2. The Journey West (Patreon)

A second chapter to get the ball rolling...

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Hallon stops by the house in London before boarding the RMS Mauritania bound for New York. She looks forward to the journey—a chance to spend some time with Eratosthenes and catch up on her reading—but the passenger liner makes it across the Atlantic in just five days. That’s barely any time at all, not when the crossing used to take weeks.

And she finds New York much changed, with many new buildings rising up taller than ever. Well, she can say that about all the big cities: London, Paris, Berlin. Even Stockholm is changing; busier and more crowded than before.

New York hums with energy. Quite literally. The electric broadcast towers invented by the Tesla-Edison Company are everywhere. The city buzzes with lights, radios, and machines of all kinds. Hallon tries not to gawk, but it’s hard. Very hard. One day, when she’s free of the Calamity, she’ll have to come back and explore, but for now, she heads to Grand Central Station.

The clerk at the ticket booth isn’t sure what to do with the slim gold bar she offers in exchange for a ticket to Sacramento. When he realizes that she doesn’t care about getting full value for the gold, he pays for the ticket out of his own pocket and keeps the bar for himself. Hallon wishes him well of it. There are many more just like it in her luggage.

The ticket is for first class accommodations, a compartment to herself with its own washroom and a bench that turns into a bed. The rocking car lulls her to sleep, and the next day, she changes trains in Chicago before heading to Sacramento.

Hallon keeps to herself and to Eratosthenes. Trains are good for watching the countryside pass by and reading, and that makes her feel a bit better about the journey. She’d brought a handful of old novels about the American West. They aren’t as popular as they used to be, but Hallon has a fondness for them. Another five days pass; altogether it’s just ten days to travel from London to Sacramento. The world has changed so much over the last hundred years.

The weather on her arrival is hot and dry, just like in the books, but the days of the cowboy are long gone. Instead, the streets are paved and lined with five and six-story buildings. The bell from a cable car can be heard ringing from the next street over, and transmission towers dot the city, broadcasting electricity to any who need it.

The platform is busy, but she recognizes it from the vision in the Green Witch’s scrying bowl. Eratosthenes materializes beside her in his human form. The two are an island of calm amid the chaos of people disembarking and boarding the train.

This is it, he says, and the luck’s with us. The boy’s scent lingers.

I’m surprised he made that much of an impression on the place. Is there a trail we can follow?

Eratosthenes walks towards where the boy tripped. Not directly, but there is—let me—yes, the resonances converge—here we go. He leads Hallon through the crowd to a young man in a porter’s uniform. He has dark, curly hair under his cap and a thin mustache.

Today, Hallon is wearing a light gray, linen pinstripe suit, and her hair is pinned under a Panama hat. The magic surrounding her does its job, and the porter mistakes her for a young man.

He asks, “Need help with your baggage, sir?”

“It’s not heavy, thank you, but I was hoping you could help me find someone. He’s about sixteen and a bit clumsy, passed through here not long ago, goes by… Rabbit.”

The porter takes off his cap and holds it with both hands. “Would that be Mr. Milo Rabbit? Is he here? It’d be an honor to meet him again.”

“Something like that... I didn’t realize he was famous.”

“Not exactly famous. I just remembered him ’cause of his tower of baggage. I didn’t know his story till I read about it in the paper. Had no idea he was a boy genius. When he came through the station, all he wanted was to buy a ticket for Lake Tahoe.”

“Is there a train that goes there?” Hallon asks.

“Yes, sir. There’s a line that heads out towards Tahoe City, and then you can pick up a steamer that takes you all around the lake.” The porter turns the cap in his hand as he talks. “The paper said his family house was down by South Tahoe.”

“I see. I wonder if that’s where I should be then, to meet him.”

The excitement on the porter’s face fades. “So he won’t be coming here? That’s too bad. Too bad.” He puts his cap back on. “But it sounds like you’ll be needing a ticket to Lake Tahoe yourself.”

“Seems like it,” Hallon says. “I can buy one inside?”

“Yes, sir, but you’ve already missed the last train. The next leaves tomorrow at eight in the morning.”

“That’s well,” Hallon says. “I’ve read about Sacramento and have always wanted to visit in person. Now, tell me—where can I find a good hotel and is there anyone in town who still buys gold? I can manage the rest.”

