“The egg is cracking,” he says. “Has cracked. Will crack.”
Above them a series of keys fall, clattering against one another like chimes.
“Soon the dragon will come to eat the world.” Simon turns back to Zachary. “You should not be here. The story followed you here. This is where they want you to be.”
“Who?” Zachary asks again and this time it seems like Simon hears the question. He leans in and whispers, as though he fears someone else might hear.
“They are gods with lost myths, writing themselves new ones. Can you hear the buzzing yet?”
At his words the air changes. A curling breeze moves through the room, sending book pages and ribbons fluttering and extinguishing a number of candles. Simon moves quickly to relight them as the space sinks into shadow.
Zachary takes a few steps to stay out of Simon’s way and backs into a statue of a helmeted warrior mounted on a gryphon, frozen mid-pounce on an unseen enemy, sword drawn and wings spread.
Perched on the statue’s sword is a small owl, staring down at him.
Zachary jumps back in surprise and reaches to draw his own sword but he has left it on the ground some distance away. The owl continues to stare. It is very small, mostly fluff and eyes. There is an object clutched in its talons.
“Why would you fear that which guides you?” Simon asks calmly without turning to look at him, preoccupied with candle lighting. The room grows brighter. “The owls have only ever propelled the story forward. It is their purpose. This one has been waiting for someone to arrive. I should have known.” He moves off, muttering to himself.
The small owl drops the object it carries at Zachary’s feet.
Zachary looks down.
On the stone by his shoe is a folded-paper star.
The owl flies upward and perches on a balcony rail, continuing to stare down at Zachary. When Zachary does nothing the owl gives an impatient hoot of encouragement.
Zachary picks up the paper star. There is text printed on it. It looks familiar. He wonders how far the cats batted it through hallways before it fell all the way down here to wherever the owl fetched it from. Before it found its way to here and now.
Zachary unfolds the star and reads.
The son of the fortune-teller stands before six doorways,
ZACHARY EZRA RAWLINS looks down at words he has been longing to read, near delirious to have finally found another sentence that starts with the son of the fortune-teller in a familiar serifed typeface on a piece of paper removed from a book before being turned into a star and then gifted to him by a small owl and then he stops.
The owl hoots at him from the balcony.
He is not ready. He doesn’t want to know.
Not yet.
He folds the page back into a star and puts it in his pocket without reading more than the first few words.
Three things lost in time. All right here. Sweet Sorrows in his bag, the sword at his feet, and Simon across the room.
Zachary feels something should happen now that all of them are together but nothing has. Not here, at least. Maybe they’re all still lost and now he’s just lost along with them.
Find man.
Found him. Now what?
Zachary turns his attention back to Simon who is still lighting candles on altars and staircases. The ground is covered in beeswax. Stretches of it look like honeycomb, though any perfect hexagons have been undone by footsteps and time.
As the light increases Zachary can see the other layers that have been built over this temple. An alcove for offerings now holds a pile of blankets. There are stacks of jars placed on the floor, removed from a less wax-covered place and brought here. This is where the man lost in time has been, hidden away for weeks or months or centuries.
Zachary walks over to Simon, following in his steps as he lights his candles.
“You are words on paper,” Simon whispers, to himself or to Zachary or to the words above them clinging to their respective papers. “Be careful what stories you tell yourself.”