Chapter 3

Pamela's eyes eagerly scanned page after page...

The hero swung his mighty hammer, spinning away from the dragon. They danced on the edge of time, with the swirling fire of ages baking the battlefield. Minutes, hours, years, and eras poured from the dragon's jaws, funneling out to pull the hero in. Seconds were stripped away from the air, as his lungs rasped for breath. The warrior fell to his knees, gasping, desperately searching for time that only flittered away. The horned beast pulled back its great wings, and reared its mighty neck over the cloud of ash and smoke.

When it brought its pointed teeth forward to cleave neck from shoulders, the hero brought forth his hammer instead. The sickening crack echoed through the inferno, an icy spear that drove through the heart of a blazing vortex. The dragon shrieked. Blood seeped between the cracks of the ancient evil, while its wings beat futilely to blanket itself in heat. Fire, time, and warmth were one as they left the dragon together, and it slipped away into a thick column of smoke. The heavy body crumpled into a heap, finitely resting its head on the battlefield. The last of the warmth fizzled upward until...

Cold. The hero took a breath, and watched as a white exhale passed between red lips. His breathing filled what was left in the aftermath: silence. A blue glow filled the room as crimson left; the coldness that settled in unnerved him. I slayed the dragon, he thought desperately. Why has the world grown dark? But he knew, before he even thought the question.

The dragon had been warmth, and from its mouth had poured the time that bound all of life in a never ending dance towards death. Now, there was only the present. He reached out a hand, searching desperately for past or future. He'd already forgotten how such things once burnt him. But I don't want to stand still. Not in the cold. The hero had slain death, but happiness was not to follow. He gripped the hammer in his hands uncertainly.

Time's end, he thought. Perhaps time, the greatest evil, was never meant to be slain. Even when its mighty jaws caused so much death. No less, they would have to learn to live in this world without time. A world without fire. A world where there was only a single moment to take in. The heavy silence would stretch forever...

Pamela read the last sentence in a daze. The heavy silence would stretch forever, she thought. She held the thin page in her hand uncertainly. No. That can't be it. The little girl flipped it back and forth, unbelieving. However, on the next page, another story began, and the hero's ended. It can't end like that. What did it mean, that time had ended? What did it mean that the world only had one moment left to take in, that would last forever? Is that the alternative to death? she thought. She decided the story ended confusingly, and that frustrated her.

"Is everything okay, Pamela?" She looked up to her father, who was working at his bench. The basement was as dim and dank as it usually was; the lamp beside her chair illuminated the book's words. He'd turned to face her, and must have noted her confused face.

Pamela's eyes fell back to her book. "It's fine," she replied glumly.

He smiled as he returned to his experiment. "You didn't like the way it ended?" He was working with some small, metal contraption, and sparks flew up as he touched it with an electric wire.

"It's just so confusing," she said. "It doesn't make any sense. And it wasn't a very happy ending... I think." Pamela read over the last line again. The heavy silence would stretch forever. The short story had been titled "Time's End," though she hadn't actually expected time to end. Or for it to be so sad when it did, she thought. The hero had slain the dragon, but all had not ended happily.

"Sometimes the best stories are the ones that make us feel uncomfortable, and make us think," her father added. "Authors try to do that a lot of the time."

"But this was just really unfair," Pamela responded, as she flipped to the author's name. "Cynthia Corbic wrote half the stories in here, so I'm not even sure if I want to..."

"What?" Something about the way he spoke caused Pamela to cut off. She looked up to see him fully turned to face her. The incomplete contraption was left unattended on his desk. "What did you say?"

Pamela didn't quite understand. She uncertainly opened her mouth. "I was just saying that I don't know if I want to read the rest of the stories, if they're only going to end like..."

"No, before that. You said the author's name was..." He paused, trailing off. Her father's eyes widened, and Pamela watched as he slowly shook his head. "Never mind, I..." He turned hesitantly back to his work, still shaking his head. "I thought you'd said someone else's name, I..."

"Who's Cynthia Corbic?" Pamela asked. Her father stared wide-eyed at the contraption on his table, hands set beside it. The little girl remained sitting in her chair, watching and waiting. A feeling in her gut told her who this woman was, though.

"I told you. I thought you'd said..."

"Is that my mother's name?" The silence that followed was all the answer she needed. Pamela waited for a response but never got one; they remained sitting in the basement, with her father staring blankly at his unfinished work. She didn't know how to feel, but she felt far, far away as she opened her mouth to ask something else. "Was she an author?" Her mind was ringing, and she suddenly felt faint. Your mother ran away. She ran away when you were a baby.

