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The tower was too large. The inside dwarfed the outside. His sandaled feet slapped on cold stone, sending echoes that died somewhere in the rising, rotund expanse.

A breeze gushed down from above, making Poire shiver. At least the Old Man had given him crude, itchy clothes and thonged sandals, made from those blurry fibers. The Old Man had simply shoved his hand into the sand, and pulled them up, covered in powdery dust, as if the clothes had been lying there for Poire’s arrival.

But before Poire could ask how he knew, or even ponder why he would have buried the clothes, the Old Man had marched off into the Tower. His own sandaled feet cracked against the too smooth stone, across the great hollow atrium. Not a single window pierced the walls, nor any kind of column or strut or structure held up the ceilings, so very high above. The only object in the entire tower, it seemed, was a spiral staircase, standing absurdly alone in the center of all that great space. And it was towards these stairs that the Old Man now marched.

As he followed, the simple clothes scratched at Poire’s arms, his ribs, his chest, the outside of his legs. Maddening. He tried to use both hands to hold the cloth away from his body, but the fabric moved like nothing he’d ever seen. Less like cloth, and more like tinfoil, it crumpled and crinkled and stuck to him like bad plastic. Poire was wrestling with it, and about to take his first step when the Old Man, already several flights up, barked down at him.

“What are you doing? Go get the cargo.”

“What cargo?”

“From the boats. Stuff it in a sack, and carry as much as you can.”

“I don’t have—”

A pair of bags, made of the same itchy fabric, flapped down and hit Poire in the face.

Poire nursed sour thoughts as he went back outside, and stood on the river bank. Hundreds of boats, all in a line, creaked in the silver mud and bumped against each other, waiting for his attention. The first boat was loaded down with glossy rocks that looked sharp, but felt more like firm jelly. Poire squished fistfuls of the “rocks” into each bag until they were almost too heavy to carry.

Back at the Tower’s entrance, he looked up. When he stood outside, the Tower looked no bigger than the minaret that adorned the hill of his old Conclave. But inside, it looked like it could fit the entire hill, with space left over. Poire swayed back and forth, watching the Tower warp its shape, trying to catch the trick of light that made it change shape.

The spiral staircase bulged at its base, and wound around and up it became a thin rail, piercing up into the Tower’s lofty heights. Thin, spidering supports flew out at odd intervals, connecting the free-standing staircase to the walls of the Tower. The Old Man, who was little more than a dark speck far above, called down bitterly, “Oh, by all means, take your time! It’s only the fate of all existence waiting on us!”

Poire frowned up at the steps. Is he really me? He wondered. Pretty sure I’d never be such an ass.

And something else the Old Man said scratched at his thoughts. What is he talking about all existence?

Aren’t we stuck here?

But the only one who could answer was several dozen spiral flights above, and there was only one way to reach him. Poire started to walk. One step. Then another. The bags rested heavily on his back, and after a few stories of climbing, Poire’s blood thumped, and his breath became heavy, and sweat was prickling at his brow. How many hundreds more steps would he have to climb?

He leaned over the side of the steps, careful not to get too close—for there was no guide rail—and his frown deepened. Surely, he had climbed higher than this…

A few minutes later, his chest heaving and his forehead slick with sweat, Poire put the bags down. He wasn’t going to make it much further with this weight. He opened one of the bags, and yelped as a deluge of oily, black liquid spilled out, and dripped over the side of the steps, splattering somewhere on the floor far below.

Well. That’s one way to lighten the load.

With only one bag left, he told himself some was better than none, and kept going. Trudging in a slow, never-ending circle, inching ever upward.

The Old Man was sitting on a step, his dark, knobbly hands on his dark, knobbly knees. Not a drop of sweat on his face. Eyes bright and sharp and impatient beneath that mane of wild gray hair. “What happened to the other bag?”

“Too heavy,” Poire said. “I tried to lighten it, but it … leaked? What is this stuff?”

The Old Man grunted. Slapped his hands on his knees, and stood up. And started briskly up the steps again, so that Poire had to trudge faster to hear his answers.

“It’s the most convenient form of matter. Next question.”

“Convenient for what?” Poire asked, forming his question between breaths.

“For building. What does it look like?”

“How does it stay in the bag? What is it made of? Where did it come from?”

“Is that really what you want to know right now? Is that really your most burning desire? Come on, ask me something more important.”

Poire tightened his grip on the bag, mulling over his thoughts. One step. Another. Trying not to think about the hundreds of boats, all weighed down with this strange jelly, waiting for him. One step…

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I’m building a stairway. What does it look like?”

“It looks like a tower.”

The Old Man clicked his tongue, disappointed. “All this,” he gestured at the rising, white, featureless walls rising all around the staircase, far out of Poire’s reach, “All this is just structure. To support the stairs.”

“Why are you building stairs in the middle of nowhere?”

“Who said this was nowhere?”

“OK,” Poire said. “Then where are we?”

“Too hard to explain. Next question.”

Poire’s expression soured. “How is it too hard to explain?”

