he realized belatedly, assumed a great deal of knowledge on the part of the man: that a majority of Americans spoke English, for example. Or even what America was.
“You are from that place?” the man asked.
“Yes. America. We speak English there.” The conversation wasn’t going as smoothly as John had hoped, but at least they were talking. “Do you know where it is?”
“In the Kingdom of the Night, beneath the Palace of the Day. With a gold key, through a gold doorway.” The man watched John’s face closely as he spoke, as if he were uttering some kind of secret code.
“I have no idea what you mean by that.” John decided to just be honest.
The man scowled.
“If you are from that place, then say what lies beside it,” he said.
“Beside it? You mean its borders?”
The man nodded, and John took it for an affirmative.
“The Atlantic Ocean to the east; Pacific Ocean to the west; Canada, north; Mexico, south. Is that what you mean?” John asked.
“Atlantic, Pacific, Canada, Mexico.” He recited the names and nodded his head. At last he asked, with great incredulity, “How can you be here?”
“I don’t know. I just am.” John didn’t even consider attempting to explain. “Do you know how I could get back?”
The man shook his head. During the course of the conversation, his arms had slowly lowered back down to his sides. He took a few steps closer and John decided that he could afford to meet his new companion halfway. He was bigger, and he wasn’t already injured. The odds favored him.
Up close, John could smell the wet wool of the man’s coat. John guessed that he himself smelled much worse.
“Only the Holy Gateway can link the worlds,” the man said, “and only Kahlil’im can cross it.”
“Kahlil’im?” John was pretty sure that the Holy Gateway had to be something like the yellow ruin he, Laurie, and Bill had found in the mountains. “Who’s Kahlil’im?”
“Maybe me. Others are training in Rathal’pesha hel vun’im’ati lafti’ya pom’an.” The man didn’t seem to notice that he had slipped out of English.
“I didn’t really understand all of that. You were speaking... What’s your language called?”
“Basawar. The world and the word are one.” The man smiled as he said this. He had a nice smile, the kind that New York advertising agencies would have loved to plaster all over cereal boxes.
“Yura’hir—” The man caught himself this time. “I’m sorry. I only speak these words in training. It’s hard to remember.”
“You’re doing better than I would.” John shifted uncomfortably. His feet were starting to get cold.
“You were saying that you are Kahlil’im?” John reminded him.
“I may be. Someday.” The man frowned at the crushed snowdrift where he had fallen. “I still must learn how to make myself go where I should and not to bleed so much.” He touched his right forearm.
“A Kahlil’im must be teaching you, then?”
“A Kahlil,” the young man corrected him offhandedly. “Kahlil’im means many; Kahlil is only one. There are no Kahlil’im left,” the man went on. “The last was torn to pieces between the worlds. What I learn is from the priests who keep Ushmana’lam, the holiest books. They can read the words, but they... ” he paused, “they cannot do everything the words say.”
“So there are no Kahlil’im left?”
“Issin,” the young man said, then caught himself. “There are none.”
“So there’s no way to open the Holy Gateway?” John continued.
“None.”
John noticed that the man spoke certain words with the same accent he had detected in Kyle. Now that he thought about it, John realized that the man resembled his old roommate physically as well. He wasn’t as muscular or as tall, and he lacked tattoos and scars, but he could have passed for Kyle’s younger brother. He had the same dark eyes and full mouth.
“There isn’t some kind of key that would do it?” John hoped his leading
“You are from that place?” the man asked.
“Yes. America. We speak English there.” The conversation wasn’t going as smoothly as John had hoped, but at least they were talking. “Do you know where it is?”
“In the Kingdom of the Night, beneath the Palace of the Day. With a gold key, through a gold doorway.” The man watched John’s face closely as he spoke, as if he were uttering some kind of secret code.
“I have no idea what you mean by that.” John decided to just be honest.
The man scowled.
“If you are from that place, then say what lies beside it,” he said.
“Beside it? You mean its borders?”
The man nodded, and John took it for an affirmative.
“The Atlantic Ocean to the east; Pacific Ocean to the west; Canada, north; Mexico, south. Is that what you mean?” John asked.
“Atlantic, Pacific, Canada, Mexico.” He recited the names and nodded his head. At last he asked, with great incredulity, “How can you be here?”
“I don’t know. I just am.” John didn’t even consider attempting to explain. “Do you know how I could get back?”
The man shook his head. During the course of the conversation, his arms had slowly lowered back down to his sides. He took a few steps closer and John decided that he could afford to meet his new companion halfway. He was bigger, and he wasn’t already injured. The odds favored him.
Up close, John could smell the wet wool of the man’s coat. John guessed that he himself smelled much worse.
“Only the Holy Gateway can link the worlds,” the man said, “and only Kahlil’im can cross it.”
“Kahlil’im?” John was pretty sure that the Holy Gateway had to be something like the yellow ruin he, Laurie, and Bill had found in the mountains. “Who’s Kahlil’im?”
“Maybe me. Others are training in Rathal’pesha hel vun’im’ati lafti’ya pom’an.” The man didn’t seem to notice that he had slipped out of English.
“I didn’t really understand all of that. You were speaking... What’s your language called?”
“Basawar. The world and the word are one.” The man smiled as he said this. He had a nice smile, the kind that New York advertising agencies would have loved to plaster all over cereal boxes.
“Yura’hir—” The man caught himself this time. “I’m sorry. I only speak these words in training. It’s hard to remember.”
“You’re doing better than I would.” John shifted uncomfortably. His feet were starting to get cold.
“You were saying that you are Kahlil’im?” John reminded him.
“I may be. Someday.” The man frowned at the crushed snowdrift where he had fallen. “I still must learn how to make myself go where I should and not to bleed so much.” He touched his right forearm.
“A Kahlil’im must be teaching you, then?”
“A Kahlil,” the young man corrected him offhandedly. “Kahlil’im means many; Kahlil is only one. There are no Kahlil’im left,” the man went on. “The last was torn to pieces between the worlds. What I learn is from the priests who keep Ushmana’lam, the holiest books. They can read the words, but they... ” he paused, “they cannot do everything the words say.”
“So there are no Kahlil’im left?”
“Issin,” the young man said, then caught himself. “There are none.”
“So there’s no way to open the Holy Gateway?” John continued.
“None.”
John noticed that the man spoke certain words with the same accent he had detected in Kyle. Now that he thought about it, John realized that the man resembled his old roommate physically as well. He wasn’t as muscular or as tall, and he lacked tattoos and scars, but he could have passed for Kyle’s younger brother. He had the same dark eyes and full mouth.
“There isn’t some kind of key that would do it?” John hoped his leading
Similar Books
