Chapter 1 Part II: The Librarian
Fluvial fly ash in the wind shimmering primeval blue. Time atoms fluxing on whetted edges of hoary cold. He is leaving the door to the Time Labyrinth ajar; crystals of glass-slipper snow are slip-coating sleeping, peaty time in booty: ice is a treasure here. Cutaneous minutes frieze voluptuously; are shivering in a silver clock; are storming thicker than magma from a death rose.
Lonesome Homo sapiens slashing snuff-like snow; his halberd dragon-slaying frozen monoliths. He is scalping ice, spraying demigod forever-twinkles of sacral winter everywhere. Spattering his snow goggles is mythic galactic hunter, Orion; hero now vanishing in smoke of snow. More snow. The lone gallant scraping frost from his goggles. Already, a new star formation of ice is streaking his just-cleaned lenses. Maybe, he will see Orion again.
The black footed wind war whooping, color yellow. The librarian pulling his gilt pocket watch out. It isn’t telling the time, it’s telling the years, the sentinel centuries softened by gloaming. He is standing (frozen) betwixt parentheses. Time and its parallel are eddying around him.
He hails from the Victorian Era. He is standing at the arctic crux of the Time Labyrinth; which he has access to via a clandestine door in his palatial library. Right now, he is trying to determine which white gust will be ferrying him to the epoch of Zed.
He knows that his destination is AD 2015, circa Zed’s latest attempt at suicide. He knows she is heading for the athletic track; if he’s late, she will have already succumbed to lethal sleep. He knows he can’t be late. However, he is still mining for the master key to the invisible, central Labyrinth Door. He is filleting ice in utter agitation.
Clink! He is using the dagger on the south-most pole of his halberd to dig up the key. Fairy dust is undulating in a translucent partition of particles. The librarian is wallowing in snow scum, finally clutching the hard, slippery high-tech key.
He is using the key as a compass. When the limpid key becomes an opaque neon pink, he will have reached the invisible portal. The librarian is trekking due east in the blizzard. The key is flushing a full-bodied flamingo pink. “The door! I’ve found the door to wonders!” he cries. A chink in the realm appears: a door from nothing, suddenly.
Science! Science! He thinks, That Dr. Yoshimoto is a brilliant man! Except for the nasty business of hiding the key in the depths of perdition. Rather disagreeable assignation, I’d say.
Hurrying, the librarian is fitting the luminous key into the Lab door’s static black keyhole. The keyhole looks like a square on a Rubik’s cube where the sticker was peeled off. The behemoth door looks like it belongs to an English castle; it’s a skeuomorphic gateway to the black river of time. On this side of the door, the snow is yelling in dark blue tones.
The librarian is pulling the yelping door open; he is feeling the carbuncles on the iron door rings; he is vanishing into the soundless vacuum that is future time.
I’m off to see the wizard, he’s thinking, the wonderful wizard named Zed.