Chapter One
Water and Stone
Here he is. Or should I say, there he was—and it was a few minutes before Midnight when his black Ford pulled up to the iron gate. It had been a long drive, and his headlights had washed away the stars during the entire nocturnal trip; how unfortunate.
He didn't see the stars that had scattered themselves—frozen—shimmering, parading their cold blues, pale oranges and whites in the coastal sky above—for him. The black disc of a new moon was positioned against this white river—and the lip of the southern surface was barely visible—with a hush of light. A galaxy of moon, stars, and treetops surrounded the man, Jack Kovak, and his black Ford Escort rent-a-car, but all he could see was the iron gate.
He had just pulled up to a boxed speaker illuminated by a thin florescent glow. Jack hesitated to push the red button positioned on the grated facing; he didn't know if this was the right place or not. There was no address. It was all so strange. The money, the message, the location. He had received a Western Union cable in Kodiak several days ago. Western Union—funny, he thought—cablegrams only occurred in movies.
To: Jack Kovak, Fishing Vessel Arctic, Kodiak Alaska From: Joao Klein, Emerald City, Emerald City Blvd. ,Los Padres, California Start: Your immediate presence is required at the above address. You will be received at any time day or night. Stop.
Three thousand dollars had been deposited into his checking account at Alaska First National in Kodiak. At first he thought it was a glitch, a screw up. But when the teller gave Jack his deposit statement, there was a notation under the deposits received column, it read simply: from Joao. Jack told his skipper that he'd need to find another crewman for the rest of the season. And he flew from Kodiak to Anchorage, to Seattle to San Francisco, finally to Monterey, where he rented the Ford Escort.
It was a three hour drive south from Monterey and he left well after dark. Driving the winding coastal highway, he felt uneasy, anxious, his empty stomach shrunk, twisted. What awaited him at this Emerald City? What was this place? Dammit, it wasn't even on the AAA road map. Emerald City—it's also known as the Palace of Oz...was built on the western edge of the Los Padres National Forest, fifteen—no, twenty years ago. Can't see it from the road, but it's huge, real fuckin’ huge. Never seen it in person but I've seen pictures. Remarkable structure, a real piece of work she is. As wide as three football fields and at least fifteen stories high. She's big—real big. A whole bunch of green towers shoot right out of the ground like weird giant crystals, a real piece of work she is. Watch for the fifth road south of Nepenthe's, you can easily miss it since it's pretty dark out there. Let's see, Snapple, chicken sandwich, ten bucks unleaded—that'll be $13.72. The bearded clerk, possibly the owner of the only Exxon station in Big Sur took the five and ten from Jack's hand and returned the appropriate change.
When Jack sat back down in the rent-a-car, he unwrapped the cellophane from his meal and twisted the cap from the iced tea. No one knew anything about the occupants of this Emerald City. Palace of Oz, Jack smirked. And Jack drove off feeling a little better, the sandwich was crap, but the Snapple hit the spot. His headlights washed the road in white and he smiled for the first time since he left the airport.
But he wasn't smiling now as he stared at the illuminated speaker box. It was chilly. He shivered as he reached for the red circular button. He pushed it. Nothing happened. He waited a minute, thinking that it was awfully late, and pushed it again. Nothing. He cut off the engine and got out of the car, walked up to the iron gate, wrapped his hands around the square cool bars. Yep, just like what the old man said at the filling station, there was nothing to see from the road. Darkness. Jack pushed the gate, then pulled. The thick bars wouldn't budge. He turned back toward the car. A few errant moths tinked against the car's headlights and Jack sat on the warm hood, reached over and pushed the button again. Now he wasn't sure if the button worked or not. He sat there listening to the engine click as it cooled and the soothing echo of the crickets.
Suddenly, "Yes? Is someone there?"
Jack flinched at the metallic male voice. He reached over and pushed the red button. "Yeah. My name's Jack Kovak, from Kodiak, Alaska."
"Excuse me, but you do not need to push the button to speak. Just speak, I can hear you clearly ."
"Yeah. My name is Jack–"
"I know who you are. Wait one moment please."There was a loud clicking from the gate and it began to slide open.
Jack jumped back into the Ford, started it, and began to creep forward. His tires popped and chewed the gravel as he passed through the entrance.
And the rubber began to whisper in the dark as the road became asphalt. Tires and engine purred with the crickets.
Like the artificial head-lamps of Jack's car, his eyes followed the black road, straining to see through patches of low level mist. He braked to avoid an occasional bunny that scurried across his path. Poor Jack. If he only knew what lay ahead, but then, maybe I should just let Jack do what he feels is right. Sometimes he can be quite unpredictable.
Jack felt the air chill as he descended into a dark valley. He couldn't see the grassy hills that surrounded the road, nor could he see the length of an eucalyptus forest that fretted long dry leaves in an airy dance. What emerged from beyond the silhouettes of the tree-line caused Jack to nearly run off the road.He stopped the car and looked—stunned.
A massive cluster of at least fifty monolithic towers shot into the black sky, their surface glowing a gun metal gray. The windowless towers stretched like pale crystal shafts ending at various heights; the shortest at sixty feet, the tallest—a half mile.
