Cross Roads by William P. Young Read Free Book Online

His face lit up in a wide and welcoming smile. But the biggest shock was that when Tony looked past him, he was looking up the road he himself had so recently traveled. He was inside the edifice, and without realizing it had somehow opened the door from within. Slowly he turned around to be certain, and it was true. He was already standing inside, looking farther into a sweeping open land, likely more than half a dozen square miles in area. The property was confined inside gigantic stone walls, a boundaried fortress in contrast to the wild and free world outside.
    Reaching for the wall to steady himself, he turned back. The man was still there, leaning against the doorjamb, smiling at him. As if caught in vertigo, Tony felt the world tilting and his footing slip, his knees buckled, and a familiar darkness began clouding his vision. Perhaps the dream was ending and he was returning to the place he had come from, where things made more sense, and where at least he knew what he didn’t know.
    Strong arms caught and gently helped him to the ground, leaning him against the wall on the other side of the entrance he had just opened.
    “Here, drink this.” Through a muddy haze he felt cool liquid being poured into his mouth. Water! It had been hours since he’d had any water. Maybe that was what had happened, dehydration. He had been walking in the woods; wait… that couldn’t be right? No, he was lying in a parking structure and now he was in a castle? A castle, with… with who? The prince?
    That’s stupid
, he mused, his thoughts a jumble.
I’m not a princess.
And that made him chuckle. As he slowly sipped the refreshing fluid, the mist gradually lifted and his senses began to clear.
    “Dare say,” came the voice, strongly accented, British or Australian if Tony was to hazard a guess, “if you were a princess, you would scarcely fit the fables, being as homely as you are.”
    Tony leaned back against the rock and looked up at the gentleman hovering over him with a flask outstretched. Hazelnut-brown eyes sparkled back. He had a mildly stocky build, probably only an inch or two shorter than Tony, and appeared to be in his late fifties, maybe even older. A high forehead and receding hairline gave him an air of intelligence, as if he needed the extra room for deep thought. His dress was old-fashioned, wrinkled gray flannel trousers and a worn brown tweed jacket that had seen better days and fit a little too snug. He looked bookish, his skin the pasty white of long periods indoors, but his hands were those of a butcher, thick and rough. Childlikeness danced on the edges of a playful grin as he patiently waited for Tony to collect his thoughts and finally find his voice.
    “So”—Tony cleared his throat—“do all those trails endup here?” The question seemed rather shallow, but in the myriad of so many it was the first to surface.
    “No,” the man answered, his voice strong and resonant. “Quite the opposite, actually. All those paths originate from here. Not often traveled these days.”
    That didn’t make sense to Tony, and in the moment it felt complicated so he asked another simpler question: “Are you British?”
    “Ha!” The man threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, heavens no! Irish! The true English,” he said as he leaned forward again, “although, in the spirit of accuracy, though I was born in Ireland, I am probably thoroughly British by culture. There wasn’t much of a difference when I was young so your mistake is entirely forgivable.” He laughed again and lowered himself to sit on a flat rock next to Tony, his knees up so his elbows could rest comfortably.
    Both of them looked back up the road quarantined by woods.
    “I will admit,” the Irishman continued, “just between you and me, I have continued to grow in my appreciation for the contribution the British made to my life. However, they almost accidently killed a few of us during the Great War by shelling short. Too few mathematicians,