The Old Man turned back to Poire, and he was once more struck by how similar they looked. That’s my face. My eyes. And my skin, almost, except for the beard and all those freckles. “If I told you where we were, it wouldn’t mean anything to you. You have no point of reference.”

“Then give me one. Which way is North?”

“North,” the Old Man snorted. “There is no North.”

“How can there be no North?”

The Old Man’s worn sandals slapped on the steps as he led Poire to one of the thin support struts that raced out from the staircase to the wall, where a hole had been cut out. The Old Man padded across the support, placing one foot in front of the other, effortlessly balancing as he walked across.

Poire sucked in his breath. Suddenly not sure he wanted the answers so badly after all. The walkway was only as wide as his foot. A dizzying drop yawned up to meet him, the hard floor of the Tower so far below.

“Well? What are you waiting for?” the Old Man called, “Leave the bag.”

If he can do it at his age…

Poire gritted his teeth. And took a careful step forward, placing one sandal in front of the other. And another. Wobbled. Crouched. His foot slipped. He crashed down onto the walkway and let out an embarrassing yelp as he wrapped his arms around it. He squeezed his face against the walkway, one ear to the cold stone, his heart pounding and ringing in his head.

His eyes refused to open.

Two fingers tapped him on the shoulder.

Poire squeezed his eyes tighter. “I can’t.”

A strong hand wrapped around his shoulder, and Poire let out another, even more embarrassing yelp.

“I got you,” the Old Man said. “Come on, stand up now.”

Poire let himself be pulled up, surprised (but glad) to find the Old Man’s grip was surprisingly sturdy.

“I forgot what it’s like the first few thousand times.”

“I’m sorry,” Poire said.

“It’s too early for you to be sorry,” the Old Man said. Before Poire could ask what he meant by that, the Old Man started to shuffle sideways to the cutout window. Even the light that poured in through the window was wrong—instead of a slanting sunbeam, it wavered and thinned out like a streak of glowing cloud.

“Go stand out there,” the Old Man said.

A spike of fear lodged into his chest. The lip of stone that jutted beyond the window looked a little too worn and smooth for his comfort. He inched closer, and when he caught the view, a half-formed word tumbled from his lips.

“Wurggh.”

The rolling, jagged wave-shaped mountains stood vigil in the far distance, hazy and black. Lattices of white lines, like the foam left behind in a ship’s wake, waltzed across the sky. But it was the ground that made him say, “Wurggh,” for he was standing only a few inches above the white, powdery sands. Poire crouched down, reached out, and grabbed a fistful, letting the powder waterfall through his fingers.

“How is that even possible—”

“Frustrating, isn’t it?” the Old Man said, as Poire stepped down from the window. “Now, spin in a circle.”

“What?”

“Spin, Poire! Keep spinning! Again, again!”

Poire shuffled in a circle until he felt the world sway, and his balance shifted out of his control.

“What?” Poire asked. “What does this do?”

“Nothing!” The Old Man barked with laughter, “I just wanted to see if you would do it. Now look out the window.”

Poire blinked a few times, trying to stop his eyes from rolling. But when he looked out the window, all the dizziness rushed up at him.

The wave mountains had marched away, a few of them bleeding up into the sky now, their shapes stretching impossibly tall. New mountains were dripping down out of the sky, as the foaming lines warped around them like rapids in a river. The sand was impossibly far out of reach now and slid in great drifts, as if the whole world was tilted to one side. Poire’s legs buckled, and he scrabbled and clung to the window to keep his balance.

“Do you get it now?” the Old Man asked.

“Not at all,” Poire whispered, unable to tear his eyes away from the tilting, dripping world.

“You are the only point of reference. Where you’re standing, when you’re standing there, even what you’re thinking about. It all changes the world. North can’t exist here.”

“Is that why you—we—built this tower?”

“Oh, he’s smarter than he looks,” the Old Man crooked a smile, almost cruel in its sharpness.

“I’m you,” Poire said, “I look like you.”

“Nonsense,” he scoffed, “You and I couldn’t be more different. For one, my advanced age and deep wisdom represents the highest standard of beauty in this world.”

“I think you’re confusing beauty with something else…” Poire muttered.

The Old Man gave him a dark look, but Poire couldn’t help but smile. There was something about talking to himself, or whoever this was, that made him feel better. Out here, in the wrong universe, at least he wasn’t alone.

“Well, go on then,” the Old Man tugged at the wires of his beard, “If you’re so wise, tell me why I’m building these stairs?”

“Why are you building them?”

The Old Man opened his mouth to answer, then closed it. Rubbed at his chin. And frowned. “You might say the stairs have always been here. They were built by all the Poires that came before us. And, if I fail, it will be built by all the ones who come after.”

“If you fail at what?”

The Old Man slapped Poire on the back, making him flinch and grab the wall to steady himself.

“Come on,” The Old Man shouted over his shoulder, as he padded easily across the narrow strut back to the spiral stairs, “We must keep moving! This will all be much clearer when I show you.”

“Wait,” Poire said, but the Old Man had already reached the stairs and climbed them three at a time, his knees and joints popping and cracking with every hopping step.

“And don’t forget the bag!”

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