Dr. Cerulean’s Guide to Traversing Time & Dimensions in 13 Simple Steps

Dr. Cerulean’s Guide to Traversing Time & Dimensions in 13 Simple Steps is now available on Kindle! Click here for your copy.

Preface

This book was written by a weirdo who was raised by another weirdo. This book is dedicated to the latter. Her name was Mace. You may proceed.

Prelude: Every Word You Are About To Read Is Absolutely True

There is one thing you need to know before you immerse yourself into this adventure: Every word you are about to read in this story is absolutely true.

For example, the word “flummoxed” is a very true word, as it has a definition and purpose in language.

It is another word for “perplexed” or “confused.”

Used in a sentence, one might say, “This manuscript has me absolutely flummoxed.”

Also, the word “grimblenox” is a true word, although it has no definition and its purpose in language is wholly unclear. It became a true word the moment it found its way out of this author’s imagination and onto the page in front of you.

Used in a sentence, one might use it in its capacity as a noun to describe a length of time: “I haven’t been this flummoxed in a grimblenox.”

“I’m grimblenoxing after reading this ridiculous book,” one might declare, using the word as a verb, you see.

Why, it could even be used as an adjective if placed in the proper portion of a sentence: “Is this one of those grimblenox authors I’ve read about in all the modern books?”

Or, one could simply shout, “Grimblenox!” if one is in the market for a new and flummoxing interjection.

So know, reader, that every word you are about to read is absolutely true.

Post-Prelude: Also, All The Events Depicted In This Manuscript Absolutely Happened

Oh, and one more thing you’ll need to know: Everything you’re about to read actually happened.

Each scene, incident, situation, circumstance, development, occurrence, mishap, adventure, experience, bout, rout, defeat, arrival and departure have happened exactly as they are described here – and in the order in which they are presented.

Any scholars who wish to prove otherwise may proceed with providing evidence to the contrary.

Pre-Prologue: This Is How The Story Ends

Particles whipped by a hot wind swept the woman’s face. The tiny granules sprayed like shattered glass into her eyes. She found herself now in a vast desert, with nothing but dunes as far as the eye could see. This was an ancient place, and countless structures, bodies, and a vast array of all other unfound and forgotten things had been hidden here by time and sand.

She had not chosen this place, and she was there through no conscious effort of her own. The woman, though, had been here before, and she was going to make the best of a very bad situation.

There were thousands of miles of desert in any given direction, but she had certain powers that most other people could only dream of obtaining. Any normal person would likely die out here. Not this woman, though.

She squinted at the sun. Her skin and hair were both so fair that they bordered on being white. The radiation from above could not burn her skin, though. It was impervious to such things. The only discomfort she felt was from the heavy, black dress she was wearing.

Her magical abilities had been nearly drained, true, but there was enough left to guide her to a hidden chamber in this very desert where she’d buried the head of an incredibly powerful and incredibly dangerous woman. She needed to get to this location now 

On the other side of the planet, another woman set foot into a crumbling city. This woman was far younger than the fair-skinned witch in the desert, though the two looked as though they could have been about the same age.

The woman in the city, her complexion the color of cocoa, her hair black and wet, had just emerged from the ocean, and she was now on a mission to find someone she’d lost, someone she loved, someone she hoped was still alive amid the destruction.

If she could find her lost lover, she vowed the two would escape from this place and begin anew. The two would travel back to her parent’s home, perhaps, in the valley past the mountains. She hadn’t heard from them in years, and she could hope they were alive still. And even if they weren’t, which she suspected was the case, she could still put down new roots and never look back.

And as these individuals set about on their respective journeys, somewhere in another dimension, a man pondered the very nature of existence. He teetered on the brink of madness having been through what could only be described as hell, returning from the nightmare with knowledge no man should have.

He made a decision then to end the cycle, one that could have been revolving for eternity for all he knew. That decision was a drastic one, and he guessed it could lead to things far worse than he’d already experienced. But he chose to hope that his decision would instead set everything right.

On the other side of his world, a guillotine blade fell with a metallic swish, and a woman’s head rolled to the dusty ground.

