Encounters Magazine #1 by Black Matrix Publishing LLC

ENCOUNTERS M

CONTENTS

FALL 2009

SILVER SHEARS by Lori Strongin ............................................................................................. 3

King Artthur is poised to return to his former glory, but even his destiny is at the mercy of the Fates.

OUR SUBTERRANEAN COMPLEX by Raleigh Dugal ........................................................... 7

Jobs are tough to find in this economy, even for teachers, so when the government calls and offers a few months of work for good pay, say yes... but don't expect an apple from this student.

A GAME FOR DISTINGUISHED GENTLEMEN by Louise Morgan ................................ 14 Sit down, play a hand. I'm warning you now, the dealer plays for high stakes.

ANIMAL APPETITES by Erin O'Riordan ................................................................................ 18 Remember Red, her granny and the wolf? Yeah, but I bet you don't remember them quite like this.

THE CROSSLY DALE SOCIETY OF LADY SHAMANS by Deborah Walker ............... 24 When you commune with the spirits, you just might find an unlikely soul mate.

THE HELVELLYN RAM by JJ Beazley ................................................................................... 29

Some people think practical jokes are funny, until a ghost comes along and takes the whole thing seriously.

A HUNTER HUNTED by Alva J. Roberts ................................................................................ 42 When opportunity shows up at the door, there are individuals who just refuse to answer the knock.

THE XY CONUNDRUM by James A. Stewart ........................................................................ 47

When you immerse yourself in an experiment that goes horribly wrong, the fix can be hard on the family.

STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN by Lou Antonelli & Edward Morris ......................................... 51 Sometimes it takes an encounter with the past to give you hope for the future.

THE KRAMERS by Blake Kimzey ............................................................................................. 61

This disturbing little tale shows us the actions of seemingly normal people can provide a chill in our bones just as deep as any supernatural event.

CHILDHOOD'S BITTER END by P. Matthew Kimmel ......................................................... 67 Three goose hunters, a little booze and, "Oh, crap. What did I just shoot." THE WINTROSE CHRONICLES by Pete Mesling ............................................................................... 72

There is one certainty in the struggle between good and evil - it will never end.

IN THE GARDEN OF TIME by Martin Turton .................................................................................... 92 What if 2012 is our last year? And what acts will some commit in an attempt to avoid the end? Front Cover by Chris Osman, illustrating a scene from "Our Subterranean Complex"

This publication copyright 2009 by Black Matrix Publishing LLC and individually copyrighted by artists and individuals who have contributed to this issue. All stories in this magazine are fiction. Names, characters and places are products of the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance of the characters to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Encounters Magazine is published quarterly by Black Matrix Publishing LLC, 1252 Redwood Ave. #52, Grants Pass, OR 97527. Our Web site: www.blackmatrixpub.com

Welcome to the first issue of ENCOUNTERS. We have worked hard over the previous months to develop a magazine with an eclectic mix of stories for readers who like their fiction varied, but with a touch of the fantastic. You will find it all in these pages â&#x20AC;&#x201C; a little science fiction, a little horror, a little fantasy, and some encounters with the paranormal. You won't find pages and pages of book reviews, movie previews, interviews and essays. We believe it's all about the fiction, so we have concentrated on packing as much as we can into every issue; over 70,000 words on average. The same philosophy applies to the other magazines we are currently developing. In the coming weeks look for the debut of OUTER REACHES, NIGHT CHILLS and REALMS. All will focus on a specific genre, but will share the physical format of ENCOUNTERS. If you are a writer or artist who would like to contribute to any of our publications, you can find all the details on our Web site at www.blackmatrixpub.com. Guy Kenyon Editor/Black Matrix Publishing LLC Kim Kenyon Publisher/Black Matrix Publishing LLC

Silver Shears

by Lori T. Strongin King Arthur is poised to return to his former glory, but even his destiny is at the mercy of the Fates. I. Clotho

King and Queen themselves.” “Fairies,” someone chortled from one of the rickety tables at the back of the bar. “Has O’Malley started on about them again? Honestly. It’s 1920, not 1620. Barmy Irishman…” As a din of voices broke out in argument, a cloaked figure sitting in an unnoticed corner wrapped a dark spyglass in even darker cloth, hid it beneath her black cowl, then escaped into the cool evening air. Face hidden, the woman followed the winding road to the hulking grey stone of the Wiltshire estate. She paused before the wrought-iron gates and traced her slender pale finger over the ornate “P” that hung proudly over the family’s crest of sword, stone, and dragon. “That a mortal wields such promise… even I find it fearsome.” She removed her hand from the gate and reached for the silken spindle in her pocket. A strong wind blew across the hill, freeing ebony hair from the cloak’s confines. White skin shone under the mid-April moonlight as the young woman looked to the lit windows of the manor house. She caressed the wooden spindle like a mother would soothe her child. A dark cloud covered the waxing moon. Clotho drew the thread and looked at the gossamer strand, then wound it around her fingers.

ver since the town of Wiltshire arose on the E banks of the River Avon, the villagers had been

wary of the old manor house’s occupants. None of the townsfolk dared venture near the great estate settled among the low rolling hills. The owners never left their property, and those known to gossip assumed that the fair-skinned, flaxen haired husband and wife were either reclusive or sickly. And those villagers more prone to fancy accused the couple of unholy acts, such as evaporating into thin air or starting the nearby brushfires with only their thoughts. Nearly every soul in the small village had, at one point, either boasted about spying on the wealthy, cloistered couple, or fervently spread the lore and magic of heresy with ale-loosened maws at the village pub. One such lush was the red nosed man perched precariously on the three-legged barstool inside the Green Knight Tavern. When his nose wasn’t brushing the rim of his stein, he would jabber loudly from his favourite stool nestled between the bar and the spittoon bucket. “I swear it’s true!” he slurred, elbows sliding on the wet counter. “Cries?” the tavern owner replied. “At this distance? You’ve been at the sauce too long, O’Malley.” “Not yet.” The podgy man scratched his ample gut and sat straighter in his seat. “A newborn babe they ‘ave. Delivered by the devil too, no doubt. You know there ain’t a hospital in these parts for miles.” The barkeeper snorted, and continued pouring ale to the crowd that had gathered. “Don’t speak like that, Bors O’Malley. You’ll invite trouble.” “The devil’s at work in that family, I tell you. That child is one of the Others. He floats, he does! On thin air in his enchanted pram! His parents’ strolling along right beside him like the May

II. Lachesis

he bustle of the London street was near unbearable, especially just before school resumed from summer holidays. The wafts from the reeking vats at the taxidermist’s kept most passer-by away from the bench outside the dingy storefront. No one took notice of the plump woman sitting there, knitting needles keeping time to the cacophony around her. In the street, a youth scampered ahead of his parents. Both he and his father raised their noses as they walked, avoiding those showing off their

latest American-bought automobiles. The mother smiled politely at her son before the boy nodded and swept through the crowd, snarling at any who dared step in his way. He threw open the haberdashery door with all the grace his blood and rearing entitled him. The ten year old looked at the shop’s proprietor and the hired help, and nodded his need for assistance. He turned his head to the side, his aristocratic profile hinting at who he will one day become. “A lovely specimen, yes,” the woman with the knitting needles said to no one in particular. “As fine as they come. This child has the potential for greatness. Ambition, cunning, sharp wit. If all goes as planned, he shall find his counterpart in a few years. Together, the great alliance will live again.” Paying more attention to her charge than her knitting, the woman’s hands slipped and the needle caught a stray loop. Frantic, she stared at the tapestry of intricately connected knots and swirls. The threads were too tight. The child inside the store looked bored as the seamstresses pulled, tugged, and pinned his new school uniform. “Perhaps my error is not so great.” Hopeful, the Moirai pressed her nose close to the cloth. A bloom of blackness grew between the dense woven threads. She gasped, shaken at what she saw. Across the street, a lithe, brown-haired boy entered the clothing shop and stood next to the living incarnation of the Once and Future King. The woman lept from her bench. The scrawny, tousle-haired boy bore the mark of destiny. It was Him. Forbidden to intervene, the woman yearned to pull her charge to safety. “Too soon. It mustn’t happen yet.” Lachesis’ charge looked at the newcomer and extended his hand. “Arthur P. Raggon.” “Lance d’Lakeson.” “That’s an odd name. Where is your family from? France?” They talked more, Arthur flaunting his wealth and status as he always had, fingering the family crest he wore at his throat. “My family has lived in these parts since before the Saxons raided. We’re of royal Roman descent, you know.” The smaller boy frowned.

If the voyeuristic woman were capable of breathing, she’d be holding her breath. Lance smiled and excused himself, his politeness clipped; tension and unease in every movement. The bell on the door rang upon the boy’s exit, a death knoll if she had ever heard one. “Lachesis, what have you done?” Clotho hissed from her right. When she’d arrived, the spinster hadn’t the faintest idea. Hands trembling, the Apportioner lifted the fabric, closing her eyes against the soiled black stain that blossomed where the weaving slipped. The Heir curtly nodded to the haberdasher and left the shop to find his parents. He passed through the incorporeal bodies of his watchers, pausing to shake off the sudden chill, and then walked out of sight. Lachesis caught the first waft of noxious stench rise from the blackened patch of rotting fabric. The moment had passed. A hairsbreadth of chance, ruined. Its stink weighed heavy on the laboured air of the busy town. Or perhaps, it was merely the fetid perfume of her crime.

III. Atropos

he ground was rent with viscous splatters and congealing pools of human remains. It turned the earth to muck so slick that the old crone wondered, not for the first time, why the Gods didn’t do away with the taint of Gaia’s womb when they’d had the chance. The metallic snips of Clotho’s shears echoed across the battlefield. Her sisters dallied behind her—Lachesis stumbling as the mortally wounded groped at her skirts, and silent Atropos accepting the hatred of the fading soldiers as they silently accused her. In this space in between the here and the beyond, the dying recognized the three Fates. They could see the harbingers at last. In the field of fallen men—the power hungry, the cowardly, and the valiant— the Fates’ cousin Eris danced gaily around the remaining combatants, waving discarded arm bands in the smoke-filled air. She urged them onwards; bayonets singing counter-

She waited. Lance blinked and leaned on one badly burned hand, wiping the sweat and dirt from his forehead with the other. “It’s over,” he said, before slumping in the mud beside Arthur, both young men facing the sky. “That Nazi bastard is dead. I saw it. He’s dead, and it’s over. It’s finally over.” “What?” Arthur’s voice cracked as the hold on his weapon slipped. “You’re free.” Arthur stared at nothing, gasping for air. “It’s over.” The barest hint of a smile bloomed amid the bruises on Lance’s face. Arthur closed his eyes, obviously too weary from the battle to care that he lay in the muck beside his schoolyard enemy. “Lance, I…” Blind panic choked him. He struggled to stand. “They’ll kill me. Or they’ll put me in prison. I can’t go to prison!” Lance’s eyes snapped open. “Arthur, wait.” “You don’t know the things I’ve done for them! The things they made me do…” Arthur screamed and slipped back into the mud. “They’ll kill me!” Lance grabbed Arthur’s shoulders. “Stop fighting and listen to me.” “Let me go!” He pounded his fists against the other man. “Arthur, stop it.” Lance shook him. “I can help you if you’ll let me.” Atropos shivered. Now it was Lancelot’s turn to echo words of the past. Their meaning had been lost then, too. Arthur’s eyes widened, darting back and forth over the carnage surrounding them. Perhaps he finally realized that the torn and bloated things were former friends and countrymen, some slain by his own hand; all dead. Lance smacked him, drawing the crownless king’s attention back to him. He looked so young, so lost, even with blood covering half his face. Clotho again cursed Lachesis for her mistake. “I’ll get you asylum. Just calm down. I’ll help you.” She watched her charge stare into the blue eyes of the boy who would have been his best friend and greatest ally. Silence, then Arthur bowed his head.

point, sometimes ricocheting off the dead or catching other soldiers off guard. Eris was the only one of them able to make merry of the macabre feast. In the thickest swell of buzzing flies, Clotho finally spied the two she sought. Arthur’s blonde hair was so matted with earth and blood that none of his true color showed through. The young man teetered, left arm broken and sagging from its socket. His weapon remained aloft, the pistol swaying as he aimed it at the boy—the enemy—sprawled on the ground before him. Atropos drew nearer, extracting two identical threads from their spindles. Avalon’s Heir drew back the hammer, readying his revenge. “Get up. Let’s end this properly.” “Arthur, this is madness…” “You coward!” His split lip cracked open and blood flowed over his chin. Caked mud clung to sodden flesh and wiped away all traces of wealth, prestige and status. “Get up and face me with whatever dignity you have left.” Lance rose to his elbows. Fresh blood stained his town uniform. “It’s over Arthur.” “It’s not over until your guts decorate this godforsaken field!” “Arthur, please. Listen to me…” Lance tried to stand, but failed. “Shut up!” Arthur bent over the prone young man who, in another life, had been his greatest friend and ally…as well as his downfall. “It’s my turn to have the glory now, you worthless sack of shite. Gwen is mine.” Atropos scowled, remembering the last time those words were spoken between the two. How fitting that Arthur should recall them in the midst of a battle that, for once, was not about him. He attempted to deliver a kick to Lance’s face, but slipped on a puddle of mud and his own blood. The earth squelched and the Heir fell beside his childhood nemesis. He howled at the fresh spear of pain, but did not lower the revolver. “I challenge you to a duel!” He gasped for air. “Our very last.” The eldest of the Fates stood poised, mere inches from the pair, her scissors grasped in one hand. The fine threads were draped over her aged palm.

Lance nodded and stood, bringing Arthur with him. “I can walk for myself,” he muttered and pulled away with a wince. After a single step, Arthur’s injured knee buckled and he toppled forward, catching Lance around the neck to brace his fall. The sudden roar of a bullet sped across the battlefield. “Get off him, you Nazi bastard!” An angry young solider limped across the field, gun still smoking with a telltale stench as he fired two

more shots. At his heels, Eris, in her crimson robe, cackled and danced. Atropos turned. Splayed on the ground before the eldest Fate, staring with sightless eyes, lay Arthur Pendragon’s second chance, dead among the filth and mud; no better and no worse than any who surrounded him. It was then that Atropos realized that her silver shears had closed. One fine, gossamer thread hung in two severed pieces.

