Goldilocks

I followed Priscilla at a distance because I knew she was still upset. I kept her just at the edge of my vision so I wouldn't get lost. But about halfway down the mountain, after a ten-minute trudge through the swamp-like mud, I completely lost sight of her, at a fork in the road, no less. At that very moment, the rain picked up in speed and intensity. It became difficult to see, I could hardly hear myself think.

Iris, please, where am I? I asked miserably.

No response. She hadn't responded at all since the fight had ended. I was alone, once again.

I deliberated between the two paths. The right seemed to lead further down the mountain. The left sloped back upwards at a steep angle. Neither seemed particularly welcoming.

I eventually took the one that went left because I figured it would be easier to walk back down the mountain again than have to climb up it again if I went the wrong way.

Five minutes later, I knew I had guessed correctly because I found a faint set of footprints in the path before me. They probably belonged to Priscilla. I followed them quickly. It wouldn't be long before the rain washed them all away.

A frantic climb through the mud that involved plenty of slipping and sliding and an almost sprained ankle ended in a vast clearing that was empty save for a singular murky structure looming over the mountainside. The structure in question was a modest lodge partially built over the river that flowed from the temple. Long metal stilts kept the building from sliding into the water, though they were barely holding the structure up. In fact, the entire building looked like it was ready to fall apart. The thick wooden walls of the three-story structure were rotting like unwanted books in an abandoned library. The tile roofing, steep as a mountain’s peak, was covered in a perpetual blanket of dirty water. Heavy smoke belched out from the lodge’s crumbling brick chimney. Dim lights illuminated the tall, frosted windows adorning the four sides of the building. All the windows were spider-webbed with long fractures, it was a miracle they were still intact.

Despite its haggard appearance, there was something warm and welcoming about the lodge. Perhaps it was the promise of warmth within its weary walls. Perhaps I simply wanted to get out of the blinding rain.

I looked down at my feet and noted that the footsteps that had led me here had already been washed away.

I had found my way home just in time.

I hobbled the rest of the way toward the lodge as best as I could, my boots now picking up a fistful of mud with every step I took. At one point, one of my boots sunk about a good half foot into the mud and got stuck. As I stepped forward, the mud yanked the boot off of my poor right foot. I nearly face-planted into the beautiful mud lake surrounding me.

"Why now?" I groaned, shaking a fist at the mutinous boot. "You were doing so well."

I hopped several steps on one foot before I could stick my foot back into the miserable, water-logged boot. By then, I had enough of my inadequate footwear. I tore my boots off my feet and carried them in my left hand.

I marched carefully the rest of the way to the roofed front porch, doing my best to avoid splinters from the forest debris. Thankfully, the mud was soft enough that anything sharp simply sank deeper into the abyss without incident.

As I neared the end of the mud lake into the safety of the lodge, I spotted a pair of lonely graves planted to the left of the soggy porch.

I stopped dead in my tracks, not certain that what I saw was real.

Who puts graves in front of a house? I thought.

At that very moment, I heard a disembodied voice wailing in the distance. I searched the forest around me to see if I could pinpoint where the wailing was coming from, to no avail. I was on edge before. Now, I was starting to feel very afraid.

I need to get out of here. I gasped.

But curiosity drove me to get a better look at the graves. I nervously scanned my surroundings as I tip-toed my way to gravestones.

The graves lay side by side, each marked by a crude, rectangular gravestone the size of a large dictionary. A single white carnation lay at the feet of each gravestone. I noted in alarm that the right grave had yet to be filled. How I failed to notice before beat me. The empty grave's mound of dirt towered beside it like a friend in mourning. I was tempted to look into the grave to see if there was anyone, or anything, inside, but my better sense got ahold of me.

Nope, nope, nope, that better not be for me, I thought in alarm, remembering how angry Priscilla was not too long ago.

I hurried away from the graves and clambered onto the safety of the wooden porch. The wind died down immediately as the lodged blocked out most of the cold. But my relief was momentary. A hoarse cough rose from the back of my throat. I was soon seized by a fit of coughing that shook my entire body. The episode ended after what seemed like an eternity. I was kneeling on the floor doubled over in pain, gasping for breath. My throat prickled with pain that I knew was not going to go away even with a nice cup of hot honey ginger tea. A hot fever flooded my entire body like an angry hive of bees. I knew at that very moment I had just gotten sick inside of a nightmare.

