By Simon Drax
October 13, 2009
* * *
Look, Mori… that is where we are going…
Mori swayed on her feet. She would have fallen if Trista hadn’t steadied her. She watched a strange building take shape, a ghost structure solidifying out of sand and light and shadow. It was a cabin, a cathedral, a miniature castle with an ornate roof of spikes and spires, gargoyles. Like a ski lodge for angels, Mori thought, or vampires. It was eerie, it was beautiful. She blinked. Her head swam.
“Is that—?”
“Yes. Cantaran. My house. From long ago. A reasonable facsimile, anyway. It will do. Come.”
“But that’s not… it’s not real…”
“Real enough,” Trista said. “Come.”
Trista led Mori over the sand to the gates of the strange house. The gargoyles, Mori saw, were human. Moaning in pain and frozen forever.
“Hey, uh—” Mori began. She wanted to say, Start of a bad trip, babe…
Trista hushed her. “Don’t be a child. You’re tired, you’re filthy… your clothes! Gods.” Trista grimaced. She pulled at Mori’s jacket. “You’ll not wear these sodden togs in my house!?"
“But it’s not real!” Mori protested.
“Take them off,” Trista commanded, peeling the admittedly reeking clothes down and off from Mori. “Off, off, off.” Trista tugged, unbuttoned, unzipped, and in seconds Mori was naked.
“Yeeesh,” Mori said, covering herself. She was not cold, but she shivered.
“Hmm,” Trista said, glancing at Mori with an up-and-down flash of neutral appraisal. She turned. “Come. Casa Cantara awaits. Hah!”
She went to the large arched doors, pushed them open, and disappeared inside the strange house. Mori heard the quick ripping of fabric, then a splash.
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