"Pamela," her father began, but he didn't add anything to that.

"You never talk about her," she said, jumping down from her chair. She hardly noticed as the book fell to the floor behind her. He bought it for me at the Carnival of Time. But it's written by a bunch of different authors, so her name wasn't on the cover. He didn't know. "You told me she ran away when I was baby. You told me it was too sad to talk about her. You never even told me her name."

"Pamela, that's still the truth right now," he said. "What happened... I still don't think I'm ready to talk about it, or that you're ready to know." He paused, taking in a deep breath. He still refused to face her. "I would never keep something from you if I didn't have a reason."

"But I'm old enough," Pamela said, stepping forward. "I deserve to know. I didn't even know she was an author, and I just read one of her stories, and that... that..." She wasn't sure what to add. "Where did she go? Is she coming back? Why would she leave us?" The questions she'd only dared to ask one at a time were suddenly fumbling out of her, and she felt more frightened than she ever had in her life. If there's something he hasn't told me, then there's a chance she can come back. There's a chance we'll be a family again. There's a chance I'll have a mom.

"She went...," he trailed off again.

"Went where?" Pamela asked. "Where did she run away to?"

"She didn't run away, Pamela." The answer sunk in like a heavy weight. Her chest felt burdened by an anvil the size of her house; the air left her. She shook her head, backing away. Her father had finally turned to face her, except he was crying now. "She didn't run away..."

"No," Pamela said, shaking her head. He didn't say it, but she knew what he meant. "Y-you wouldn't lie to me. I know you wouldn't."

"Pamela, I'm sorry," but she fled before he could make it across the basement floor. Pamela ran up the stairs and out the front door, ignoring the tears as her feet carried her across the canyon ground. She fled, but stopped halfway to the well. No, she thought. You can't go there. Papa will follow you.

Pamela turned to the stream, and took a step in that direction instead. She swayed on her feet, but caught her balance soon after. The little girl sat by the edge of the water, bringing her knees up under her chin as she cried silently. She watched her reflection in the water as she sat there, shimmering with the image of the rainbow band in the backward. The light. She wondered if her mother would have thought such a light was beautiful.

Cynthia Corbic, Pamela repeated in her head. It's a pretty name. She refused to believe that her mother was gone forever, though. Her father just had to be lying to her again. If he lied to me about that, then what else has he lied to me about? Pamela didn't know, but she didn't think his lie was meant to protect her. How could a lie ever protect anybody? She heard the front door open up on the house far behind her, but she never turned to look. She knew her father was standing or sitting on the porch, watching her. Let him watch. I hope he feels terrible. How could her own father lie to her about her mother?

She thought about the hero with the mighty hammer. That was her voice, she realized. The hero's voice was her voice. Pamela felt the tears come down stronger at that, but she managed to wipe them away. I wish I could go back to a moment with you. A moment that would last forever. Though, her mother had made it sound like that would be a bad thing, in her book. Besides, she knew nothing about her; what if she'd been a terrible person? No. She can't. Just like she couldn't be dead.

The hero won; the dragon had been slain. Yet, her mother's voice was no where closer to her. She tried to remember what it had sounded like; only a vague silhouette returned to her from babyhood. But that was all. A voice was as far away as everything else about her. The heavy silence would stretch forever.

Pamela refused to look at him as she ate her peas. She kept her head in her plate, shoveling in one spoonful after another. Pamela could feel her father's eyes sadly baring down on her, but she ignored them. I just want to eat my food. She wished there was someone else out here in Ikana Canyon for her to talk to... The well would have to wait until later.

When she finished her plate, Pamela grabbed the dish and put it in the basin across the kitchen, turning to walk back to the basement. Her father only watched her with that same blank expression as she did. He came over to me while I was sitting at the stream, but I had to ignore him. There was nothing she had to say to him. If he was going to remain silent about her mother, then she was going to remain silent to him.

Pamela walked over to her chair, turned on the lamp, and pulled the book back into her lap. She turned to "Time's End" and found herself reading the last page again. He reached out a hand, searching desperately for past or future. He'd already forgotten how such things once burnt him. Pamela had never spent much time thinking about her mother, so she wondered if it was even fair that she was this upset. Of course it's fair, she told herself. She was your mother. Of course, mother had always been a vague, elusive notion. Now, she had a name and a story.

