Season I | Episode II | Chapter III

A violin hisses to a stop. All music dies. The dancers stop dancing and the guests all turn to them.

Tarrick stares. Grandma stares. Mr. Osxian stares. They all stare.

Yes. That’s unmistakably Old Leohomin. Except now, he’s not old.

“Hello, Velliard.”

“Am I dead? Are you dead? What is this place? What’s going on?”

Old Leohomin chuckles. He clasps his paws together. His voice isn’t like Tarrick remembers. It’s less… grainy. Deeper. Full of life. Much like he is now. He’s younger. Almost Mr. Osxian’s age. Maybe a tad bit younger, even. Old Leohomin’s fur is no long tinged with white, he’s taller and muscular, he smiles more, he… he looks happy. Tarrick never saw the old man look happy before.

And, Tarrick figures, he should probably stop calling him “Old Leohomin” in his head.

“Why don’t we go to my office, hm? We can talk there.”

Leohomin leads them out of the ballroom through a side door. Tarrick pulls at his collar under the dancers’ stares. Relief floods him once he closes the side door. They’re in another hallway, wider than the last one. Leohomin walks forward. Grandma, then Mr. Osxian, then Tarrick follow. Rows upon rows of doors are opened on either sides. Tarrick risks getting whiplash from looking from left to right so much. He cranes his neck. Every room is different. Every room is beautiful.

In one, cubes made out of crackling ice glide around a cavernous room full of stalactites.

In another, auras glow in the dark.

In a third, multi-coloured rings the size of Tarrick’s arm spin around indefinitely.

Another room Armours glint in the light of burning torches.

Another room. Oozing bubbles.

And another room. A pyramid deep under the ocean.

And another room…

“So what is this place?” asks Tarrick.

No one answers. Tarrick doesn’t know when he stopped. He blinks a few times. The world flashes in and out at the speed of his blinking eyelids. Was he dreaming? Was he sleep-walking? He looks around. Arms stretched out. Neither Grandma, Leohomin or Mr. Osxian are there. He’s all alone. Amidst a hundred doors that don’t seem that enchanting anymore, all of a sudden.

“Um… Grandma? Mr. Osxian? Old Leohomin? Hello?”

Tarrick cracks his head inside a room. Beams of light pour in from open windows. They’re deflected by a hundred mirrors standing upright at different intervals around the room. Tarrick taps his foot. The ground is firm. Hardwood. The walls are light and airy. Huh. This place doesn’t seem so bad. Not as alien as some of the other rooms. He walks inside. The door slams behind him. Tarrick jumps and spins around. He twists and pulls on the doorknob. Nothing. It won’t open! Why won’t it open?

Wonderful. A trap.

Tarrick’s teeth clatter. It’s cold. So cold. Was it that cold a second ago? He rubs his paws against his upper arms. He turns back towards the middle of the room. Ice blooms upon the floor and up the walls. Frost. Snow. It starts to snow.

“Hello? Is anyone here? I’m sorry. I’m lost! Leohomin?”

The mirrors crack and break apart. The clash hurts his ears. As if a thousand knives ripped through the mirrors. Broken glass falls everywhere. Tiny bits of glass reflect the light beams into a thousand colours, some Tarrick’s not even sure he’s ever seen before. A trap door opens up in the ceiling. Light pours in, reflected by a million shards. Bright. White. Burning. Tarrick covers his eyes.

“What the-? What is this room? Help! Help me!”

No one answers. The sound, the scream, he’d heard once before, when Mr. Osxian had put the key in the keyhole, overwhelms his ears. Louder. Louder. Loud. So loud. He can’t take it anymore…

“Tarrick! Where’s Tarrick?”

The door bursts open. Warmth floods in. The scream recedes. Someone grabs his shoulder.

Tarrick opens his eyes. He doesn’t know when or why or how, but he’s sitting on the floor now. On his knees. Covering his ears. The mirrors are intact. The beams of light are back. Inoffensive. They don’t burn like a lightning bolt anymore. Everything’s fine. He’s fine.

Tarrick looks up into Old-Young-Whatever-Leohomin’s face. A serious, grave face.

“Are you all right, son?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

Leohomin helps Tarrick to his feet and pulls him outside the room. He locks the door with a key on a giant key ring he produces from the pocket of his coat. A thousand keys clink together. Grandma’s warm arms wrap around Tarrick. He closes his eyes. Her shawl is itchy. It pulls him back to reality.

“You weren’t supposed to go into the Room of Deflections.”

“The Room of Deflections?” repeats Mr. Osxian.

“It’s a long story. Come on.”

Tarrick is barely aware when he’s pushed into an armchair. Cushions press against his back. Grounding him. That’s what he needs. To be grounded. Tarrick’s eyes glean information, bit by bit, about his surroundings. He’s in an office. Blue light roars in a fireplace. There’s a desk of dark wood in front of him. Hundreds of jars line up on dark wooden shelves. Tiny environments shine through the glass. Tranquil little hills. A gurgling river. Bubbling lava. Islands in the sun. Someone puts a warm teacup into his paws. Grandma and Mr. Osxian sit on either side of him. Leohomin sits down behind the desk.

