Chapter Three
> It wasn’t just a sword. It was a magical sword. A magical, clingy sword.
>
> ----------------------------------------
>
> Something hot was beating down on his head, and his bed had never felt so, well, dusty. Had he been sleeping? James was prone to napping, but usually said naps were planned and not so spontaneous. Maybe Prince Charles had knocked him out somehow. James had been absorbed with thoughts of the Green Garden Party and the mysterious package from his parents. He mentally pictured the plump white cat catapulting through the air in a frenzy, so worked up that James had forgotten to feed him or scratch his belly that he was taking matters into his own claws.
>
> James couldn’t help but snort at the image, which brought on a coughing fit, dust flying everywhere. He hadn’t opened his eyes yet, the hot light above him was so bright, but he was almost certain he wasn’t in his cramped studio apartment. Chelsea hadn’t been this hot, although it honestly felt pretty good. James had been perpetually cold for the past decade or so, and no number of sweaters or thick blankets seemed to do much good. But wherever he was, it felt nice enough that he considered going back to sleep.
>
> Except for the awful dust. Someone was a terrible housekeeper. This definitely was not his apartment. He tried to look at his surroundings, his eyes little more than slits against the blinding light. It reminded him of something…
>
> The book. He had just cracked open the book with the strange cover when a massive boom like thunder had drowned his room, followed by light even more blinding than the harsh beams assaulting him right now.
>
> “Did I get struck by lightning?” he muttered, struggling to get up off the dusty surface he was sprawled on. His body was in agony, and James was confident his bruises now had bruises of their own. The odds of getting struck by lightning were almost zero, less than one in a million, and James was nowhere near important enough to be that one guy. Besides, even that unlikely, unlucky soul would still likely live through the encounter.
>
> “I don’t even live on the top floor of my apartment…” he grumbled. The harsh light was still murder on his weak eyes, but his vision was unwillingly adjusting.
>
> This certainly wasn’t his apartment, or anywhere in New York for that matter.
>
> He also hoped it wasn’t heaven. Heaven was supposed to be… nicer than this. And he hadn’t done anything egregious enough to go south of the pearly gates.
>
> In fact, it looked quite a bit like Kansas. If Kansas hadn’t seen a drop of rain or water in months. Everything for as far as the eye could see was brown. Brown dirt that billowed and stung his eyes. If only he’d thought to get struck by lightning with the sunglasses he left in a little glass dish by the front door. At least he hadn’t been wearing his pajamas when the “incident” had occurred.
>
> Speaking of clothing, now that he made his way from a supine position to resting on his knobbly knees, it became increasingly obvious that he had never seen, or worn, strange clothing like what he was now wearing during his seventy years of life. The fabric was a stark contrast to the dull landscape surrounding him—James still hadn’t ruled out that he was having the most vivid dream of his life; he had been feeling anxious about Bel’s garden party, but hyperrealist dreams had never been among his coping mechanisms before.
>
> The clothing he was wearing was bright, at least as bright as some of the colors people in their twenties boasted as they strutted down Manhattan’s crowded sidewalks. Definitely brighter than anything he’d worn in his entire life. And ill-fitting in the extreme. James had been a tall, lean man in his youth, and that build had carried over into his fifties, when he’d started to shrink and his lean form had decidedly shifted to bony and a little gaunt. This blindingly bright outfit was too big in most areas and uncomfortably tight in others. The designated owner must have had more muscles than sense. The shoulder area drooped on James, clearly designed for a hulk of a man—or woman, James supposed. He’d seen some dedicated female bodybuilders who could have filled out the broad shoulders, no problem. The top piece seemed to be some kind of tunic, with a belt cinched so loosely around James’ waist he was sure it was one breeze from falling off. And attached to the belt was some chunky piece of metal so heavy James was confident he would fall over if he tried to move off his knees and stand upright. He eyed the hilt of the stick of metal shoved in some kind of leather pouch—sheath, his mother had told him countless times—and… of course. His hallucination had come equipped with the most stereotypical fantasy weapon of all time.
>
> A sword.
>
> “I hope no one plans on me using this thing,” he huffed, trying to use one of his bright-red sleeves to wipe some of the dust off his face. His pure-white hair probably looked as brown as it had in his youth, given the sheer amount of dust snapping at his heels and swirling around him.
>
> The bottom half of the outfit was the worst though—a pair of tights that seemed like they belonged on a young woman. They pinched at his waist, which was little more than bones and bruises, and only went halfway down his calf. “I’d love to see the creature this getup is supposed to fit. Shoulders like bulldozers and a two-inch waist.”
>
> The boots weren’t bad, but they were too big for his feet, which had seemed to shrink along with his height as he got older.
>
> “Well, I’ll be having a talk with whoever decided this was a good idea,” James said to no one. There was no one to talk to. But this wasn’t his first time being alone, and he had no qualms with talking to himself. At least that way he knew the conversation would be intelligent and engaging.