Our Subterranean Complex

by Raleigh Dugal Jobs are tough to find in this economy, even for teachers, so when the government calls and offers a few months of work for good pay, say yes... but don't expect an apple from this student.

writer. If I did go to bed, I slept with the phone under my ear to make sure I’d wake up when the secretary called. The local guys who I used to pal around with were all gone. I’d see their parents at the bank or Bonneville’s, buying milk. The only one who ever recognized me was Chris’s mom. She told me he was selling real estate in Indiana and getting married to a German girl. I saw her at the park, on a warm evening when I was riding around on my bicycle drinking Jack Daniels. Later, that exact same night, Anna called to break up with me. She was working in some lab on her co-op. She was probably the prettiest girl I’d ever dated. We met on the T about a year ago, on her way back to school before she transferred, in the midst of sixty other girls doing the exact same thing. There was nothing magic about the whole thing. I just picked the best looking one to talk to, way in the back by the sliding doors, watching the walls zip by through the window. The rest just happened. First she asked how it felt to be at home. Then she asked if I missed Boston. In my head, I told myself that Boston was fake like California, that everybody loves to say it’s where they come from, but they really belong to somewhere else. “I miss you,” I said. An awkward pause ballooned, a whole lot of nothing between us. There isn’t any way to break up with someone that’s not corny, so she said some corny things while I listened in the dark. I could hear the TV in my parent’s living room downstairs. “So I guess you won’t be able to score me drugs after you graduate,” I joked. She said she wouldn’t have anyway, in a genuinely sad voice. Later I tried to write another poem, but the F key kept sticking.

Certified English Teachers All Encouraged to Apply! 202-898-9998

skimmed over the ad the first time through the classifieds that morning. An out-of-state contact number didn’t excite me very much. I’d just graduated mid-year from BU with an English degree that nobody cared about. My savings ran out sometime around junior year, and now that school was done my parents wouldn’t foot any more bills. I had to move off of Mission Hill and back home to a Cape Cod cow-town that didn’t even have a supermarket. Back in Boston, my roommates were all en route to jobs at State Street and in Copley Square, swigging beer from keg cups and calling me at three a.m. to tell me to man up and get up there to do a shot. City living had led me to ditch my car, so I was stuck. Anna, my girlfriend, was still at Northeastern, but she was just a sophomore and had forever and six days before she finished. She was going to be a pharmacist. The purest thing that college teaches you is that there isn’t any rush to break into the real world. In the back of my mind I tried to collect ways to move back to Boston, but all I got were echoes. My parents moved their bedroom downstairs to give me some space, but I still had no money. I tried to apply to teach at my old middle school. The same three English teachers were still there, collecting dust and five-by-five essays about basketball and slumber parties. That left me with three options: pump gas at Texaco, work the register at Cumberland Farms or substitute teach. I got on the list to sub. The school only called on nice sunny days, whenever regular teachers didn’t want to work. I drank a lot to kill the time, even on school nights. I’d sit upstairs in my old bedroom, writing poems to Anna that I never would send, on a rusty type-

When I woke up the next morning I called

that ad from the paper. The secretary from the school had called me at five-thirty to work, but I croaked something meanly at her and slept until ten. The area code turned out to be Washington D.C. An automated voice answered politely and asked me to hold and not worry about beeps or clicks. Five minutes passed and I was about to hang up when a gruff voice answered the phone. He sounded vaguely like the guy who does all of the movie trailers, only maybe a pitch higher and raspier, like if that guy were about to die if he hasn’t already. He didn’t greet me at all, just asked what I knew how to teach. I told him English. “The language, or books and all that other crap?” “Books and crap.” “How long?” “Just substitute stuff,” I said. “Perfect.” I heard him rifling through papers and breathing heavy into the phone. Then he asked me basic stuff; name, age, marital status and whatever. “Send your resume to this address,” he said, then recited a place in Virginia. He made me repeat it back to him before he hung up the phone without saying goodbye.

I kept subbing during the day and riding my

bike around drunk at night. In the morning I’d sneak through the foyer full of plaques and flags and slip into my assigned room. After a quick nap I’d look at all the pictures on the desk, kids or dogs or whatever. Then I’d go through all the drawers and look for strange things. The best I ever found was a half-eaten can of cat food in my old math teacher’s desk. Two days into my stint I stopped eating in the faculty room. Full-time teachers completely ignored the subs. A few old teachers who vaguely remembered me might smirk and ask “Who are you today?”, as if who I was in real life didn’t matter at all. When that happened I countered them with the same question, and they’d only look at me puzzled and say their own name aloud. I think it surprised them to realize that they were actually themselves, but I don’t think anything very deep was going on.

The kids in the classes never remembered my name, even after they had me a few times. I didn’t talk much and I wasn’t that fun, I just read a book while they did work sheets. Every so often one would beckon me with the ubiquitous “mister,” and I’d raise my eyebrows and peer out from behind my book, but they never remembered the rest of it, and I continued slowly disappearing. Eventually I started experimenting with the lessons teachers left me. I had the students write letters to an alien race, or calculate the net weight gained by Americans if you added up all the hamburgers they consumed in a year. Nothing mattered. The kids just stared vacantly up at me or down at their desks, mouths agape, air littered with stale breath and apathy. I forgot all about the ad until the packet came in the mail. My mother, too excited to wait for me to get home, had carefully opened it, planning to reseal it later. My father was reading it aloud as I walked in the door. “This is just an offer for a temp job with the government,” he said critically. A short cover letter thanked me for my interest. All they wanted was a copy of my teaching license and my signature. Then my father’s eyes widened. “It’s only for four months, but it pays fifty thousand dollars.” My mother dropped the lasagna she had made for dinner. “Ask not what your country can do for you,” I said. I mailed the packet back to Virginia that night and called Anna seven times. She didn’t pick up until the last time, when it was very, very late. I hung up when I heard her heavy breath, not knowing if she’d been crying or having sex with someone else. An airline ticket came in the mail two days later. In an unexpected moment of optimism, I pictured long, pondering walks through grassy parks in the Capitol, reading books on the steps of the Lincoln memorial, gazing at whatever kind of stuff they kept in the Smithsonian museums.

one of that ever happened. An army private in his fancy dress greeted me at the airport with a laminated sign sporting my name. He told me he was going to show me around the city be-

fore we went over to the Pentagon. “The contract didn’t say anything about the Pentagon,” I said. “Nothing ever says anything about the Pentagon,” he grinned at me, then shoved it away like a tool he was uncomfortable using. He looked like any other army guy, a tiny shaved head capped with one of those hats shaped like an envelope. “This way, sir,” he said, and led me to a black car with tinted windows idling outside the gate. I caught my shoelace in the door and tried to open it again, but they didn’t open from the inside. “Safety precaution,” he smirked. We rode around with my foot caught in the door. He took me on a drive-thru tour of the city. Droves of tourists herded around the monuments, snapping pictures and passing the plaques without reading them. The private told me there was an elevator in the middle of the Washington Monument that had glass walls, but said we didn’t have time to go inside. Our last stop was the White House. I thought since I had a military escort and all I’d get some fancy tour inside, but I had to stand outside the big iron fence like everybody else. I wondered what would happen if I stuck my arm through and waved it around. “See the cameras in the bushes?” the private asked. They were a deep olive green set back in the bushes. “Don’t fuck with the government,” he grinned again. After he insisted to buy us some Cokes I passed out in the car and woke up in the Pentagon. Not that I can ever be really sure it was the Pentagon. I woke in a small, plain bedroom with no windows. I had a headache and my tongue felt like wet cardboard. My baggage was on the floor next to the bed. Something smelled out of place, tangy, but I couldn’t figure it out. “It’s all right,” a man said from the doorway, seeing how freaked out I was. I hadn’t heard him open it. He was balding and wore a lab coat over a tie-dye t-shirt. “Don’t let the underground heebiejeebies get to you.” “Underground?” “A hundred feet,” the man thumped the wall with his fist. “This is really a teaching gig?” “Shakespeare, particularly the tragedies,” the

man said, scratching the back of his head. “Macbeth and Hamlet, of course, and some of the lesser ones. Don’t’ worry, no histories,” he smirked, and I thought of how I’d been drugged the last time somebody made that face at me. “You can call me Oliver,” the man said curiously, then stuck his hand out. He didn’t say whether it was his first or last name. He stopped me when I opened my mouth to tell him my name. “Policy,” he said. “Think about what you’d like people to call you and come up with something on your own.” “You mean like a codename?” “Yes, but it sounds kind of silly when you put it like that,” Oliver said, annoyed. “We shouldn’t waste any time. Let’s bring you down to meet Magnus.” “Must not be his real name.” Oliver just walked through the door, waiting for me to follow.

e didn’t take me directly to see Magnus, who I’d soon find out was my only student. First he took me through the complex, a honeycomb of sterile white hallways full of identical doors that led to mundane places like the cafeteria and the library. On the northern end of the complex there was a movie theater, but they only played buddycop movies from the eighties like 48 Hours. I kept getting whiffs of that strange scent, almost like something decomposing, but cleaner than rot somehow. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but a couple of years ago a teacher committed suicide. We suspect it was brought on by seasonal affective depression,” he said seriously. Suddenly I realized I had no idea what time it was. I asked Oliver. He grimaced. “We don’t encourage that type of thinking here,” he said slowly, picking through his words. “If you really want to know, there’s a grandfather clock in the library that runs correctly. But trying to keep pace with a place you aren’t a part of will really screw up your system. Besides, I think you’ll enjoy your work schedule.” He opened his arms wide. “Teach when you’d like, sleep when you’re tired, eat when you’re hungry. It’s all up to you. Keeping real-time just adds unnecessary stress.”

We reached the first door that was locked or had any type of marking. In big block letters it read: Controlled Environment: No Cashews or Talk Radio I asked Oliver what the deal was. “I’m sorry, that’s classified,” he said uncomfortably, working a key in the door. “I’ll have to get you one of these.” The smell hit full force. The tang of seawater, green-blue and salty, mixed with chemicals. Like an aquarium. The room was pitch-black, and for a second a fear that the compound was underwater and leaking and the whole place would collapse flashed through me. Our footsteps echoed on the slick tile floor. The air was cold. “Meet Magnus,” Oliver said, and dim green lights went on overhead. The bulbs warmed and grew brighter until the walls lit the color of lemon-lime soda. A huge, cylindrical tank rose up in the middle of the room. “Go ahead,” Oliver gestured forward. The tank had to be at least seventy five feet high. At first I thought the whole tank was made of glass, but then I realized there were just panes inset in the metal siding. I squinted and put a hand up to the glass. Something long and fleshy squiggled out of the murk, like a snake, and slid along the curve of the tank. Slowly it squirmed and turned over. Large suckers pulsed along its edge. Speechless is kind of an understatement, but it works. “This is the apparatus you’ll be using,” Oliver babbled excitedly, handing me a headset microphone. “There are waterproofed speakers at the bottom of the tank that will play your voice through at high decibels.” Suddenly the tentacle vanished and Magnus was gone from view. “Don’t worry, even if you can’t see him, he can hear you,” Oliver said, winking. “Do you have any questions?” I said yes, and Oliver handed me a FAQ sheet about large mollusks, then started talking about the equipment again.

I didn’t have to sign any type of confidentiality papers. I think the government, if I really was working for the government, was so confident nobody would believe me that it saw no reason to enact hard-to-enforce policies. They were right. Nobody ever believed me. Sometimes, late at night when I think so much I feel like I don’t exist any more, I don’t even believe myself. When the whole thing was finished I left Washington without meeting any new friends or having any experiences I could share that were real because nobody could believe them. It was a little like time-traveling into the future, because at home things went on without me while I was stuck out in the void. When family or friends called the contact number the complex had given me they received cordial e-mailed replies signed with my name that complained about cell phone service and too much work to do. My parents called every day for the first month. Anna called twice, two weeks apart, late at night or early in the morning, depending on the way you want to look at it.

he first night, if you want to call it that, I was given a report on Magnus’s progress in literature. I don’t know what other subjects they might have been teaching him, but from the way the report was worded it sounded like he had a lot on his plate. Apparently he’d already read complete collections of Dickens and F. Scott Fitzgerald, and, what else, Moby-Dick. A frightening concluding paragraph barred any and all references to Mary Shelley’s novel Frankenstein. When I say Magnus “read” I use the term loosely. They pumped audio versions of the books through the speakers in his tank. He’d already been introduced to the plays I was teaching. The lesson plans were all pre-packaged and super specific. At the end of each session the instructions encouraged me to, "Elaborate on your own opinion for an indeterminate length of time approximately four minutes long. Interactive strategies are strongly recommended." I didn’t plan on putting on any wetsuits. I asked Oliver what the hell that meant and he said he didn’t know, I was the English teacher. In the end I never gave Magnus any hands-on tests or quizzes.

In fact I hardly saw Magnus at all. Usually I’d just see his tentacles, bunched and knotted up, stationary against the glass while I reviewed King Lear’s descent into madness or Othello suffocating Desdemona. As stupid and melodramatic as it sounds, while I was deconstructing Hamlet’s soliloquy he curled his huge, missile-shaped head against the pane until his eye, roughly the size of my head, glared out at me. Right then I thought of the Cyclops in the Odyssey and how I always felt bad when they stuck the burning log in his eye, even though he planned to eat the crew. I imagined Magnus would devour me in pieces before musing whether to be or not to be, one sinewy tentacle holding my stripped skull aloft. Oliver floated in and out the same way Magnus did. When I finally came across him drinking from a bubbler in the hallway, I dragged him away by the arm and asked feverishly what would happen if Magnus crawled out of the tank. Impossible, he said. “Tell that to yourself when you’re face-to-face with the eighty-foot, ten-armed squid who wrestles sperm whales in his spare time.” “He’s weightless underwater,” Oliver replied calmly, bending back down to finish his drink. “His muscles don’t work that way. It would be impossible for him to crawl anywhere.” He looked wistfully away, gazing into the cream colored wall like it was a scarlet horizon, no doubt envisioning Magnus silhouetted high above the ground, perched on the ends of his tentacles like toes, like the alien ships in War of the Worlds.