Someone was looking down from the tallest tower; the only tower that has windows. Actually, they are portholes, the type that are found on old wooden schooners—coincidentally, the same type of fishing vessel that Jack worked on as a boy. Eight inches in diameter, the porthole cannot be opened and is positioned at face level—and the man watched the headlights as they snaked across the black surface of the earth.
Pinpoints—the lights flickered from behind the eucalyptus forest. His nails touched the moist glass tracing the lights with his spidery fingers—to the left, then to the right. Joao didn't feel the coolness of the night beyond the glass—his clawed nails scraped it. He began to hum an elusive tune, a tune that evokes dusty breaths from shadows—cryptic haunts.
Alone—Joao is alone in the dark. He's humming the song.
The massive structure was overwhelming, but as the road brought Jack closer to what he believed was a city, the towers began to disappear behind one another. His hands sweated the steering wheel slick as he finally reached what he assumed to be the front entrance. He pulled the car over and shut it off.
One would expect a wide sweeping staircase leading to the front entrance of a grand structure such as this; there were only three steps. One, two, three. The entrance: a knobless double door that was merely a meter wide yet stretched at least twenty yards above Jack's head. Jack thought it strange to have a door so narrow—it gave him a claustrophobic feeling. When anyone would visit, they would have to enter one at a time. If they knew he was coming, thought Jack, why wasn't the door open, or some one here to greet him for that matter. Where was Joao?
He couldn't spot any doorbell in the grey luminosity, so he reached for knocker that hung above him. Smooth, obeliscal, a half meter long, it took the entire strength of one arm to lift it. Jack let it fall, thudding against the solid surface of the door. It echoed. He lifted it and let it fall again. His heart began to beat through his shirt. He put his hands in his pockets to keep them from shaking. There was movement from behind the door, a rustling, and the door opened silently.
The cool airy smell of fresh water greeted him. And darkness. Jack eyed the figure that had opened the door. She stood a few inches shorter than Jack and was wearing a white cotton gown. Perhaps she had been sleeping.
"Good evening–" Jack began.
"Please come in." Her voice crisp as a fallen leaf. "We've been waiting, Jack." She stepped back to let him pass.
Jack stepped into the entrance hall; a short corridor with seemingly no ceiling. It peaked above him beyond his sight. She closed the narrow door behind him, turned—facing Jack. "Joao sent for you. He told me."
Jack couldn't place her age, somewhere between fifteen and thirty. A bird's nest of thin blonde braids and colorless ribbons framed her soft features. She held her hand out, and Jack took it, wondering whether he was expected to kiss it or not, but she squeezed his hand delicately and began to lead him down the corridor.
"Come—come with me." Her hand felt dry and warm. "We are to meet Joao."
She smelled like fresh apple nectar. Jack suddenly felt thirsty. Inarticulated questions swirled in his head, bewilderment; bewitched. Jack and the girl entered the largest structure Jack had ever seen. The walls glowed green-grey and were fluted with an assortment of thin and thick columns arching into a vaulted ceiling that made Jack dizzy as he tried to make out the obscure details overhead.
Geometrical sculptures of metal and wire were suspended from the distant ceiling, hanging at different heights and bathed in red and white from hidden spot lights. The girl led him across the floor, which appeared to be marble but was the color of jade. She stepped quickly, her feet lightly patting the hard surface; she was barefoot.
They passed a pond that mirrored the walls and ceiling; lilypads sheltered the gold and white carp which lay unseen in the dark water. The girl turned to speak. "I'm sorry. You must think that I'm terribly rude." She smiled, her thin lips stretching across her face. "My name is Tanya." She continued her brisk pace.
"Who did I speak to at the gate?" was all Jack could think of saying. Jack isn't too bright at times.
"It's 'whom."
"What?"
"It's 'To whom did I speak to at the gate?'"
"Whatever. Was it Joao?"
"Of course." She laughed. "Who else could it be?" Tanya's eyes sparkled
red and white as she laughed again at Jack's unintentional joke. She led
him to a carpeted staircase that led to another darkened corridor; her
bare feet wisping and scattering up the stairs as Jack's stride skipped
every other step.
Stop. Jack stopped half-way up the flight releasing Tanya's hand. She stumbled slightly forward falling on the carpeted surface. He had realized he was in the middle of a lucid dream—or was it?
"Wait a minute." he said. "What the hell is going on here? Where are you taking me? Who is this guy Joao? And where the fuck am I?"
Tanya looked at him, surprised at his reaction much less her position on the stairs. Her smile was replaced by a canted mouth—scrutinizing eyes. "I thought you were Jack."
Jack waited as though she had something else to say. She didn't.
Finally, "I am Jack, who else would I be?"
She stood, rubbing her hands on her gown as though she was wiping them clean from dirt. "No one." she said, and began walking up the stairs.
"You didn't answer my questions." He stood there not knowing whether to follow her or not. "Tanya!"
Jack could hear the clicking of footsteps from beyond the dark ahead of them. Tanya turned toward Jack and smiled. A tall pencil-thin figure appeared at the top of the staircase.
A voice reached Jack with quiet velvet fingers, "I am Joao. Welcome to Oz."
© Copyright 1997 Bryan Bailey