* * * * * * *
Night
I am not in the dungeons. I have come to a refuge, that is certain, but I don’t know how I got here.
Nothing is clear. I must try to remember.
In my office I heard the pounding. I opened the door. Light flashed in, but I did not understand it. There were no soldiers, only a vast silence, a strange emptiness beyond the doorway. Standing there on the threshold, I felt exposed; I wanted to hide, but I was also curious. I was not afraid. I picked up the lamp on my desk, and walked out of the room.
I remember walking past my portrait—an ugly, demented thing—out into a night with a red moon.
The darkness was cold, and it was all around me, howling as the blackest night came on. Perhaps the world was going mad. I don’t know.
I thought I heard a familiar voice saying, “This way. Only a little farther,” and I walked for a long time across an empty space, then up a hill. There were cries and the sounds of explosions all around me; I heard bells clanging and swords clashing, but I saw nothing and felt no fear. Finally, I came to a door and a voice said, “Knock here,” so I did. A man with a face like lightning let me in.
Now I am sitting at this table, trying to make sense of where I am. I think I may be at The Tower Inn. I hear the soft murmur of voices, the clink of dishes, as if washing up is going on in a nearby kitchen.
I don’t hear the knocking in my head, the pounding at the door. I have come in now, or gone out. I don’t know which.
The walls of this place are lined with beautiful paintings, but I cannot make much sense of them yet. I will sit here a while.
* * * * * * *
Bright figures come and go. They have set bread before me, even cheese, and I have eaten.