enough English to explain it to me. Ramon used to beg me in broken English for gin. He knew damn well no one could have booze. “Tell me what it's all about then,” I’d goad him, and he’d jump up and down and wave his arms his arms and chatter in Spanish. They all gossiped incessantly about everyone in foreign languages. Most of the other teachers picked names like Jim or Bob or Sue, Ramon said. For all I knew those were their real names. I decided to be a rebel and not choose anything, which turned out to be not so rebellious. Besides that first conversation with Oliver, the issue of what to call me never came up again, even with Ramon. He just called me gringo. The only two rules were not to talk about your outside life and no sleeping in anyone else’s room. I guess they figured sex was the number one problem that screwed up people cooped up together. Not that I ever saw any women. Armed guards patrolled the hallways, but never said anything to anybody. Sometimes, in the middle of a lesson when I was hungry, I’d just leave Magnus all alone. Later, a tiny little Vietnamese janitor told me they’d have up to five teachers lecturing to Magnus at once. Pathetically enough I felt kind of hurt, like Magnus had been cheating on me. I developed my own personal theory. The feds or the Army or whoever must have been studying brain capacity. The scientists figured if a squid could operate ten arms at once then they could manage learning tons of information simultaneously. Oliver would concede nothing, so I set out to find another teacher to test my theory on. The next time I ate in the cafeteria, cavernous and constantly empty, I waited for another teacher. After an hour of twirling mashed potatoes with my fork I hit the jackpot with a silver-haired, dapper looking guy in a starched-suit. “If cephalopods lived on dry land they would be able to form primitive civilizations,” Washburn told me between munches on a breakfast burger. “Their environment stifles their intellect.” Naturally I pegged him for a science teacher, maybe high school. Matching wits with guys like this was tough for me because they were always talking in quarks and moles or whatever while I criticized the narrative and syntax of the conversa-

op secret government operations are far less exciting than movies make them out to be. Instead of foreign spies, high-tech gadgetry and loose, sexy women, there’s really just a lot of waiting and paperwork. In my free time I had to sign piles of insurance and initiation forms. Ramon, my favorite janitor, told me once he’d seen a room that was seven stories high, stacked to the top with paperwork. Ramon told all kinds stories, like how some of the staff chose weird codenames like Xenon or Rooster. All the janitors were homeless people picked out of alley ways. They knew more about what was going on than I did but didn’t know

tion. At least we shared the squid. “Drag any octopus up out of the ocean and pit it against a dog, smarts-wise I mean, the octopus would come out on top,” he said. The yolk from the fried egg on his burger ran messily down his chin. “So are you teaching a squid biology?” I asked, but he didn’t give anything up. He didn’t see the irony. “The squid, it is biology. Magnus, he’s biology. We dissect things like him, and you’re teaching him the process,” I pressed. More yolk oozed steadily out of the burger. I thought of the chicken it might have been if he weren’t eating it, and how strange science really was. “Do you think they have me teaching Magnus tragedies so that he’ll develop a conscience?” I asked. “Don’t be a shit head,” Washburn scoffed. “If you’re going to turn a squid into a weapon, why the hell would you want it to have a conscience?” “Who said it’s going to be a weapon?” “Why else would you teach something like that how to think?” he retorted. “The government generally teaches its weapons not to think.” “Only if they’re human,” Washburn said solemnly, polishing off the burger and finally wiping his chin.

fter that conversation I started feeling selfconscious during my lectures. I delved into moral implications instead of thematic ones, like the number of levels on which Claudius’s treachery was wrong. We spent heavy time on Macbeth’s murder of Duncan. I glazed the bloody parts over with childish storybook language. As I lectured about the climax of Julius Caesar, when the Senate descends hatefully with Brutus at the helm, the sound of my own voice prattled until I hardly knew what I was saying. Suddenly I was jabbering to Magnus all about Anna, about the cloud-white color of her skin, about the sky-blue distance between people, about leaving the city and going back to the nest I was hatched in. I told him that I had been from Boston for so long that I stopped belonging in the place that I came from, but that now I didn’t belong in

Boston anymore either. “You were probably hatched in a sac or something though, huh?” I said. Far back in the tank I could just make out his shadow, wavering and huge. “Why don’t you come over here? What are you so afraid of?” The longer I squinted through the murk, the less sure I was I could see Magnus at all. “You don’t belong here. You’d fuck everybody up if you ever got out.” There was a ladder on the side of the tank. I didn’t know if anybody monitored me or not. It wasn’t blocked off. Slowly, I climbed to the top and stepped onto the catwalk that ringed the edge. “Sometimes important things don’t happen in important ways, and before you know it, you’re fucked,” I said down to him, through the rippled surface of the water. I sat down next to the edge of the tank, took my shoes off and dangled my feet into the pool. I could make out Magnus clearly now, though his shape was distorted by the water. “Don’t let that happen to you,” I whispered. While I waited for his tentacle to wrap sharply around my leg and drag me to my doom, I pictured his eye, white and bulbous, unblinking. I had wanted to ask Washburn if it were giant squids that ate sperm whales or the other way around. I wondered who Magnus had been rooting for in Moby-Dick, or if he had just cowered in the tank, curled in a tight clump of boneless muscle, wracked with nightmares of being eaten. “Dios Mio! Gringo, they shoot you if they see you there,” Ramon called from below. Slowly I put my shoes back on, socks soaked in brine.

hey drugged me before I left, too. I had no idea the two months were up. I never got to say goodbye to Magnus. One night I went to bed, the next I woke up in a terminal at the Dulles airport, my luggage already on the plane and a tax-free check for fifty-grand in my right pocket. The check was signed by a company called District Educational Services. I couldn’t find anything on them, even on the internet, but the check didn’t bounce. When my parents told me about the e-mails I

called Anna. She was pissed because she’d gotten those really curt replies to deep, emotional exclamations of love she’d left. She got the same exact email that everybody else got, but there was no telling her that. I didn’t waste breath explaining myself. Ironically enough, she’d started dating a military guy who lived in Maryland. I don’t remember what branch. Not the Army, something specific, the Air Force or the Navy. I hoped it was the Navy, and that when they let Magnus out the first thing the badass cephalopod son-of-a-bitch did was split the guy’s ship in two and suck his face right off. In a tinny phone voice, Anna told me she had just needed space for a while, but I had up and left with no explanations. I wondered if my voice sounded that way when I spoke to Magnus, like I was so far away. I always imagined my voice underwater as the thundering god-voice of Zeus. Anna hissed that everything was just different when I left Boston and she couldn’t adapt right away. She wanted to know what the fuck I’d been doing for two months and didn’t believe me that I hadn’t been seeing another girl. “Sorry, I was teaching Shakespeare to a giant squid in Washington D.C.” I tried. You should probably lead up to something like that. She hung up fast and never called again.

cony, only I’m standing fathoms above the depths, perched halfway between the desolate town that used to be my home and his inky abyss, both harrowing oblivions teeming with chaotic, mindless life. I’ll walk deeper into the sea, up to my waist, and the floor grows slimy and mysterious, and I feel even closer to Magnus, sometimes closer than when I actually taught him. Away from the ocean, all I see is his huge body pressed against the wall of the tank, arms balled up like a child’s fist, head stuck in the corner. I dip my head underwater and open my eyes, feel the sting of the saltwater. Down there he could be weightless. Down there he could fly.

Now the middle school is out for summer

and the weather’s warm. When I’m drunk I ride down to the beach. My old roommates stopped calling, so I think of it as my own drunk-dialing. I take off my shoes and stand in the water and let my toes seep into the wet sand, all ten of them, and I call out to Magnus. I know he’s alone in his tank underground, but I worry they might have unleashed him or he’s escaped and he’s desperate and alone at the bottom of some undersea crevice, exiled from the world he used to know because of his new intellect. Usually I try telepathically. I figure if Washburn was right, by now Magnus can read minds and all types of other scary things. If I’ve been drinking whiskey, I’ll sing his name out loud, with the booming voice I’d imagined I had on the speakers, ply to him like Juliet to Romeo from her bal-

A Game For Distinguished Gentlemen by Louise Morgan Sit down, play a hand. I'm warning you now, the dealer plays for high stakes.

There

was nothing extraordinary about the men who were gathering in the small front garden of number 32. There were four of them. They were all middle-aged, all neatly dressed in dark overcoats (buttoned), black shoes (laced, and polished to a high shine), well-pressed grey trousers and dark trilby hats. Each of them carried a black leather briefcase and had a rolled-up newspaper tucked under his arm. And although they were clearly all in the same place at the same time for the same purpose, they did not seem to know one another, and as a result they hovered about the edges of the garden like midges--keeping close to the fences and, above all, away from the front door of the house. Nor was there anything extraordinary about number 32. It was a small and undistinguished house with three windows overlooking the front garden and street--one on the ground floor, two above--and grubby net curtains. Its once-white paint was dingy with age and the front door was warped, peeling. A couple of sheets of newspaper fluttered jauntily in the middle of a sad-looking rosebush to the left of the door. It was not a particularly welcoming looking place. The four men in the garden gave the impression of trying their hardest to notice neither their surroundings nor their companions and instead kept their eyes firmly fixed on the brims of their hats. Fortunately for all of them, perhaps, they had not been waiting for long when there was a click, and a faint scraping sound from the hallway of the house and the door opened. An uncomfortable moment or two of "You first", "No, really, you" and the four filed inside. The interior of the house was, not surprisingly, just as unkempt as its exterior. Gloomy blue paper hung in funereal swags on the walls of the hallway, lit by a single bulb above. And if any of the men noticed the uncomfortable atmosphere or the smell of damp, they didn't seem to care. Instead, they walked straight into the front room of the

house and fell into a rough line along the wall. The room was empty of furniture, except for a round wooden table covered in green baize which stood in the very middle of the floor, and five chairs ranged around it. Directly across from the doorway was an incongruously large stone fireplace, its mantel as high as a man's shoulders. It did not belong in that room--or that house--and it hulked against the wall with its grate ablaze. And standing before it, his back to them, was a man. Like the visitors, he was smartly dressed: a black suit and neatly combed hair but when he turned to face them, his eyes were black from lid to lid. He blinked at them thoughtfully, then gestured to the chairs. "Gentlemen. Welcome. Please take your places. I will be your dealer for this game. You may call me Red." He looked from one to another of them as they sat down, shuffling their briefcases under the table alongside their seats, and raised an eyebrow. "I have little doubt that you have spent your time studiously avoiding one another. It's to be expected. I afford you no such dignity. Gentlemen, meet your opponents. Beginning to my left, allow me to introduce you to one another: Moth, Mr. Glass, Greenfingers and lastly--but not to be forgotten--Orfeo. For the first hand, Moth will act as the small blind, and Mr. Glass the big blind. You are, I presume, all aware of the rules?" There was a general grumble of assent and Red nodded, sliding into his seat and producing a deck of cards from within his suit jacket. Mr. Glass immediately coughed. "Them cards. They're not sealed. Oughtta be sealed for the game to be valid. Otherwise" "You're implying that I might be throwing the game?" The dealer's eyebrows raised, making his black eyes wider. Mr. Glass shrugged. He was a big man, and when he shrugged there was a sense that the whole room shrugged with him; it had no choice in the matter.

"Well. 's a possibility, innit? And I didn't come all this way for some bent game. I came for fair stakes. Fair." "In that case, I'm afraid you will simply have to have a little faith. I do not used sealed cards. You may examine them before we begin, if you wish?" He held the cards, neatly stacked in his palm, out to Mr. Glass who reached over and snatched them up. The other men watched curiously as he thumbed through them, turning them this way and that, running his fingers around their edges. The dealer examined his fingernails. After a few moments, Mr. Glass let out a strange sound: part squeak, part gasp. He turned pale and shuffled the cards back into an untidy pile before passing them (somewhat hurriedly) back to the dealer, who took them with a sly smile. "And the cards were in order, yes?" "Cards. Order? Oh, yes. Absolutely in order. Yes, yes." Mr. Glass was suddenly deeply interested in the contents of his own coat pocket and did not look up. The dealer nodded and began shuffling the deck with fingers which were--just for a moment--a little too long. With practised ease he flicked the cards across the table to each of the players and then turned to look pointedly at the unfortunate Mr. Glass and his neighbour, Moth. Moth was a narrow little man, as meagre as Mr. Glass was abundant. He had a sharp chin and a pointed nose, and small eyes which flitted back and forth between the other men in the room. His hair was mousy-brown, lank, thinning. Greying stubble was scattered across his cheeks and his jaw. Obviously nervous, he repeatedly made a strangled coughing sound in the back of his throat and smoothed his right index finger across his lips. Suddenly aware of the dealer's gaze fixed upon him, he shuffled in his seat and with another quiet cough, reached down and opened his briefcase. Among the jumble of papers, sweet wrappers and scraps of fabric which made up the majority of its contents, there was a pouch: made of black velvet and knotted round by a dark red cord, it seemed to shy away from his hand and then to shiver as his fingers closed about it. Carefully, he placed it on the table in front of him. The other three players did the same, each drawing out his own small bag and cautiously untying the string binding it closed.

Moth's eyes darted anxiously about him. "Small blind, you say? Ahem. That would make it, what, three?" "Five, Moth. Five." The dealer's hands were folded in front of him on the tabletop. He smiled broadly as he answered Moth's question. It was not a pleasant smile. Moth shuddered quietly and nodded. He reached his slender fingers into the bag and pulled out what appeared to be a single marble. Allowing it to roll down into his palm, he weighed it in his hand for a moment before holding it up between his fingers and inspecting it in what light there was to be found in the room. At first glance, it did appear to be nothing neither more nor less than a marble; a largish one, certainly, but nothing any more out of the ordinary than that. But there was little that was ordinary about the little trinket that Moth held between his fingers--just as there was little that was ordinary about the men in the room, or the dealer, or the game which they were about to begin. For the surface of the marble rippled and shimmered and shone, even in the drear of that room and the patterns that flickered across it looked (just for a moment) like faces. "That's five. Ahem." Moth rolled the marble into the centre of the table where it spun lazily. The other players glanced up at the dealer who nodded. "Five. A good beginning. And you, Mr. Glass? What do you have for the pot?" "I gottit. I gottit. Just wait, will you?" Mr. Glass had opened his own bag and was fumbling around inside it. Muffled chattering sounds came from within as he finally pulled out two marbles of his own, just like the one already on the table. "Ten. Right there." Again, the dealer nodded. "And so we may begin." He leaned back in his chair slightly, blinking his black eyes. The next man at the table was the man he had called Greenfingers. And improbable a name as it might be, it was the only one he had. While Mr. Glass was a hulk of a man, and Moth little more than a shadow, Greenfingers was in all things somewhere between the two. Neither tall nor short, not fat nor thin, not pale nor ruddy everything about him was distinctly indistinct. Those who passed him in the street would most likely not even notice he was there; he was by nature an in-

conspicuous type, average in all aspects of his appearance. Average height, average weight, average colouring. Everything about him was unmemorable; something he had long known and used to his advantage. He could not, however, avoid the dark glare of the dealer and his skin crawled under the unaccustomed attention as he looked at the cards he had been dealt. Still, as Moth and Mr. Glass had done before him, he reached into his little bag. "Call. Ten." His voice, like the rest of him, did not stick in the memory. Orfeo was the last, and as out of place in the room as the fireplace. He had more delicate features than the others, scattered with freckles, and wavy dark hair which was swept back from his face. He picked up his cards, shuffled them backwards and forwards in his hand, frowning slightly before fanning them out face down on the table. He drummed his fingertips together lightly. "Call. I suppose." "You suppose? You suppose?" The dealer's voice was chilly as he leant forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the table. "Do I have to remind you, Orfeo, that it is a privilege to be afforded a place at this table--not a right?" "Not at all, Red," Orfeo shot him a wide smile. "I'm glad to be here. Grateful to be here." "Then I suggest that you show a little deference. You are playing against men who are masters of their craft. A little respect is in order." He paused, and the room seemed to get just a little hotter, just a little more claustrophobic. "Now, you were about to call, I believe? Show us what you have for the pot." "Absolutely." And with another glorious smile, Orfeo rolled two glittering marbles into the centre of the table. Unlike the others, which shone like milky white pearls, his were the palest of pinks. The dealer stared at them and then, in turn, at him. "Well, well. Your reputation is well-earned. I must say, I'm impressed. That's quite a contribution." "Ten's ten, though. Whatever fancy colour they might be. All equal and that..." Mr. Glass said, irritably. The dealer made a movement which might have been a roll of his eyes and Mr. Glass fell silent. Orfeo sniggered behind his hand. "Quality will always out, Mr. Glass" but he too fell silent as the dealer looked his way again.

