Patrick's Surfaces XIII

I didn't know how to get back in.

Her writing was too slow. I was desperate to leave the apartment, suddenly smelly and dank, wanting color, wanting danger, wanting her. Imorin. Finally her true name. Imorin. "How?" I kept repeating, "How?" Aloud. With my voice. To the book. To the book, as if the book could hear. Yet, I could hear the book. I could hear Imorin through her words, on the page, which weren't coming fast enough onto the second-to-last page.

You'll have to start again, she wrote.

You'll have to begin at the beginning and read through, not live through, but read through, what you've already lived. We'll be waiting for you. You must finish the book or there is no hope for us. You must live through an ending, or there is no hope for us, she wrote.

So, I sat, where I was, on the floor, and began to read. Beginning with page one:

Wemoreland was in danger of disappearing, of being taken over by rules and constraints, by black and white, by definitions and normalcy and by all the other things that stifle an imagination.

I couldn't imagine having wanted to read this as a younger me. I couldn't imagine wanting to read this this morning. But, the words changed, before my eyes, blurred and came back together as Zachary, it's okay. It's the same story, but you are not the same Zachary. Just come in.

And so I did, I sat and read and I remembered as I read, not the words, no, none of the words, but the story, the steps of the castles, the sharks in the moat, the silver forest, the caves where we met Snate, the bear who led us to the other side, who introduced us to Neptine who guided us through the night to the sire of Kintet and who never left the story. Through adventure and tragedy, with the monkeys, on the boat, rescued and lost and rescuing, trying to put Patrick's puzzles together, to follow the story with his clues, until page 253, where we ran through blue elms and then I left Imorin on the red wood bridge. Page 254 was completely blank, but I was no longer holding the book.

Patrick's Surfaces XII

The book now seemed more real than the room. The blue elms and red wooden bridge, the nasty gnomes and the worker monkeys, the danger, the passion, the puzzles, the hunt, Patrick's mind and Patrick's power, now, suddenly, with the coming of one clear memory, seemed more real than the front door, the computer, the desk chair, the empty whiskey bottle, the paper and glue and ink of the book itself.

I repeated my question to the unreal room, "How?" and was answered by nothing.

I opened the book to the last page and read:

You cannot read the last page of this book without reading the first and next pages of this book because the last page does not exist until you've created it from the second-to-last, the second-to-last from the third-to-last, the third-to-last from the fourth-to-last etc, starting with creating the second page from the first. Close the book and start at the beginning, dear reader, or this book cannot exist. P.W.

That was the last page of the book. I turned it to the right, opening the book to the third and second-to-last pages. The third was blank. The second had one line:

Thank you, Zachary, for coming back.

And then it had another line after it:

I'm sorry that you had to be torn about so.

And then another line:

I'm sorry it came to that.

The lines continued to appear, one at a time, the next after reading the last:

We were desperate. We needed you so badly. It took so much work , so much time, so many readers and their inventions, before we could find a way to you. By then, you had forgotten us. You would not have believed us had we shown ourselves to you as you had known us.

I could hear her voice in the words I read.

Patrick's Surfaces XI

Why are you running?

Why are we running?

Or is it not me, but Patrick? Just some generic, ageless white boy with you.

Would help if I knew what Patrick looked like. Would help if I knew what the fuck I'd be doing in that book. IN that book.

I was addressing her although she was no longer there - both her vehicles to presence, the computer and the book, had made dents in my door. The book, though, was still intact. There, across the room on top of bits of white plastic and bent metal. I found myself addressing the book, addressing her fleeing image on the book, and even with my head in my hands her blond and blue were facing me, running towards me, holding Patrick's hand - my hand? - running towards me through impossible blue elms.

"Bitch," I said to the running girl in my head. "Get out."

The silence was her laughing, her laughing with sad shoulders, fightless eyes. "Fool," the silence said. "Fool."

And then I remembered. I finally remembered. "Fool," she had said, laughing. The whole scene came back.

She had been on the middle of a red, wood footbridge, long hair and white gauzy skirts so fiercely wind-blown that it looked like the river was plucking her downward. One of her hands was gripping the one-rope railing. The other was on her hip. I was close enough to hear her calm despite the wind, but not close enough to touch her.

"We may only be in Patrick's mind, Zachary. Foolish Zachary," she'd said. "But, that means you and I cannot exist without him, cannot exist just each other. Stop your dreaming silly young Zach. You are here to get to the end of the story. Not to start a new one. I can't leave Wemoreland. And when you reach the end, all you can do is leave. Alone."

I remembered the feeling of confusion. The realest thing when I walked onto that bridge was the girl before me who had come to the end of so many chapters with me, partners, companions, her land-smarts, bone strength, night's eye, and owl's intuition complementing perfectly my knowledge of game-narrative, of strategy, of planning for the unexpected with my defenses always up. But, his real thing, she was reminding me, had no reality. The confusion turned to anger, the jealously turned to hatred and I left her on the bridge and swore to myself to leave both her and Patrick to suffer forever without resolution, without an ending.

With the confidence of this memory, with the relief of remembering, I walked over, picked up the book, saw us fleeing through blue elms, and heard her say, "Free us, Zachary."

"How?" I replied, to the book.

Patrick's Surfaces X

The book was smelly, musty, and yellow around the edges. There was a burn in the top right corner of the first few pages, as if burnt from a cigarette held in the same hand as the book. I didn't remember where I got it. I didn't remember, even, reading it. I certainly didn't remember ever smoking. Most of the other books in the two boxes were old textbooks and computer manuals. DOS for Dummies, etc. There were several Star Trek novels and then there was The Surfaces of Wemoreland. I didn't remember reading it but I had vague wispy memories of the story, though the memories were visual, like movie-memories, and even vague and wispy they seemed longer and denser than the 160-page paperback.

I tossed the book on the desk where the computer used to sit. It hit with a dull thud and then I watched it a minute, as if I expected it to move or be moved or grow into something else.

I poured myself another whiskey. The bottle was almost empty which made me wonder what time it was, if liquor stores were open, if I'd been up all night yet, if we were near the moment when dogs were walked and ghosts retreated. But it was dark except for the desk lamp that spotlighted the book, and quiet absolutely.

The cover of the book had two children on it, running, fleeing, hand-in-hand amongst blue elms. Nothing was chasing them and they looked not scared, but excited, invigorated, like they were about to win a clear race. They were both blond, and dressed all in white. She had gold bracelets and a black rose on her ankle, barely discernible. She had the eyes of the woman whose face just splintered against my door. They were about twelve. Or maybe fifteen. Or perhaps eight. Or not even children. I turned the book face down and thought about sleep and why it didn't seem like a relevant thought. I sat in my desk chair and without touching the book, read the back cover:

Take an adventure with Patrick Wemore to a land of his own making, a land in his own mind. Travel to Wemoreland and help Patrick's imagination keep him, and you, and all the good people and creatures of Wemoreland safe. By reading this interactive story you can help Patrick's unconscious, and therefore all Wemoreland, to fight against bad thoughts and wrong deeds, and to prevail against evil.

I closed my eyes and saw again the image of the ship and the monkeys. I was breathing heavily and each inhale brought a different flash of memory: a purple sunset, a faceless gnome screaming curses from within a large black-bound book, a blue rickshaw on an empty desert plane, the stars moving into battle formation, a soft voice saying "yes" urgently from rounded lips, a field of knee-high flowers in reds and golds collectively reflecting two bright, full moons.

I opened my eyes and threw the book into the shards of my computer, knowing that everything I needed to throw was actually in my mind.