A real person. Pamela touched the words lightly, as she read them again. My mother was a real person. Her written words were beautiful, too. The little girl decided she liked the ending, now; it gave her something to think about. Time is like fire, she thought. It burns us, but it helps us. It runs out and leaves behind cold. But the hero had slain time. Did my mother know she was going to die? She merely read the last page again, and again and again.

Did she write this when I was alive? Did she write this because of something that happened to her? Did Papa know about this story at all? Did he even know she was an author, or was that before she met him? The hero brought up his mighty hammer again to split the dragon's skull in two. The hours slipped away around her as she read of the dragon's defeat repeatedly. I can find my mom in the words, she thought. I can figure out who she was if I keep reading. The answer is here. She wouldn't get the answers anywhere else.

"Pamela."

Her head shot up from the book. Her eyes found her father standing on the staircase, gripping the railing and looking at her uncertainly. She didn't respond. "I know you're mad at me," he began, to which Pamela turned her eyes back to her book. "And you have every right to be." He continued closing the space between them. "Because it's my fault. I just haven't been ready to talk about it, and..."

"I kind of just want to read," Pamela interrupted, looking up from her book. "For tonight." Her father looked hurt, but for some reason, that made her happy. You hurt me, too. "Please?"

"Can we talk tomorrow, then, Pamela?" her father asked. "We've never kept things from each other, and..." He cut off, however, seeming to realize what he'd just said. Pamela only shot him a poisonous look. "Except for this, but..."

"Papa, we can talk tomorrow," she interrupted.

"All right," he added finally, sounding defeated. "If that's what you want." He walked uncertainly to his cot, changed into sleeping attire, and then went to bed without another word. Pamela merely watched him; however, when he looked her way, she realized the guilt must have been showing on her face. The girl quickly turned back to her book, as her father went to bed. The lamp pierced the darkness of the basement, illuminating her page.

I can talk to the man, she told herself. They'd been talking for two weeks now. Whenever she had the time, and could sneak away from her father, she would go to the bottom of the well. Only on one occasion had he never shown up, but then, he'd been back the next time. They would talk, and he would slowly learn more about her as she slowly learned more about him. Though, not his name. Any information at all came from him reluctantly.

She'd been upset at her father for delaying their visit to Clock Town, but at least it had given her more time to talk to her secret friend. Pamela had managed to hide her disappointment towards her father then, though this was an entirely different situation. At least delaying our trip gave me more time to get to know him. Now that they were better friends, she would feel better whenever they did finally go on their vacation. But I'm still no closer to helping him.

She had to keep trying, though. And now I need him, she thought. A third party to talk about her mother and father was exactly what she needed. He'll know, Pamela told herself. He has to know. She turned back to her book for the time being, though, knowing she'd have to wait until later. Until she was certain her father was asleep.

Pamela read the last page several more times, before climbing into the cot beside her father's. She rested her head on the pillow but refused to sleep. Just another hour. As she laid there, the little girl realized she had the last words in "Time's End" memorized. So, she repeated them in her head as she laid there, gripping her pillow tightly. No less, they would have to learn to live in this world without time. A world without fire. A world where there was only a single moment to take in. The heavy silence would stretch forever... the heavy silence would stretch forever...

Pamela's eyes shot open when she realized she'd almost fallen asleep. She rubbed them and stirred under the covers, wondering if she had actually fallen asleep. Pamela turned over to see her father lying, mouth agape, on his bed as he always did. The sight made her smile. She was mad at herself for smiling, though, and then decided that she was mad at herself for being mad at herself. You can't stay mad at him for long, she thought. Looking at him lying there, Pamela knew her father would never intentionally hurt her.

Nonetheless, she needed to talk to the man. Pamela landed on the cold floor, walked up the stairs, and slipped into the late night.

As always, the brilliant rainbow was the first thing she saw.

It cut across the sky and was as permanent as a scar, but it was too beautiful for 'scar' to be the right word. We need a name for it, Pamela thought again, though she knew that wouldn't be her job. She looked out at the blank canyon ground, and watched its multi-colored glow reflect off of the cool, dark surface. It was much brighter than it usually was. It's flaring. The light spirit is singing.

The little girl with the shoulder-length, brown hair ran to the well, smiling. The air was pleasant on her face. It feels amazing outside. It always did in Ikana Canyon, though, now that the undead had left. All but one.

When Pamela made it to the well's deep darkness, she didn't hesitate. The little girl descended the metal rungs until she reached the bottom. When she'd returned, the cavern leading onward was there, as always, and so was the shield the man had found in their first couple of days talking. He was there as well. The mysterious figure in the dark robes still had a hood drawn, back against the circular wall. He rose his head to see her, and even though she'd never seen his face, she could always tell when he was smiling.