And somewhere between those two dimensions – somewhere between all dimensions – the Engine of Existence churned out life and time and power and space, but no one could see that this entity, the battery that powers all that is – The Core­ – was now damaged.

It wouldn’t be long before it either burned out completely, or was snatched by the thing that lurked beyond the fine and nearly impenetrable border between existence and the void.

Dear reader, as time travelers, sometimes we have no say in the order in which we witness events happening. You’ll do well to keep this in mind as you study Dr. Cerulean’s Guide to Traversing Time and Dimensions.

Prologue: This Is How The Story Begins

If ten young men of age, thin, gangly and awkward, were lined up one next to the other and marched in front of you, you would most likely be unable to discern Bratticus L. Magleby from the other nine, save but for a single defining factor.

He was 20 years old, although years had a nasty habit of differing in length, so sometimes he wondered if he was perhaps 24 or maybe 18.  He was unusually tall for his age (although it is common knowledge that most men of any age can be -- and usually are -- many various heights). His hair was the color of graveyard dirt. Or perhaps it was the color of a beaver's fur. It depends on where the light catches it as the wind blows, and whether or not you're inclined to make remarks on minuscule variations on shades of brown.

His skin was tan in some places, but very pasty in others -- the two usually coinciding with where the sun did and did not shine.

However, if you were having a conversation with young Mr. Magleby, or perhaps engaging in a contest in which the two of you must stare into each other's eyes without blinking, you would have noticed something particularly peculiar.

Bratticus's eyes were the most unique eyes of anyone in his university. Come to think of it, his eyes were probably the most unique in his entire galaxy. At first glance, they appeared to be nearly black, but upon closer inspection, one could see the edges of his pupils barely defined against irises that were dark blue and purple, flecked with strands of gold and white.

One could, and often did, get lost in his eyes, as if looking into a dark galaxy being manipulated by a black hole. And as a black hole pulls in matter and light, so could Bratticus's eyes. A person who wasn't careful would find him or herself sapped of their faculties by gazing into the infinity of young Mr. Magleby’s eyes for a moment too long.

It was for this reason that Bratticus L. Magleby made it a habit of averting his gaze whilst engaging in conversation. And it was because of this that many people, upon first meeting young Mr. Magleby, assumed he was either shy or had something to hide. 

As it turns out, both those assumptions were often true, although the latter was far more true than anyone could have known. Bratticus did have something to hide, but the odd thing about it was he wasn't sure exactly what that thing was he was hiding. He only knew it had to be hidden. 

This thing, whatever it was, that he felt needed to be hidden was all the more puzzling because his past was not a mystery to him -- as is sometimes the case when stories are written. He knew his family. He had no enigmatic memory loss. He was not an orphan. In fact both his parents were still quite alive and quite well, living comfortably in a three-story house overlooking a pond on which swam a single, rebellious goose that left his flock in his younger years after deciding none of the other geese truly understood him. 

That, though, is a different story altogether, and I'll thank you, dear reader, to not stray from the subject at hand. 

He -- Bratticus, not the goose - was an educated young man. But despite his two-year stint at university in which he learned all matter of mathematics, equations, statistics, computations, calculations, and other subjects dealing in numbers, symbols, and letters and symbols that substitute numbers, it was those hypnotizing eyes that secured his employment once he'd completed his degree.

While traveling by train home from college, Bratticus was reading The Perfunctory Post (a newspaper that never included news one might actually care about) when he came across a paid notice that piqued his interest.

The notice read as follows:

"Wanted: One freshly-graduated student versed in mathematics, equations, statistics, computations, calculations, and other subjects dealing in numbers, symbols, and letters and symbols that substitute numbers. Room and board to be covered in full. Payment to be made in form of scientific experience. Small stipend to be included should the applicant's duties be adequately performed. Larger stipend to be included should those adequate duties be performed beyond adequacy. Applicants should inquire at the Apothecary of Dr. Gustopher Cramden Cerulean, MPharmS, MD, PhD, LDLP, ASAP, which may be found at the end of End Lane, in the City of Bell, in the County of Muss, in the State of Konfuson."

