His. His dream. He was dreaming. But it was not like a dream. It was too much like being awake to be a dream. (He could not remember, exactly, what a dream was.) Yet it had to be a dream.
His thinking was not very clear. That he knew. Better to avoid thinking too much. Thinking led to confusion. It was enough to walk. To move, though he moved in a directionless space, along an infinite plane.
He returned to the question of what he did before he came to this place. He had done something. He had had a life. Of that he was sure.
Life. That was a strange concept. Life struck him as something exciting, interesting, infinitely varied. Fluid. Not like this, which was unchanging and absolute. Life was not like this. Life was change, constant change. There was no change here. Life was movement with a purpose, a goal, a motive. None of those qualities was present in the circumstances in which he now found himself. Life was … much more than this. That was about all he could say on the matter, though. He did not remember his life. All he knew was that it had been quite different from the existence he led now.
When had the transition between life and this existence occurred? What had occasioned it?
There were too many questions and too few means at his disposal to begin to answer them. Again, he told himself that it was best not to think.
But he had to think. It was his nature to think.
Ah! So he did know something about his nature after all! He was a thinker. He thought. He had been thinking all along, his mind racing like a machine with its gears disengaged, wheels spinning, revolving in their cycles. But to what purpose was all that thinking? None that he could divine.
He kept walking. He wanted to walk. He would keep doing it, for it was his only function in this world. His necessary and sufficient cause for being.
The horizon was far, just as far as it always had been, always would be. He would walk forever, the darkness hanging over him, an infinite band of gray spectral light encompassing him, a horizon delimiting the limitlessness of his world.
It was enough.
Four
Sea
The sea was placid, the sky hazy. Not a good day for sailing. There was a breeze but it barely stirred the jib. No trace of a whitecap in sight. The surface was like tepid water left standing inside a bathtub. A tropical inversion had settled in, becalming everything adrift.
Trent gave up. He dropped anchor, though there was no need. The sloop Inside Straight was dead in the water.
The sun had tanned him, bleaching his butter-colored hair to cornsilk white, and the wind and weather had turned his handsomeness rugged. He had done a lot of sailing lately, living in this aspect, Sheila’s world.
Sheila, his wife.
She, of the red hair and wild magical talent, was stretched out prone on the deck, sunbathing in the nude.
One arm resting on the mainsail boom, he admired the shapeliness of her posterior, appreciating its perfect hemispherical geometry. He also deeply approved of the long legs, the ample thighs, the well-turned calves, the perfect, arched feet. There were three brown freckles on her broad oiled back, and he liked those as well.
“You’re going to burn,” he said.
“I have super sun-blocker on.”
“You always burn. You turn into lobster thermidor within five minutes.”
Scowling, she turned over and sat up. “Isn’t it the truth. Redheads never tan, damn it anyway.” She ran a hand over her left arm. “I hate my complexion.”
“Don’t you dare.”
“It’s mine. I get to hate it if I want.”
“I like what it’s wrapped around.”
She smiled. “Come here and kiss me, sailor.”
He went to her and did.
She bit his nose. “You’re so damned good-looking, I could eat you.”
“Sounds great.”
“I like the cut of your jib, sailor.”
“And my mainsail?”
“Your what?”
He pointed.
She looked. “Oh. That, too.”
“You just like nautical men.”
“Naughty men. The naughtier the better.”
“You’re taking quite a chance saying that, dressed the way you are.”
“I’m not dressed at all, dear.”
“Au contraire, in your finest.”
“Thank you, dear.” She kissed him again. “Hot, isn’t it?”
He took off his mirrored sunglasses and rubbed his eyes. “Aye, that it is. And muggy. We’ll probably have to use the motor to get home.”
“No wind, huh?”
“We are becalmed. If we wait an hour or two, the heat will rise and cooler air will come, on a breeze. But I don’t feel like lying to for that long. Besides, this is squall weather.”
“Maybe a good storm will cool things off.”
“It might cool us off — permanently, if we get stuck out here in it.”
“I trust you implicitly, Captain. You’ll get us safely back to Sheila’s Cove.”
“And Sheila World.”
““Club Sheila,” please. Trent?”
“Yes, my dear?”
“Have you enjoyed our living here?”
“Of course.”
“You’re not bored, helping me run this little resort?”
“As a career, resort-hotel management offers many chances for advancement and personal fulfillment.”
She whacked him on the shoulder. “Seriously. Have you minded awfully much?”
“Not at all, my dear. It’s a wonderful place. Sun, sand, sea, and great banana daiquiris.”
“You don’t get bored sometimes?”
“Oh, maybe a little. And a bit annoyed, when we get a particularly fussy guest.”
“You mean like Lord Peter.”
“Ever since Incarnadine made the error of elevating him to the peerage, he’s been insufferable.”
“Wasn’t he an aristocrat or something before? I mean, back in England? He always acted like it.”
“I doubt it. But I’m sure he always thought that was an oversight that should be corrected. And now, thanks to Inky …”
““His Majesty,” please.”
“Oh, to hell with him.”
“Trent! He’s the king!”
“He’s my brother, and I love him. Like a brother. Would you like some champagne, my dear?”
“Do I ever refuse?”
Trent got up and fetched the cooler. Soon, a cork popped and flew on an arching trajectory into the sea.
Sheila yelled, “Pollution!”
“It’s our world; we can pollute it a little, as we’re its only inhabitants.”
“What an attitude!” Sheila said reprovingly. “All the more reason to keep it pure.”
“A bit of cork is not pollution. Be quiet and drink this.”
“Yes, my lord. Thank you. Nice champagne glasses. Where’d you … not from the bar, I hope?”
“Where else?”
“We’re running short of glassware.”
“You’ll conjure more.”
“It’s hard work! Really, I can’t keep up with the maintenance of this place. Light bulbs, dishes, towels —”
“Why the hell do people steal towels from hotels?” Trent mused. “I’ve always been mystified by that.”
“And ashtrays! And soap, and sugar bowls, and anything else that’s not nailed down.”
“Comes with the territory. What I want to know is who these “people’ are who are hotel guests and who aren’t from the castle.”
“They came with the hotel when I conjured it,” Sheila said.
“Phantasms.”
“Window dressing.”
“Props,” he said. “Lifeless props.”