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I have no clue what time it is. But for whatever reason, I can't find sleep. I had slept for…two hours? Perhaps? Then I woke up and now I'm stuck. Awake.
The moon isn't exactly helping things. The light shines through the thin curtains, practically blinding. Really as irritating as it is beautiful. I lay with my hair spread out on the cool pillow, begging silently for unconsciousness to overtake me. Alas, my prayers seem to be going unanswered. Pity. Seeing that there is little else to be done, I sit up, swinging my feet over the edge of the bed to hear the pathetic "creak" it emits over the motion. Figures, it's a very old bed. Older than the cabin, which Nana claimed was built three years after she was born. In other words, a very, very long time ago.
I move to the kitchen, grab the kettle sitting on the stove. Nana doesn't own a microwave, even in her house in the city. She uses an old painted kettle and one of those old electrical popcorn poppers that blows the corn out through a plastic tunnel. So, if I want tea, I'm going to have to do it the old fashioned way. I turn the tap handle and wait. If I don't, I'll end up with sulfur-flavored Constant Comment. Not nice.
Part of me wishes to call upon Hoggle, or one of my other Labyrinth friends. However, Hoggle always warned me against calling on full moons. He said it would be easy for anyone to slip through whatever passage he made. "Some very not-nice things. Thing not of the Labyrinth. And let me tell you, if Jareth doesn't want to mess with it, it ought not be messed with, ya hear little lady?"
So no late-night visitors. That really sucked, seeing as I'm sure Ludo would love to see the lake. The rocks in this area have a lot of character.
I think some more on Hoggle's warning. The Goblin King's names sticks in the back of my throat, though I make not a sound. I had never used his name myself, only heard it used by Hoggle on occasion—typically when the King did something particularly rude. It sounds…ancient. Formidable. Truly the name of a king. I wondered for a long time what it meant. When I came home from that adventure five years ago, I had Googled it with the hopes of discovering some hidden meaning to my "dream," which I was fully convinced had happened. Until Hoggle made a surprise visit three months later, along with three bouncy goblins. Then there was no denying it—I had traveled to another world. I had fought my way through a vast and magical kingdom, and I had saved my little brother from the clutched of a villainous tyrant.
Well, perhaps not "tyrant." Everyone else of the Labyrinth claimed the King is a righteous, fair man who spends a good deal of time working to improve his citizen's lot. They push examples of his generosity, his clear care for his people, his enduring loyalty. He holds open court twice a month to hear complaints and concerns. He regularly spends personal wealth to improve city life, and took taxes of all forms when a rural family could not offer currency. Even I have to admit, he seems like a pretty fair monarch. Someone I could, theoretically, get along with.
The water seems fine now, and I begin to fill the kettle, then set it on the stove. Then I turn on the gas and light a match, tossing it between the metal grate. Before coming to the cabin, I'd never seen an old gas stove. It gives me a vintage sort of feel, doing everything in this old-fashioned way.
From where I stand in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, I feel the overwhelming urge to go outside. Frowning, I cross to the window and push back the curtains. A blank canvas faces me; no monsters, no ghosts, nothing. The feeling was so out of the blue…surely it's nothing. Just one of those crazy late night impulses. I turn back to the kettle—it should be done soon—when there's another wretched surge of longing and I'm at the window in a flash. Again, nothing. I bit my lip. While sounds rather dangerous, I am tempted. My conscious tells me it is a really stupid idea. But life would be nothing without stupid ideas, so three minute later, I've turned down the stove, put on a light jacket and shoes, grabbed a flashlight, and walked outside.
After some slow walking, I decide to turn off the flashlight –I don't want to attract anything with the light. I stumble about for about five minutes, staying about 15 feet away from the edge of the lake, which seems to glow by the power of the moon. It's light enough, for now.
It is a fairly peaceful walk, until I'm about twenty minutes away from the cabin. At that point, I had turned to stare out over the illuminated water. A quiet, rhythmic humming reaches my ears. At first I thought it was a just a baritone fly, or something. But then I heard the chant alongside it. Obviously, it isn't just an irksome bug, but a voice. A human voice.
Again, I feel an overwhelming urge to move toward the voice. My legs move, but not of their own accord. Through the trees, shattered bits of light hits my eyes. The chanting grows louder.