The game progressed. Raises were made, hands bluffed. Gains and losses were made by each man in turn, and only the dealer kept his nightblack eyes on the ever-growing pot between the players. The more time that passed, in fact, and the more cards he dealt, the more intently he watched the shining balls with which his players bet. And the more the pot grew, the larger his eyes seemed to become and the deeper and darker they appeared. The men said nothing, other than to place their bets or occasionally to ask for another card. Orfeo won more hands than he lost, while the truculent Mr. Glass lost more than he won. Moth bluffed more than the others--much good that it did him-while (predictably) no-one could remember how Greenfingers fared from hand to hand. No-one but the dealer, who saw everything and forgot very little. Time passed, and the game continued well into the night. Moth was the first to empty his bag, and with a sigh, he stood. "Gentlemen. A good game, but one from which I must withdraw. Ahem." He sounded slightly nasal, whiney. He picked up his briefcase and his overcoat, folding it neatly over his arm, and balanced his hat upon his narrow head. He turned, with only a brief and longing glance back at the table, and was gone. More time, and Mr. Glass ran out of luck and collateral. Somewhat less graciously than Moth, he gathered his things and left the room. Only Greenfingers and Orfeo--whose betting bag had not seemed to shrink at all since the game began--remained. But the luck of the room was with Orfeo, and it was not long before Greenfingers folded his last hand, crossing his arms across his chest. "Well then. That's me done. I'm out." "Really?" The dealer's attention snapped away from Orfeo's hand as it reached across the table, and he stood up. Greenfingers nodded. "All out. I only wish I could play for longer, but you know how these things are." "Are you certain?" "What, that I'm out? Well, yes." He held up the little bag, now empty. The dealer shook his head. "I know you've bet everything you came with. I wasn't talking about that. I was talking about the bets you have palmed from the table, the ones you took when you thought no one was watch-

ing." And suddenly the dealer, who had been several feet away, was behind him and reaching around him. He brushed a speck of ash from Greenfingers' shoulder before continuing. "The ones in your jacket pocket. Here." He placed his hand flat on Greenfingers' chest. Something beneath his palm rattled and clattered. "You see?" He stepped back again and Greenfingers realised he had never noticed how large the dealer's eyes were, nor how tightly stretched the skin across his face appeared to be and as he thought that, he saw the dealer adjust the cuff of his shirt and extend a delicate finger in his direction. Red the dealer slowly reached out and placed his finger in the middle of Greenfingers' forehead. There was a faint hissing sound and a brief smell of burning, but the unfortunate gambler had no time to scream, no time to move. No time even to blink. Instead, he fell where he stood and, calmly, the dealer reached into the dead man's jacket and pulled out a handful of the glowing baubles. He raised them up to his mouth (which opened wider than any mouth rightly should do) and swallowed them greedily. Then he turned to Orfeo. Orfeo was standing beside the door, his briefcase in hand. "That was only to be expected, wasn't it?" he asked. The dealer shrugged non-committally. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. I have little time for cheats. They are of no use to me in the grand scheme of things. Whereas you you and your clever methods. You're quite another thing, aren't you?" He pointed to the briefcase. "I'll take that. And they had better all be in there." "They are. What happens if I refuse to give them to you?" "I don't think you're that foolish. Are you?" "No." Orfeo handed the briefcase over. The dealer smiled. "After all, they're rightfully mine, you know." He glanced down at the case, testing its weight. "These souls you steal: they buy you more time, but eventually you'll belong to me regardless--all of you will. In the end, even your time will run out; maybe not as soon as some of the others out there, not with what you're bringing to the table but run out it will. And then, well, let's just say that you and I will have plenty of time to

mull over the past." "That's as may be. Do I get to leave now or do I get the same as him?" He nodded towards Greenfingers' now-vacant body. "And what happens when I get outside? Will the same be waiting out there as was for Moth and Mr. Glass?" "You are clever, aren't you? I could certainly find a use for a man like you, you know. I can always make space for talent. Well, fair's fair. You have safe passage from here; nothing of mine will harm you. And I thank you for your winnings--let's look at them as a tithe, shall we? A down-payment? I'm feeling generous; perhaps we'll knock one little murder off the list. Not that it will make much of a difference. By the way, I'll be back here soon enough--I'll expect to see you with more of the same." "And if I say no?" "You won't." The dealer grinned a too-sharp grin with that too-wide mouth, and even Orfeo turned and fled.

On a street not far from where you sit now,

four distinguished gentlemen are making their way towards a house with a small front garden. On the surface, there is nothing extraordinary about the house, nor is there anything extraordinary about the gentlemen. They are all middle-aged, all neatly dressed in dark overcoats, black shoes, well-pressed grey trousers and dark trilby hats. Each of them carries a black leather briefcase and has a rolled-up newspaper tucked under his arm. They are there to gamble their way out of Hell with souls they have stolen--souls just like yours, ordinary and unsuspecting. And although they are in the same place at the same time for this same purpose, they do not seem to know one another.

Animal Appetites

by Erin O'Riordan Remember Red, her granny and the wolf? Yeah, but I bet you don't remember them quite like this.

One frigid winter day I lay in bed.

My head hurt, and my mouth was dry. Sure, I might have overindulged at the party the night before. But I was nervous. It’s not every day that I get invited to a classy party like that. Plus, as soon as my friends and I got there, they’d abandoned me. But then John, Andy, Roger and Nick were always like that, having their own agendas. I had to make my way alone around the room, talking to all those classy people– strangers– some boring and stuffy, some fascinating. So many new faces, so many conversations. Then there was her. I noticed her when I went to the bar to refresh my Manhattan. She stared at me. Her eyes were piercing. They were green, I think. If not green, then yellow. Lupine. She didn’t say a word, and when I turned to introduce myself to her, she’d disappeared into the crowd. Not that she was easy to lose. She was much taller than me, six feet at least, with a model’s long legs and thin build. She wore a silvery gray dress with black spots. It must have been an animal print, because I could not (indeed, still cannot) shake the impression that she was covered in a silvery gray fur. I never found out her name. It must have been something exotic, maybe African or Caribbean. In my mind, however, I referred to her as The Wolf. When I last saw The Wolf, she was on the porch, wrapped in someone’s arms. I couldn’t see whose, but I saw the sleeves of a white shirt like the one my friend John was wearing. Though he never would admit it later, I strongly suspect that John made out with The Wolf that night. Somehow I have the feeling that it wasn’t just John, either. The Wolf haunted all of my dreams. When I woke up, I craved water. I lay in bed, deciding between my need for sleep and my need for water. The need for a drink finally won out. I slipped on my robe and went down to the kitchen.

Mom accosted me as I headed for the refrigerator. She was sitting at the breakfast bar. A large picnic basket sat on the bar next to her. “Do me a favor, darling,” she said sweetly, in the way that she always does when she imposes. “I need you to pack a few things and take them down to your Granny. The holidays are coming, and I know she could use some cheer.” Granny could indeed use some cheer. She had been dead since the spring before, and no doubt living a dreary existence in the Underworld. There was no Chanukah down there, no Xmas. “I’ll bring her the traditional eight presents,” I said. My sense of obligation was strong, though I feared the trip to the Underworld. I had never been there before. An old legend said that no living person ever came back, but I knew that this was not true. The gate to the Underworld was guarded by a fearsome goddess by the name of Maman Brigitte. She was tough, but she had a weakness. My Granny taught it to me as she lay dying, as she prepared for the journey herself. I knew the secret recipe to fix. As I began to gather ingredients for the potion, all thoughts of the night before and The Wolf were banished from my mind. Even my hangover seemed to get a little better. Now I had a purpose. After I had fixed the bribe for Maman Brigitte, Mom and I began to cook Granny’s holiday treats. We made the potato pancakes, or latkes, that Granny always made up for Chanukah. We packaged them with lots of sour cream to spread on top, and wrapped them carefully for the journey. The outside of the package was pretty blue paper with silver Stars of David. Next we made the salmon patties that Granny always used to make on Xmas Eve. These we wrapped with silver snowflake paper. We also made the dish of noodles and sweet cabbage that Granny always gave us for good luck on New Year’s Day. Last of all, we made her some crab cakes. They didn’t have to do

with any particular holiday, but they had been one of her favorites. I packed the four food treats and Maman Brigitte’s bribe into the basket. Then I went upstairs to shower and dress warmly. It was a freezing cold, windy day. I put on my thickest sweatshirt, a red hooded one with the Dave Matthews Band “Fire Dancer” design on the front. I put on my thick socks and my black boots. With my furlined parka, my scarf and my mittens, I was ready to go. First I took the picnic basket and some money and walked through the neighborhood to the drug store. At the drug store I bought a bottle of egg nog, a bottle of rum, a carton of Granny’s brand of cigarettes and a box of fancy chocolate sea shells. With all eight of my holiday gifts for Granny, I turned back the way I came. The forest trail I had to take began near Mom’s house. It followed the river for about one mile before the woods opened to a field. Across the road from that field was a lagoon. If I walked around the lagoon, when I got to the far western side I would reach the edge of an old cemetery. It was here that I would meet Brigitte.

I came to a concrete drainage channel. If I followed it up the hills to my left, I would have found an old storm drain, its grate rusted and broken. To my right it lead down a beach and into the river. I climbed about three feet to the bottom of the channel. Some kid, probably the same one who drew the protective eye, had painted “Free Blow Jobs” on the far wall of the channel. I climbed over the offending graffiti as I exited the channel and went on my way. A quarter mile into the woods, the ground became soft and the trail was harder to find. Here I paused. As I did, I heard a rustling in a snow-covered pile of decaying leaves. Something tiny and black shot across my path. I held perfectly still, and soon I saw a pair of yellow eyes gleaming from the same pile of leaves. Then a black snout emerged, a set of black whiskers quivering at the end of it. It looked like a large cat, sniffing hungrily. Then the animal erupted from its hiding place and ran like a shot after the little black thing. I saw then the predator was a fox. Her magnificent red and white puff of a tail streamed behind her. The fox darted around a tree, then froze. I watched her as she backed up and turned toward me. The little black thing, a field mouse, stuck out of her mouth, dangling by its tail. She held it proudly as she marched across my path again. She disappeared up the hill. I gripped my picnic basket tighter. The going over the soft ground was a bit rough. Here and there I had to free a boot from the muck. But I soldiered on, and soon the trees were spaced farther apart and the ground became firmer. I felt relieved until I felt the fierceness of

Granny could indeed use some cheer. She had been dead since the spring before, and no doubt living a dreary existence in the Underworld.

As I entered the woods with my picnic bas-

ket, I thought about how I had trod this trail before. Off to my left, half concealed by the trees, was a tall rock. At least I’d always thought of it as a rock. Actually, it was a discarded piece of concrete. Someone had spray-painted an eye on the face of it. I fancied that the eye was watching me, guiding and protecting me, along the forest trail.

the wind unhindered by the trees. I was near the field. Knowing that this was where I needed to cross the road, I climbed the hill. As I climbed the hill, I shuddered. Except for my face, I was fairly insulated from the cold. The wind wasn’t the problem. Childish as it may have been, I worried that I was no longer under the protection of the watchful eye of the woods. But this thought quickly flew from me when I reached the road. The view across the road from me was serene and pretty in the clouded light. The lagoon was partly frozen over. The ice was covered with an undisturbed blanket of snow. In the middle of the lagoon, the wind churned the green water. The northern bank of the lagoon was covered with dense forest, but its southern bank was a snowy field, broken up only by an outcropping of black rocks. Those rocks made a nice resting place. The field would be easy enough for me to cross, but the rocks were far away. And even when I reached them, I would still have to follow the lagoon to its far western bank. It was so far I could not even see it. Every journey begins with the first step, I told myself. I listened for traffic, but I knew that no vehicle had come down the road all day. The snow was still so fresh I could barely make out where the road began and ended. I crossed, and began to make my way around the lagoon toward the outcropping. Impulsively I glanced back toward the woods. Just as I had at the bar the night before, I felt eyes on me. They may have been the eyes of my little red fox, though I did not see her. They felt strangely . . . canine.

n a good hour I’d reached the black rocks. Here I was somewhat sheltered. I set the picnic basket down and stretched out on a flat rock. It was chilly, but I was exhausted and covered in sweat from trudging so far in heavy winter gear. I was nervous, but excited. The last time I had seen Granny was inside the old Polish church. She hadn’t attended the church since ages ago, when she was young and healthy. Though she was only marginally Catholic, her sisters and brother had provided for a mass to be said in her honor.

Granny’s coffin was draped in some kind of liturgical covering, a white linen thing with angels embroidered on it in silver thread. It was beautiful. She was beautiful. I wondered what she would look like when I saw her in the Underworld. Would she look like a Granny, or would she be young? Maybe she and I would look alike. I thought of these things as I took my rest at the outcropping. Now I’m going to tell you what happened while I rested. I wasn’t there, of course, so I cannot be sure that I have all of my details straight. I had to piece it together from what I gathered afterward. You see, The Wolf (as I called her) had woken up late that morning, as I had. Probably underneath Nick or Roger, or whichever of my “loyal” friends was lucky enough to take her home the night before. (I’ve asked them, but they won’t tell.) She picked up her animal print dress off the floor, wrapped herself in her warm, full-length real fur coat and scurried home to wherever a Wolf’s home is. I imagine it’s some kind of a den, a cozy little den in the forest. She scurried back to her den and started sleeping off the nasty hangover of all those woo woos she downed at the party. She was slumbering soundly until that pretty little nose caught an unfamiliar scent. Some unfamiliar scents, I should say. Like chocolate sea shells, latkes with sour cream, crab cakes, noodles with cabbage, and rum. Her beautiful model’s body emerged from the den, sniffing at the air, and The Wolf was on my trail. She saw me cross the road and head for the lagoon. She followed me to the outcropping. As I lay on the rock, imagining what Granny would say and do when she saw me, I noticed a shadow falling across me. I looked up. There stood The Wolf. “Where are you going?” she asked. Her voice was indeed exotic. Her accent was slightly British, though she might have been born among any of the world’s gorgeous brown-skinned peoples. She might be from India, or the Masai people, or Haiti. Her features, and those yellow-green eyes, would not give the secret away. “I’m going to visit my Granny and take her this picnic basket,” I said, absolutely candid. Later

