man without glasses, and a huge gold watch stuck into a waistcoat pocket.  A waistcoat that was a glaring purple. The man spoke loftily.
“Who can guess da reasoning of za mind?  Perhaps your qvuite mad and sufferink from delusions of exquisite paranoia and stupidity.  Perhaps your subconscious mind has somethink it vishes to communicate.”  He continued under his breath. “Alzoh, I find zat extremely unlikely.  I'd suspect zat it's being avoidink contact for years.”
“Thanks for your help.” King could always appreciate irony, but this wasn't the time. “I'm dreaming that I can't hear you. Go away.”
The fat man laughed deeply, his heavy girth rolling from his chortling.
“I'm afraid it doesn't qvuite work that way, Mr. King.” He snapped his chubby fingers, and before them a plate of sugary twinkies popped into existence.  The man daintily plucked one off of the platter and stuffed into into his mouth.
“Mmmph, scuse me.”  He licked his finger like a bird preening feathers before letting his hands settle back to the top of his bulk.
“You see mine dear boy, somethink has been bothering you.  Ever since you vere in zat horrible place vere zat captain died so terribly.”  He let his fingers drift over the platter before they seized their prey.  “I can only assume zet zat is de reason for this here. . .” He stuffed the second morsel into his mouth. “ dream.”

King watched in silence as the twinkies disappeared one by one.  When the platter was empty, the fatty disappeared with it.   Again the skinny Limbek was seated across the table.
“So you see, even though you're hating this dream, it is for your benefit.”
King leaned across the table.
“This is all out of my mind right?  Where the heck did the fat guy come from?”
“Trust me. You really don't want to know.”
“And you're . . . what?  Part of my memories? A figment of my imagination that represents the irritating side of myself?”
“Please don't remind me.”  The skinny said in a dry voice. “But all this is really not the point.  We have to figure out what's bothering you before either of us get to rest.”  He stood up and wiped some twinkie crumbs of the table. He straightened.  “So let's begin, shall we?”

King stood up. He looked around him again; nothing changed.
“So what do I have to do? Click my heels together?”
Limbek was completely dead pan as he snapped his fingers.  
  
“Take a few seconds for your eyes adjust.”
It was very dark, and King couldn't see a thing. Beneath his hands was the tabletop, but without the books and papers that had rested upon it earlier.  Instead, he could feel scour marks in the metal beneath his palms. After a few seconds the darkness faded as his pupils widened.
“Oh, I forgot, never mind about the adjusting part.”  Limbek sounded slightly bemused as he snapped his fingers again.  The room flooded with light searing King's eyeballs. “I always forget about the lights. It's not as easy as you might think, trying to lead you around in your memories.  You're kind of like an old dos interface, you can type things in, but it doesn't actually mean that anything useful will come out.”
“Cute.”  King snarled as he rubbed his smarting eyeballs, then looked around himself.
“It's the bridge of the Valkyrie.” King spoke aloud with the recognition.  The broken windows were as he and Sadout had left it,  a pile of broken furniture in the corner, and the splintered wood and glass scattered upon the floor.  The desecrated corpse still lay buried in the furniture, it's eye sockets staring morosely out at him.

The corpse looked slightly fuzzy, and as he stepped forward, it got fuzzier.
“The memory isn't very strong, so don't look too closely. You only saw it for a split second.”  King nodded and stepped back to the middle of the room.  He looked up at the ceiling.  No grays. Only plain white metal.
“Similar to the fuzzy stuff.” Limbek came over and peered upwards as well as he explained. “You didn't actually see the ceiling, I just find it disconcerting if there isn't one.” He looked back at King. “Well? Did you find what you were looking for?”
“I didn't even know that I was being bothered by anything. What am I supposed to be looking for?”
“I haven't the foggiest.”
“Thanks for the help.”
Limbek merely shrugged as King wandered around the room.
“Actually, the thought has just occurred to me that we might try running through the memory.”
“How's that?”
“Well, right know we are in a still that I have extracted directly from your memory. I was thinking that we should run through it, and see if anything new shows up.”
King crossed the room in quick strides.
“Let's do it. I want to get out of here as soon as possible.”
“I'll need you to lie down right here.  This is where you fell after turning on your headlamp.”  He pointed to a spot on the floor. King lay down, trying to avoid some imaginary glass. “Lights on or off?”
“On.”

With a sudden burst of movement that sent King's heart into his mouth, hundreds of greys flashed into existence and began circling above him. The room was filled with their clamor, and King had to yell with all his might to get Limbek's attention. The grotesque creatures froze in blurred movement. King got up slowly, trying not to brush against them.
“There's something. . .”  His mind remembered a feeling and he searched for it  
  {the Master?   (So hungry. . .  A green monarch. . .  Around him bits of grays ripped by IRP fire were frozen in delicate patterns of gore frozen in motion.  He slowly knelt, his eyes closed, his mind fully absorbed in memory.  A green monarch that rose eerily from the depths of remembered minds.  Before, King had almost lost himself in myriad minds that surrounded him.  But memory held no sway over him, leaving him to explore.

Around him the grays sparkled into nothingness.  Limbek walked carefully to his side where King stared down into a hole in the deck, dark rippling water reflecting back up at him.  King realized distantly that generally the bridge lacked holes in the floor. Especially when they led to water.  He spoke slowly, like a man returning from the void.
“What's down there?”
Limbek leaned forward to whisper in his ear.

“The answer.”