"Hi," Pamela said happily.

"Hi," he responded. "Did you finish your book?"

Pamela, who was still standing at the bottom of the rungs, felt her smile fade. She could feel his fade, too. "Yeah," she responded emptily. She'd delayed finishing the story as long as she could, but had finally brought herself to do it earlier today. Pamela had forgotten she'd been keeping him updated on that.

"Was it a sad ending?"

"Kind of, but that's not what has me upset," the girl said, as she walked to sit down near him. "I found out something today."

The man remained silent for a moment. "What did you find out?"

"I...," she paused, choking on the realization. If you don't say it, it's not real. If you don't say it, it's not real. Instead, she confessed the easier truth. "My mother was the author of the story."

"She was?" he asked, confused. "You never recognized her name?"

"My father never told me her name." He took a while to respond, either processing the words or remembering the first time her mother had been mentioned. "Until I said it out loud, and he freaked out."

"Did you find out anything else about her?" he asked. "Did your father tell you?"

"He...," she paused again, unable to speak over that bubble in her throat. Don't say it. "He... said that she didn't..." If you say it, it's real. "He said she didn't run away, and..." She felt her hands shaking. The hero. Be brave like the hero. The one that slayed the dragon. "I think he said that she's dead."

When she stopped, and turned back to the mysterious man, she realized she was crying again. Don't cry, she told herself, wiping the tears away angrily. You're supposed to help him. He's not supposed to help you. Once she brought her balled hands down, she looked up to see the empty hood staring at her. "I'm sorry," he finally said.

"Your mom died, too," Pamela said without thinking. "Do you know what happened to her?"

"A thief slit her throat. It happened right in front of me when I was about your age." The little girl was stunned into silence. She opened her mouth to try to find a response, but there wasn't one. Suddenly, she was furious at herself for crying. "I'm not saying that to make you more upset. I just... wanted you to know that I know what that feels like, too."

"How could you live with that, though?" Pamela asked. "I can't even imagine."

"A friend," she heard him whisper, from within the hood. She thought a small laugh was behind it, too. "A stranger saved me that night, and she became the most important person in my life." Pamela thought about that, bringing her head down as she turned the words over. "I think having someone else is the most important thing. No matter what happens, as long as you have someone else."

"The story ended with the hero killing the dragon," Pamela added. "But it wasn't a good thing, when the dragon finally died. It was supposed to be there, and people were supposed to get burnt, I think. That was just apart of life. Without the dragon or the fire, life was just an empty moment."

They sat together for a long moment after, simply in one another's company. "Your mother sounds like she was a beautiful writer," he said.

"That's the only thing I know about her," she replied. However, the word 'beautiful' made her think of something else. "The light spirit!"

"What?"

"Have you seen it tonight?" She'd mentioned the band of colors multiple times to him, but its flares were so rare. She'd almost forgotten to bring it up. It almost looked like it was trying to touch the ground. Just like the day when I first met him.

"No," he replied. "Is it different, somehow?"

"Yes. It's beautiful!" She jumped to her feet, looking up the vertical length of the well. The spirit wasn't visible from there. "We should go up and look at it."

"Go up?" the mysterious man asked. He uncertainly got to his feet. "I haven't left the well in so long..."

"It'll be good for you!" she exclaimed. "And the light spirit rarely flares up like it does tonight. You have to see it." She turned to see his hesitancy, visible even from the darkness of the robes. "Please?"

He took a moment to respond, but eventually did with another invisible smile. "Just for you."

"Good," she said, nodding her head. "My father won't wake up for a while, and there isn't anyone else in these canyons, so you don't have to worry about anything." Pamela turned to climb the rungs, and looked down to see if he was doing the same. The man wrapped in darkness was climbing from the sewer system behind her. The little girl smiled, looking back up to see the light of night.

When Pamela climbed out of the hole, the light spirit was brighter than she'd ever seen it before. The colors flared outward, connecting with the stars as vibrant ribbons would. They danced, filling the spaces of blackness with light. The pulsating lanterns swam in the ocean of color, beating down on the blank, canyon ground that could only faintly shine back its brilliance. "Whoa," Pamela said, smiling broadly as she stood. The man crawled out beside her, getting to his feet.

