Sideway 8 Hallway

After having a drink or two - likely beer, but perhaps something else - you rise from your barstool to go visit the head. You know the way, you've been here plenty of times before. This is not an act that requires much consideration, it is simply a function of bar patronage and bodily process. Nothing more.

You walk to the back of the pub, casually picking up the conversations of other patrons, the gentle sound of background music. The restroom door is back there. It is single stall. Important to knock, as the simple slide lock doesn't always catch. However, before proceeding with your business, you notice another door, just to the right, that you've never seen before. The only marker on the door is a brass number 8, that seems to have slipped its fixing a bit, so it hangs to the side . . . almost an infinity symbol, if not for the typographic weight that clearly indicates an eight.

Suddenly, bodily functions seem a less pressing matter. All that you care about now is seeing what is behind the sideway 8 door. You turn the knob and push the door inward.

You're standing at the head of a hallway. Not just any hall though; an impossibly long hallway. Architecturally it is not a possibility in this pub, or likely any other structure, yet here it is nonetheless. So long indeed that it might just go on forever. You think of the sideway 8 and how it looked curiously like an infinity sign. Coincidence? Perhaps. All along the hallway are doors, each seemingly identical to the next save for differing brass numbers on them. Evens run down the right hand side, odds down the left.

Possibilities, perhaps endless. Which door do you open and enter next?

clinquant

I stand there gawping at the hallway stretching down into infinity. I spin around, hoping to retreat into the familiar setting of the pub, but I'm met with a blank wall.

Damn, I left my drink back at the counter. Luckily, I'm still a little schmozzled to laugh at the situation. Nothing bad can happen to me here...right?

I close my eyes and stumble forward, feeling for the door handles...wait, did that door not have a handle at all?

Well, here we go...I push on the door and open my eyes at the same time.

fungmungus

There was a handle. You turned it, and with eyes closed walk inside. You can't resist a glance as the door swings closed behind you. You see the number 17 in brushed brass.

You stand in a room . . . or at least you think it is a room. Hundreds, perhaps even thousands of tree trunks, of different bark textures, fill the space. They rise up into darkness. No limbs can be spotted before the blackness consumes their height. The only light in the space a small firefly like lights that gently encircle each trunk. The ground is uniformly tiled linoleum of a soft mint green. Somewhere, further into the forest room, you hear the soft sound of flute-like music. You feel compelled to seek it out.

clinquant

I turn around slowly, trying to take in the scene before me. My confusion at the handle, or lack thereof, evaporates along with the last of my intoxication. There is a hushed reverence in this place, it seems like even the trees themselves are breathing gently so as not to break the peace. What is this place? And what has led me to this place, and the number 17?

Ignoring the music for a moment, I walk towards the nearest tree, the linoleum squeaking under my shoes. The unnatural sound echoes out jarringly in the space. I reach out towards the glowing lights, but my hand just passes through them. I touch the bark of the tree, that seems solid enough. The bark is rough and ridged under my fingers.

The music changes slightly, catching my attention once again. It draws me deeper into the space. The trees are closer together here, the glowing lights slightly dimmer. With some trepidation, I approach a clearing up ahead.

(Sorry @fungmungus, my timezone is GMT +8 so it makes replying a little delayed, but I think it's nice to take this in slow chunks. Really enjoying it so far!)

nostrodecus

You find yourself in a maze of twisty passages, all different.

fungmungus

The possibilities are perhaps endless . . . which door do you enter?

tlf

I'm speechless, almost breathless at the sight in front of me. It almost feels futile picking just one door until I remember the number 8 and decide to try that one.

(Nice work fungusmungus)

fungmungus

You walk through number 8 and find yourself right back in the pub, at the main entrance. Everything is the same as a moment before. In the back, by the washroom, you can see the same sideway 8 door you entered through to reach the hall in the first place. A loop . . . of some sort.

tlf

Disorientated but relieved to be safe, I make a note of number 8. I notice some other patrons are missing and wonder if I'm being too risky.

But curiosity has taken hold so I head back towards the corridor with the intention of walking much farther this time to see if I can find door number 1979.

fungmungus

It takes you at least half an hour to make your way towards the end of the 1000s where you find 1979. The hallway continues undeterred beyond.

Door 1979 opens to a vast landscape of low rolling hills covered in clover of white and purple. The sky, peppered with a few wispy clouds, is a unique lilac coloration. The air smells vaguely of honey and cinnamon. Off in the distance you can see shore line to either a sea or a vast lake. A small village, intercut with cobblestone streets, sits on its edge.

The 1979 door remains behind you, partially ajar to the great hallway.

tlf

Taking in the sights and scents, curiosity draws me towards the shore of the village.

fungmungus

The village is quite small, no more than a few dozen houses and buildings. A small pier contains a number of brightly colored rowboats currently moored. The houses are of an architectural style that feels somewhat antiquated but they all appear well kept. There are a few folks about, dressed in clothing, much like their buildings, that seems a bit from the past. They nod or wave to you, seemingly nonplussed by your foreign attire. A tiny open air market in the center of the village hosts a number of stalls selling fruits and vegetables and baked goods. Sitting on a couple of barrels down by the pier, a gathering of young folk play soft melodies on simple instruments; a flute, a small drum, a hand lyre. There is a pastoral calmness to the whole place. A myriad of seabirds loop around the village, their cries joining with the improvised music. A single cobblestone road leads away from the settlement, following the coast eastward.

tlf

Still not quite believing what I'm seeing, I decide it would be best to try for some casual conversation before exploring a little more. Hoping I have the right currency, I head for the market to buy some fruit from a seller and ask them if they can recommend a place to stay for a stranger passing through.