He looked away from the bird and started walking again. He had no time to waste here. Two doors faced him. He knew without even having to think about it that he should exit the room through the door on the right. As he walked toward it he was aware of the crow following him, staying at his shoulder.
A corridor. And even more doors. An entire row of them. He needed to make a choice, but which one was it again? Seven doors down or six?
Think. This was important. Remember. Oh, yes. Seven doors down on the right. His foot fitted perfectly in the hollow of the single stone step leading to the door. The door clicked open.
He was standing inside a ballroom and it was filled with butterflies. Millions and millions of monarch butterflies, their trembling wings dazzling his eyes.
But he was not allowed to stay for long in this place of beauty. He had to continue. He had hundreds of doors to open still. Thousands.
Millions.
Remember, The order of places, the order of things. And there was the next door that would allow him to continue his journey. And without looking, he knew the crow was above and behind him, gliding silently in his wake.
He moved forward cautiously, picking his way carefully through the cloud of amber wings. Without hesitation he opened the middle door facing him.
As he continued to move from room to room, the excitement tightened inside his chest. He was on target. His memory today was flawless, allowing him to pick the correct door every single time. The order of places, the order of things. He knew the formula by heart and his journey was faultless. He looked over his shoulder, searching for the crow, his companion, and there it was staring at him with jet-black eyes. A wordless communion passed between them.
With trembling ringers he opened door after door, traveling from one fantastical space to the next, feeling more and more empowered as each door he picked turned out to be the correct one. This time he would succeed, he had no doubt of it. He was infallible, invincible. An immense feeling of exhilaration gripped him, an excitement so intense, his blood seemed to fizz.
Of course, not every door opened onto a room filled with beautiful butterflies. Some of the rooms held objects and figures, which even after all this time, he still found disturbing. There were tiny rooms with lashless eyes growing from the ceiling. Big echoing spaces filled with giant glass marbles, the sound deafening as the glass spheres rolled from corner to corner. A room filled with hundreds of clocks ticking at random, each producing its own agitated, irregular beat. Behind one door an eyeless monk incessantly polished his empty eye sockets with a piece of bloodied sandpaper. The sight made him queasy and he hurried past, face averted. One room housed a flock of softly cawing fantailed doves. In the dim light they looked like spun sugar, but he waited tensely, anticipating the sound of the shot that was to follow. And there it was-a sharp crack-and the next instant the sugar birds dripped scarlet.
And still his journey continued. He found himself walking down labyrinthine corridors and up staircases delicate as spiders' webs. The corridors stretched into the remotest distance and the staircases seemed endless. A journey without end: a journey filled with millions upon millions of doors waiting for him to access them in exactly the right order…
For a moment he closed his eyes: his mind suddenly shrinking from the magnificence of it all. How was it possible for him to even be here? He wasn't worthy of this place. This vast edifice, with its chambers and galleries, its winding, enigmatic passageways and endless steps, was sacred space. Hidden in its divine depths were the answers to all the problems of the universe, the answers to all the questions of the past and of the future. It held prophecies and spells. The content of every book ever written. The content of every book still waiting to be written. The value of every unimaginable number. The notes of music yet to be composed. Even the story of his own birth and the minute details of the life he could have lived but hadn't…
Something brushed against his arm and he opened his eyes, startled. It was the crow, swooping past him, winging its way to the other side of the room. His eyes followed the bird's passage. The light was dim and the shadows dark in this room, and at times the crow seemed to disappear in the gloom. But then it stopped flying. It settled itself delicately on the shoulder of a woman who was watching him from one of the many sheltering doorways.
His breath caught. What was she doing here? This was supposed to be his own journey. He was meant to fly solo today.
As always she was wearing a cape and her eyes were masked. The cape was deep green in color, the velvet folds richly draped and the hood covering her hair completely. Her fingers were long and white. They were calling him.
Come.
He hesitated. That was not the correct door. He knew he should be exiting through the third door on his immediate left. The order of places, the order of things dictated that.
Again she lifted her hand. The finger beckoning: Follow me…
Hesitantly he walked toward her, and she nodded her head in satisfaction. He opened his mouth to speak but she brought her finger to her lips: an imperative for silence. Turning her back on him, she edged the door behind her open and slipped into the blackness beyond.
He followed quickly even though his heart was beating nervously. This was not right. This was breaking every rule. He should still be on his journey, opening the familiar doors, encountering the familiar places. He had no idea where he was now. He had never been this way before.
But then he chided himself. What was he so concerned about? As long as he stayed with her, he would be safe. Who better to guide him on his journey? But apprehension stirred like swaying seaweed underneath the surface of his calm.
She moved quickly, always staying a few steps ahead of him. He could smell her perfume, a tenuous thread of fragrance. Her cloak swirled around her ankles as she hastened down long, winding corridors opening up this way and that. A labyrinth, but one she was traversing unerringly.
On and on they sped, past darkened rooms with uncurtained windows, past closed doors, past signposts cracked and peeled, the lettering illegible, the arms pointing the way to who knows where. Alien. Unfamiliar. He had lost all reference points; he had lost the order of places, the order of things. He could feel the terror rising inside him. To be lost, to be lost forever…
He tried to clamp down on the panic and kept his eyes desperately on the slim figure hurrying ahead of him. She seemed wraithlike, scarcely more substantial than the flitting shadow following in her footsteps.
Suddenly she stopped and placed her palm against an uneven stone set into a smooth wall. When she pulled her hand back, he saw that the stone she had touched was carved into the symbol of the Monas.
For a moment nothing happened but then-ponderously-the wall started to move, revealing a dimly lit space on the other side. The ground beneath his feet was vibrating and there was a hum in the air.
He found himself in a massive circular room with a high domelike ceiling. It was empty. The dome was filled with blinding light but the room itself was only faintly illuminated. Still, the gauzy light was strong enough for him to see that the walls of the room were not solid. They were constructed of wheels: concentric stone wheels densely covered with symbols. Moons, crosses, candles, pentagrams-symbols as familiar as everyday objects. But there were also other symbols- esoteric and mysterious.
His heartbeat quickened. Could this be? Could this truly be? He suddenly knew what this place was she had brought him. The portal. She had described it to him, and on the basis of this description he had even attempted a drawing, but he had never thought he'd live to see it himself. Exhilarated, his heart bursting with love and gratitude, he turned to find her.