My lungs felt as if they were about to burst, so I gradually released the trapped air in a steady stream of bubbles to reduce the pressure. I was at my absolute limit of endurance when my head broke the surface, still holding onto my life-saving raft. But it wasn't over yet, and I was swept forward in a current that constantly plunged me underwater and then back up at breakneck speed. How long this continued, I can't say, but if I hadn't secured myself to the raft, I would have certainly drowned. I drifted in and out of consciousness, waterlogged and growing weaker by the minute, but I held on, and gradually the water grew so calm that I drifted off to sleep.
Sometime later, the warm sun on my cheek woke me as I lay face down on the deck. The raft was gently bobbing up and down on the still water, and I had to work hard to extricate my limbs from the tangled metal on the side of the raft. I cautiously rose into a kneeling position once I freed myself and looked around.
I was on the surface of a large lake rather than an ocean, and the water was entirely still. A hundred yards ahead stood a tall blue cliff, perfectly perpendicular and smooth, reaching high into the sky and clouds.
There was something unreal about this world, and by unreal, I mean fake. This was not a natural harbour; it was more like an artificial boating lake; even the cliffs were so artificial that it could have been a film set.
I was thirsty, and without thinking, I leaned over and drank a mouthful of water. It was fresh, and I swallowed it eagerly, even though it should have been seawater. Another thing: everywhere was so clean; the blue of the cliffs was a perfect shade of aquamarine, and when I looked over the side of my raft, the water was so transparent that I could see the bottom.
I felt uneasy. I could tell that someone was watching me; the hair on my arms raised, charged with static. I was scared, but I couldn't stay here in the middle of the lake and decided to head for the shore. I lie flat on the raft's deck and paddled my way inward.
A staircase ran vertically up the face of the cliff. There was a continuous handrail on each side and five rungs to each step, all painted brilliant white to create a startling contrast against the perfect blue of the cliff face. It was like a childlike perfection of reality in vivid poster colours and reminded me of those hand-painted Art Deco travel posters in railway carriages that you now see in museums, such as the one at the Earth Major. The ones that showed white yachts afloat on sparkling water with slender women in 1920s bathing costumes artfully draped across gleaming teak decks. On the cliff top above them, a group of tanned young men in open-necked shirts, wind-blown hair, and white smiles saluted weary commuters with raised tennis rackets and the unspoken question, 'Wish you were here?'
My daydream ended as the raft bumped against the 'shore,' a wide path, also painted white, that extended along the cliff. The water near the path was shallow, and I waded ashore, pulling my raft behind me. Driven into the ground at regular intervals along the shoreline were silver mooring rings, enough to allow several boats to tie up simultaneously, and I started to think that it was a film set; everything was so pristine and artificial. But why were there so many mooring rings so close together that they could only accommodate small craft?
Suddenly, a memory arose of cannibals mooring their fleet of canoes on Robinson Crusoe's Island before they went ashore to feast on their victims. I don't know why I should make this strange connection; perhaps it was just intuition, a warning of danger.
But I was determined to climb that ladder, no matter what happened, and I began my ascent, grasping both handrails tightly. I stared steadily ahead, never having a head for heights, and I didn't look down. I focused on the next step, then the one after that, and the next, until I was high above the ground.
Confirming my theory of being on a film set, the clouds were motionless balls of cotton wool perfectly balanced in a painted blue sky, and I passed through the gaps between them until the steps ended at a platform with a solid floor. I walked cautiously forward until I saw before me the elusive object of my quest, and it set my heart thumping.
The Green Door
For a long time, I stood and stared, with my hand clutched around the key in my pocket. The door looked the same, but still, I hesitated.
If I locked this door, would it prevent the invasion?
How did I know that the Menchen brothers had told me the truth?
Then I thought of Montana. She trusted the brothers, and I relied on her intuition. Taking a quick step forward, I impulsively inserted the key and locked the door.
There was a loud click.
I twirled the key in the opposite direction to remove it from the lock, but when I tried to pull it out, the key vanished into the door, and the keyhole closed over. If anyone wanted to reopen the door in the future, they would have to search for the key again. Unknown machinery within the Green Door whirred into life, and as the noise grew louder, it began to flicker in and out of view before vanishing completely.
My quest was over, but it was somewhat of an anti-climax. What was I to do next? I had never considered how I would return home, and neither Albert nor Ernest had told me what I should do after locking the door.
It was a sobering thought that, all along, this may have been a one-way journey. Was it possible that they had tricked me into a suicide mission? I had no idea where I was or the route to take to get back home, but I couldn't reconcile my previously high opinion of Albert and Ernest with the possibility that they had tricked me.
But what if they had no choice? I was the only one capable of opening the Green Door, and my life was just one among many who would perish if the invasion of the free worlds had occurred. In that scenario, morally, they had made the right decision, but I still believed they would do everything in their power to bring me back. They may fail, and the thought of never seeing Montana again was enough to galvanise me back into action.
My first concern was survival, and I turned around to go back down, but to my surprise, the stairs continued up to another level, and I resumed my climb upward. The stairs ended on a final platform, and I stretched upward and touched a solid roof.
At the end of the platform was another door, this time blue, marked EXIT. There was no keyhole or door handle, just a smaller sign that said PUSH. I had no idea where it might lead, but I had little choice. It was clear that the door was one-way, and if I went through, I could find myself trapped in a world with no way out. I couldn't decide the best course of action, but help was nearby.
A youth in a peaked cap appeared beside me, with a ticket machine hanging around his neck on a leather strap. My first thought was that he was the bus conductor from the Harry Potter story. Somebody was playing tricks with my mind.
"Ticket?" said the spotty youth.
"Which way do you go?" I asked.
"That depends a good deal on where you want to get to," he said.
"I don't much care where, as long as. . .
"Then it doesn't matter which way you go," he said.
Whoever was creating this illusion was confusing their sources. That line was spoken by the Cat in Alice in Wonderland. The dual references were perplexing, but I had to play along if I wanted to leave this world.
"Where does the door lead to?" I asked.
"What, that door?" he replied, looking at the door as though he was seeing it for the first time.
"Yes."
"Next stop is London, England, 1860. Only one ticket left."
"I'll take it," I said.
He handed me the ticket and reached upward to pull on an invisible cord, and the long-drawn-out sound of a whistle cut through the air.
"All aboard! Shouted the conductor, climbing up onto an invisible platform.
He waved at me and disappeared, but thankfully, the door stayed in place. I took a cautious step forward as a voice boomed from the sky.
"Don't leave Peregrine. There's no more truth out there than there is in this world. Same lies, same deceit, but here you have nothing to fear."
It was a woman's voice, the voice of the Red Witch, who had risen from the enchanted pool in Arcadia.
Her tone was warm and friendly, but I remembered how quickly she had turned into a vicious, snarling beast when I mistakenly tried to comfort her. She had made up my mind, and it was not the decision she wanted.
I walked to the Green Door, and without any hesitation went straight through. . .