The Fallen Odyssey

Chapter 7: Quarter Past Seven

Justin's eyes snapped open. He sat up in bed, breathing heavily and clutching his chest in the dark.

See? he thought. A dream. I knew it was all just a-

He looked around the room. He lay on top of a quilted bedspread with his clothes and shoes still on. This time, an old-fashioned oil lantern in the corner glowed brightly, illuminating the glaring lack of decor.

"Ah, hell," said Justin.

He stood from the bed, checking his pockets. His keys, wallet, and phone were still there. His winter coat was no longer hanging from the bedpost, though. Instead, there was some sort of gray garment or blanket. He crossed the room, paused to shake away some lingering dizziness, and opened the door.

In the adjoining room, sunlight streaming through the diamond-shaped pane in the front door revealed further oddities: no wallpaper, no carpet, no appliances, and no electrical outlets. Not far from the antlers on the wall was a pendulum clock bearing symbols he did not recognize. He counted the runic figures and realized it was a quarter past seven-on a clock that measured time in eighteen-hour increments.

He turned at the sound of footsteps. The old monk named Zechariah emerged from around a corner and did a double take upon seeing Justin. "Oh, good, you're up," he said with a diplomatic smile. He wore pale gray robes now instead of black ones. "You're about my size. Put these on, won't you? Quickly, please." And he tossed something at Justin.

Justin barely got his hands up in time to catch it. "What are you-?" he started to ask, but Zechariah turned back down the hallway. Justin unfolded the bundle in his hands. It was a pair of tan, woolen pants, a brown shirt, a linen undershirt, and a brown jacket as coarse as burlap.

Zechariah returned with an ancient-looking book in one hand and a pair of boots in the other. The only furniture in the room was a small, round table with only one chair. He dropped the book on the table with a thud. He traced its parchment with a finger, his beard bobbing up and down as he mouthed the words.

"So," said Justin. "This is your house."

"What a bright lad you are," Zechariah said without looking up. Whether the remark was supposed to be condescending or sarcastic, Justin couldn't tell, but he thought it was certainly one of the two. It was hard to catch the subtleties in the old man's lilting accent. His voice reminded Justin of a church song: pleasant on the surface but with an underlying vigor that seemed poised to erupt any second. "A heavy lad, too." The old man stretched his spine with an audible pop. "Next time, please pass out a little closer to the house, won't you? Oh, and this fell out of your coat."

With a flourish, Zechariah pulled Justin's inhaler from one of the sleeves of his robes and held it toward him upside-down. Cautiously, Justin took it.

"Thanks," Justin said, putting it in his pocket. "I, uh, play on the basketball team. Or I used to, anyway. I have exercise-induced bronchoconstriction."

The old man looked at him strangely.

"Asthma," said Justin. "Well, not technically asthma, but kind of. I usually don't need the inhaler, but every once in a while-"

"Tell me, Justin," Zechariah cut in, "what languages do you speak?"

Justin scrunched up his face. "How do you know my name?"

"What about your letters?" said Zechariah. "Can you read and write?"

"I don't remember telling you my name," said Justin. "Do I know you from somewhere? Or did you...? You didn't, like, go through my wallet or anything, did you?"

Zechariah ignored this and turned the book in his hands around to face Justin. "What does it say here?" he asked.

Justin sighed. He leaned forward and opened his mouth to read, only to realize that, like the clock on the wall, the letters of whatever language this book was written in were foreign to him. Just lines upon lines of unfamiliar symbols.

"What is this?" he said.

Zechariah made an appraising sort of noise in his throat, then shoved the boots at Justin. "Go on, then. Get dressed."

"In this?" said Justin. He held up the shirt. It had laces instead of buttons, no pockets or collar, and was as brown as a turd. "I'll look like a jackass in this."

"You look like a jackass now," said Zechariah. He pointed at the bedroom door. "Try the gray cloak I left in there, too. With a little luck, you may pass for almost normal. Now, hurry. We must get moving." He closed the book and abruptly left the room again, muttering, "If I just had some more time."

"Get moving where, exactly?" Justin called but got no reply. He grumbled as he balled up the clothes and went back into the bedroom.

The gray fabric draped over the bedpost turned out to be a cloak, though he had little idea of what to do with it. He dug his keys and wallet out of his jeans and sat them beside his inhaler on the bed. Hoping against logic for a miraculous recovery, he tried to power on his phone. The screen stayed black.

He tossed his phone onto the bed. This wasn't funny anymore.

He grabbed the new clothes and changed, if only to distract himself. There was no mirror to confirm it, but he must have looked ridiculous. His comfortable jeans were exchanged for rigid trousers that rubbed roughly against his skin. His nicely broken-in tennis shoes were replaced with stiff, unpadded boots half a size too large. Instead of the linen shirt, he decided to keep his T-shirt, over which went the brown lace-up shirt. Over that went a brown jacket with forearm-length sleeves, buttoned up the front. And over it all went the gray, hooded cloak, which fastened by way of a brooch at the neck. By the time he had figured all this out, Zechariah was pounding on the door.

"I'm coming!" Justin said.

He slid his belongings into the pockets of his new jacket. Giving his jeans and tennis shoes one last look, he left the bedroom to find Zechariah standing in front of ten books stacked high on the table. Several packs were slung over his shoulders, but despite his haste, he was still taking the time to read.

"Jeez," Justin said, looking at the stack of books.

"Research," said Zechariah without looking up. "A pity I can take so few, but I wouldn't want you to hurt yourself."

"I need to talk to you about this errand," said Justin. "I don't know where you're going, but I'm not... Did you just say **** yourself'? As in, myself?"

Zechariah stared at him, looking almost hurt by the remark. "You mean you would force a frail, old man to carry such a load?"

"Well-"

"There's a good lad."

For being so "frail," Zechariah didn't seem to have any trouble loading the hardcover monsters three and four at a time into a sturdy satchel.

"What sort of research-?" But Justin slapped his forehead in mid-thought. "Research, what am I saying? Forget that! You need to tell me right now what the hell's going on. I'm not going anywhere with you! Not until I know who you are... And how I got here."

The old man shot Justin a look that made him feel very small. For the second time, he thought he might be scolded or struck for his callousness. It also occurred to him that he had momentarily forgotten that this was a dream. Usually, by this point in a dream, he would have woken up. Either that, or any logical sequence of events would have come to a grinding halt, and dream-Justin would have looked down and suddenly realized he wasn't wearing any pants.

Justin looked down. His new pants were still on. And they still looked ugly as sin.

"I am a scholar and scribe named Zechariah," the old man answered. "And what the hell is going on is that a man's house burned down last night-just after something very valuable was stolen from it. That fire was no accident. The culprits were covering their tracks. But don't blame yourself for Ahlund's misfortune. I'm sure you'll make it up to him in time."