I used the "Creative Block" book by Lou Harry for this one. I opened it three times at random and got a picture prompt for a doorway, "Lie" as a 'sparkword', and a suggestion of writing about someone who discovers they're broke. It didn't turn out the way I expected.
What Lies on the Other Side (1000 words)
Hartwell had lost a hundred gold on the unicorn races, hobnobbing and generally putting it about as number one goat. He’s got a front to keep up, the bold explorer, first man to the top of Kalijuri, tamer of wild beasts and savage women like me.
I saw my chance at Lord Greenward’s party. Hartwell always takes me with him. The Ladies glance slantwise at my dark skin, and giggle behind their fans imagining what we get up to. The truth, of course, is - nothing. Hartwell has his own Code of Honour.
Lord Breakspear was the centre of attention. “The Door was uncovered in an earthquake in March,” he said. “In the foothills of the Wolf Fang mountains. I set off as soon as heard about it.”
He described a carving he’d seen, a moon and a rabbit. I stood in the background, hands folded, until Hartwell gave me a nod.
“May I speak, your Lordship?” I said. “It sounds like a mark of the trickster goddess, Isot. In my studies of the region...”
“Studies!” said Greenward. “Hartwell said your lot believe in educating their daughters. Damn fool idea. Everyone knows that women’s brains overheat if they learn too much.”
“Steady on,” said Breakspear.
“Some benighted idiot has started a Free School for Girls. What good is that going to do?”
Breakspear broke in, his voice shaking. “Five thousand gold to any man who goes through that Door and brings me back something from the other side.”
That was it. When we got home I lied a bit and told Hartwell we were broke again. It was more of a prediction than a lie.
He stroked his luxuriant moustache. “Well, Mulog my girl, I have you to keep track of these things. A trip to the pole, I think. The Exploration Society will fund it.”
“I don’t think so, master. They’ve sent two expeditions there. We need somewhere new.”
“Nowhere left to go, what? Since the ruddy balloonists started harnessing dragons everyone and his maiden aunt’s an explorer. The Ladies will hardly sit still for my stories now.”
I gave him a well-practised languishing glance. “There is the Door, master,” I said. “I could sell some goblets discreetly and get enough for our travels.”
“Hrumph. Breakspear hardly set foot over the threshold. Hasn’t been the same since.”
“The Ladies were very interested in his story.”
“All right. Sort out the travel arrangements. Do you speak the language?”
“Not yet, master.”
And so we went, full complement of horses, mules and native guides, up into the cold, sunny shale of the foothills. The Door was just a hole in a cliff, outlined with three heavy strokes of rock, the symbol on the lintel.
“A rabbit, eh?” said Hartwell. “That don’t seem so frightening.”
“It’s a hare, master. It’s Isot’s symbol.”
“Get the torches, Mulog.”
Inside, the tunnel became a narrow oval. Wind gusted past like breathy laughter. A sense of presence grew, something vast and powerful and feminine. Hartwell walked in front, and his figure seemed to shrink and change in the dancing torchlight. I heard him gasp, and then he screamed, his voice sliding into a higher register. He dropped his torch, shoved me against the wall with both hands, and ran shrieking back to the entrace. His silhouette against the dim light was drastically altered.
Well, there was no blood and he still had breath enough to yell. He wouldn’t let me come back in on my own, the Code don’t y’know. If we wanted the gold, I’d have to get it myself. I picked up his torch and went on.
I stepped into a dazzling cave, light leaking in through crystal veins. Flowers twined around rock columns, the petals shaking in sudden breezes gusting from the tunnel. A small waterfall tumbled into a pool of fresh water. Just being in there felt like I’d come home and taken off a heavy load. Offerings were scattered by the pool: bowls with the contents long gone to dust, tiny sculptures of hares in wood and stone and clay.
“Great Isot,” I said. “If you’re here, you know what I want and why I want it. Please let me take one thing.”
The gusts from the tunnel got up again, and blew out the torches. In the near-darkness, the crystal light winked from something. I put it in a pouch at my belt, and made my way by feel down the tunnel. I found Hartwell lying at the entrance, looking as he always had, breathing, unhurt, and in a dead faint.
I opened my belt pouch, and found that I’d got a stone hare, holding an ancient coin in its mouth. Worth plenty, and proof enough of where we’d been. I slipped it into Hartwell’s coat pocket. Then I arranged myself in a comfortable fainting pose a few feet into the tunnel and waited for Hartwell to wake up and get me.
On the way back Hartwell was whiter than a ghost moon and jumpier than a poked frog. Finally, he said “Dashed odd, what?”
“Some sort of opiate gas perhaps master? I was overwhelmed, but your superior constitution fought against it.”
“Hrumph.”
“It was well you had the presence of mind to snatch up that trinket on the way out.”
Silence. Curiosity tugged at my tongue. “I saw such strange visions before I fainted.”
Hartwell’s expression was desperate with the need to confess, be reassured. “It seemed to me for a short while, Mulog, that...” he swallowed, “I believed I was a woman.”
No wonder he was terrified. “How funny, master. How could your intelligence ever be housed in a woman’s brain?”
He stroked his moustache. It cheered him up enough to say, “Breakspear will have to eat his hat. It’ll be the high life for us.”
And so it will. But Hartwell’s household expenses will continue to be extravagant, as far as he knows. And some benighted idiot will carry on contributing to the Free School for Girls.
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