I peeled myself off the ground and crawled over to the front door. Even that was a struggle. I noticed through my snot and tears that the front door had been left slightly ajar. As I raised my hand to push open the door, I could feel the warm air wafting out from inside like a nice, warm bath. I stretched my arm out to barely shove open the door. Then I grit my teeth, forced myself up onto my feet, and stumbled through the threshold.

A rush of hot, glorious air embraced me like angels from above before I collapsed onto the luxurious carpet inside.

I lay there for a while, content to simply be out of the cold. But the cold was still nearby.

When the cold became unbearable again, I forced myself up onto my feet once more before sleep took me. I looked up and beheld the inside of the lodge for the first time.

The lodge was deceptively huge on the inside. The ceiling rose high above the beige carpeting and the dusty white walls like the roof of a cathedral far out of reach. Three wooden ceiling fans hung from above like helicopters in the distant sky. Thick, heavy drapes graced the tops of the tall windows of the lodge-like curtains hanging from heaven. They were dyed a deep burgundy and trimmed with gold. Near the entrance was a carpeted staircase that led upstairs.

In the center of the living room was a fifty-pound coffee table that looked sturdy enough to stop a car. On top of it was an olive-colored bowl filled to the brim with fresh green grapes. Beside the table was a pair of plush leather sofas. One was a three-seater dyed a deep brown. The other was a jade green loveseat. They were adorned with red plaid blankets and half a dozen couch pillows of varying sizes. The fireplace stood not too far away from the couches.

There was a small inferno roaring in the fireplace. It promised a world where the cold did not exist. I limped over to the front of the fireplace and collapsed again onto the lush blue rug in front of it. Immediately, I forgot about how cold I was as the rug nearly suffocated me with its warmth. I could feel my extremities warming up rapidly, almost as if by magic. My coughing died down as feeling returned to my body. Before long, my coughing vanished, too.

“It is magic,” I mumbled, my voice muffled by the rug.

I tossed my soggy mud-stained boots aside and stood up from the ground long enough to grab a pillow from the loveseat. As I laid back down on the rug, a pillow under my head, I wrapped my enchanted cloak as best as I could my entire body, curled up into a ball, and closed my eyes. The very concept of cold fled from my mind. For a moment, I felt like I was back home celebrating the winter holidays with mom and Eleanor and her family.

I forgot to close the front door.

I thought about getting up, but I was already so comfortable I knew I wasn't going to get up anytime soon.

What if this is some kind of trap? I thought just as I was about to fall asleep. You are in a nightmare, after all.

I reopened one of my eyes and scanned the area around me. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Moreover, Priscilla's footsteps had led me here.

Surely the place where she stayed was safe from danger.

Who cares? I thought. I’m tired.

---

The smell of hot food woke me from my nap. Someone must have recently cooked a meal because I don’t remember smelling food when I first entered the lodge. I pushed myself off the ground and followed my nose to what I believed was the dining room. I was sorry to leave the blue rug and the fireplace behind, but I was too hungry to stay in bed.

To my delight, I saw a half-finished Thanksgiving dinner left on the massive banquet table that took up most of the space in the tiny dining room. I tried to remember if it was almost Thanksgiving in the real world, but to my alarm, I couldn’t remember what time of the year it was, not even remotely.

“Don’t worry about that now,” I told myself as I grabbed a clean-looking plate from the dish rack. I piled my plate high with an entire turkey leg, a pound of cranberry sauce, a pound of mashed potatoes, and several helpings of stuffing. As I set the plate down on the table to dig in, I saw an open bottle of sparkling cider beside the turkey. I took a swig from the cider straight from the bottle. The carbonated liquid burned my parched throat, but it was absolutely worth it. The sweet taste of liquid applesauce bubbled with nostalgia.

