The Tales of Tamil - Uh, Talimor

"I've... made a mistake." The pulse oximeter emits a quiet beeping. A faint, weakening beep, but it remains.

"We all make mistakes, Uncle Dave." You try to comfort your uncle. He's dying, he doesn't need to feel guilty with his dying breaths.

The hospice room is empty and cold. None of your family has come. Why would they? Uncle Dave is a weirdo and recluse. Your grandfather, his brother, doesn't even speak to him anymore.

"No," Dave chokes a bit. The cancer has made speaking very difficult for him. "Nobody's done this. I've led them like lambs to the slaughter. I've sold them out, all for my selfish gain."

You're only half paying attention. The old man is dying. Clearly, he has no idea what he's talking about.

"Yeah, that is pretty bad," You agree, "But like I said, everyone makes mistakes." With quaking hands, he pulls the oxygen mask from his face, glaring at you.

"You don't believe me. Look in the book bag." A frail, knobby finger points to a chair by his bed. There's a small book bag tossed into the seat. Curious, you search the bag. Inside, you find a mess of clothes, some toiletries, and an old leather bound book, held closed by a single strap.

"Take the book," He explains, "Go to my cabin. Your cabin, soon. It's where I wrote the Tales of Tamilor."

You cringe a bit at the name. Your uncle's failed high fantasy series, set in the magical world of Tamilor, has been a sore spot in your family for decades. Partially because the critics considered it lowbrow pulp, and partially because of the multiple, gratuitous, out of place sex scenes.

"Thank you," You reply, realizing he just willed his cabin to you.

"Shut up." He says. "I'm not giving it to you because I like you." You fall silent. Scowling, you sit back down next to the bed. The old man has a characteristic meanness to him, and his situation seems to have made him even less tolerable than usual.

No wonder no one else came.

"I'm giving it to you out of guilt. I'm.. I've.. Talimor..." He pauses to breathe. You consider dipping out of the room, and leaving the ornery old cuss to die alone. But you remember he just willed you a home and property, so you decide to stick it out. His voice rattles as he speaks.

"It was all real. All of it. Not a word of the series was fake."

"Wow, geez." You continue to humor him.

"Shut up. I know you don't believe me." He sneers. You roll your eyes.

"That kind of attitude is the reason you don't get invited to Christmas." You're tired of the old man's rotten attitude. You stand, intending to leave.

"No! Wait, I'm sorry." He motions for you to sit, and the pace of the pulse oximeter increases slightly. "I need you. I need you to correct the wrong I've done." One last time, you steel yourself, summoning up every scrap of patience you have. He coughs, and continues to speak.

"I traveled through a magical portal fifty years ago, to the magical land of Talimor,"

"I thought it was Tamilor," You cut him off. He waves a dismissive hand.

"I used a fake name for the books. It doesn't matter. Just, sh-... just listen. I traveled to a magical land using a portal in the basement of that cabin. While I was there I was... not the hero I portrayed in the books."

"Surprise."

"Shut up. Have you read the books?"

"Nope," You shrug. He glares at you.

"Read the books!" The dying man orders. "It will help you when you travel there. Listen, this is why I need you. I did... unspeakable things to their world. I endangered them, I... I made them worse, and then I just... left."

Involuntarily, you laugh. Shaking your head, you prepare a sarcastic reply, but you catch sight of his face. Tears stream down the old man's splotched and wrinkled skin. His visage is agony.

"I used them. They were my friends and I fled like a coward." He begins to sob, and his ancient, shaky hands come up to cover his face in shame. "For fifty years, I've been hiding in fear of what I did." You remain silent as he tries to explain, but his breath is catching. As the heart rate monitor becomes erratic, he pleads with you, his voice barely a whisper.

"Save them..."

Nurses push you out of the way, but you can't break eye contact with the terrified, wretched gaze of the dying man.

The old mountain road is muddy with rain. It drizzles slowly, lazily, almost spitting at you as you drive. You lost cell service several miles back, meaning you're without a map. As you start to think you've made a wrong turn, you spot the cabin through a break in the trees.

It had been six months since your Uncle Dave gave you the journal. You discovered the old leatherbound book was a journal not long after he had died, leafing through the pages out of idle curiosity. It did include supposed instructions for opening a 'portal to another world'. In fact, just about every page is riddled with writings about this supposed fantasy world. 'Volvsvaer' it's called in the journal. An even worse name than 'Tamilor'.

