And I’m back in the house, and I don’t know how I got here. Some morsels of light clank in through the lace-webbed window from the gloom outside, falls exhausted on threadbare furniture scabbed with spilled food, on a dining table piled high with half-read books and unopened bills, on the sword in my hand.
My fingers drink in the texture of the sword’s pommel and handle. I softly stroke the ornate mythical carvings with my rough fingertips, tracing the outlines of Tiw and Mars and Efnysien in his cauldron. I don’t know where the sword is from. I don’t remember picking it up. Is it mine? If not, where did it come from?
The tactile sensation of the sword in my hand triggers a vision – perhaps a memory? In it, I am standing in a beautiful green field, an effervescent blue sky above me. I feel the heat of the sun beat down on my back as I arch my shoulders, cricket bat in hand. Around one finger, I feel the weighty security of a wedding ring. Far away, eager faces watch me. I think that smiling woman might be my wife, and the kids with her must be ours. I don’t recognise them at all.
The door creaks open, and a silhouette lurches into the dusty room. I raise my weapon to the stranger, “Who the hell are you?” And I feel the power of the War Gods surge through me.
The kids, I think their names are Florence, Adrian, and Alicia. Is this a memory? A dream? A memory of a dream? If these are really my kids, and I’m remembering them, are they safe?
The figure moves into the light. A man in his late forties, whose face shows the wear of exhaustion and stress. His leathery skin wraps around a lumpen skull, two ratty eyes peering out suspiciously. He has a gun pointed at my chest. My sword suddenly feels a less impressive piece of kit.
And, even as the man waves me with his gun to sit down, my mind reels forth visions of Florence performing her dance at the school talent show, of Adrian reading aloud his award-winning story across the dining table, eager to impress his grandparents, of Alicia’s delight when she finally beat her brother at pool. A mournful wash of sadness sweeps across me. Are my babies safe? Are they still alive? Are they even real? Are these memories and, if so, are they my memories? That dining table where my son wowed the family – my family? – with his story, that wasn’t the same table in this room beside me right now. This place is not that place.
The man with the gun, he lowers his weapon; “Glad to see you made it, Slick. What happened with Tombob and his lot?”
Slick. I feel like I’ve been called that before, but I don’t think it’s my name. My wife, whoever she is or was, she certainly didn’t call me Slick. My name is… oh, why can’t I remember? Stupid, stupid little man.
To the stranger, I say, “Can you please help me?”
The stranger frowns at me, “A side quest? Already?”
“Please,” I say, “I don’t know who I am or how I got here. I just want to get back to my wife and my children.”
“But what about Tombob’s boys,” the stranger insists, “Do they need saving from the Kongsmoot?”
“I… I don’t know who they are. I don’t know who you are and I don’t know who I am. All I know is, I’ve got a wife and three children who all have names, and I want to get back to them.”
At this, the stranger’s face goes completely blank. His mouth opens, and he says, “c//fixbug.”
The sword falls from my hand and crashes against the floor. “Please,” I say, “I think I come from England, from Linfield, but I don’t know. Is this Linfield? Or is this the other place? I think my babies are in Linfield; please help me get back to them.”
The stranger’s weathered forehead furrows into a deep frown, “I don’t get it,” he says, “You’re an NPC, generated by AI. You haven’t got a family. You don’t exist.”
A new vision splinters into my mind, overlaps with the dusty, damp room in the middle of a war zone. I see my wife toss back her head as a lilting, musical laugh pours forth from her golden throat. Her hair falls in curls about her shoulders autumn-brown and down-soft, and her emerald eyes shimmer like glad meteors.
“Astrud,” the name dances from my mouth, “Her name is Astrud Göttlich, and the kids are called Florence, Adrian, and Alicia. We live… lived… in Linfield. I need you to get a message to Astrud. I need you to tell her where I am so that she can come and bring me back home.”
The stranger, his face goes completely blank again.
“I think I’ve been asleep for a long time,” I say, more to myself than to the absent stranger.
(Part 2 coming 29.10.23)
The Ballad Of Michael Dreher 