Bratticus clipped the notice, willfully ignoring the curiously specific qualifications requested, and, after arriving home and having supper with his parents, purchased another train ticket to the City of Bell in the County of Muss in the State of Konfuson. When he met the man at the specified location exactly one year before our story begins, the man, whose own face was hidden behind an impressive handlebar mustache and a pair of dark goggles, took a single glance at Bratticus's eyes and hired him on the spot.

Step 1: Choose A Fixed Point In Space And Time In Which To Establish A Home Base

“In order to properly traverse time and dimensions, one must first have a point of origin from which to travel and which to return. There is no room for time traveling Nomads, as it is physically impossible for two items of equal density to switch from reality to the next and stay put.” 

-- Dr. Gustopher C. Cerulean, as quoted in the copious notes of Bratticus L. Magleby.

Chapter 1

If you happened upon the City of Bell in the County of Muss in the State of Konfuson some time just after the blossoms began to open on the cherry trees and some time just before the cherries themselves were plucked from the branches, you may have noticed something peculiar above the apothecary of one Dr. Gustopher Cramden Cerulean, MPharmS, MD, PhD, LDLP, ASAP.

The good doctor, of whom little was truly known, was often called upon to whip up a quick unguent for the flu or a tonic for a sudden case of objectionable offspring (the remedy, of course, followed by a prescription of one to five years at a fine boarding school across the sea).

Dr. Cerulean was also the man to seek when one's ice box began to falter or one's high-wheel bicycle began to drift automatically toward the Mile and one Meter Ravine, which in that particular year had swallowed no less than 10 riders when their penny-farthings suddenly and without warning sprouted their own faculties.

You can't mistake the good doctor, to be sure. He stands at the height of seven feet and a few odd inches (some of those inches even odder than others). It is currently unclear how many of those feet are due to his slick, stovepipe hat. And if you're in the habit of adding haberdashery to a man's height, and I'll keep my judgments to myself if you're the sort, then you'll most likely want to add another six to eight inches for the cerulean feather plucked from some exotic bird, which Dr. Cerulean kept situated in his hatband. 

That the feather's color and the doctor's surname share a title is purely coincidental, I assure you. (By the way, it will serve you well, dear reader, to keep the word "coincidence" packed into a nice, comfortable storage area in your brain. Make sure that the "coincidence" you choose is sturdy, because we'll be using it in new and robust ways and I wouldn't want your "coincidence" to get chipped or ruined altogether.)

And unlike a gun when introduced in the first act of a play, Dr. Cerulean’s cerulean feather will not come into play in the final scenes of this story. This I promise, so put it out of your mind. 

While Dr. Cerulean's breadth was certainly impressive, his width was a little less intimidating. The most graceful of spiders was envious of the doctor's spindly limbs; his stride was equal to at least two of any healthy man's -- and three of any unhealthy man's. His branch-like fingers were always hidden beneath the shiny black of his laboratory gloves, and the equally shiny black patent leather boots similarly protected his feet and shins.

His face was the biggest mystery of all. The half above his nose was always hidden behind teacup-sized goggles, with lenses as dark as his gloves and boots. The half below his nose was always hidden behind one of the most impressive handlebar mustaches on this side of the Ridiculing River.

The rapidity of the Ridiculing River, by the way, was nothing to laugh at. But we're not discussing bodies of water at this moment, so please stop inquiring about them.

His suit was the color of red wine. Or perhaps it was the color of blood. It all depends on whether or not it's bright outside, and whether or not you're inclined to make remarks on minuscule variations on shades of red.

His tiepin was a dark bluish-purple pearl that was nearly black, and his waistcoat was merry yellow. Attached to one buttonhole in that waistcoat was a watch fob. Now, Dr. Cerulean was a straightforward man in terms of watch fobs, so he'd attach nothing else to the end of it than a pocket watch.

The watch was an especially intriguing ornament. It was brass, and the doctor wound it exactly seven times a day, with exactly the same amount of time passing between winds. The hands were carved from ivory, and the clock face had 13 numbers. Some said such a watch was useless, but I've yet to meet a person who hasn't admitted that there are, at least, 13 hours in every day. Most people will admit there are even more.