The cabin is inviting and homey, though cold. Constructed sometime earlier in the last century, the roughly worn logs of the little building are covered with moss near the ground. Some of the logs are slightly rotted or split, but surprisingly a good number are in decent condition. You grab your cooler and a flashlight, heading through the front door.

A thin layer of dust covers most every surface, and the air smells of mildew. You've brought a cooler packed with food, and the car trunk is full of other necessities. You packed for the worst case scenario, fearing the cabin would be completely uninhabitable. It's a pleasant surprise just how livable it is, despite being so far off the beaten path. The electricity still works, and water still flows from the taps. As you walk from room to room, little creaks and squeaks let you know the wood beneath the floor is still dry. Walking back out to the car, you unload what remains of your belongings, looking forward to a short vacation in the little cabin.

As night falls, you explore a bit outside with a flashlight. Cool night air gives you chills, but you enjoy this kind of weather. Walking around the back of the old Cabin, you check the integrity of the structure. There's a rusted electrical box that will require some WD-40 to open. You find a pile of firewood, so soaked and rotten it's no good for sure. As you're cursing your uncle for the rotten pile, you spot a dark shape, and shine your light on a pair of large double doors. You pull the doors open, cautiously descending into the dank basement. At the bottom of the stairs, the ground is bare concrete, and the air is sticky with moisture. Along the floor you glimpse flashes of rats or some other creature fleeing the beam of your flashlight, and the air reeks of wet earth. Shining your flashlight about, you located a string affixed to a single bare bulb. You're surprised that the bulb actually lights when you pull the string.

One side of the room is littered with clutter, rusty bicycles, metal fencing, nondescript plastic sacks. The opposite side of the room, in contrast, has a single, moldy, twin sized mattress leaning up against the wall. Struck by how much the mattress sticks out, you walk to it and nudge it with one hand. It doesn't move, so you give the mattress a firm nudge with your foot. The ancient mattress falls to the side, kicking up foul smelling dust into the air. Through the cloud of dirt and mold spores, you see it: a door.

A chill runs up your spine, leaving goosebumps down your arms. This is it, you think, only to correct yourself.

It's definitely just an old door. Nothing special here.

Turning the dingy brass knob, you pull the door open to reveal a blank concrete wall. You open and close the door a couple of times, its rusted hinges squeaking in protest. Crazy Old Uncle Dave, you think to yourself, laughing out loud. Once again ripping the string on the bare lightbulb, you extinguish the light and climb out of the cellar. In the cool night air, you shake your head again, disbelieving his crazy stories. Or perhaps you're trying to tell yourself not to believe.

Most of the next day is spent hiking and cleaning up the cabin. It's quite relaxing for you, being so far away from everything. After cooking a small breakfast, you notice that a couple of eyes on the stove don't work. You fiddle with them for about half an hour after eating, deciding that it'll be at least a trip to the hardware store to fix the burnt up elements.

Most of the bulbs in the cabin have blown and will need to be replaced. Before lunch, you walk through the cabin interior, flicking light switches, searching for functioning bulbs. Less than half of them work, which is why you were so surprised that the one by the magic door in the basement came on.

No, you remind yourself, not a magic door. Just a normal door.

The refrigerator still works, so after lunch you stock some of your food from the cooler into it. It's a bit grimy, and the drawers will need to be scrubbed with hot water. Unfortunately, the water heater is out, so you do your best to make a mental list of what you'll need to fix it. You pull apart the maintenance hatch on the water heater, visually inspect everything, checking to see if that element is burned out too. You've got a growing list of necessities for the next time you go into town.

Maybe you should check your uncle's journal, to see if there's anything you need for the ritual to open the magic door in the basement.

Lying on your back in a closet, staring up at the water heater, you shake your head. There's no ritual, you remind yourself, at least not a real one.

After supper, you take a quick, cold shower and lay down on the bed to read. It's a bit dusty, but the sheets smell alright and you brought your own pillow. You transfer one of the cabin's few functioning bulbs to the bedside table lamp and settle down for the night. When your eyes become heavy and you finally decide to turn out the light, you envision a long, relaxing week. You look forward to hiking the mountain trails, packing food out with you and cooking it on an open fire. You'll be alone to watch the stars at night. When you make your way back to the cabin, you can even try to open that magic door in the basement.

