1000 YEARS - Book 1 - Awakening

8. Fellow Captives*

The music grew louder as the door whooshed open. Remaining safely in the hall she rapped hard against the inside wall and instantly the music stopped.
"Yeees?" said a male voice with a distinctive drawl, and an olive-skinned face, framed in thick black curls peered around the inner room corner — at knee level.

— A dwarf?

A moment later a man of normal height rounded into the little foyer.
"Good afternoon, madam," he said with a winning smile and a distinctly Indian lilt, "to what do I owe the honor of your visit?" He was lanky, not much taller than she, and he looked to be somewhere in his thirties. Dressed in a brightly colored long-sleeve kaftan shirt and cream-colored lose-fitting trousers, and barefoot in his leather sandals, his vibrant colors distinguished him from the standard all-white attendees. He was definitely not one of them.

"I'm sorry, sir, I didn't mean to interrupt but I heard music and, ...I was curious."
The door closed between them; she tapped it open again.
He tilted his head slightly and studied her for a second. "You are not one of them, madam," he said with a sly smile.
"No. I suppose I'm not." She ventured a half-smile.
"Well, then you are my very first proper visitor!" he said cheerfully, rolling his Indian R's. "Won't you come in, madam, please?" he gestured into his foyer hall.
"I... I don't want to intrude..." she hesitated, the entrapment of the day before still fresh on her mind.
"Ooh, no, no! It is no trouble!" He warbled in his Indian singsong and wobbled his head from side to side. "Come in and have a cup of tea? — It would be my pleasure." He smiled graciously, holding out his hand.
The door slid shut between them again and she opened it once more to find him scrutinizing the upper doorframe.
"This door has very bad manners, madam, I must apologize for its rude behavior! — It does not seem to want to open for me at all." She had to chuckle at his mock indignation. "And I am most curious to discover how you make it obey?" He seemed thoroughly amused, and her reservations faded.
"Won't you please come in, madam?" he backed away and gestured her in.
She stepped inside.
"Welcome to my humble abode!" he said enthusiastically and extended his hand, "I am Pandit Patil. It is an honor to meet you."The door swished shut behind her. "I am...," she hesitated, "that's actually a bit of a confusing story — but you can call me Alpha."
He shook her hand firmly, "Very well, miss Alpha, I am pleased to make your acquaintance." He bowed his head.
"It's a pleasure to meet you too, Mr. Patil."
"Ooh, no, no! Not 'mister' — just Pandit, ...or Patil. Most people call me Patil," he smiled broadly.
"Patil, then," she nodded with a timid smile.

She sat nervously at first, after he had accommodated her on the padded bench in front of his panoramic window and placed a cup of steaming tea into her hands. He gave her a few moments to become comfortable and watched her as she studied his place.
Right away she noticed the two enormous writing boards that spanned two of his walls: one, an electronic whiteboard, the other an old-fashioned blackboard. Both were crammed full of tightly written mathematical equations and small diagrams. The smudged chalk marks on the blackboard showed evidence that there had been multiple revisions made to some of the equations.

Beyond that, the space was simple, spartan almost. A deep-pile rug covered part of the floor where he now sat on a thick floor pillow with a large, unfamiliar string instrument in his lap. It looked a bit like a cross between an oversized mandolin and a guitar. He had a corner desk with papers on it and a chair, just like hers. And there was a low octagonal carved wood table on which sat his teapot and cup. The last wall was a green-wall just like the one in her study lounge. — And just like in her rooms, reality was split, and beneath their outward masks, all furnishings were made of the same milky chalcedony-like material. But like her watch and drawing tools, his papers and the instrument were solid and real.

"Is that what I heard earlier?" she asked finally, jutting her chin at the strange instrument, "I've heard this kind of music before, but I have never seen the instrument."
"Yes, miss Alpha," he smirked, "it is an Indian sitar." He started to play for her, and over the next fifteen minutes he worked from a few chords, to easy melodies through several fast-paced and increasingly more complex tunes, until his fingers seemed to fly around the instrument in a blur.