###

Eratosthenes flies ahead, while Hallon hunts for what’s needful in Sacramento. He heads east to find Lake Tahoe nestled in the middle of a high mountain valley, surrounded on all sides by pine forests and mountain peaks. There’s old power in the stone and soil, the water and air, and he hovers over the valley to examine how the forces underlying everyday reality bend through the place. They mingle together in whorls, almost as if they’d been painted in glowing gold and green, azure and crimson. The dragon’s eyes narrow in speculation as his sight runs deep.

He follows the design, tracing the flow of spirit energy as it feeds life to the valley, while a portion is siphoned away to be pooled in an underground reservoir. Subtle, so subtle—the reservoir can only be found by those who can see the patterns of thought, luck, and karma. Moving through them is like a key opening a door.

And there, among the trees outside South Tahoe, right on top of the reservoir is a house. One with a familiar scent. Well, looks like I won’t have to go hunting for Rabbits after all.

His thoughts are interrupted when Hallon’s consciousness connects to his. Eratosthenes.

Yes, my love?

Hallon sends an image of a man weighing a gold bar on a scale. He’s thin with gray in his hair and a mouth that doesn’t smile.

His family has been here since the Gold Rush days, she says, and he remembers a general store in San Francisco run by a family named Rabbit. They were wiped out by the earthquake in 1906, but there was a survivor.

Eratosthenes feels the excitement under her thoughts. And this survivor is our Rabbit?

Not quite, Hallon says. The timing is off. His name was Nasser Rabbit. He left San Francisco for Lake Tahoe where he died, this time in a fire, but not before marrying and having son—Milo Rabbit.

Interesting, but you’re drawing the story out and hiding something, Eratosthenes says. What did you find?

Hallon nearly laughs out loud. The sound comes out as a hiccup, and the man assessing the gold bar frowns at her. Not that Hallon cares one whit what he thinks. I can’t hide anything from you, can I? Get this—the family was part Arabic! That can’t be a coincidence.

But Rabbit isn’t an Arabic name, Eratosthenes says.

The patriarch took the name when he arrived in California, Hallon says. This fellow here doesn’t know why, and I’m not sure it matters. Every family has its history. The important thing is that we have a possible connection to the traveler at Lough Gur.

Oh, we have more than that, Eratosthenes says.

What is it? What’d you find?

Eratosthenes grins. Better find a place where you can close your eyes.

Her heart begins to race, as she feels him hiding a surprise under his thoughts. Hallon asks to use the lavatory and moves quickly to find it in the living quarters above the assayer’s office. I’m here, I’m ready, now what is it?

Eratosthenes shares his eyes with her. Look!

The view from the air is breathtaking, the lake surrounded on all sides by forest and craggy peaks. The sun is caught between the sky and mountains and casts a shadow across the valley. He draws her attention to the reservoir of spirit energy. It’s almost too bright to look at, and he filters his sight to make it less painful for her. Hallon’s jaw drops.

Feeling smug, Eratosthenes says, There’s more.

He swoops down to land in front of the house. It’s two stories and comfortable among the pine trees and high valley scrub. The warm glow of electric lights fills its windows, and Milo Rabbit—a jolt runs through Hallon when she recognizes him from the scrying bowl—walks into and out of view like a tin duck at a carnival shooting gallery. First floor, second floor, attic. Arms full, arms empty. He seems to be working on a machine in the house’s front parlor.

The Rabbit!

Yes!

The two of them laugh together, he in the forest around Lake Tahoe, she in the washroom of the assayer’s home.

Finally, she says, a lead. A real lead.

Yes, Eratosthenes say, but we’ll need to find how this piece fits into the puzzle.

Yes, yes. It’s always something, Hallon says, but her heart’s bright and her resolve steady. I better get going. The old fellow’s likely wondering what happened to me. I’ll stop by the local paper tonight to find out what they wrote about Milo Rabbit and be on the first train in the morning.

We have a plan then, Eratosthenes says.

Hallon grins. That we do.

