Fantasy Date

Darryl paused upon the threshold, contemplating one last time the momentous nature of the journey he was about to undertake. Only days before, he had been a Student, a novitiate indistinguishable from many others to be found huddling at all hours in the dim light of the Great Library. It was there that he had first seen her – one of the Others – and he had marveled at the sight of her, seeming almost to glow as she picked her way among the carrels, long and lithe with silvery-blond hair streaming out even as she bent under a great stack of manuscripts.

And then, in a spark of fate he would forever remember, one of his fellow Students had chosen an ill moment to stretch his cramping legs, just as she passed by. She tripped, began to fall headlong, and would have dashed her brains on the edge of his table had not Darryl, reacting as if in a dream, leapt from his seat to catch her around the waist. It all happened as if in slow motion; standing upon the Threshold, Darryl could still remember the feeling of his arms around her slender waist. How fragile she seemed! How lovely!

Her books had gone flying, and as soon as he had righted her, Darryl threw himself to the ground to retrieve them. When he had gathered the great pile together, he stood up and made to hand them to her, not daring to look into her eyes, those great blue orbs he knew could penetrate his most obscure thoughts.

“Please, put them there”, she said in a gracious voice, and with head bent Darryl could see she had indicated his table. “And thank you so much…. What’s your name?”

Darryl froze. He could hardly believe she was speaking to him. His mouth went dry and for a moment, he was unsure how to respond. But he gathered his courage and said “D-d-Darryl.”

“Thank you, Darryl. Mind if I sit with you?”

That was how it had begun. For the rest of that evening, Darryl sat near-dumfounded in the presence of this Other – her name, she had told him, was Ashley – and pretended to study as he watched the beautiful creature thumb through various manuscripts, making notes in a round, flowing hand on the lined vellum of her notebook. She was a Student in one of the arts unknown to Darryl, something she called Physical Therapy. Although their ability to converse was limited by Darryl’s nervousness, he had told her that he was also a Student, of Medieval History. She had laughed, a light, silvery laugh like a summer wind through a birch copse.

“Medieval, like crusades and chivalry and the Black Death?” she had asked, and Darryl has been both surprised and gratified by her knowledge. Yes, just like that, he had said.

And so the evening had passed, and when it was time for her to go, she did something most astonishing. She gave to him, inscribed upon a scrap of vellum, a message consisting of a string of seven numbers and the words “Call me!”. She had also inscribed a strange symbol, a circle containing two dots with a curve underneath. It seemed to Darryl like the rendering of a smiling face, and his heart skipped a beat as he imagined it was her smiling at him.

The next day, Darryl broke fast with several of his fellow Students and told them about his strange and marvelous encounter with the Other. At first, none of them believed his tale. But then, he showed them the message she had given them.

“Whoah!” was all they could say, passing the message around in wide-eyed wonder.

“What should I do?” he asked them. But none of them had experienced anything like this, and so they were equally mystified and would have remained so if one of the Students from another group not overheard their conversation.

“Call her, doofus!” said the Student with a sneer.

Darryl saw, by his costume and sheer physical size, that he was one of the Jocks, who were said to have great knowledge of the Others. He knew what he must do.

And now, here he was on the threshold of her Keep, dressed in his best trousers of the shiniest corduroy, with a freshly pressed white chemise and the double-knotted tie that had been his father’s before him. In one rather sweaty hand, he clutched his Gift of Flowers (he had consulted one of the manuscripts in the Great Library; it had advised him that the Others adore Flowers); the other he raised upward and, taking a deep breath, he rang the Bell.

A few moments passed and Darryl considered running away. But then he heard her voice calling from behind the Front Door: “Just a minute!” And so he waited. Another few moments passed, and then, with a great creaking, the Door opened at last.

Darryl was struck dumb at the sight of her. She had done something to her hair – it no longer flowed loose around her shoulders, but had been pulled up and tied at the top of her head with a piece of shiny pink silk. Her garb was also strange and wondrous: she appeared to be wearing a second skin, but it was of the pinkest pink: a small, tight-fitting top of some clingy material that barely covered her luscious breasts, and an equally snug and short skirt. At least, Darryl thought it was a skirt until she turned away from him and he saw that it was in fact very short trousers of some ingenious design that clung to her young, firm buttocks like dew on a new rose.

“Well, come in!” she said, with a laugh that showed full, pink lips and pearly, white teeth. Still stunned, Darryl held out the Gift, and she took them, saying “Carnations! Aren’t they nice. Always in season.”

Taking this as approval, Darryl crossed the threshold and entered into her rooms. The first room was a cloak room; it was lined with pegs from which hung cloaks of many lengths. She then guided him down a hallway. Everything was white or pink, and he saw immediately that the stories of the Others were true: they were much… cleaner, more pure than he and his fellows. She led him to a large room containing a long, overstuffed bench with a high back, and two matching chairs. There was also a low table made from some wondrous see-though material, and a carpet of purest white. Upon the table, Darryl could see manuscripts, brightly coloured, with images of smiling Others upon them. Ashley indicated that he should sit in one of the chairs, and so he did. Then she excused herself, leaving him to contemplate the room.

