I finally wrestle myself free from Gran’s arms and rush out of the kitchen, where the cold night air slaps me in the face. It’s exactly what I need. I swallow, swallow again, clear my throat, spit on the ground, and try to fight down the rising panic. This hysterical schoolgirl routine is helping no one—certainly not my father. One thing is abundantly clear: I’m out of my depth, and I need help. But where can I find it in the middle of the night? Gran is probably still sitting on the kitchen floor, staring into the distance while mumbling ancient proverbs. But if not her, then who?
“Hi.”
I spin around, and there she is, standing in the eerie moonlight amid my father’s failed inventions, looking unnaturally bright against the dark sky. Angel. What is she doing here in the middle of the night? Despite the strange hour and even stranger situation, her voice holds no trace of concern or surprise.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” she says cheerfully. “Daddy thought you might need some help, so here I am.” An ‘angel’ indeed, I mumble to myself, and suddenly I have to suppress the urge to hug her. “He’s good at helping, you know.”
Who dares to ask, will receive, is one of Gran’s less obscure proverbs—but I never thought she meant it this literally, but I’m too desperate and tired to muster my usual cynicism. She only has to say, “Come,” and I follow her, like a duckling after its mother.
Looking at the spotless, squeaky-clean girl, lighting up like a firefly in the dark, leading the way without any hesitation, I’m painfully aware of my own deplorable state. I’m soaked through and through, and somehow that has only rekindled the lingering smell of vomit coming from my clothes. Involuntarily, I run my hand through the wild bush growing on my head in a feeble and desperate attempt to make myself a bit more presentable.
As we continue, helped by the fresh air, I slowly regain some of my common sense.
“Eh... Angel, how did your father know that I needed help?”
“Flashing lights,” she answers happily, without looking back.
“Of course,” I think, “the ambulance.” Right away, I feel ashamed and embarrassed. Here is the only person who wants to help me, and I repay her by not trusting her. I’d better keep my mouth shut.
The moment I step over the threshold into the living room, my knees buckle. I have to fight to stay upright.
“Look, Dad, I found her—right outside their kitchen.”
“Thank you, Angel.” Even after all my visits, it still amazes me how his voice has such a magically relaxing effect on me. It has been one of the reasons for my many visits these past months. It’s just immensely comforting to be around someone who calms me instead of frustrating me.
But I’m not here for comfort. My father has been kidnapped. I need help. Now. Using the last remnants of my energy, I straighten my back and walk toward him, trying to keep up some semblance of dignity, only knocking over two things in the process. “I... sorry...”
“No worries, Max. Nothing that can’t be replaced. Sit down. Things go faster when you take your time.”
“No! No time. It has to be now!”
“Of course, Max. But still, sit down first. Angle has made you something to clear your head and give you some extra energy.” He pushes a large mug toward me, steam curling from its surface, and before I know it, I take a sip. Yuuuuuuck! The dark brown liquid tastes so bitter that tears spring to my eyes, but before I can protest, a warm sensation spreads through me, relaxing my body while sharpening my senses at the same time.
“Wow, good stuff,” I mumble.
“It is, right?” Angle coos enthusiastically. “Made it myself.”
Finally, I sit, right across from my neighbor. Normally, I avoid prolonged eye contact—I just don’t feel comfortable with it—but after drinking Angel’s concoction, it’s surprisingly easy. And now that I am, the lid flies off. Like a bottle of champagne shaken too long, I spill everything. I tell it all, no matter how implausible, strange, or downright wacko it might sound. I talk about the school, the black square, the Flintstones, the vice principal, The Balance, the danger the world is supposedly in, the list of names, Gran, my father who disappeared just half an hour ago. I even tell him about the shadow world, Balthazar.
I realize it must sound crazy enough to make my neighbor reach for his phone to call an asylum, but... he doesn’t. On the contrary, there’s not a trace of disbelief or surprise. On one hand, it reassures me; on the other, it annoys the hell out of me. It feels like telling a joke to someone, only to have them tell you they already knew the punchline.
“Well, well, Max, that’s quite a story,” he says, sounding rather underwhelmed as he takes a sip of his tea.
“You don’t seem very impressed, though. Believe me, hanging over a bottomless pit in a school corridor, isn’t exactly the same as jumping over a hedge.” Even if I can't keep the sharp edge out of my voice, my neighbor remains utterly unfazed.
“Well, of course, I read a lot, you know that.”
“Great... books... of course. Why didn’t I think of that? Books about black holes in the middle of schools with little furry men hanging over them. There must be a special section in the library for those.”
My neighbor’s laugh, in response to my rather sharp remark, is bright and merry.
“Fantastic, Max, you are one of a kind.” I close my mouth, unsure whether to feel flattered or insulted, when he stands up In one fluid motion and gestures for me to follow. “I want to show you something.”
After a few unsteady steps, I follow my neighbor to an opening in a wall of books spanning the full width of the room. The passage leads into a corridor also made of books, dimly lit by the occasional lonely candle in a tall holder. We turn left, then left again, right, left, right. We never walk more than ten steps in one direction before turning a new corner and in no time I’ve lost all sense of direction in this book-maze. How big is this house?
And we still go on. Ten minutes? Twenty? An hour? I can’t even recall when my neighbor took the last two candles from their stands and handed one to me. The corridors become narrower. The books turn into scrolls. The scrolls into stacks of papyrus—or so I think.
Just as I begin to fear this will never end, we arrive at a narrow opening that leads into a large circular room. In the center I see a lonely reading table, probably custom-made for my neighbor, given its considerable height. An ancient, leather-bound book lies on top of it, opened somewhere in the middle.
“This is what I wanted to show you, Max,” my neighbor says, placing the candles in two tall holders near the entrance. Hesitantly, I walk up to the table with the uncomfortable elusive feeling itching my skin that I’m being watched... by the books themselves.
I have to stand on my toes and stretch my neck to look into the book, and only when my eyes finally have adjusted to the dim light, I see that the text on the left page is written in calligraphy, an ancient English I can barely understand.
But it isn’t the text that makes my knees tremble. It’s the page next to it, featuring a gravure of a girl in a large medieval bedroom. She has long blonde hair, tied with a black headband. She’s dressed in a modest, puritanical gown, buttoned up to her chin and flowing chastely down to her ankles.
The girl looks normal enough, but the bedroom doesn’t. It’s split right down the middle, where it abruptly ceases to exist, opening up to an endless void—a starless galaxy.
Despite the obvious differences, the scene feels disconcertingly similar to the one I was in just three hours ago. Like me, the girl floats motionless into the darkness, her arms outstretched, gazing up at something... something... I can’t quite make out. The part of the gravure she looks at is nearly rubbed away, as if too many people have touched it in disbelief.
Resolutely, I grab one of the candles from its holder, walk to the wall, wrest two thick, undoubtedly very old, expensive books out of it and drag them to the table. My neighbor doesn’t protest or interfere, he just watches intently as I climb onto the improvised, rather unstable stepping stone, bending over the illustration, holding the candle close to the nearly erased section of the engraving, trying not to spill any wax.
Finally, the lines hidden in the poor light reveal themselves and despite my suspicions, I’m shocked when I recognize the rabbit-like figure with the bow tie and hairy ears, hovering just above the blond girl. Balthazar! I involuntarily move away, the stack of books tilts backwards and I tilt along with it. Losing every sense of balance I fall backwards.