The doctor's laboratory, housed behind the apothecary door, was indeed a unique one. It was an apothecary, yes, but it was simultaneously a laboratory, a garage, a factory, and a taxidermy museum. The exterior of the structure was huge and ramshackle, the building cobbled together from a series of bricks, stones, planks, shake, pitch, pipe, clay, cement, wire, mortar and all other manner of bric-a-brac. It stood an impressive ten stories tall, at least, a height that was all the more exaggerated thanks to the building’s location atop a grassy hill.

The parlor to this monstrous structure was barely five feet in length and width. It also served as Cerulean's waiting room. It housed four ornate chairs – two against each wall on the right and left sides of the door – upholstered in the finest of velvet and studded with shiny brass tacks that had to be polished no less than two times per day. The windows were mantled by purple drapes embroidered with golden dragons, which in turn enveloped green curtains embroidered with silver unicorns, which in turn veiled orange slatted blinds (which had been painted blue). From the ceiling hung two elegant crystal chandeliers, one gas and one electric. The gas chandelier was never lit because it hung so low that it touched the ornate chairs, and Dr. Cerulean was nothing if not vigilant when it came to preventing the scorching of ornate chairs. The electric chandelier was never lit because, when it was installed, Dr. Cerulean forgot to order the proper wiring and switches for its adequate function, so it just hung there without casting a single photon. The floor of the waiting room was covered by an elaborate crimson rug with long yellow fringe, its weaved illustrations depicting a great medieval battle between Protestants and Catholics. And centered in the midst of all the chairs, drapes, curtains, blinds, chandeliers and rug was a baroque mahogany coffee table with six legs and a stained glass top, atop which sat an ivory 8-armed candelabra (although where the candles themselves were, I just don't know). 

Because the waiting room was pitch black and too full of furniture to even enter, people simply used the side entrance to come and go.

From the exterior of the apothecary, one would assume it was a mansion – perhaps even a castle - with many levels filled with an abundance of rooms. But upon entering (whether through the easy access of the side entrance or through the parlor for the more adventurous sorts), one was often amazed to find that, instead of a large building filled with many small or medium-sized rooms, it was large building with one gigantic room, like some sort of cathedral designed by a very unenthusiastic architect.

The one, large room was comprised of a maze of workspaces, full of machines, contraptions, gizmos, devices, appliances, inventions, doodahs, jiggers, gubbins, hickeys, and a certain cylinder the doctor had forbidden Bratt to touch that housed a single, suspended atom. All of this took up the bulk of the laboratory. In the far southeast corner was Dr. Cerulean's four-post bed, chifforobe and chamber pot. In the far southwest corner was Bratticus Magleby’s humble bed and dresser. In the far northwest corner was the dining area, complete with a table, four chairs, an icebox, a pantry and a counter on which to slice beets and grind herbs. The far northeast corner was a mystery, as neither Bratticus nor the doctor had ever fully explored it, and in fact both of them were a bit afraid to venture there.

The ceiling stretched up for what seemed like a mile, though I won't say it's a mile as I've been advised against using hyperbole. But on the brightest day, when each window was open, Bratticus (or Bratt, as he'd come to be known in his year of employment) was still unable to see the workings high above. Since there were no stairs to the top, it was impossible for him to know exactly what was up there, though he knew for certain there were, at least, bats because it was his duty to clean up the droppings every Thursday morning.

Here I am blathering on about the talents, accessories and workspace of the clever Dr. Cerulean, when I've alluded to something peculiar above his secluded apothecary, on which I've yet to elaborate. I apologize, as my wandering attention is a malady even the good doctor could not correct.

Chapter 2

The Peculiarity hung above the apothecary for exactly one hour just as the sun was rising on this particular day.

This anomaly was circular and hovered what appeared to be mere inches away from the highest gable of the doctor’s structure. It was perhaps two feet in diameter (or three, if your shoe size was a bit smaller). It floated unaided, suspended in the air like a nefarious balloon. One might mistake it for the morning sun rising above the building's roof — if the morning sun were black and cast off not light but pulses of odious fear, and if the sun was not a gaseous mass burning at the center of a star system but were instead an opening to an unfathomable place where something terrible awaited even the most nihilistic mind.

Suns, however, don't look like that. 