“Drink. It’s tea.”

Liquid gold falls down Tarrick’s throat. He sighs. Content. The world comes into focus and happiness bubbles in his chest once more. He’s whole again.

“Is this Rockwell Mansion?” asks Mr. Osxian.

“It is. You remember.”

Great-Uncle and Great-Nephew share a smile.

“I’m sorry for the subterfuge. This is your inheritance. A Mansion passed down through generations in our family. Though… it’s an inheritance of sorts. Because I want to assure you, I am not dead. You’ve seen the portraits in the entrance hall, haven’t you?”

All nod.

“Good. These portraits are what keeps me alive. Us alive. Your ancestors. Grounded to this realm. Tomorrow, Velliard, I’ll ask our portraitist to paint you. And when the time comes, you’ll become that image of you again. Younger and more alive than ever before.”

“So you’re not a… ghost?”

“I am of flesh and blood, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Fascinating,” says Tarrick.

“About you.”

Leohomin’s eyes pierce into Tarrick’s. Tarrick gulps down his tea. But the Davrian doesn’t seem angry. On the contrary. Is he… admiring?

“You’re the next Chronicler.”

Tarrick and Grandma look at each other.

“I am.”

“Good. Let me give you some advice.”

Leohomin raises his paw. A candle floats to his palm, green flame flickering. It casts a strange sickly glow upon Leohomin’s face. He grins with all his teeth, sharp canines glinting.

“This is a candle of possibility. I can see all your potential.”

“And?”

Leohomin arcs his brow. “You’ll do great things. Under only one condition.”

“Which is?”

“Always choose the road less travelled.”

Leohomin blows out the candle. The room becomes warm and inviting again.

“Now, why can’t I invite you to a little dance?”

On his way out the door, Tarrick stops when he hears someone call his name.

“Tarrick?”

“Yeah?”

“Catch this!”

A small box is thrown into his paw. Tarrick looks at Leohomin curiously.

“What is this?”

“A gift. Tea.” He winks. “You’ve just tried it. Oh! And don’t forget to put a little honey in it.”

Mr. Osxian’s ancestors no longer stare at them when they return to the ballroom. Leohomin offers Grandma a hand and sweeps her off her feet. Mr. Osxian is taken by the paws by one aunt and one uncle. Tarrick prefers to sit in a corner and watch. He eyes the little tea box. A spidamander is etched into it. The family’s crest, he presumes. Tarrick looks up. He taps his foot to the music’s rythm. The flying train goes by, whistling happily. The little being teleports in and out, greeting friends and playing with long sleeves. Tarrick has almost forgotten about the Room of Deflections by now. Almost. Sure, Meaning can be dangerous and unpredictable. But it’s also warm and bright. The touch of a friend’s hand in yours. The sound of laughter. The spicy spark to your dinner. Good tea with honey. Life is life, good and bad.

You just have to follow its dance and hope for the best.

“To think this was in our backyards the whole time.”

Someone screams. A dropped glass breaks upon impact with the floor. A blur of fur and feathers opens flies into the ballroom. Tarrick blinks. He smiles. It’s a someone he knows well.

Prothea.

“Tarrick! Tarrick, Tarrick!”

“What is it, Prothea?”

“Come!” she calls, beckoning him. “The canal is ready! We can leave!”

Adventure awaits.

Soon enough, Tarrick, Grandma and Prothea are back on the Lennox. They thank the little teleporting being for taking them back. It salutes and disappears. Their coats shield them against the night air. It’s dark now, but the canal is lit by a thousand lights. Tarrick stands at the helm. Grandma pulls on a rope. And Prothea gives the two canal workers - who, as it seems, are always, always fighting - a good roasting.

“You’re the one who made me late on vacation!”

“No, you’re the one!”

“You’re the one!”

“All right, you two! Enough!” cuts them off Prothea. “It’s either you two shut up and let us pass, or I bite the two of you until you scream for your Mama!”

“All right, all right… Good Meaning, that cat-owl is mean.”

“Have you ever seen a talking cat-owl?”

“I can’t say I have.”

One of the canal workers taps his lips. “Do you think…”

“MOVE IT!”

Late that night, the Lennox is on its way to the next step in their adventure. The helm is on auto-pilot and they can retire to the bookshop’s back store. Excitement bubbles in Tarrick’s chest. He takes out his red leather suitcase from under his bed. He takes back his treasures to his desk. Tarrick opens the first journal, sharpens his feather and plunges the tip in the ink pot.

“We should be there by morning,” he says to no one in particular.

“I know that.”

That was Prothea. Grandma doesn’t answer. She’s already sleeping in her bed. Snoring like a train.

Tarrick doesn’t really care. He starts to write.

Prothea lands on his shoulder. “What are you doing?”

He smiles at her.

“I’m chronicling.”