Your eyes remain fixed open until after midnight. That magic door in the basement. That damn door. You opened it, but you didn't do the ritual in Uncle Dave's journal. You don't need to do the ritual in Uncle Dave's journal. Uncle Dave was a crazy hoarder who drank, smoked, and gambled the family inheritance away. Just because he has a magic do-...

Sighing, you kick off the covers, pulling your tennis shoes on. From the car, you retrieve the old journal.

Looks like there's no sleep until you do this.

Your sneakers sink into the cold, moist earth as you pull the cellar door open. The single bare bulb suspended from the ceiling forces you to duck as you pass under it, tugging the string to illuminate the basement. The bulb pops, and you let out a groan. Fishing your flashlight out of your pajama pants pocket, you illuminate the old door. Journal in one hand, you face the closed door, irritated at yourself. You feel stupid. Crazy Uncle Dave is definitely having a laugh with you. You flip through the journal, stopping on page two, where Dave describes the magical ritual needed to open the magical door to the magical land of Volvsvaer.

With a spray paint can borrowed from a pile of rubbish nearby, you stoop to draw a circle on the floor, as described by the journal. The floor is dirty, and so you wipe away the grime, dirt and moss. Underneath the filth, you find the shapes from the journal have already been painted onto the concrete below the grime. After more wiping, you find every symbol described in the journal, perfectly laid out on the concrete floor. Several concentric circles, a set of symbols you don't recognise, and connecting lines running through everything.

Shrugging, you hope that's good enough. In one hand you hold the journal, preparing to read the incantation. The other hand you hold outstretched to the door, as described in the journal. The flashlight you pinch between your shoulder and neck, directing downward so you can read the journal. Feeling silly, you call out the words on the page.

"Palime, verca ingóle vende!"

Your face reddens with embarrassment, even though no one's around to see you. You stand silently, with nothing happening, and imagine your uncle laughing at you. Well, at least you can sleep now, you think. Absent-mindedly, you walk to the door and pull it open. A bare rock wall faces you, and you sigh deeply, rolling your eyes.

But wait a minute. The last time you opened the door, you found a smooth concrete wall, contiguous with the basement wall. This time, there's an uneven rocky texture to the wall. You bring your flashlight up and store the journal in your sweatshirt. Curiously running a hand over the rocky wall, you talk to yourself.

"Huh. Now that's odd."

A shriek comes from behind you, tearing you away from your thoughts in an instant. You jump, whipping around in a split second of terror.

The room behind you isn't the basement anymore. You stand in a large cave, lit by candles. Beneath you, at the bottom of a set of stone stairs, a young woman kneels, shock and horror on her face. Her eyes are brilliant blue, her hair a golden blonde. She screams, falling onto her back. You scream too, dropping the flashlight in shock. You stare at each other for several seconds.

"An tusa am Mesiah?" She asks. Your heart pounds in your chest at the speed of light, and your adrenaline is pumping from the unpleasant surprise.

"What?" you reply, half shouting. Initially, you're dumbfounded, as she continues to speak what sounds like babbling nonsense. But as you gather your thoughts, you realize she's simply speaking another language.

"'S e caraid a th' annam! Na bi gam ghoirteachadh!" She says. She appears to be as confused as you are. Stumbling down the stone stairs in the relative darkness of the candlelight, you retrieve the fallen flashlight and click it on, searching around the small cave you've appeared in. The cave is no bigger than a large bedroom, and other than the carved stone stairs you stand on, there's not much to see. The candles providing light are set on the ground to either side of the stone stairs, a pale flicker compared to your flashlight. Across the room, you spot a tunnel, and hear footsteps. You're panicking again, and your instincts tell you to hide. You swing the flashlight around the room searching for something to hide behind, but there's nothing other than the magic door. Pulling it open, you see the plain rock wall again. You try the door several more times, opening and closing it repeatedly. Nothing around you changes, and you search around to find the same cave, with the young blonde woman still laying on the ground in front of you. The footsteps quickly approach.

A woman enters the room hurriedly, a long spear in her hand. She is dressed like a warrior, with a chainmail hauberk and leather breeches. Her dark hair is pulled back tightly, and her face is set in a grim scowl. You bring your flashlight up to get a look at her without thinking about it, and she curses in a strange language, blinded. You drop the beam to your feet.