I would lambast myself for not being more guarded. “Where does your grandmother live?” I never questioned why she wanted to know. I just told her. “She died last spring. She lives in the Underworld.” The Wolf looked past me, to the west. I realized later that she was looking toward the cemetery, and already formulating her plan. But I did not know it at the time. I merely saddened a bit when The Wolf ran off hastily. She ran back toward the woods. I sat on my rock and sighed for a moment. Then I became aware of another human presence. I looked behind me, and saw a child coming across the field, carefully bearing a giant mug of some steaming liquid. Her footprints lead all the way to the row of houses at the far edge of the field. These poor people, who lived up the hills from Mom’s house, lived a simple life at the edge of the lagoon. I was touched that the little girl brought me this offering. When she reached me, I discovered that the mug was full of coffee and sweetened, flavored cream. This must indeed have been a rich and indulgent Xmas treat for her family. “Thank you,” I said, as I cupped my hands around the girl’s to receive the mug. She stood and watched as I gratefully drained the mug. The liquid had only slightly cooled as she journeyed. It was truly good to the last drop. As I handed the empty mug back to the little girl, I noticed that her little hands had no gloves, and that they were terribly chapped. I took off my own gloves and gave them to her. Though they were big, they fit her well enough. She smiled as she ran back toward her house. The sun was beginning to set. Refreshed, I picked up my picnic basket and followed the sun to the west. The field was giving way now to woods again. The woods would take me to the cemetery, and to my encounter with Maman Brigitte. I could not have known it then, but The Wolf was racing ahead of me. When she’d taken her leave of me, she’d run back to her den (I imagine) to prepare her bribe for the Goddess of the Underworld. She had to work quickly, to exit the woods, cross the road and reach the cemetery before I did. But I know she did all of this. I know

that she reached Brigitte before I did. The Wolf was already in the Underworld when I got there. But I’m getting a little ahead of my narrative.

hen I arrived at the cemetery, it was already dark. I had to walk on past the gravestones and the early 20th century mausoleums. I stopped at the lovely Studebaker mausoleum, with its stained glass window and, if you got up on your toes to peep inside, the statue of an angel larger than any living man. Even in the darkness the statue was eerily lit from behind. But I shouldn’t have been surprised. I knew there were strange nocturnal goings-on here. I walked past the elaborate 19th century mausoleums and found myself amongst the simple graves of the French traders who first settled this place. It was here that I ran into the velvet rope. On the other side of the velvet rope were the dead. Some of them were wispy spirits, little more than light. Others looked like zombies, with rotting flesh still clinging to their bones, and their clothes torn to rags. They wore all sorts of costumes, and I could tell that some of them had been dead since the Civil War era. Others looked as if they’d died last week. One young woman was quite pretty, except for the fact that one of her arms was missing and blood stilled dripped from where it had been torn off. I remembered seeing her face on the news the other night. She was a high school student, killed in a horrible crash by a friend who’d just learned to drive. When she turned around to talk to the girl behind her, I saw that most of the skin had been scraped off the other side of her body. And then, at the front of the line, I saw Maman Brigitte herself. She was as tall as The Wolf, and surely twice as beautiful. Like The Wolf’s, hers was a fearsome beauty. Her skin was as rich as dark chocolate, and her hair fell all around her head in long blonde dreadlocks. She was dressed in a gown of black velvet, decorated with human bones. She wore thigh-high black leather boots. With her burning black eyes she scanned the crowd. My heart froze as Brigitte’s gaze came to rest on me. “You,” she said. Her voice sounded French or Cajun. “You with the picnic basket. Come here.”

The dead began to complain loudly, but she silenced them with one wave of her hand. Trembling like Dorothy before the Wizard, I approached the Goddess with my basket in hand. She stopped me about two feet away from where she stood. She was standing atop a marble crypt. Beyond that was a gate. “You’re not dead,” she said, crouching down to examine me. Her breath smelled like alcohol. This was a good sign. “What are you doing here?” I reached into the picnic basket and pulled out the green bottle that I’d been saving for this occasion. I held it out to her. “I brought a gift for you, great Maman.” She uncorked the bottle and sniffed at the cork. She smiled. Granny had taught me well when she showed me the mixture of habanero peppers, jalapenos and rum that Brigitte is renowned to drink. Brigitte’s face softened. “You’ve done well, living one,” she said. “But no living mortal is allowed to cross into the Underworld without leaving a bit of herself behind.” She stretched out one thin black hand and touched the red hood of my sweatshirt. “This would look good on your old Maman. May I have it?” She smiled at me as sweet as molasses. But I kept my wits. “I’ll give you my red Dave Matthews Band ‘Firedancer’ sweatshirt, Maman, but you must promise me that if I go into the Underworld, I will see my Granny, and that I will return safely.” She placed her hand on her heart. Then she jumped off her crypt and approached the line of waiting souls behind the velvet rope. She reached out and grabbed the man in the front of the line by the balls. “I swear on this guy’s nuts,” she said, and I knew she was sincere. So I took off my parka, took the sweatshirt off and handed it over to her. The gate swung open wide. I saw fire, and for a moment I got very scared. But before I knew it, I was standing in front of my Granny’s house. It looked just like it did in the surface world. In face, it looked just as it had when I was a little girl. The enclosed front porch was decorated with the old-fashioned lights that used to get so hot when I touched them.

I tried the door and found it unlocked. “Granny?” I called into the house. I walked into the living room and noticed the Xmas tree. It was decorated with the silvery dime store ornaments I remembered from the 1950s and 1960s and smothered in tinsel. “I’m in the bedroom,” called my grandmother’s voice. I went around the corner, down the hallway and into Granny’s bedroom. There she was, covered from her neck to her feet with a sheet. Something wasn’t right, though. Granny never went to bed; she always fell asleep on the couch watching the Home Shopping channel. And there was something about her eyes that was so . . . yellow. “What’s up with your eyes, Granny?” I asked. “Is your glaucoma acting up again?” “Nothing’s wrong with my eyes,” she said. “It must be the lighting in here.” “Okay, no need to be defensive.” But something else was wrong. She seemed to be much taller than usual. In fact, underneath that sheet, her legs seemed to be as long as a model’s. “What long legs you have, Granny!” I remarked. With that, my “Granny” rose up out of bed, and I could see that it was none other than The Wolf in my Granny’s silk pajamas. “All the better to chase you with– so I can eat you!” she shouted. I threw down my picnic basket, for I was not one to run away from a fight. She leapt at me, but I dodged out of her way. She hit the floor. I tried to kick her, but she grabbed my leg. She pulled me down. Her claws scratched at the leg of my blue jeans. Now she tried to pin me to the ground, but I freed myself. I ran off toward the kitchen, but The Wolf was close behind. She caught me. Her sharp fingernails dug into my cheek, stinging my face with pain. I saw her lupine jaws open and come at me. Just as she was about to eat me, the back door swung open. In stepped the most handsome man I’d ever seen. He was about thirty, with light brown hair streaked with blonde. He had the most gorgeous blue eyes, broad shoulders, muscular arms, and toned legs. He wore a red flannel shirt. “Who are you?” cried The Wolf.

“I’m Johnathan,” he replied. “I’m the woodsman who chops firewood for the old houses in these parts. “ ”What are you doing here?” I asked, though it was tough to catch my breath. “I’m here to rescue you from this wolf,” he shrugged. “Thank God,” I said. “But can you rescue my Granny’s soul? I have the feeling that The Wolf already ate her.” I gathered that after I spoke with The Wolf at the outcropping, she ran ahead of me. She must have talked Maman Brigitte into letting her into the Underworld. Then she found my Granny’s house, gobbled up Granny’s soul, and put on her pajamas. Then The Wolf got into bed and waited to eat me. (What exactly a wolf does in bed while she’s waiting to eat a woman, I’d not like to speculate.) The Wolf tried to run away, but Johnathan caught her. When The Wolf refused to cough up Granny’s soul, he tried a different tactic. He took a flask out of his breast pocket. She sniffed eagerly at the flask. “What’s in there?” “A few shots of vodka, a few shots of peach schnapps, topped off with some cranberry juice,” said Johnathan enticingly. “Woo woo!” cried The Wolf as she grabbed the flask. She downed the entire thing in three seconds. But then she regretted it, and began to feel very sick. I looked away from her contorted face, and was very glad I did, because a moment later she puked up Granny. “I hope you’ll excuse me,” said Granny, “but I could really use a shower.” The Wolf regained her composure, turned to me and said, “That’s okay. I don’t need to you or your Granny anyway. I’m still quite full from eating your friend Andy last night. He went well with a dry white wine.” “You bitch!” I howled. Johnathan raised his woodcutter’s ax, and started to chase The Wolf. Her long legs quickly carried her away, though, and she got away unharmed. After Granny got cleaned up, we stayed and shared the contents of my picnic basket. Although Granny had been about seventy-six when she died, she appeared to be about forty as I saw her then in

the Underworld. She hugged me and said she was so glad to see me, that I should come back with another basket very soon, and that I should also remember to bring a steel leg trap with me just in case. We all laughed. Then Johnathan walked me to the gates of the Underworld. “I’d love to see you again,” I said. “Next time, don’t wait for a member of your family to have her soul eaten by a wild animal,” he said. Maman Brigitte let me out, and I began to long trek home to tell Mom about my adventures. I called Andy’s house next. No answer. I found out that The Wolf was telling the truth, though. She cut him into chunks and made Andy chowder out of him. I called my friend John’s house to see if The Wolf ate him, too. He wouldn’t tell me; John was never one to kiss and tell.

The Crossly Dale Society of Lady Shamans by Deborah Walker When you commune with the spirits, you just might find an unlikely soul mate.

Verna liked to use her free bus pass to visit other villages in the area; it gave her something to do. She’d caught the Red Arrow bus which meandered though the Derbyshire Dales. She got off the bus at Crossly Dale, a village she’d never visited before. She’d spent a pleasant afternoon browsing the small shops geared toward the walkers and tourists who invaded the village during the summer months. She tried on Peruvian style knitted hats, she admired the metal wrought art work, the hand blown glass and she marvelled at the prices people were prepared to pay for walking boots and high tech cagoules. At two o’clock she nipped into the newsagents to buy a bottle of water for her lunch and a packet of mints for the journey home. A hand written poster sellotaped to the side of the till caught her eye. The Crossly Dale Society of Lady Shamans Do you long for something more? Do you feel the spirits which permeate our world? We meet every Tuesday at 8 p.m. to explore the unseen. New members welcome (ladies only, please). Meet at Crossly Dale Church Hall

agent, “It’s good to have a hobby, that’s what I always say. That’s one pound forty-five pence, please.” “It might be a good way of meeting people,” said Verna, speaking her thoughts aloud. She gave the newsagent the correct money. “Yes, love,” said the woman. Their transaction was complete and Verna could see that the woman wanted to get back to her copy of Heat. Verna decided it was time for a late lunch. She made her way to the church cemetery. It was a bright, June afternoon, the echoes of the dead held no fear for Verna. In fact Verna liked the special, real or imagined, atmosphere of a graveyard. She liked to read the old names and seek out the oldest tombs. She liked to recreate the family stories. She browsed the stones until one tomb caught her eye: Ezra Mitchell For God and Country 1923 - 1943 Sarah Josephine Mitchell 1920 - 1998 Reunited at the Last.

The newsagent looked up from her magazine, “Can I help you, love?” Verna put the bottle of water on the counter. “A packet of mint imperials, please.” The woman reached behind her to take the mints from the rack. “Can you tell me anything about the Lady Shamans?” asked Verna. “Oh, very nice ladies, harmless enough. They meet in the church hall every Tuesday.” Verna raised her eyebrows at the woman -harmless old ladies, indeed. Her subtle indignation was wasted on the news-

Poor Sarah Josephine had lived for forty-five years as a widow. Verna said a silent prayer that she had been spared that. Michael had passed away eighteen months ago. Verna was seventy-two; she would not have to endure a four decade period of mourning. It was, Verna decided, a good cemetery. Somehow it had escaped the attention of vandals. Few graves were overgrown with bramble and there were some interesting stories to be imagined. “It comes to us all,” Verna would say, laughing when her daughter complained about her habit of visiting the county’s cemeteries.

Verna checked her watch. It was Sunday, so the last bus left Crossly Dale at five o’clock. The Red Arrow assumed a skeleton service on Sundays. As she walked to the bus stop, Verna considered the Lady Shamans: it would do her good to get out a little more. She should try to make some new friends. She consulted the bus-timetable. Buses ran until ten-thirty on a weekday. She smiled when she thought about what her daughter would say when she told her she was going to become a Lady Shaman.

would be the last thing she wanted to do. She’d keep on using her free bus pass. She’d keep on filling her days with these mini-adventures as she called them. The Lady Shamans were the latest adventure Verna had found to fill her time and to fill her mind.

hat does one wear to shaman meeting? Verna had looked at her reflection in the mirror. She’d decided on a floral dress from Marks. Marks and Spensers was always acceptable. “You’ll do,” she said aloud. She caught the seven o’clock bus. Verna felt a tiny thrill at being out so late. The light slanted through the dusty bus windows and seemed to give glamour to her adventure. At seven forty-five she was standing on the opposite side of the road to the Crossly Dale church hall. She had been there for a few minutes. She wanted to see what type of people were entering the meeting. She wondered about their choice of venue. She hoped it wasn’t bad taste to hold a shaman meeting in the church hall. Crossly Dale was a small village, but there must have been other less controversial venues. These thoughts played around her mind as she waited, nonchalant, for the Lady Shamans to arrive. She watched a number of women enter the hall. The newsagent was right, they appeared harmless enough, an assortment of ladies of a certain age that you might see anywhere. A tall, thin woman, with ramrod deportment, struggled into the hall carrying a large cardboard box. Verna glimpsed the fur of purple velvet. The woman saw Verna watching her and she nodded her head in acknowledgement. Verna raised her hand in reply. The church clock struck eight. The sonorous sounds reverberated in the quiet country air. Well, it was now or never. Verna took a deep breath; she straightened her blouse and walked across the road to the church hall.

ate rang at her usual time that evening. Since Michael had died Kate rang her every evening. Verna knew that her daughter worried about her. “I’m going to go to a shaman meeting,” said Verna. “A what?” “A meeting for shamans in Crossly Dale.” “Is that the same thing as a sabbat?” “No I don’t think so, shamans are different from witches. I’m pretty sure of that.” “Mum, are you alright?” “Of course, I’m alright. I just thought it would be fun to meet some new people.” “I see. And these new-agers are fun, are they?” Verna was surprised at the edge of disapproval in Kate’s voice. “They’re harmless enough. It all takes place in the church hall.” This seemed to reassure her daughter, “Oh well, it takes all sorts to fill the world, I suppose.” Kate paused. “You are alright, aren’t you, Mum? I think that I could see about relocation if . . .” “Don’t you dare. I’m fine. I’ve got hobbies. I’m meeting new people.” “Okay then, I’ll ring you tomorrow.” “Goodbye, darling.” Verna put the phone down and went to prepare her supper. It still felt strange cooking for one person. She had told Kate that she was fine. But the truth was more complicated than that glib reassurance. Verna was lonely, she missed her husband. But, how could she tell her daughter that? Verna didn’t want to spoil her daughter’s life -- that

nside the hall the walls were draped with purple velvet creating a plush environment. Half a dozen women sat on orange plastic chairs arranged in a half-circle. The thin woman, who had nodded

to Verna, was standing in the centre of the room and reciting some type of creed. The seated women gazed at her in rapt attention. “We will acknowledge the spirit world and those unseen who touch all our lives.” All eyes turned to Verna as she closed the door with an unanticipated clatter. Without pausing in her recitation, the thin woman beckoned Verna over to an empty chair. “We will communicate with the benign spirits. We will treat the sickness caused by evil spirits. We will enter our vision quests. We will scry the veil and find the answers with the bones. We will leave the shell and seek answers in the other world. We will care for our spirit guides, those who bring us the message.” She stopped and looked at Verna. “Welcome, welcome. A new member – how marvellous. I’m Mrs. Lowry. Welcome.” She seemed friendly enough, but her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. But Verna had always been a very poor judge of character, so she decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. “Hello, I’m Verna. I saw your sign at the newsagents.” “We’re always looking for new members. Welcome to the meeting. After tea and biscuits we’ll assess your suitability.” “Oh, okay,” said Verna. She hadn’t realised there was going to be an interview. The meeting progressed. It was led by Mrs. Lowry who questioned each member in turn. The women recited some stories about encounters with the spirit world that they had experienced during the past week. Mrs. Lowry asked each member to introduce themselves, which Verna thought was considerate. “Hello, I’m Mabel Angle. I had some experiences in the garden last Friday.” “Yes?” asked Mrs. Lowry in an encouraging tone. Mabel Angle appeared nervous, “Are there such a thing as earth spirits?” she asked, hesitantly. “Spirits pervade the world and they come in all guises, Earth spirits are particularly powerful,” said Mrs Lowry, who was beginning to get on Verna’s nerves. Mabel looked reassured, “Oh, good, because I

definitely sensed something when I was pruning the other day.” The woman sitting aside to Verna whispered, “Hello, I’m Edna. Where are you from?” “From Waxley,” said Verna. “Oh, right, I thought I hadn’t seen . . .” “Ladies, ladies. The only way to learn is to devote ourselves fully to the spirits.” “Sorry, Mrs. Lowry,” said Edna, immediately. Mrs. Lowry looked at Verna for a long moment, before Verna realised that she was waiting for an apology. “Sorry,” she murmured. Mrs. Lowry continued with her explorations of the group’s possible interactions with the spirit world.

