Dan Willis - The Survivors

Chisul nodded. “That, and of course to witness and help.”

“Just so,” Chisul continued. “If Bradok and those who survived had kept this book, word of its existence would have spread, little by little. By the time the gods learned of it, thousands could have been contaminated, maybe tens of thousands.”

“It could have triggered another Cataclysm,” the Journeyman gasped.

“So you see why it’s better off being lost,” Chisul said, putting out his hand.

The Journeyman looked down at the book, running his hand over the smooth steel of the cover, then he handed it to Chisul. The specter grabbed the book, supporting the metal with his transparent hand. The Journeyman decided he would never get used to that.

“I’ve got a very safe place picked out for this one,” he said, slipping it inside his robe.

“Is there something else?” the Journeyman asked when the specter didn’t leave immediately.

“I did wonder,” Chisul said. “What happened to Bradok and the others?”

“They made it out,” the Journeyman said. “You can read all about it,” he added, gesturing around the room at his table and writing supplies, “eventually.”

“I always felt sorry for him,” Chisul said, nodding. “Because he was in love with Rose but she had the Zhome.”

“She got better,” the Journeyman said with a smile.

Chisul cocked his head to the side. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“Sunlight,” the Journeyman said. “It kills the Zhome. Didn’t you know that?”

Chisul laughed, shaking his head. “Something as simple as that,” he said.

“I’ve got a question for you,” the Journeyman said. “Why did your spirit linger? You told me you didn’t learn about the dangers of this book until after you died.”

“I lingered for quite a different reason,” he said with a mischievous grin. “I’m not dead.”

“What do you mean, you’re not dead?”

“My body never died,” Chisul said. “It’s still alive somewhere, shambling around in the bowels of Krynn. So long as I’m alive, my spirit is bound here, even though it has taken leave of my body.”

“That’s monstrous,” the Journeyman said, shuddering.

“Just so. But I’ve made the best of it,” Chisul said good-humoredly. “I’ve spent quite a lot of time figuring out how to get my hands on this.” He held up the book, chuckling.

“Do you remember the first time we met?” the ghost asked.

The Journeyman nodded. “After the first time I used the Anvil,” he said. “You were with the group of Aesthetics who came to see me.”

“That’s not the first time we met,” Chisul said, shaking his head. “The first time we met was in my father’s shop, after you convinced him to let you be his apprentice.”

The Journeyman opened his mouth but stopped. “But that can’t be. I hadn’t gone back in time yet then,” he said finally.

“Time doesn’t work like that,” Chisul said. “When I saw you here, at the Anvil, I recognized you. I knew then that I had a job for you and that it was you I would send to get the book.”

“Time is complicated,” the Journeyman murmured, musing on his words.

Chisul just nodded.

“What will you do now?”

Chisul shrugged. “I’m sure I can find something to occupy my time.” He turned and drifted toward the door. “Perhaps I’ll look in on you again,” he said, pausing at the door. “We’re old friends now. And I’ve come to find your exploits most amusing.”

“How did you manage to become an Aesthetic, if you don’t mind my asking?” the Journeyman queried as Chisul turned to leave.

“You’d be amazed what you can get away with when you have all the time in the world,” he said.

“That’s not an answer,” the Journeyman said.

“No,” the ghost said, “it’s not.” He nodded toward the tall writing desk. “I like your souvenir,” he said. “It’s very … appropriate.”

With that he drifted right through the door and disappeared, his words still ringing against the room’s stone walls.

The Journeyman sat for a long time, considering the door, absently sipping his brandy. At length, he set the glass aside and added another shovelful of coal to the fire. As the stove began to heat up again, he picked up the next book on the pile and leafed through to the page where his ornate bookmark lay.

Before he began reading, however, he cast a glance up to the top of his desk where a little rag doll sat, lovingly cleaned and repaired.