"Sorry!" You say quickly.

The new arrival yells something at the girl on the floor, and the girl yells back. Both are watching you cautiously. The warrior woman, frustrated, transfers her spear to one hand and grabs the blonde girl by the arm, shouting at her in their language. You watch, dumbfounded as the warrior tries to drag the young girl out of the room. The girl fights back viciously, yelling and kicking, pointing at you. After a few seconds of struggle, you speak.

"I'm not going to hurt you." You say. The warrior stops pulling the girl's arm, glaring up at you. With a steely glare, she levels her spear in your direction. Her threat is clear.

"Whoa, no! I'm a friend." You say, raising your hands and backing up.

"Dè an ifrinn a tha e ag ràdh?" Replies the warrior.

Indignant, the young girl stands, dusting herself off. The air in the room remains tense as the young blonde approaches the warrior. Pushing away the woman's spear, she speaks clearly and confidently.

"Tha e a 'bruidhinn a' chànain naomh. Is esan am Mesiah. agus mo cheangal-pòsaidh." The warrior remains tense, but her eyes widen with recognition, or maybe shock, you're not sure. Just as confused as you've ever been, you watch the young girl approach you slowly, whispering in her language. Her face is set with a deep, intense emotion. Her soft steps bring her slowly closer to you. She appears almost fanatical, her eyes wide.

"Tha mi air feitheamh cho fada riut. Mo gaisgeach. Mo ghràidh. Mo ghràdh."

The pretty blonde girl's voice is high and soothing, almost ethereal. Whatever she's saying, she is very passionate. She continues to walk toward you steadily, hands out gingerly, as if approaching a frightened animal. She stops right in front of you, still whispering. The young blonde stands well within your personal bubble, maybe six inches in front of you. You study each other's faces for a second. Her features are thin and sharp. She has a narrow nose, a sharp chin, and fierce, penetrating eyes.

"Uh... hi." You say.

She hugs you, wrapping both arms around you tightly and squeezing. Paralyzed by confusion, you realize she has begun to cry. The girl is significantly shorter than you, so resting her head on your shoulder is more like pressing her face in your armpit. You try to remember if you applied deodorant today.

Across the room, the warrior watches closely. She has lowered the spear, but she still glares at you with trepidation. The young girl speaks through her sobs, her deep breaths wracking her petite body.

"Nì mi, pòsaidh mi thu." The young blonde gasps. The warrior rolls her eyes as the blonde quietly sobs.

You're beyond confused. The blonde girl scared you badly with her initial scream, and as that first panic subsided, the spear-wielding warrior woman rushed in, heightening the stakes. Just when you thought the situation was clear, the blonde girl came over and soaked your sweatshirt with her tears. Now nothing makes sense.

Still confused, you wrap your arms around the girl and pat her back.

"It's okay. You're okay." You try your best to soothe her. Perhaps on some instinctive level it's natural to comfort a distressed human.

Finally she breaks the hug, retreating a short distance away from you. The blonde girl is excited, shaking her hands and speaking quickly to her compatriot. The two begin a conversation, almost an argument, passionately discoursing in their language.

You've had enough. You're beginning to panic, thinking about home. The idea that your uncle was right is an insignificant ideological nugget compared to the fear of being trapped in this cave, or more importantly, this other world.

Thinking quickly, you pull open the journal and turn to face the door behind you. You close the old wooden door, just now noticing that this door is entirely distinct from the one in the basement of your uncle's cabin. Doing your best to recreate the ritual that brought you here, you extend one hand and recite the verse from the book.

"Palime, verca ingóle vende!"

The two women pause their discussion, watching you closely. You ignore them, walking quickly to the door and pulling it open. Behind the door you find a plain rock wall. You look around desperately, hoping to see the dusty shelving and damp concrete floor of your uncle's cabin. You hastily swing the door open and closed several times in sheer panic, but no, you're still in the cave.

The women humor you, watching closely as you make several other desperate attempts to travel home. You even go as far as to carve the symbols into the dirt floor of the cave with your fingers (Which the women watch curiously). Nothing works. After about fifteen minutes, you give up. You drop your hands in exasperation. Turning to the two women, you sigh.