Verna was pleased to see homemade biscuits

on offer at tea-time. So often at these occasions you got the meagre tea-time assortment. Verna tried, valiantly, to make conversation. It was awkward. “Lovely weather we’ve been having, lately.” “Isn’t it, just.” Silence “How long have you been in the group?” “Since it began, five years ago.” Silence. “How did you find the journey here?” “Good. It only took me about forty minutes to get here by bus.” Silence. The women seemed nice enough. It was just that it was always difficult to break into a group of people who all knew each other. Verna carefully avoided Mrs. Lowry. “Mrs. Lowry mentioned something about assessing my suitability . . .” Verna said to Mabel Angle. Mabel seemed grateful for the conversational gambit. “Oh, we’ve got a treat for you today. Because you’re new and haven’t got your spirit guide. We’re going to trance with you.” “Spirit guide?” “Yes, I’m afraid you can’t join the group unless you have one. But don’t worry, I’m sure that you’ll find him tonight.” Verna liked this group, it was interesting. When you’re retired it’s so easy to slip into the familiar routines, to become mired into the mundane.

But this group was, well, it was eccentric. She’d always longed to be eccentric; perhaps this could be her new thing. “Ladies, ladies. It’s time,” said Mrs. Lowry. The lady shamans hurried back to their seats. “This is a technique I picked up in Turkey,” Mrs. Lowry said. “It’s the first step of your journey, Verna. You should find your spirit guide within the vision. We all have guides.” “And if I don’t find it?” Verna had no idea what a spirit guide was. “Then, I’m afraid you won’t be able to join our group. You won’t have the necessary skills, you see.” Mrs. Lowry looked distressed at the thought of this failure. “Don’t worry,” whispered Mabel, who had sat next to her, “I’m sure you’ll find your guide. There was a little something in the biscuits to help you along.” “There was what?” said Verna, loudly. Mrs. Lowry glared are her. “Sorry,” said Verna. Mrs Lowry nodded to a woman wearing a rather fetching felt hat. You don’t see many hats nowadays, it's such a shame. The hatted woman went to the wall and switched off the lights. Mrs. Lowry lit an oil lamp. The room became lit by the flickering light shining through carved glass. Mrs. Lowry and the lady shamans began to hum. Here goes nothing, thought Verna. “Slip out of your mind. Transcend the reality. Wash along the sea of the unseen.” The sound of Mrs. Lowry’s voice was a distant call over the water of the chanting. The chanting is really quite hypnotic, thought Verna. “Let your mind drift.” Slowly Verna felt herself slipping though the layers of her mind, all the smallness and routine of her life which she swam along. She was floating elsewhere. The music was carrying her to another place where someone waited for her. Hope stirred in her mind. Would it be Michael? Would he be waiting for her, on the dark sand of the shore? Verna let her mind float a little further. It was easy, really. She just let the waves carry her, pushing her thoughts upward and outward, through the

tiny point of brightness in her mind. All these years she had carried this brightness within herself and she never knew. How strange. But she knew, now. There was a channel to step through, the stream of her consciousness that had been obscured by mere reality was open now and she flowed along it. There, on the river shore, someone was waiting. Verna could hear the sounds of the lady shamans around her. “Do you think she’s alright?” “It’s never been like this before.” “She’s gone off on one.” And the loud certain voice of Mrs. Lowry, “Everything’s fine. Continue, ladies. Continue.” Verna could hear their voices, but they were of no concern to her. Someone was waiting. She pulled herself from the enveloping water. She would return to it soon. Now she had bathed in its warmth, Verna knew that she would return. She stepped onto the riverbank, memories roamed in the reeds and shapes were coalescing at either side of her, but she stepped forward, certain of her footing. It was not Michael. That realisation bought pain. It was not even a man. It was a shape of beauty, of rightness, a star outlined, a weaving animal of flesh and power. She smiled to herself and held out her hands. Speaking aloud Verna said, “Come to me.” Her words ended the dream trance and Verna was back in the hall. The women crowded around her. “Did you find it?” “Do you have your guide?” “Yes, Yes.” Verna could feel him wrapped around her mind. “An eel. I found a beautiful eel.” “An eel?” Mrs. Lowry pushed herself to the front of the group. “Did you say you have an eel, Verna? Are you sure it’s not a cat?” “Yes,” said Verna. She could feel him resting in her mind, “It’s an eel, a beautiful luscious eel. I didn’t think this was going to work. I must thank you all.” Power was spinning in Verna’s mind. She was drunk with power and the rightness of all this. So

much to be explored along the shadow river, and now she had her totem to guide her. How marvellous life was -- how unexpected. Slowly Verna regained her awareness. She could see looks of surprise and confusion on the lady shamans. The face of Mrs. Lowry was filled with something else. “You totem animal is not an eel.” said Mrs. Lowry with assurance. “Yes, it is,” said Verna. “He is a beautiful eel. He was waiting for me. He has been waiting for so long.” “lt’s not quite . . .” said Mabel. . “Exactly,” said Mrs. Lowry. Verna looked at their faces. She couldn’t quite understand what was wrong. “What’s the problem?” She was starting to feel annoyed. The lady shamans were spoiling this experience. “An eel is not appropriate,” said Mrs. Lowry. “We are lady shamans.” “An eel is rather phallic,” whispered Mabel. “And this so called eel,” said Mrs. Lowry. Verna saw that she was playing to the crowd, “what are you going to call it?” “I thought I’d call it William – Willy for short,” Verna eyed Mrs. Lowry, defiantly. “We all have cats,” said the woman in the fine hat. “Well, I have a hare,” said Mabel “Yes, but it’s cat-like,” said Mrs. Lowry “And can you see these cats?” asked Verna. All she could see was the shape of her eel wrapped around her body. Although, perhaps there was an outlined shape nestled against the legs of Mabel. Some of them had the grace not to meet her eyes. “Of course, we can see them,” said Mrs. Lowry, “We are the Lady Shamans of Crossly Dale.” “So, you must be able to see my eel, Mrs. Lowry,” said Verna, facing up to the woman. “You know, my dear. I don’t think I can.” Mrs. Lowry narrowed her eyes. “Isn’t that right ladies? None of us can see an eel.” The lady shamans murmured their assent. Mabel gave Verna an apologetic look. Mrs. Lowry's face burned red with righteous indignation. “I’m afraid you’ve made a serious misjudgement, if you think that you can fool the

Crossly Dale Society of Lady Shamans. Why have you come here? Have you come to make fun of us? We are ladies of power – Willy indeed, how ridiculous.” “Let them be,” whispered the eel. His true name was Riskla. Verna walked with some dignity towards the door. Riskla, her other soul, wrapped his body up her arm and twisted around her neck. “That’s right. Be gone,” shouted Mrs. Lowry in a voice of thunder. Verna turned to face them all. She bent down to kiss Riskla on his head. “Pure theatrics,” said Mrs. Lowry. Riskla opened his mouth, revealing his small pointed teeth. His eyes fixed on Mrs. Lowry. With a snap of his jaws the velvet drapes pinned to the wall fell to the ground and left the church hall devoid of its decorations. With a smile Verna stepped outside and left the Crossly Dale Society of Lady Shamans to their shocked considerations.

The Helvellyn Ram

by JJ Beazley Some people think practical jokes are funny, until a ghost comes along and takes the whole thing seriously.

It might be said that chalk and cheese were

ingly perhaps, Gavin’s strong mind was particularly good at sending the targets but not so good at receiving them. Colin’s prowess lay in the opposite direction. They also shared a mutual love of nature, and exercised their interest by taking frequent fishing trips together, often spending more time admiring the location than watching their floats or laying ground bait. Their present position by the stream had nothing to do with fishing, however. They had travelled to The Lake District earlier that day with the rest of their class to do some field work in physical geography. They were due to spend four days studying the results of glaciation, the formation of waterfalls, the effects of erosion and the development of river valleys. They were looking forward to it. The chance to spend a little time among such breathtaking beauty would be worth suffering the curriculum’s meanminded attempt to throw a dull blanket of pragmatic rationalism over what they saw as the more essentially romantic qualities of the landscape. They were staying at a youth hostel in the Glenridding Valley and had just finished supper. It was a warm evening, but wet. A typical Lakeland drizzle was falling steadily through the still air, and the tops of the nearby fells were shrouded in mist. The other pupils were oblivious to the heady presence of the damp Cumbrian atmosphere and preferred to stay indoors, noisily ensconced in the games room playing table tennis and pool. They were typical inner-city kids who thought that sitting out in the rain was a pointless and stupid thing to do. Gavin, however, had a particular fondness for warm summer rain, especially in a spot where the sound of water tumbling over rocks made such a perfect counterpoint to the still and statuesque mountains rising in sublime silence all around. Like most natural leaders, he felt no need to be-

more alike than the two fifteen-year-old boys perched quietly on a rock and gazing down at the rushing torrent of Glenridding Beck. Colin Crawford was tall, skinny and awkward. His mop of red hair was cut short at the back and sides, and his nose had a pronounced upward tilt. The two facts made for an unfortunate combination that gave him a naturally comical appearance. He had been raised by a stern martinet of a father whose domineering ways had left him shy and insecure. As a result he had a natural tendency to hang onto the coat tails of those stronger and more confident than him, a trait the other boys tolerated since he was honest and likeable. He was not, however, one of the “in” crowd. Neither was he academically gifted, although he managed to achieve moderate grades at school through diligence and hard work. His prowess in the kind of activities that required a degree of natural aptitude – like sport, music and attracting the opposite sex – was all but non-existent. What made things even worse for him was that he knew all this and hated himself for it. His companion, Gavin Bowyer, had everything that Colin lacked: confidence, a keen mind, and a flair for dress and grooming that kept him effortlessly and unselfconsciously attuned to the latest fashion. He was academically gifted, captain of the school rugby team, a cricket all-rounder and a stalwart of the school orchestra. Whatever he turned his hand to he did supremely well. He was one of the leading lights of the “in” crowd and never had to bother trying to attract female attention since the girls usually hung around him. The two boys did, however, have a couple of things in common and were good friends. They were both keenly interested in the paranormal, and spent many an hour discussing its many facets and playing thought transference games. Not surpris-

long; it just happened automatically whenever he wanted it to. Colin, on the other hand, did need the approbation of the crowd. He would have stayed inside with his classmates had it not been for Gavin’s example. They sat in silence for a while, listening to the rushing water and drinking in the exhilarating freshness of the sweet mountain air. Gavin spoke first, expressing his enthusiasm for the following day’s hike to Helvellyn. The official reason for the trip was to look at Red Tarn, and see at first hand a typical example of an upland glaciated lake. He had been there several times before. He knew very well what Red Tarn looked like and how it had been formed. His interest was in the prospect of making the potentially hazardous crossing of Striding Edge and standing again on the windswept summit of England’s third highest peak. It was Colin’s first trip to The Lakes, but he was happy to trust his companion’s judgement. He, too, was looking forward to making the arduous climb, but he felt no sense of impatience. For the present he was entirely content with the peace and harmony of his spot on the rock. The irrepressible babbling of the beck and the supreme stillness of the misty fells were there to be savoured for as long as the opportunity lasted. As the dusk diminished to near darkness, they decided it was time to rejoin their companions inside. There was still an hour or so to go before lights out and they both relished the prospect of a hot drink and a quick game of pool before bed. At half past ten the lights in the dormitory were switched off and Gavin joined in with the predictable banter being exchanged among the group of boys on their first night away from home. He was most content, however, when the chattering ceased. Then he was able to sink into sleep to the muted sound of Glenridding Beck singing its endless song a short way beyond the dormitory window.

At ten o’clock the next morning the party of

thirty youngsters and four staff set off to walk the four and a half miles to the summit of Helvellyn. In order to make a full day of the excursion, they were taking the longer and more spectacular of the two available routes.

