Johannes Cabal: The Fear Institute by Jonathan L. Howard Page A

wonder if you got their pets, too, Mr Cabal? If they had pets.’ He considered for a moment, then shook his head. ‘No, they looked the sort to eat anything vaguely petlike. I don’t suppose they were nearly so keen on companionship as they were on dinner.’
    Nobody was listening to Bose’s ruminations. They were all too busy staring at Cabal, except Cabal, who was glaring back.
    ‘I say again, I am no sorcerer. The rules here, however, are apparently very different from our world in ways that we had not previously considered.’
    ‘That
you
had not previously—’ began Corde, but he was cut off by the increasingly testy Cabal.
    ‘Yes, that
I
had not previously considered. This world is disturbingly arbitrary, random . . .’ he looked for some term that would effectively communicate how repugnant he found it ‘. . .
whimsical
. I ask you, who spent so much effort planning for contingencies, did you ever consider anything even approaching our current situation?’ The question was only partially rhetorical, but Cabal was glad of the silence it provoked.
    Into that silence crept the ever-perturbable Bose. ‘So . . . what do we do next? Shall we abandon the endeavour?’
    Cabal shook his head, angry with himself for the weak leash on which his temper tugged eagerly. ‘That is not adecision for now. We cannot spontaneously leave the Dreamlands whenever we want to. We must either exit via another gate opened by the Silver Key—’
    ‘Will it be necessary to destroy some other hapless soul, Mr Cabal?’ asked Shadrach, coldly.
    ‘Usually not,’ said Cabal, blithely unaware of any implied criticism. ‘Gateways of the Silver Key rarely manifest in living creatures. Luckily, on this occasion it chose to do so in a poet and writer, not somebody important or useful. As I was saying, that is one way of re-entering the waking world. The other is to find a rising path, which brings one up and out physically from the Dreamlands. Those are few, and extraordinarily dangerous.’
    ‘As opposed to the nest of security and comfort in which we find ourselves now, eh, Cabal?’ said Corde.
    Cabal looked at him coldly. ‘By comparison, yes, Herr Corde. This
is
a nest of security and comfort.’ He looked down the path leading away from the clearing that had once held the creatures, their kin, their homes and, presumably, their pets. ‘This must lead somewhere,’ he said, and without waiting for agreement, he set off down it. The others quietly followed.

 

Chapter 5
     
    IN WHICH CABAL WANDERS FROM THE BUCOLIC TO THE NECROPOLITIC
     
    The path did indeed lead them somewhere – and somewhere practical rather than to a cottage made of gingerbread or full of bears or dwarfs or all three. They emerged from the Dark Wood on a long, rolling meadow that sloped down towards a tree-lined road bounded by small fields of corn. The heavy silence that had travelled with them was lifted by clear air and sunlight, and their mood – but for the impenetrable sullenness of Johannes Cabal – lifted too.
    ‘That will be the road for Hlanith down there, eh, Cabal?’ said Corde, unaware of or unconcerned at Cabal’s metaphysical torment. ‘Finally, a bit of good luck on this expedition.’
    ‘Perhaps so.’ Cabal signalled a halt by the simple expedient of stopping and expecting everybody else to follow suit. He took out his telescope and surveyed the terrain. ‘There are a couple of people down there by the road. We shall ask.’
    ‘Isn’t that risky?’ asked Bose.
    ‘In this place, even blinking is fraught with peril. Yes, it is risky. They look like a pair of yokels doing whatever it is that yokels do during the day, but they may turn out to be hideous monsters intent on chewing out our spleens.’ He shrugged. ‘It happens, but what is one to do?’ He started walking again.
    Bose pattered along in his wake, like an anxious pug. ‘Do you think that is likely?’
    ‘No. Yes. Perhaps. How should I know? I am a stranger here