The thing, this very hole in the very sky, was in stark contrast to the lightly bluing atmosphere around it. This circular window to the space beyond looked out into a darkness that was so pure in its absence of color that one could assume it was what something looked like when something was nothing. 

The air around The Peculiarity was wobbling slightly, as the horizon does on a hot day. If one were to observe this, one might imagine that this apparent puncture were radiating some sort of heat. However, the effect was actually created by the molecules and atoms and particles at The Peculiarity’s edges being pulled through into the void, where they were efficiently erased from their place in this time and space. 

It was horrifying. The longer it hovered, the larger it grew. If one were to watch it, which at this juncture in time no one actually was, one might have seen what looked like an octopus tentacle - though far more enormous than even the most giant of cephalopods lurking in the ocean, make its way gingerly round the edge of The Peculiarity.

But did any person in the City of Bell care to look up and witness this terrifying sight? No, none of them did. Only one person knew of the existence of this puncture in a piece of reality above the apothecary. The rest of the town’s citizens remained blissfully unaware.

Chapter 3

Now, the good people of Bell in the state of Konfuson were by no means simple, but I wouldn't classify them as highly-educated, either, with the exception of Dr. Cerulean and his apprentice, Bratt, of course.

Bellians were a well-kept people, wealthy through a combination of various trusts, savings, good investments and insurance scams. A good Bellian wouldn't leave his or her house with a single button or hair out of place. The men's starched collars were always stiff as a tin roof, and sharp enough to shave with. The women's necks, on the other hand, were either festooned with bright rubies or fluttering with layers of lace.

The smallest of details were always attended to when it came to a Bellian's fashion. A woman's parasol would always match her stocking buttons (even though it was illegal for a female in Bell to expose her stocking buttons). And a male would always match his tiepin to his eye color.

The fact was Bellians put so much effort into their appearances that they paid little attention to many other things of consequence. They considered academia far beneath them; they believed those who would devote their time to learning instead of dressing smartly clearly had their priorities out of order.

So perhaps it was Cerulean's manner of dress, or his many degrees, or any other number of the doctor's quirky mannerisms or knowledge that made people ignore the hole above his home, but ignore it they did. Dr. Cerulean was the man you went to for a cough or to have your gadget fixed, but beyond that, the people of Bell didn't put much stock in the doctor's talents, and certainly none of them paid much attention to the things that often hovered above his apothecary — which happened more often than you might think.

But had a Bellian seen the swirling void and found it concerning, and had a Bellian knocked on the door to the side entrance of the apothecary that day to get to the bottom of things, that Bellian would have been truly amazed. That is assuming the mirror that was hung on the wall just by the door, naturally, didn’t interrupt the citizen’s attention. (Bellians, when in the presence of mirrors, had the habit of spending extended amounts of time preening and fixing mis-tipped hats that hadn't moved a centimeter since they'd been placed earlier that day).

Barring any mirror-related aversions, that Bellian would have discovered that Dr. Cerulean was clever enough to construct a contraption with the sole purpose of traversing time, space and dimensions.

That The Peculiarity above the apothecary and The Contraption within the apothecary were both active at exactly the same time was quite the coincidence indeed. 

Chapter 4

Cerulean and Bratt had been working to perfect the device in the year the young man had been employed.

After some trouble with this contraption, having worked on it both day and night leading up to the time the vortex to an infinity of terrors had appeared, the blasted machine rudely malfunctioned and transported Dr. Cerulean to place of which Bratt was unaware. In a move arguably even ruder, the machine refused to bring the doctor back. It opted instead to stop working altogether. 

It was at that time, another coincidence, perhaps, that the peculiar, circular, nightmarish oddity above the apothecary vanished like mist as the sun crested in the eastern sky.

Bratt, with two years of fine university schooling and an entire year under the tutelage of the brilliant doctor, had spent the next several days on a series of events to bring the doctor back home.

It wasn't just because Bratt considered Cerulean a friend. And it wasn't just because he hadn't yet collected the stipend he was owed. No, young Bratticus L. Magleby had to find Dr. Gustopher Camden Cerulean because when the doctor was sent away, someone came through in his place. And Bratt knew he had to find a way to get her back to where she came from before she killed again.  

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