"Look at it!" the little girl said, waving him to view it. The man took slow strides, until they stood at the edge of the hill, looking up. The light spirit was gorgeous; its wings extended to encompass all of Termina. Pamela smiled at all of it – the breeze, the colors, the young night. Her mother was momentarily forgotten. She turned to see the man's hood facing the lights as well. They faintly illuminated whatever was underneath, but it was still hard to tell.

"It's amazing," he whispered, standing in awe.

The little girl watched him ecstatically. "The last time it did that..." However, a gust of wind filled her face, as well as her companion's. The stranger's hands were by his sides, though, and no where close enough to stop the air from filling his hood. The rims fluttered out, and it fell to expose the face underneath.

Black, shocked eyes found her, but the flesh around them was ghastly and white. His skin was milky, rotted, and peeling from bone. A greenish tint shot across his face, exposed by the brilliant light, along with the gaping holes along his jaw line and cheeks. Frayed, red hair spouted out of a barren scalp, as holes, age, and decay presented a skeletal face as dead as it was horrifying. His black lips were the only things that remained intact, though they surrounded teeth that were spotted and brown. The dead man gasped, and she watched muscles pull tightly in a throat exposed without skin.

Pamela shrieked. Her high-pitched, guttural wail caught even herself off-guard, as she took a step backwards. Her footstep met thin air, however, and the man's arms shot out too late.

Pamela found herself tumbling down the hill, head over heels. She was still in shock as she rolled, dragging across the rough rock. Her head slammed into a jutting corner, and everything became blurry and dazed as she fell to land on the plain of rock stretched before her house. Pamela tried to get to her feet, but fell immediately to her face. She saw red dotting the ground in her blurred vision.

"Papa," she whispered softly, collapsing. The little girl remained lying there as she brought her hands to her forehead, where the pain was sharpest. Her hand came back shining, and the red curtain was quick to pour over her face. She tried to wipe the blood away, sobbing now as she stammered to her feet. "Help me." Her shoulder hurt, too, though, and everything was still dizzy.

Hardly standing, she turned to see the man in the black robes sprinting towards her. He'd abandoned keeping the hood over his head, exposing the ghastly face underneath as he approached her. He was shouting something at her, but his voice was too soft for her to make it out. "I fell," she said, as the world continued spinning.

"Pamela, are you okay?" She felt cold hands on her as she rose into his arms, just as skeletal as the face she'd seen. Was that his face? She couldn't see through the sheet of blood. In the distance, though, she heard another voice. It was much louder and commanding.

"PAMELA!"

"Father?"

"She's hurt...," the whisper was so faint, however. She still couldn't see. Pamela heard a few words as faint as the last, but when she looked up, she was suddenly dropped. The little girl hit the canyon floor, and she turned to find her father's face. Fury was etched into every line of it.

"YOU GET AWAY FROM HER! YOU GET AWAY FROM HER NOW!" There was something in her father's hands, and Pamela fought the dizziness to stagger to her feet. She wiped the blood away, but reality still felt faint when she saw the metal pipe. It was thrown into the undead man's face, and she heard a sickening crack as his head flew to the side. "DON'T YOU EVER TOUCH MY PAMELA!"

"Papa, stop!" Pamela shrieked, running to the side of her father. "Papa!"

The robed man tried to defend himself, but he only had weak, skeletal arms and hands. His pleas for mercy were too soft, dying in the gentle wind. The pipe came down on him again and again. Each time it was lifted off, only to slam into the light, dry sack of bones that had returned to life. Pale flesh fell from the metal pipe, illuminated on the glowing canyon floor. The man collapsed onto the side of the steep hill, raising his hands futilely as the pipe came down again.

"Papa, no!" Pamela threw herself into her father, pulling on his arm with all of the strength she had. Her father turned away from the undead man, with his eyes blazing and angry as they found his daughter's. "Don't hurt him! He's my friend!"

"He's the same type of monster that killed your mother!" her father spat back furiously, turning to face the creature. "I'm not going to make the same mistake again."

He rose the pipe, but Pamela leapt in between the stranger and weapon. "No!" Her hand went to catch the metal, but it knocked her to her feet. Pamela's head spun again as another sheet of blood fell across her face. Her father was horrified as he backed away, letting the pipe clatter to the ground.

The little girl laid in the dirt as she looked up. Her father fell to his knees to lift her, but she could still see the robed man. She watched him scurry to his feet and flee. The mysterious stranger sped across the canyon floor, which was vibrant with reflections of the light spirit. No, Pamela thought, as the world faded into a deep darkness. Don't leave.

The shadow ran across the nighttime sky, and the colors danced at his feet.