Free Forever the Road (A Rucksack Universe Fantasy Novel) by Anthony St. Clair

touch your heart,” Jigme said. “I can’t do that.”
    “Take care not to drop it,” Rucksack said.
    Jay reached into his chest and pulled out his heart. It beat in his bloody hand: red and pink, swelling and condensing with each empty beat. “This isn’t what it really looks like,” Jay said. With his other hand, he wiped away the blood. A small world floated in his hand, turning slowly. White clouds swirled, bringing shadows to the brown and green lands within. He could almost hear the waves of the blue waters rise and crash, rise and crash.
    The mouth opened again, and the black flames moved forward.
    “Run!” Rucksack shouted.
    But the world felt faint and hazy like wisps of ash blowing up from a fire. As Jay watched the little world, grayness and blackness spread out from what looked like a miniature Indian subcontinent. Soon, a charred blackness covered the entire globe, swallowing up the colors of the earth and sky.
    “Don’t let it!” Jigme shouted.
    “Why not?” Jay said. “It’s just a souvenir.”
    He dropped the charred little world into the open mouth. Behind him, the backpacks of Jigme’s and Rucksack’s heads burst into red-and-black flame.
    Rucksack and Jigme sank to their knees. Where the packs had been, there was nothing. The pair fell forward.
    “No,” Jay said. “You were supposed to be there still.”
    He looked at the black mouth. “Give it back!” he said. “Give it back!”
    The mouth grinned widely again then lunged forward until all Jay saw was black.
    His head smacked the bottom of the bunk above him when he sat up.
    The impact knocked him back onto his bed, and pain washed away the dream. “Aaagh,” Jay said to the heavy, hot darkness waiting at the window behind his bed. He touched his forehead. No sweat. If anything, a chill pulsed inside him as he sat up—slowly, carefully this time.
    The dream was quickly fading, until he remembered only vague snippets about a fire, Rucksack, and Jigme. “What were we doing?” Jay asked the empty dorm. “Having a barbecue?” He shook the remnants of the dream out of his mind and rubbed the sharp ache out from his tenderized forehead.
    Fast-paced music wafted from the floor: the sharpness of whistles and flutes, the clatter-clap rhythm of a drum, and the circular sawings of…
    No, Jay thought. No way. I’m in India, not Ireland.
    He kept listening. Then he got a few things together in his smaller daypack, freshened himself up, and secured his large backpack to the bed.
    It is though, he thought as he left the dorm and started down to the pub. It’s definitely a fiddle, or I’m not in India anymore.

    T HE NOISES MET JAY on the narrow stairs, washing out the rustling coming from his small daypack. When Jay opened the door, the pub was a different world. Silence had been booted into the streets. The world outside had realized its throat was dry and it needed to come inside. Jay couldn’t even see the floor, much less an empty chair to sit in.
    Different languages whooshed past Jay. He passed by tables of travelers sitting together, Indians sitting together, and Indians and travelers sitting together. Looking around, he identified Australians, Israelis, Swedes, Germans, Japanese, Kenyans, Egyptians, Americans, Brazilians, Canadians, Mexicans, and Scots. The whole world seemed to be at the Everest Base Camp, getting to know each other while swapping stories and clinking glasses.
    A wayward foot made him stumble. Two men sitting at a table caught him by the arms and steadied him. Something about their faces seemed familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. “Thanks,” Jay said. The men nodded and he continued on.
    He hadn’t noticed earlier, but where the Everest Base Camp’s walls weren’t white plaster, every color of the world turned the pub into an atlas and a scrapbook. Scrawled with signatures and well wishes, flags from over one hundred countries hung from the walls. Postcards. Photos. Maps of states, countries.