For two hours they climbed the circuitous footpath that wound around the fells skirting the northern edge of Ullswater. The final short climb brought them onto the plateau of Birkhouse Moor. Soon the razor-like top of Striding Edge lay before them and they made their way carefully along the narrow footpath just below the summit. Jokes were made about the plaque telling the story of the shepherd who had fallen to his death, and the faithful dog that had stayed with its master until it had died too. The crossing was uneventful and soon the party were taking their packed lunches in the shelter of the windbreak on Helvellyn summit. Gavin and Colin remained apart, preferring to eat their meals looking west over the broad expanse of Thirlmere and the far fells beyond. They braced themselves against the chilly, gale force westerly that whistled across the top of the world and made their eyes water. Colin felt uneasy for some reason, but he couldn’t work out why. The day was bright, the wind was cold but manageable, and the view was spectacular. And yet he felt uncomfortable. He shrugged it off and said nothing to his friend. When the lunch was over they made their way back to the main party for the obligatory lecture on the scouring actions of ice and the legacy of upland lakes that its recession had bequeathed to posterity. On the way, Gavin noticed something white lying half hidden behind a rock, and his natural curiosity led him to make a detour to investigate. Colin was walking a little way ahead and failed to notice his friend’s diversion. The object turned out to be the skull of a sheep, obviously washed and bleached by years of exposure to rain and sun. Gavin was intrigued. Why was there only a skull? If the animal had died there, surely there would be other bones lying in the vicinity. They might have been disturbed by the actions of scavengers, but he could see for some distance and there was no sign of any other remnant of the defunct sheep. Who, or what, removes the head of an animal and deposits it a long way from the rest of its body? And why? Whatever the reason, a childish practical joke was forming in his mind. He knew how superstitious Colin was and, despite the closeness of their friendship, he couldn’t

resist the opportunity. He picked up the skull, concealed it in his backpack and made his way over to the lecture. He joined the others in making notes for his journal, and then the whole party made their way off the mountain via the gentler and safer Swirral Edge. They took the shorter route back to the hostel, keeping close to Red Tarn Beck, and were back in time for late afternoon tea. Everyone made for the dormitories to deposit their backpacks and then rushed off to the dining area where they knew there was tea, toast and cake to be had. Gavin made a pretence of looking for something so that he would be the last to leave, and his little ploy was aided by the fact that Colin needed to go to the loo. Normally his friend would have waited for him, but this gave him the few seconds he needed to place the skull on Colin’s pillow without his absence being noticed. He pushed the lower portion under the sheet so that the eye sockets remained visible, and then joined the rest for tea. When they had finished eating they were called together for a briefing on the following day’s work, and were then given leave to count the rest of the day their own. They trooped lazily back to the dorms to decide the course of their evening activities. Some of the boys threw themselves sluggishly onto their beds, some rummaged through their backpacks, while others sauntered over to the window to admire the view. Colin stood and stared at the skull lying on his pillow. He was, as Gavin knew, easily affected by such things. He was clearly upset, but pulled himself together. “OK, who put that there?” he asked, looking around the room. “Who put what, where?” came a reply from one of the others. “That,” said Colin, pointing at the skull. They all gathered and looked at the object staring back at them from Colin’s pillow. “Bet his name was Yorrick,” quipped one of the boys. Hamlet was on the syllabus that year. Gavin walked over to it and feigned a more serious approach. “I’m not sure we should joke about this,” he

said in a deliberately low tone. “Rams’ skulls were held in great esteem in these parts until recently. I’ve been reading up on the local folklore. Apparently, they used to sacrifice rams so that they could use the skulls in magical ceremonies. When it was done, the skull was said to take on a life of its own and be capable of enslaving anyone who came into close proximity with it, forcing them to do the bidding of the magician who controlled it.” It was all rubbish, of course. Gavin knew no more about Cumbrian folklore than he did about rocket technology. But some of the boys, knowing of his interest in the occult and his predilection for reading, believed him. Colin did too, briefly. And then the penny dropped. He had witnessed Gavin’s penchant for practical jokes on many occasions. “You put it there, didn’t you?” he said. “Me? Would I do such a thing?” “Yes you would. Come on; it was you, wasn’t it?” Colin’s voice carried a pleading tone. He was obviously more disturbed than Gavin had anticipated. He could see that his friend was upset and needed reassurance. He felt slightly guilty and decided that the joke was over. “Yes, OK mate. It was me. Don’t worry, there’s no magic or curses or anything. It was just a joke.” One of the teachers happened to walk in at that moment and heard Gavin’s admission. He remonstrated with him angrily on the grounds that the skull posed a serious hygiene risk, and ordered him to take it outside and dispose of it. Gavin did as he was told, throwing the offending object down into the deep gully cut by the tumbling Glenridding Beck. He saw it bounce and roll over, coming to rest upside down close to the edge of the stream. He returned to the hostel and the incident was soon forgotten. He and Colin, having spent most of the day surrounded by the beauty of the Cumbrian landscape, were happy to spend the evening with their colleagues in the games room. At bedtime, however, Colin became uneasy again and turned his pillow over so that he wouldn’t have to rest his head where the skull had lain. Gavin repeated his earlier reassurance and Colin made light of it, saying that he was only concerned about “the hygiene issue.”

he following morning they all piled into two minibuses for a short trip to Aira Force and the neighbouring High Force. Rivers and waterfalls made up the agenda for the day, and the two popular tourist venues provided examples of different types of falls located conveniently close to each other. They parked the buses in the car park at the bottom end of Aira Beck and walked the mile up a well trodden path that wound its sinuous course through the old woodland fringing the stream. Colin was particularly taken with the spot. Its location deep in the woods, and the narrow torrent of water dropping sheer into the dark pool below, gave the place a magical air. He knew that the episode with the skull had been nothing more than a childish prank, but he could believe that there really was something supernatural here. Like everyone else he could see the romantic beauty in the landscape, but he could feel something more – something primeval that had long since disappeared from the towns and cities and the well manicured farming country of the lowland shires. There was something vital in the air that spoke of freshness, life and the essential harmony of the natural order. His reaction to it, however, was ambivalent. Whilst part of him felt the urge to be subsumed in it and leave behind the discomfort of a life spent on the chilly fringe of his worldly community, another part felt uneasy. Trying to belong might be a constant struggle, but at least he understood the world he wanted to be a part of. There were no mysteries, just grinding effort. He thought of Gavin’s story about the sheep’s skull. He knew that it had all been made up, and yet he felt that there might be a grain of reality behind it. There was something about this land of wild fell tops, dark woods, rushing becks and broad waters that might take possession of a person. He could be obstinate at times, but he knew that he was not strong willed. The Lake District was beginning to make him feel vulnerable. Nevertheless, he enjoyed the day. He was quite happy being part of the crowd learning about layered rock stratas, erosion patterns and the effects of water-borne chemicals. He lazed in the sunshine

at lunchtime, took photographs and laughed with the others when one of the party misjudged a stepping stone and fell into the water. Unusually, however, he was reluctant to join with Gavin in discussing a more instinctive and profound approach to the landscape. He felt the need to resist the legendary lure of The Lakes that had so captured the imaginations of painters, poets and composers for the past two hundred years. He felt it too strongly and preferred to limit his interest to the more prosaic pronouncements of the geography master. Gavin was surprised at the change in his friend, but decided that it was probably just a temporary mood. At four o’clock they returned to the hostel and followed the previous day’s routine of going straight to the dorms to deposit their bags. The boys filed through the door and made for their individual beds. Colin stopped short of his and stared at the pillow. The skull was back. This time it was sitting on top of the pillow, fully exposed. He turned to Gavin who was rummaging through his bag for a book he wanted to take to the dining room. “You brought it back, didn’t you? You didn’t throw it away,” he said accusingly. Gavin turned around in surprise. “Didn’t throw what away?” “That,” said Colin, pointing to the skull. “It’s an old joke now, you know. It’s not funny any more.” Gavin shook his head in honest bemusement. The other boys heard the conversation and gathered to look at it too. One of them spoke. “He’s right you know Gavin. A joke isn’t funny the second time round.” “Do you think I don’t know that?” said Gavin, feeling annoyed. “I can promise you, I didn’t put it there.” “So who did?” “I don’t know. One of you?” “Come on, you know we’ve been out all day. You’re the one who took it outside last night. Nobody saw you throw it away. It’s got to be you.” “No it wasn’t,” Gavin insisted. “I can promise you, I took that thing outside, threw it away and haven’t touched it since.” He could see that the others were reluctant to

believe him. Colin didn’t know what to believe. “OK,” he continued, “I’ll show you where I threw it.” He walked over to Colin’s bed, picked up the skull and turned towards the door. “Come on.” Some of them smiled, some of them shrugged – none of them thought the matter all that important. But there was nothing else going on so they all followed Gavin as he strode across the open patch of ground between the hostel and the beck. He went straight to the spot where he had disposed of the skull the previous evening and pointed down into the gully. “I threw it down there,” he said, “like this.” He lobbed the skull down into the chasm and watched it tumble and come to rest close to where it had landed before. “That’s where I threw it last night, and that’s where I left it.” The boys shrugged again and walked back indoors. Colin looked worried. He knew his friend well enough to be sure that he was telling the truth. “So who did put it back on my bed?” he asked, as he and Gavin stood looking at the recumbent skull. “I dunno mate,” said his friend. “But don’t worry about it. It had to be somebody, didn’t it? The heads of dead sheep don’t fly about on their own and land on people’s beds. Don’t let it get to you. It’s just some idiot carrying on the joke.” Colin wasn’t convinced and spent the evening feeling fretful. He fully believed that Gavin hadn’t put the skull back on his bed. He knew that his classmates had all been away from the building on the trip, so there had been no opportunity for any of them to do it. And he was certain that neither the teachers nor the youth hostel staff would have done such a thing. So who had? Most people would have shrugged the whole thing off and treated it as a mystery of little consequence. But not Colin. He was naturally superstitious, highly nervous and deeply insecure. The matter of the skull was troubling him greatly. The trip to The Lakes was becoming a bit of a nightmare for him, and Gavin could see how worried he looked. “Forget it,” he said. “Nothing’s going to happen. I wish I’d never picked the damn thing up in

the first place.” Colin was still not convinced. Neither, if truth be known, was Gavin. He had been a student of the occult since boyhood, and had no doubt that the apparently impossible does sometimes happen. Like Colin, he had given much thought to the reappearance of the skull and he, too, found it inexplicable. He told himself to suppress his nagging suspicion that some mysterious force might be at work. He couldn’t see how it could pose any threat, so there was no point in worrying about it There was no banter when the boys retired that night. The early thrill of being away from home had worn off and the combination of mountain air and exercise had left them tired. They were all in bed before the ten thirty curfew and were all asleep within minutes of the lights being turned off. All, that is, except Colin and Gavin. Colin was nervously watching the open window, half expecting the skull to come floating through it and make a bee line for his face. The thought horrified him and the tingling sense of fear kept sleep at bay. He had wanted to shut the window but the others had protested unanimously. It was too warm, they’d said, and he hadn’t liked to explain his reasons for fear of being ridiculed. Gavin knew what was troubling him, and the knowledge that he was the cause of it was keeping him awake too. He hadn’t bothered to support Colin’s wish since he knew they were outnumbered, but he felt guilty. It was a clear night and the waxing moon was nearly full. There was enough light coming into the room for him to see Colin lying rigidly in bed and staring wide-eyed at the open window. He wanted to go over and reassure him again, but he was concerned that he would disturb the others and he knew that Colin was too convinced of some potential peril to take much notice. He lay there for fifteen minutes before deciding that it would be a kindness to let his friend know that he was still awake. At least he might feel better for knowing that he would have an ally should he need one. He whispered across to him but got no reply. He was about to get up when he saw Colin do the same. He watched the lanky figure walk around the foot of the next bed, approach the window slowly

and stand, with his arms hanging loosely at his side, staring out of it. Gavin was reluctant to have a conversation with him close to where others were sleeping, so he rested his chin in his hands and waited to see what Colin would do next. After a few minutes his friend returned to his bed in the corner and sat on it. Gavin saw his opportunity and rose to go over to him. He was surprised, however, to see that Colin didn’t sit still. He started to pull his socks on. Then he stood up and proceeded to get dressed. “What the hell are you doing?” whispered Gavin as loudly as he dared. “There’s no point going out there. What d’you think you’re going to find?” Colin said nothing. He didn’t even seem to notice Gavin’s presence. He appeared to be in a trance, and continued to dress. Gavin shook him by the shoulder, but that produced no response either. He decided to go and shut the window whether the others liked it or not. They were all asleep anyway. He went over to the open casement and felt the cooling breeze as he approached it. He reached out to grab the latch, and stopped. The dormitory was situated at ground level and Gavin stood aghast at what he saw. Standing on the grass outside, a few feet from the wall, was a magnificent Swaledale ram. Its creamy fleece seemed to glow eerily in the bright moonlight, and the black face and curved horns gave its face the appearance of something otherworldly. It stood motionless and stared at Gavin. The astonished boy stared back, wondering what to make of it and feeling more than a little unsettled at the entrance of this strange new player into the night’s drama. He was jostled aside as Colin, now fully dressed, pushed past him and started to climb out of the window. Gavin grabbed his arm and asked him again what he was doing. Colin continued to ignore him and pulled his sleeve from Gavin’s grasp, nimbly completing the short drop to the ground outside. The ram moved slowly off in the direction of Red Tarn Beck and Colin dutifully followed. Gavin wasted no time in pulling on a pair of jeans and a sweater. He laced his boots quickly and climbed out of the window. By the time he got outside, Colin was a hundred yards away with the ram a few paces in front.

As hard as it was to believe, there seemed to be little doubt that the animal was leading and Colin was following. Gavin broke into a trot in order to catch them up. He tried to talk to his friend again but the response was the same. Nothing. Colin appeared to be either sleepwalking or mesmerised. Gavin decided that there was little he could do except go along with whatever was happening and see where it led. And then he noticed that Colin was carrying something close to his chest. It was a sheep’s skull, and probably the one that had been causing all the trouble. Gavin could see no way in which Colin could have retrieved it from the gully in the short time available, but it would have been an almighty coincidence if he had managed to find another. He presumed that its second reappearance was in some way central to the mysterious little drama that was being enacted and considered snatching it from Colin’s grasp. Perhaps that would bring him to his senses. But he was reluctant to do it. He was concerned that it might provoke a violent reaction or subject his friend to a sudden and damaging shock. He had heard that it was dangerous to wake sleepwalkers too suddenly. If Colin was so intent on carrying the skull somewhere, perhaps he should indulge him for a while and see what he was going to do with it. As they walked up the track, Gavin continued his attempt to make contact – asking questions, making provocative statements and nudging him gently on the arm. Nothing had any effect. Colin continued to play the somnambulist while the ghostly figure of the ram walked steadily on before them. They reached the small footbridge that crossed the beck and headed up the valley towards Red Tarn. Gavin decided to take a closer look at the ram and broke into a trot. That was unsuccessful too. The animal simply quickened its pace and maintained the distance between them. He soon realised that Colin had followed suit and gave up the attempt. His only option was to keep up, keep quiet and see this little sojourn through to whatever conclusion lay at the end of it. He felt stirrings of unease, however, as he