He gazed around him in wonder, taking note of the shelves containing cleverly-made figurines of ponies and kittens; upon the wall there were framed pictures, one of which was done in gold and red and showed one of the Others, face uplifted, receiving a man’s kiss.

Suddenly, Darryl became aware of music. From some unseen portal, he could hear the ethereal tones of a great choir of voices singing a tribute to a faraway river, a place called the Orinoco. The music was repetitive and hypnotic; Darryl shook his head to clear his mind just in time to see Ashley enter bearing a flask and two smaller vessels that she placed upon the low table.

The vessels were of glass, rounded cups set upon slender, transparent stems. The flask was also of glass and appeared to contain a ruby red liquid of some kind. By indication of her hand, Darryl understood that he was to pour.

Trembling, he picked up the flask and tipped it toward one of the vessels. Nothing came out! He gave it a little shake, but still nothing happened. He inspected the end of the flask and was gutted with dismay when he realized that a stopper filled the neck of the flask. Darryl could feel the colour rising to his cheeks. Had he failed? Would she throw him out, back to the world of miserable Students, exiling him from this wondrous place of beauty and delight?

“Darryl!” she spoke. “You have to take the cork out first!” He could hear the laughter in her voice as she handed him a strange device, rather like an awl, but twisted in a pointed spiral.

Of course, thought Darryl, mentally cursing his own stupidity. He had read about this in the Great Library. It was a corkscrew: you were meant to turn it into the stopper, and then use it to pull the stopper out.

As Darryl applied the corkscrew to the stopper, Ashley excused herself a second time. “I’ve got some chips and dip in the kitchen – be right back, “ she said. Darryl was amazed. The Others ate chips and dip? He had heard they did not touch such things, that his kind of food, filled as it was with fat and salt, was dangerous to the Others. It made them fat and ugly, and filled their skin with spots, just like his! Or so he had read. Yet, her skin was clear. How could it be?

Still pondering this mystery, Darryl continued to turn the corkscrew into the flask until it had gone all the way in. Now he would have to pull it out. But how? Holding the flask in his left hand, he tried to pull upwards, but he immediately saw he would not have the strength. He would need both his hands for this task. Placing the flask between his knees, Darryl, in a flash of insight, suddenly realized why the Jocks would know so much of, and be so comfortable around, the Others: their physical strength would give them the ability to pull out stoppers without effort. Cursing his feebleness, Darryl clamped his knees together around the flask, grasped the corkscrew with both hands, and began to pull.

At first, nothing happened. Then he tried pulling and turning at the same time, and was rewarded with the tiniest movement of the stopper. By now, Darryl had begun to sweat with exertion. He gritted his teeth, thinking, “I must not fail her!” and bore down again upon the corkscrew.

Slowly, the stopper began to rise up from the neck of the flask. But then it seemed to be stuck, and all the pulling would not budge it. Darryl realized he would need improved leverage, and so he got to his feet.

Once again he placed the flask between his knees. He bent over and seized the corkscrew with both hands. He took a deep breath and counted in his mind one… two…

Upon three, Darryl gave a great yank. The flask flew up from between his knees and the stopper came free! But Darryl’s hands, slick with sweat, could not grasp the flask that was now flying through the air. He watched in horror as it flew, as if in slow motion, over the low table, knocking down and shattering the two slender glass vessels, crashing down upon the low table, all the while spurting red liquid over the manuscripts, the table, and the fine white carpet beneath.

In the midst of the flask’s trajectory, Darryl heard a small shriek, and turned to see Ashley – his precious, mysterious Other! – run into the room bearing two bowls, the larger filled with the promised chips, one smaller filled no doubt with dip, as she made haste to reach the low table. Darryl, finally reacting to the scene of horror unfolding before him, lurched forward to take the bowls from her, but he misjudged his reach and, in process, knocked both bowls from her slender, brilliantly manicured hands, sending chips flying and grinding dip into the spreading red stain on the floor below.

“Shit!” Ashley cried out. “Shit, shit, shit!”

Uncertain how to respond, Darryl also shouted, “Shit! Shit, shit!”

Hearing this, Ashley spun toward him. Her eyes glared, shooting cold rays of hatred toward him. “Jesus!” she shrieked.

And then, overcome with fear and panic, Darryl bolted. He ran from the white room, ran through the hallway, barely registering the cries that followed him. Blundering through the cloakroom, he shoved open the Front Door and fell through to the outside world. Still hearing her cries, he ran down the steps, away from that place of horror, into the street beyond.

Only then did the tears come, hot and furious upon his flaming cheeks. He was a failure, and no Other would ever speak to him again, in this lifetime or the next. Through the darkening streets, Darryl ran, toward the town, toward the taverns that he knew held sweet oblivion, for he held only one thought in his head: to drink, and drink, and drink, until he could drink no more.

And then, he would lay down, and death could take him, for truly, all was lost.

THE END.