Castle Dreams by John Dechancie Page B

line, a spike, a rise of something that had no characteristics save that it was perpendicular to the line of the horizon. It seemed very far away.
    A goal! He had a goal! He strode forward eagerly.
    Unlike the horizon, this new feature of the universe got closer the more one walked toward it. As he neared, it got bigger, and he began to notice that it was thicker at its base. It was a tall, thin pyramid—an obelisk, and there was something at the top, an irregular shape, but he still could not distinguish it.
    He hurried toward it.
    He arrived at the column's base and found that he could barely see the top. It was almost lost in the darkness. Yet he could make out a shape.
    It looked like a man up there. Yes, very definitely, though the features were indiscernible. The man seemed to be sitting atop the obelisk, seated in a wing chair. The chair rested on a capital that crowned the shaft.
    He stared up at the figure. It did not move. He continued watching. Before long he could have sworn that he detected movement, perhaps a slight shifting of the figure. But no more than that. Whatever or whoever it was preferred not to move.
    But as time (yes!) passed he began to see that there was more to the figure, and became convinced that the small platform at the apex of the obelisk held more than just the figure and the seat. The figure ... yes, it was a man, a man dressed in a long gown and a pointed cap ... was bent over a small writing desk or lectern. He was writing, slowly and methodically, with a quill in a large ledger, his attention to detail fastidious, the tip of the quill processing equinoctially, in slow circles. 1
    [ 1. The precession of the equinoxes is the earlier occurrence of the equinoxes in each successive sidereal year because of a slow retrograde motion of the equinoctial points along the ecliptic, caused by the wobble inherent in the Earth's rotation, much like that of a spinning top.]
    Time passed.
    Below, the one who looked up waited. He stood completely still, eyes on the figure above. Waiting. Waiting.
    Â 
    A further duration ran its course. At some point in a moving stream of time that was now well-established, a few moments later or several hours later—no one could say—the man on high laid the quill aside and settled within the wings of his high-backed chair.
    Something had changed in the interim. The obelisk was not so much an obelisk as a high bench—a very high bench, such as that from which a judge might deliberate.
    The man in the gown and pointed cap looked down. The face was vague in shadows, but a flowing beard could be discerned, its color perhaps a silver-gray. The eyes, under a dark lowered brow, were pools of deeper shadow.
    He spoke. He said, “Ah.” His voice was deep and resonant.
    The man below said nothing.
    The Judge (for after all, he must have a name) glanced at the open book. “I was just working on your entry. Good. You have come. Your time has come. Rather, the end of your time. There now must be a reckoning."
    More time passed, enough so that the man below felt he must answer.
    â€œWhere am I?"
    The Judge smiled faintly. “Where, indeed. If this is a place, it is a place between places. Less a place than a transition between places. Between different states of being, shall we say. The notion of physical location is moot. This is not so much a place as it is a way station. A short stop on the journey."
    â€œOn the journey to where?"
    â€œThat is what must be determined."
    â€œIf you can't tell me where I am,” the man below said, “then tell me who I am."
    â€œ That also must be determined. Identity is not a constant thing. It shifts. It flows. It must be stabilized. It needs bolstering now and then. Reinforcing. It is not a given."
    The man below stared at the ground for a moment. Then he looked up again. “What am I doing here? Why was I brought to this place?"
    â€œYou are full of questions,” the Judge said. He smiled