>
> The first thing to go would have to be the sword. Now that his vision had finally cleared, he placed a hand to shield his eyes from the sun beating down on him and saw a tall spire in the distance, clearly manmade. Civilization of some kind. Maybe a radio tower. Or a strange skyscraper of some kind. Whatever it was, James planned on hobbling in that direction as fast as his traitorous body was able. He needed something else to wear. And a nap. And he should probably eat, even though he didn’t feel hungry.
>
> Maybe this was real. Maybe he was sleeping, although he usually enjoyed sleeping more than this. Maybe he was actually reading that strange present from his parents and had finally achieved his parents’ definition of “getting lost in a book.”
>
> He didn’t like it.
>
> Oh, right. That sword. He fumbled with the belt at his waist, finally getting the clasps undone. It fell to the dirt below him and he sighed. He was still uncomfortable and frankly grumpy, but getting rid of the additional weight was nice. He started to stand, groaning and moaning and grimacing until he finally straightened up. Given the position of the sun, directly above his head, it was probably noon in this strange world, which meant he would be traveling during the hottest part of the day.
>
> Wonderful.
>
> Thankfully, there appeared to be a half-dead copse of trees up ahead that could pass for a pitiful forest. At least then he’d get some shade and not burn his sensitive head. He was one of the lucky ones who still had all his hair, but it certainly wasn’t as thick as it had been thirty years before.
>
> As he started shuffling forward, he felt a strange weight on his right side throwing him off-balance and frowned. A quick glance at the ground underneath his feet and then at his waist confirmed his sinking suspicion.
>
> It wasn’t just a sword. It was a magical sword. A magical, clingy sword.
>
> “The worst kind.” James didn’t bother trying to unclasp the belt again. It was obvious the sword would be coming with him on this unwanted adventure, regardless of his wishes.
>
> But he’d have to do something about the weapon, or else he would topple over. That probably wasn’t the sword’s plan, to lay in the dirt for the rest of its days, and James intended to use that to his advantage. He’d seen his sister’s children shouting at a gray circle, and the device had actually responded, simultaneously telling them the temperature in Egypt while converting cups to quarts and giving ten points to Griffin-something.
>
> Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.
>
> Surely a magical sword could be reasoned with.
>
> “Ok, sword, listen up. If you have to come with, you’re going to need to be more reasonable. I’m probably your oldest wielder, and I’m not as strong as the brutes you’re probably used to. So, umm….” Maybe he’d hit his head a little harder than he thought. The sword continued to sit in its sheath, oblivious or intentionally ignoring James’ demands.
>
> “Not so magical after all. Just as well. I’ve never been a fan of newfangled things like Lulu and Goggle, to say nothing of this ‘internet’ everyone’s been raving of since the mid-eighties. The last thing I need to add to this messy dream is ‘magic.’”
>
> The sword did not respond.
>
> James wasn’t one of those old men who took pleasure in sprinting through the woods and down rickety trails shirtless, but he also wasn’t a couch potato. He preferred chairs. And he had a fiercely stubborn streak, probably from his great grandmother, who had decided to not only live through the last ten years of the 1800s, but had also gone through the Great Depression and two World Wars and had even seen the beginning of the 21st century before dying at the age of 110. That woman had really wanted to live, and James was partial to living as well. Giving up and pouting about this strange turn of events would be a lot less work, that was true, but James was a creature of habit above all else.
>
> And it was almost time for bed. It might have been noon in this weird dust world, but it was probably exactly 6:30, and he never went to bed later than 9pm.
>
> And given his snail-like pace and the extra weight of the sword hanging from his waist, he would be lucky to make it to the spire in the distance by 8:45. And that was if he managed to pull off a walk instead of his usual shuffle.
>
> “Never a moment to rest, not even in delusions.” Sighing loudly and fighting back a yawn, James readjusted the belt until the sword was hanging directly behind him. The weight was still irritating and would slow him down, but at least he wouldn’t teeter to one side the entire walk.
>
> Putting one foot in front of the other, James began making his way to the trees in the distance. The land was in pathetic shape. James did his best to quickly move off the dirt path he’d woken up on, hoping walking in the dead, brown grass would throw up less dust than the intended trail. It hadn’t been “quick” per say, but he was now clunking his way through the dead grass, which made a hypnotic crunching sound under his too-big boots. Between the large boots, the heavy sword threatening to land him on his bottom, and all the dust filling the air like filthy fog, James ended up shuffling forward in an almost zombie-like fashion, hands held in front of him to help him keep his balance and try and ward off the haze.
>
> It took thirty-three minutes, but James finally reached the trees. They were also brown, even the thick leaves, which were still firmly attached to the trees’ umbrella of branches.
>
> “I guess nature here doesn’t take fall literally.” The pun was not lost on James, who laughed good-naturedly at his own joke. “Heh, that was actually not terrible.” But it didn’t seem like autumn. The leaves were brown and dry, but when James reached out to a branch drooping down low enough for him to feel the foliage, the leaves didn’t crumble under his touch like fall leaves in Chelsea did. They didn’t feel dead, just parched and desperate for water.
>
> “Weird place.”
>
> James’ pace was more consistent now that he had the shade of the trees overhead blocking out the sun’s harsh glare. He still had to shuffle to avoid tripping in the oversized footwear, but he made good time. The spire in the distance was getting closer, and it was looking less and less like a radio tower or skyscraper and more and more like a teetering tower.
