Robert Danvers awoke with no past to cling to, only the moment to dwell in and a tenuous grasp on his future. He was also blind.
Danvers leaned against a curved wall that blended without seam or corner with the floor. His normal stance was somewhat taller than the ceiling allowed, so he stood stoop shouldered. He pressed his palm against the outline of the wall. He thought he might be standing in a section of corridor or tunnel.
He blinked, was aware of the sensation of fluttering eyelids. His other senses appeared to be intact as he heard and felt a soft warm wind brush against his face and course over his entire body.
Light began to reach his retinas. His pupils must have grown to dinner plate size, he thought with remarkable calm for someone who had good reason to be frightened or in panic. But he was a calm sort, he observed to himself, and the return of his eyesight no matter how little, no matter how slow, was, not surprisingly, consoling. After a few minutes he could see the outline of the rest of his body, his legs and the backs of his hands. But when he realized the light would not get any brighter by standing in one place, he began to walk, placing the wind at his back, following its direction of flow.
continue reading
Within a hundred paces the low ceiling gave way to a larger corridor and he could stand upright. The gentle gust on his back was joined by another nearly equally soft pressure coming from the tributary he had just entered. Feather light, he felt the