###

The next morning, Hallon arrives in Tahoe City, and from there takes a ferry across the lake to South Tahoe. A local points her to a hotel three stories tall with cottages and cabins scattered in the woods around it. Hallon rents one of the private cottages, but it’s for her luggage. She doesn’t expect to spend much time in town. Milo Rabbit’s house is four miles to the southeast, and she’d prefer to camp nearby.

From the mercantile, she buys supplies to supplement her field kit: a sturdy canvas backpack, bedroll, and a week’s worth of food. Hallon also takes a change of clothes and some meaningfuls, including a folding knife she’d forged and spy glass gifted to her by Saladin. After some consideration, she also sews her remaining gold bars into the bottom of the pack. The choice between the latest Hercule Poirot and Tarzan books is harder, and she ends up taking both. Everything else she leaves behind, along with a note for the housekeeping staff letting them know that she’ll be gone for a few days.

Hallon slips into the surrounding woods and begins to run, enjoying the chance to stretch her legs. The day promises to be clear with only a handful of feathered clouds in the sky. The mountain heather and buttercups are bright, showing off their purple and gold flowers. The air’s thin, but this is a good place to run. Maybe if she has time later, she’ll make a circuit around the lake.

Eratosthenes finds a good location for her to camp. The area overlooks the Rabbit house and is shielded from view by two pine trees that fell across each other to form an X. Hallon doesn’t plan a fire, so setting up camp’s easy. She lays out her bedroll and climbs the nearest tree to hang her pack from a branch. The proprietor at the mercantile made sure to mention that bears are possible in these woods, so Hallon breathes into her hands and works the spirit energy into a simple Keep Away to protect her food. Dropping down to the ground, she finds a comfortable spot between the trees and extends the spyglass. Eratosthenes joins her.

I’ve taken a closer look, he says. The mysteries only deepen.

How’s that? Hallon asks.

There’s a point on the first floor that’s misshapen, Eratosthenes says. The fabric of the universe has been torn there and then scarred over. Also, the house smells of smoke and people screaming.

I can explain that, Hallon says. A reporter at the newspaper told me that Milo Rabbit recently returned home after graduating with his doctorate in physics from Harvard University in Boston. He’s only sixteen, which is why they wrote the article about him. Anyway, the boy lost his parents to a fire. The house was later rebuilt by his grandmother using the original plans, but then she vanished without a trace several years later.

It’s been tragedy after tragedy for this family, Eratosthenes says.

It’s no surprise that the house is home to the strange and unexpected, Hallon says. Not with the spirit reservoir underneath. My question is: are we here for the reservoir or the tear?

Or the boy, Eratosthenes says.

Hallon’s brows furrow. I hope not. Dealing with mortals gets tiresome.

I understand completely, Eratosthenes says with a grin.

All right now, let’s have none of that, Hallon says. I was well into my two hundreds when we first met. And besides, I was never tiresome.

Oh that’s true. You were much more trouble than that. Eratosthenes snickers.

Can we please get back on topic?

Eratosthenes’s expression turns serious, but the spark in his eyes lingers. I have a thought about that.

What? Oh, you’re wondering if we can expose the tear.

Eratosthenes nods. Yes, we know that Dawrtaine isn’t on this world, but what if we’ve been guided to a way to get there?

You mean opening a path between universes. For physical travel. Hallon is stunned at the idea. Is that even possible?

It’s happened before, Eratosthenes says, although it usually takes the will of a god to do it.

So the tear will take us—will take me—to the world with Dawrtaine?

Or one that’s in between, Eratosthenes says. We can’t know for sure until we investigate.

The house appears innocent enough. Could it hide a way to travel between universes? The idea is…spectacular. In her six hundred years, Hallon has never thought she’d get the chance to visit—with her body—another world. She wants to go right now. This instant. To storm down the hillside and break down the door. To split the walls of the universe wide open and pass through to—who knows where. Someplace new and different. The idea is thrilling and sends shivers down her back.

Hallon takes a deep breath and controls the fire raging inside her. Let’s just watch, she says. For now. And then if we don’t see any signs of physical or magical defenses, we’ll go in.

Eratosthenes grins. A sound plan.

Stupid dragon. He knows exactly what she’s feeling—how much she wants to explore the house—and she punches the air where his shoulder would be. His grin grows wider, while down below, Milo Rabbit tinkers with a machine shaped like a tree in his parlor.