>
> A bad feeling started to sink in his belly as James squinted up at the tower. It looked like… yeah. It sure did. If only he didn’t need to sleep and some more comfortable clothing!
>
> He’d put up with whatever lived in the tower when he got there.
>
> If he got there. The woods seemed to become more and more feral the closer James got to his destination. The leaves were green here, although such a dark green they almost looked black. The ground shifted from dry and desert-like to soggy and almost swampy. The dirt underfoot was almost mud, and James had to struggle to put one foot in front of the other. The boots on his feet seemed determined to nestle into the wet ground and rest, and eventually James bent down and slowly pried the shoes off. He’d rather risk stepping on a thorn or rock than continue fighting to pry the boots from the muddy ground.
>
> He didn’t bother removing his socks. Sure, they would get muddy and soaked through almost immediately, but it had been hard enough getting the boots off, and James knew with perfect certainty that if he sat down he would not be getting back up.
>
> So he kept making his way forward until the tower was casting a shadow over him, completely blocking out the sun, which was gradually lowering in the sky as time passed. Almost 8:30pm Chelsea time, and James was yawning more and more frequently. He’d almost ran into a low-hanging branch during one of his longer yawns.
>
> But he was pretty confident he wouldn’t be making it to the tower by his internal clock’s 9pm. The copse of trees was now so thick he could barely see the tower’s cobblestone exterior. If he was able to teleport or squeeze through two solid feet of tangled branches and greenery he’d be at the ancient wooden door that supposedly led into the tower’s interior. He could probably reach the brass of the doorknob if he forced his arm through the interwoven branches. It was infuriating.
>
> But he was far too big to squeeze through, and he refused to try talking to the branches like he had with the sword. Sure, maybe they actually would listen to him, but that would be worse than missing his sacred bedtime.
>
> He leaned against a thick trunk and started to think his way through the problem at hand. Sure, he could go back the way he had come and see if there was another way to get into the tower. Surely the owner didn’t use this branch-covered door often, and the tower’s occupant, or occupants, would have to leave at some point to buy food and such.
>
> But James had already been walking for two hours, and he had no desire to go through so much work when he was this close to one of the entrances. He could have set the forest on fire, but he wasn’t an arsonist. And he didn’t know how to start a fire with sticks like they did in books and apparently on camping trips his family had never taken.
>
> And he didn’t want to accidentally burn himself to a crisp. That would defeat all the effort he’d put in to get this far. And James was nothing if not efficient with his time. Heavy-duty yard equipment could easily get the job done, but he hadn’t seen any John Deere trackers or machinery lying around. Even a riding lawn mower would likely cut through the dense tree branches. But James had never had a lawn to care for. And he wouldn’t know how to work the lawn mower, even if one had plunged from the sky and conveniently landed in front of him.
>
> Not to mention that would be terrifying.
>
> Large gardening prunes would probably also work, it would just be more labor-intensive…
>
> “Bingo.” James smiled, even though the action hurt his dry skin.
>
> “I’ve thought of the perfect task for you, mighty sword.”
>
> He reached for his belt and pulled until the sword and its sheath were resting at his side once more. He probably wouldn’t be able to lift the sword, but bedtime was fast approaching and James was getting desperate. What if the tower didn’t even have a decent bed? Plumbing was an almost guaranteed zero.
>
> “I’ve made up my mind. Let’s get this over with.” He pulled the sword out slowly, intent on not taking off his foot in the process. It was ridiculously heavy, and James lifted it just high enough to rest its flat side on a tree branch before taking a couple minutes to catch his breath.
>
> He soon got in a rhythm of wielding the sword just long enough to make a couple cuts before returning the sword to its woody perch.
>
> His internal clock was just reaching 9pm when he finished hacking through the last branch. A large pile of cut branches sat in piles all around him. But the door was accessible now. He grunted with satisfaction before ever so slowly returning the sword to its sheath and repositioning the belt so the sword was behind him once more before reaching for the doorknob.
>
> It turned, slowly and unwillingly, before opening. The interior was pitch-black, like a blanket of midnight. It was nice and cool, like his aunt’s basement room in Nebraska. He’d never slept so well in his life as he had at her house.
>
> Tendrils of light crept into the dark space, and James was too tired to worry about potential traps, ambushes, or even large spiders.
>
> There was a convenient wooden stool sitting right inside the dark interior, and James slowly lowered himself into the seat, peeling off his wet, muddy socks and straining his eyes as he tried to make out anything in the gloom. There was stuff everywhere. It looked like he was in a kitchen of some kind. Pots and pans cluttered even the floor, and there were glass jars with strange shapes inside stacked on top of each other.
>
> And there was a large bundle of something that looked like straw on the floor by a dirty, soot-stained hole that was probably a fireplace.
>
> “Works for me.”
>
> Getting down from the stool to the hefty pile of straw was a struggle, but by the time his head hit the hay he was already snoring, loudly enough to disturb a black shape that had been curled into one of the many large kettles scattered around the floor.
>
> James was peacefully oblivious. And asleep.