Clifford stared at the book for a long moment, each second that ticked by seeming to grow even more anger on his face. And then, at that precise moment, it hit him. He realized that he’d let a mouse get the better of him because he’d wanted to think of himself as special. And with that near-epiphany, he realized that he no longer needed Schrodinger.
He tossed the book lightly onto the cot and began walking toward the exit. The mouse was shouting something to him, but it no longer mattered. Only the pyramid remained before him.
“Clifford, you can’t leave us.” Schrodinger yelled, running behind him to keep up.
With a wave of his hand Clifford dismissed him, but then he stopped, “Oh wait. I need my stuff.”
“What stuff?” the mouse asked.
“You told me that you found my bundle and my guitar. I’d like them back.”
Schrodinger motioned for the cats to retrieve the items. As they brought them forward Clifford inspected each one, making sure that everything was in place. The bundle still contained a bit a cheese wrapped in leafy-paper and the extra guitar strings, as well as the Swedish Navy Knife. The envelope was still there as well.
Schrodinger sighed (hilarious) and asked, “Can you at least tell me what is in the envelope? You’ve carried it with you as long as I’ve known you.”
“Why not? It’s my granpappy’s last will and testament.”
Schrodinger leaned back a bit. For some reason, he seemed troubled by that news. But he let it pass and watched as Clifford Jenkins walked away. Clifford stopped long enough to gather up a hooded-coat that one of the Historians had worn and wrapped it around himself. The rain shower from earlier seemed to have brought winter’s chill with it.
Clifford left the Sentry station and walked in a general north-west direction. He could see the smoking top to the pyramid over some faraway buildings, and he knew that he could reach it with relative ease.
The rain shower that had passed returned moments later, bringing with it a fierce wind. Clifford pulled the coat’s hood up and kept walking. For a moment he hoped that he would never see Schrodinger or the any of the cats ever again. He regretted that thought, but he could not deny it. Schrodinger had brought him much pain and confusion, of that there was no doubt. More than any man should have to put up with in one day if you get right down to it.
The roads beyond the sentry station, those that led to the pyramid, were broken and in need of some rather serious repair work. Some places were sunken in, some were not even paved. More displaced train-track sections littered the area. There was a building with a dilapidated sign out front, missing quite a few letters, that Clifford could not name. The sign read S_AR_UC_S in extremely faded green letters.
He walked on. Something in his mind, perhaps during his dreams, had told him that the Pyramid was not far from the sentry station, that perhaps the Historians they had slaughtered to take the station were the last line of defense for Father Time. He passed a massive cathedral like structure with a large rounded dome and a smaller statue on top, nothing like the pyramid. Some of the windows of the cathedral-building were missing, and from inside Clifford could hear wild dogs barking and running. He walked on.
The street narrowed has he approached the intersection ahead. Small little shops and, what looked like restaurants, lined the way. Some he had heard of (like one featuring a large, rounded off golden M out front (I’m trying to avoid copyright laws, okay?)), and some he had never heard of. He hunkered down inside the coat and looked up to see that the rain had turned into a rain/snow mix. His guitar was suffering in silent agony.
As he rounded a corner into the intersection, Clifford was confronted by a scene he wasn’t expecting. Not a necessarily shocking scene, but still not one he was prepared for.
The statue of a man seated in a high-backed chair (like the one at the end of Timey’s bar-piano, but far more ornate) was leaning at about a 60-degree angle against the side of a black marble wall with names carved into it. The statue’s face had been painted over to resemble a clown.
Clifford walked by the marble wall, partly because he was drawn to it, mostly because it sheltered him from the wind. He ran his hand along the wall, feeling the deep cold of the marble. The names were almost familiar to him, and he felt for a moment that if he searched hard enough he would find Jaime Connor’s name on it somewhere, probably toward the end he was approaching. (He was right, Jaime’s name was on the wall, fourth from the last in the very last column. Clifford never saw it.)
As he passed the end of the wall he had to snug the hood tighter around his head to protect himself from the cold. A stray thought, possibly carried on the wind, entered his mind that perhaps Historia was colder near the middle. With his thoughts concerned with staying warm, and partly with the wall, Clifford never noticed that he’d reached the outer wall of the pyramid.
He stopped and stared for a moment. He was there. The end of his journey. Clifford Jenkins, as sensible as any man of forty years, stood on the precipice of his destiny. And he laughed.
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