The teleporting dog has me kind of suspecting that I’m not in Kansas anymore, metaphorically. And if a teleporting dog can exist, well, why not reincarnation? Why not anything?

I think back to English class, where we had read a book by Mark Twain, about a modern day man being teleported to King Arthur’s Camelot. That was fiction, but I can’t help but draw parallels to my current situation.

What had the man called this place? Arcadia? Was this my Camelot? Had such a planet even existed in the Milky Way galaxy, or was this something stranger still? And for that matter, who was the man in the fire? “Aries”. I’m positive I’ve never met him before. So then why do I feel such nostalgia at the sound? Why did I know his name?

Before my bad habit of overthinking can kick in again, an approaching noise draws me back to reality. It is the creak of wheels spinning and the clip-clop of hooves. Turning, I see a horse drawn wagon about twenty feet back, atop which sits a singular rider. As he nears, the man offers me a wave. “Ho there, lad, you look like you could use a lift.”

I pause, giving the man a once over. He appears mid-twenties, maybe early thirties, clean shaven with emerald green eyes, the right one covered by a black eyepatch. A small, circular earring of silver sits upon his left, and his brown hair is propped skyward by a red headband, which matches the color of the wool scarf around his neck. Chest down, he is dressed in light leather, armor it appears, all the way to his toes. I immediately think, “cosplay”, as the man appears straight out of a fantasy novel. Definitely sus. And on this road that appears infrequently traveled, for the weeds still stand tall, it’s like textbook stranger danger. All that is missing is-

“I have sweets, if you’re hungry.”

I pivot, not saying a word, and proceed on my way. Behind, I can hear the man call out to me, as the cart once again begins to move. “W-wait! I’m not anyone suspicious! Honest!”

Right. That’s what they all say.

****

The man was persistent, I’ll give him that. An hour later, and he’s still beside me, though he could have easily passed and been on his way, all the while peppering me with conversation. “My name is Gin. Gin Renolds. What about you? You have a name right? Wait, let me guess. Charles. No, you look more like a Robert. No? Thomas? William? John? Mr. Poopyface?”

“What are you, five?” I finally get goaded into asking.

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Ice broken, the man, Gin, lets out a hearty laugh in response. “So you do speak Common. I was beginning to worry. You had such a grim look on your face for a child.”

I did? “I, I was in thought about something, okay?”

“In thought? What an odd phrase for a child to say. And besides, what do children need to concern themselves with besides food and play? Hey, that rhymes, hahaha!”

Wow. What a carefree guy.

And yet as the thought crosses my mind, I find the edge of my earlier suspicion slowly blunting, and my body relax ever so slightly. I shake my head, asking, “Why are you following me?”

“We just happened to be going the same way. That’s all,” he says with a shrug, “This is the only road to Ridge Port.”

“Ridge Port?” I ask without thinking, and when I see the raised eyebrow on Gin’s face, I realize my mistake. Before I can correct myself, however, he has already seized upon the opportunity.

“You’re walking along this road, and you don’t even know what’s at the end of it?” he asks, “Say, I’ve been kind of suspecting this but… you’re not from around here, are you? Your mannerisms and speech, it’s like you’re from a completely different world.”

My eyes open wide, and I feel myself gulp before exclaiming, “W-wait, what do you know about that?!”

Gin shrugs casually. “Don’t be so surprised. I’ve seen plenty like you, children running away from home, in search of adventure in the big cities. They usually come from rural villages or some other backwaters, completely different worlds, in my opinion. Though, none were quite as young as you, or quite as… magnetic.” He gives me a curious pause, before continuing, “So, am I right?”

I think for a second how much to reveal, recalling that the titular character from Twain’s novel was imprisoned as a witch at one point by the locals for speaking too freely of matters otherworldly. Not to mention that the man, Gin, is still rather suspicious in my mind. That all being said, however, as long as I’m careful about what I reveal, I should be able to keep the conversation going, and milk him for some much needed information. I nod my head.

The man grins. “Knew it!” he exclaims, pumping a fist into the air in childlike fashion. Then turning to me, he continues, “So, which province are you from? Muleford? Spleenpool? Soap?”

“I, um,” I begin, “Amnesia.”

“Amnesia? Never heard of the place. Is that north or south of Bluewitch?”

I shake my head. “I mean, I can’t remember.”

“Hmm,” Gin hums, looking clearly unconvinced, and I see him open his mouth, as if about to press me further for answers. Before he can get any words out, however, a sudden trembling in the ground draws our attention away. From somewhere in the forests to our right, the thud of heavy footsteps echoes, accompanied by the sounds of branches ripping from their trunks.

“What the heck-?” I begin, as a sense of foreboding courses through my body. Instinctively, I start to back away, my gray eyes wide and alert, and wider still they grow, when I spot something in the air above us, small shadows expanding as they fall. It takes me a moment to realize what they are, a hail of boulders, each at least two feet in diameter, or thrice the size of a basketball. “Oh shit! Oh what the fuck?!” I exclaim. Immediately, I turn tail and begin scrambling away. Behind, I hear the neigh of a horse mixed with the thud of heavy objects smashing into the ground, and for a moment, I pause, thinking to go back to help the man from before. This turns out to be a grave mistake, however, as my hesitation allows a falling boulder to soar right past me, clipping me in the shoulder. I’m flung backwards by the force, twisting in the air, before rolling down the side of the road, into the ditch below.

I groan, my shoulder on fire and my head in pain. But then the adrenaline kicks in, and I realize I cannot just stay still; I have to keep moving. Fortunate that I do as well, for as I drag myself to my feet, another boulder comes rolling down the hill my way, and I just manage to dodge in time, scrambling forward, away from the road and deeper into the woods.