I gorged myself on the meal, grateful that at least the food in the nightmare was delicious. Halfway through my king’s feast, I noticed that someone had changed my clothes. Gone were the wet rags. In their place was a pair of warm jeans and a white cotton t-shirt. I figured Iris was probably the one who had given me the new clothes since she had administrator-level powers to do just that, but I couldn't help but wonder if someone else was responsible.

I looked uneasily around the room. The first thing that caught my attention was a group of pictures posted on the wall in front of me. I set down my fork and took another swig from the bottle of cider as I examined the collage.

They were pictures of Priscilla with a small group of ragged-looking adventurers celebrating various holidays, mostly Thanksgiving and Christmas judging from the meals they gathered around. The members present changed from year to year, but I noticed there was five present in most of them. Two grizzled men, one built like a statue that made the other look puny in comparison, one woman whose eyes radiated with power, a fuzzy black cat, and her.

They must have been the others Priscilla mentioned.

While the group looked quite happy in the pictures, the look in their eyes told me another story. They were the eyes of young men and women who had seen too much, like troops who had spent too many years on the campaign trail. Even Priscilla, usually bright and indomitable, looked like she was at wit's end.

To the right of the collage was a small square whiteboard. The number 7 was written on it in blue marker. Underneath it was an under-lined message scrawled in small, bubbly letters: “This is the year we reach the city.”

At that moment it hit me that Priscilla had really been stuck in the nightmare for seven years. Seven actual long years in a reality designed specifically to kill her. Seven years of life I would never be able to spend with her.

“Boo,” a voice said suddenly.

I nearly spat the cider out of my mouth. I looked around the room in alarm to see who had spoken. Then I saw it, a black cat sitting on the counter beside the stovetop, lazily waving his tail. I did a double-take between the collage and the stranger. He was identical to the cat in the pictures on the wall. Since there was no one else in the room, I was certain the cat had spoken.

“Was that you?” I asked.

“No, it was the turkey leg you just ate,” he replied.

The cat hopped off the counter and landed on the kitchen tile floor. He began to lick his paws.

“Quite bold of you to waltz into our little home and eat our food like a certain fairy tale character,” he said. “And like the fairy tale character, you aren’t very observant of your surroundings.”

"I was sick," I defended. "Speaking of fairy tales, I'm being sassed by a talking cat."

The cat glared at me as he stretched out his back.

“It's how I cope,” he replied.

Once he was finished stretching, he ambled his way up to me menacingly. I raised my right foot instinctively.

“That’s close enough,” I said.

The cat stopped dead in his tracks.

“You wouldn’t hurt the Queen’s favorite, would you?” he said.

I raised my foot even higher and widened my eyes.

“Queen?” I asked.

“Your lord, 'Her Royal Majesty' Priscilla,” he said.

“Don’t tell me she-”

“-it is what she insisted she be called,” the cat said. “Fine by me since she took me in when no one else would, a poor stray condemned to a terrible fate.”

I placed my right hand over my forehead.

I was too late.

She had already convinced the poor cat to address her with honorifics that technically didn't apply to her.

"I call her 'The Most Honorable Priscilla,'" I started. "And only if she really insists. But since she's a Marchioness's daughter and not a Marchioness herself, I should really be addressing her as 'Lady Priscilla' instead of "The Most Honorable Priscilla.' 'Her Royal Majesty' is reserved for the monarch alone. 'Lady Priscilla' should know better."

"It matters not to me," he replied. "She might as well be the queen, given all she's done to keep our band alive."

"You really look up to her, don't you?"

"We would not have survived without her."

"Fair enough," I groaned. "I'm still going to her address her as lord and 'Her Most Honorable' until she twists my arm about."

I lowered my raised foot.

Gordon relaxed.

The cat lay on the ground and continued to wave his tail. He looked harmless enough, but the fact that he could talk told me he was dangerous. Then again, he may just have been some stray that Priscilla had taken in out of pity, just as he claimed.

“Forgive me,” I said. “The last person I trusted in this nightmare nearly killed me. And the one I met just before gives me really bad vibes. It's been a day.”

The cat chuckled but stayed where he was.

“Oh, you poor thing,” he said, bowing his head. “The name is Gordon. And I would be a fool to harm the Queen’s lover.”