began to see himself in the role of silent guardian. He wondered whether some danger might lie ahead for his friend and was nervous at the prospect of possibly having to effect some sort of a rescue. He wished even more earnestly that he had never picked up the skull in the first place They made a good pace as they continued up the gentle incline alongside Red Tarn. Soon the high plateau of Birkhouse Moor to their left was echoed by the stubby top of Catstye Cam to their right. Beyond each lay the twin ridges of Striding Edge and Swirrall Edge. In front, rising majestically above the dark waters of the tarn, stood the eastern face of Helvellyn. Gavin thought of the shepherd and his dog who had perished there, and remembered reading somewhere that their ghosts were supposed to haunt the spot. It struck him that their appearance would be entirely in keeping with the strange circumstances in which he was now playing a reluctant part. They were getting deeper into the cove and he felt an uneasy sense that they were walking into a trap of giant proportions. The high fells seemed to press in on either side, and the unyielding flank of the mountain looked like the end of some terrible road. He wondered what would happen when they reached the water’s edge. They didn’t get that far. The ram veered to the right to follow the footpath that climbed at a shallow angle up towards Swirral Edge. He felt relieved, but only briefly. The top of Helvellyn might be a bracing and wonderful place in daylight, but he realised that it could be hazardous in the dark. He looked at Colin again. He was staring dead ahead and walking steadfastly on. No doubt his eyes would have a glazed look, if only there was enough light to see them properly. He looked forward to the ram, still keeping the same distance ahead of its human entourage, and knew that there was nothing he could do. They appeared to be heading for Helvellyn’s summit, and that was where he would have to go. It struck him that the animal was being surprisingly considerate. A sheep wouldn’t normally keep rigidly to the footpaths like this. Only humans need the sureness of well trodden ground. Whatever intelligence was driving it appeared to recognise their

limitations. He wondered whether he should take heart from that, or be even more concerned at the sure way in which they were being led to whatever lay in wait for them. As they approached the top of Swirral Edge, Gavin became conscious that the wind was rising and the temperature falling. He began to feel cold and wished he had put a coat on. He started to shiver, but Colin seemed unconcerned. It became colder still as they walked around the top of the cove and climbed the final stretch to the summit. The wind was bitter there, and Gavin hoped that the climax of events would soon be settled so that they could return to milder climes lower down. There was no climax. The ram continued past the windbreak and began the descent down one of the paths on the western side. Gavin knew that there were two main routes off that side of Helvellyn. One was long and fairly gentle, running north-west towards the northern end of Thirlmere. The other was shorter and ran south along a ridge, before swinging west and heading for the southern end of the lake. That was the one the ram took and Gavin felt nervous at the prospect of another ridge walk and a steep descent in the dark. He was also shivering violently from the cold. Where, he wondered, was the animal leading them, and to what conclusion? He hadn’t thought to put his watch on in the rush to follow Colin out of the window, but judged from the distance he knew they had covered and the pace they had maintained that it was probably about half past midnight. He wondered what sort of reception they would receive if the teachers were up before they returned. He wished he could be sure that they would return. Heaven alone knew where they were heading and how all this was going to end. The whole episode had the quality of a dream about it. The moonlit forms of the mountains made an eerie and unfamiliar sight which only added to the sense of unreality, and he felt a pang of regret that he was too cold and anxious to appreciate the surreal quality of the view. They followed the path along the ridge safely and then took the right hand option where it forked. As they approached High Crags, the descent steepened and Gavin found himself concentrat-

ing on the ground ahead. It would be so easy to lose his footing there, and he was amazed that Colin was walking with such confidence. He had the air of someone taking a stroll along the high street in full daylight. It was also surprising that the ram seemed to be exactly the same distance ahead of them as it had been from the outset. He was briefly amused as he thought of Alice’s white rabbit. This ram was obviously much cleverer and surer of purpose than him. The steep descent continued for some time and Gavin’s knees began to ache from the strain. They passed another set of crags, and then the path turned right and became more winding. They were most of the way down the mountain by then and Gavin saw that they appeared to be heading for a long stretch of conifer woodland that lay a little way ahead and further down the slope. He was glad the descent wouldn’t go on much longer and felt less cold, but he didn’t relish entering the darkness of the trees. He wondered whether some chilling fate might be lying in wait for them, deep within the silence of the wood. He knew he had no realistic options. Where the ram led Colin would follow, and he wasn’t about to desert his friend now. Nevertheless, a sense of fear rose in him as the path entered the trees. The moonlight had little effect beneath the canopy of the pines and he could only trust that fate would keep his footing secure. Surprisingly, the ram appeared to be no less visible here than it had been on the open fells. The creamy whiteness of its fleece seemed to glow again, and the distance between them remained constant. He looked around nervously as they walked through the forest of trunks on either side, but realised that there was probably nothing to fear as long as the animal continued to plod on ahead. It was clearly taking them somewhere and he supposed that nothing was meant to interfere before they reached the appointed place. And plod on it did, remorselessly, until they came out of the wood and onto an open patch of ground. Gavin breathed a sigh of relief. Ahead of them lay the comforting sight of the main Keswick road. He looked around, happy to see the stars and

open country again. His pace slowed slightly as he gazed at the monochrome landscape, and he had to hurry to catch Colin who was oblivious to everything but the mysterious animal leading the way. He wondered what would happen when the ram reached the roadside. Would it stop and look both ways? He realised that he had never seen its head face any other way than directly forward. And so it continued. Without checking its stride the animal carried on, crossing the road with unaltered pace. As he and Colin reached the kerb, the ram was already on the far side and he felt it prudent to check each way before stepping blindly onto the tarmac. When he looked back, the ram had disappeared. Colin seemed not to have noticed that their leader had gone missing. He continued to walk forward undeterred, and Gavin could only stay with him. On the far side of the road was a low stone wall which Colin negotiated with surprising ease, holding the skull close to his chest with one hand whilst using the other to steady himself. Gavin scrambled over the wall alongside him and was surprised to see the ram waiting for them a short way ahead. As soon as they jumped down, it started to walk again and Colin continued to follow. Gavin became alarmed. They were heading straight for the near bank of Thirlmere, and the water’s edge was only a hundred yards or so away. He hoped that the ram would take a detour around the fringe, but it didn’t. It carried on walking, straight into the lake. At that, its true nature became apparent. The water remained undisturbed as the animal waded into it. Its legs soon disappeared, and then its body. Finally, its head sank out of sight beneath the surface without creating a single ripple. It was, as he had earlier suspected, clearly not of this world. Colin was unperturbed. He carried on walking too, and Gavin realised that the need for action had arrived. His charge was about to follow the ram into the depths of the lake and it was his duty as guardian to stop him. Colin was already walking into the water as Gavin grabbed him from behind, holding him around the chest and pulling him backwards away from the edge. Gavin was a front row forward in the rugby team. He was powerfully built and used

to wrestling people to the ground. But Colin seemed to have developed some considerable strength of his own and was a match for his friend’s efforts. They struggled for a while and it took all Gavin’s weight and power to keep him from entering the water. One fact gave him the advantage: Colin continued to grip the skull tightly with both hands and his resistance came entirely from the use of his legs and shoulders. Gavin knew now that the skull was the key to saving the situation. How Colin had come to have it in his hands he would probably never know, but he had held it tightly and carried it safely to what was obviously its destination. Getting rid of it would almost certainly break whatever spell was holding him captive. He contrived to move himself around until he was in a position to lever Colin’s arms away from his body. The action weakened his adversary’s grip on the skull and Gavin snatched it away from him, hurling it as far as he could into the lake. The effect was like cutting the strings of a puppet. Colin collapsed to the ground and sat there, breathing heavily. Gavin was breathing hard too. He stood leaning forward with his hands resting on his knees, ready to spring into action again if Colin made another movement towards the lake. He needn’t have worried. The exhausted boy looked weak, deflated and totally confused. He looked around in all directions and up into the face of his friend. “Where are we?” he asked weakly. “Thirlmere.” “How did we get here?” “We walked. I don’t suppose you remember any of it, do you?” “I remember some of it,” said Colin. “I remember killing the sheep.” A look of horror came over his face and he turned his head to stare at the ground in front of him. “God, why did I do that? What the hell came over me? I’d never do anything like that.” He looked at Gavin again, his eyes full of questions. “You know me, I love animals. I don’t even swat flies.” “What are you talking about? You didn’t kill any sheep.” “I did though,” insisted Colin. “I remember it

as clear as day.” Gavin assumed that his friend was suffering some sort of delusion and wanted to hear more. “OK,” he said. “You tell me what you remember and I’ll tell you what really happened.” Colin thought for a moment and then began the story. “I remember walking up the track along Glenridding Beck. I think we’d come from the village, but I don’t remember that bit. I had the ram on a short leash and you were walking to the side but a bit behind me. I was aware of another group of people following us, the rest of the class I suppose. “We made our way up into Red Tarn Cove, then we climbed up to Swirral Edge and followed the track around onto Helvellyn. You held the ram while I drew the circle, then everybody gathered round and I cut its throat. God that’s horrible.” A look of loathing clouded his face again. “What time of the day was this?” asked Gavin, meaning to prove to Colin that it was all a dream. “What do you mean? It just happened, a few minutes ago.” “OK,” said Gavin indulgently, “but what time of the day did you think it was?” “Midnight – on Midsummer’s Eve. I remember the date. It’s important. Hang on, it’s not Midsummer’s Eve is it? It’s August – isn’t it? I’m getting confused.” “Yes, it’s August. Go on, what happened next?” Colin’s narration became a little less certain. “You cut the head off the ram and gave it to me. I placed it into the circle, carefully pointing its face to the east. Then I told you to take the body to Thirlmere and throw it in. It was important that the two parts of the sheep should be kept separate, one on dry land and the other immersed in water. That was to keep its spirit from moving on, so as to keep the magic going longer.” “So you were in charge of this party and I was some sort of assistant?” Colin nodded but looked doubtful. Gavin was the natural leader, not him. “Why Thirlmere?” asked Gavin. “Why not Red Tarn, it’s closer?” “Because the face needed to point east and it was better that its body was where its eyes couldn’t see it. It made the magic stronger. So the

body had to be in water on the other side of the mountain.” “That’s the second time you’ve said ‘the magic.’ What magic?” Colin frowned and shook his head. “I don’t know. I can’t remember. This is really confusing. I watched you walk off with the body over your shoulder, then suddenly found myself sitting here out of breath. What the hell’s going on? I wouldn’t do anything like that. It’s horrible. But I know I did. It just happened, a few minutes ago. You must remember too. You were there.” “Right,” said Gavin. “Let’s get a couple of things straight. Do you know who you are?” “Of course I do.” “Who?” “Colin Crawford.” “Right, and what are we doing in The Lake District?” “A field study trip from school.” “Good. And you still reckon you’ve just sacrificed a ram on top of Helvellyn as part of some magical practice?” “Yes. I know it doesn’t make any sense, but I keep telling you; it just happened.” “I can promise you,” said Gavin, “I’ve been with you for the last several hours and you haven’t killed anything. But something pretty strange is going on, that’s for sure. “Come on, we’d better be heading back. It must be way past two by now and we’ve got a steep climb to make. I’ll tell you everything on the way. With any luck we’ll be back before anybody’s awake.” He helped Colin to his feet and they began the daunting task of retracing their steps. Colin was back to his old self. He had trouble getting over the stone wall and Gavin had to give him a hand. As they crossed the road and made for the wood, Gavin began the tale of the night’s events. It was good to be talking as they made their way through the trees; it kept his nervousness at bay. Colin listened to the whole story in silence. When he had finished the narrative, Gavin offered his opinion on his companion’s supposed recollection of the sacrifice. It was obviously some sort of paranoid delusion, he argued, brought on by the business of the sheep’s skull and Colin’s over-

wrought reaction to it. He’d heard of people going into hysterical comas in the face of extreme stress, and supposed that this was something similar. He had built Gavin and the other members of the school party into what was effectively an elaborate dream. Colin listened to the story of the night’s events with fascination, but took issue with Gavin’s opinion on his state of mind. Firstly, he said, he knew the difference between a dream and a memory, and this was definitely a memory. Even if it hadn’t happened that night, it had certainly happened at some time. And, secondly, it didn’t explain two things: the appearance of the ram that both of them had followed over the mountain, and the acquisition of the skull that he had carried so dutifully all the way to Thirlmere. Gavin conceded the point. His opinion had been hurriedly constructed as an attempt to make his friend feel better. It was obvious that it didn’t stand up to logic. “No, you’re right,” he said. “OK, shall I tell you what I really think?” Colin looked at Gavin. They were just coming out of the top of the wood and he could see him better. “Go on,” he said. They were beginning to breathe heavily from the exertions of the climb, and had a long way to go before they reached the summit. “Let’s leave it ’till we’re on the way down,” said Gavin. “I’ll get it straight in my head while we’re walking.” As fit as the two boys were, it was two hours before they stepped onto the flat ground of the summit and saw light starting to break on the eastern horizon. Colin looked at the windbreak. “That’s where the circle was,” he said, pointing. “Right there.” “Well it hasn’t been there for a while, has it?” replied Gavin. “That wasn’t built in the last two hours.” They walked on in silence, around the top of Red Tarn Cove and onto the path leading down to Swirral Edge. “You said you were going tell me what you think’s going on,” said Colin. “Mmm,” said Gavin, gathering his thoughts.

“Well, we’ve often talked about reincarnation, haven’t we? But we were never sure whether we believed it or not.” “I was thinking along the same lines,” said Colin. Gavin continued. “It would make sense of a lot of things. If this sacrifice business really is a memory, then I don’t see how it can be down to anything other than reincarnation. It certainly didn’t happen last night and you’ve never been to the Lake District before – not in this life anyway. I’ve heard it said that people who are a particular way in one lifetime balance it out, or make amends, in another. “Let’s suppose that you really were some kind of local head man or magician or something, centuries ago in this part of Cumbria, and I was your assistant. It was part of your job to ritually slaughter animals. This time around you’re soppy about animals. As you said, you don’t even swat flies. And – forgive me putting it like this – you’re no leader, are you? You’re shy and insecure and have to work hard to fit in. I’m the dominant one this time. “And then there’s the question of karma – the notion that you have to pay for the bad things you’ve done through successive lifetimes. Maybe you realised that when you saw the skull and that was why you reacted so strongly to it. Some deep part of you knew that the skull, or at least what it represented, had some kind of hold over you. Perhaps you even recognised it as the actual one and knew that the tables were about to be turned in some way.” “So the ram was seeking revenge?” “Maybe, something like that. Or maybe it just wanted to put its body back together again. Perhaps my taking the skull off the mountain and you having possession of it somehow unlocked the mechanism by which it could do it. I don’t know. You’d have to ask a magician that.” They went silent again for a while, and then Colin said “But that means the karma hasn’t been paid off. I should have walked into that lake and drowned. But I didn’t; you stopped me. That means I’ve still got it to come.” “Oh, I wouldn’t take it that literally,” said Gavin. “I think the business with the ram is over and done with now.”

As usual, Colin wasn’t convinced. It was nearly light when they arrived back at the hostel. The freshness of the cool, serene Lakeland morning would have been exhilarating in any other circumstances, but they were too exhausted to appreciate it. Crossing Helvellyn twice in one night had been quite a trek. The other boys were still asleep as they climbed quietly back through the window. Gavin went over to his bed and looked at his watch. It was five thirty. A teacher would be coming to wake them in an hour and a half and they decided to try and get some sleep. Neither of them did. The mere presence of extreme fatigue held little sway against the nerve jangling memory of their night’s adventure. Their absence had gone unnoticed and, apart from the two boys’ tendency to yawn more than usual the following day, the rest of the trip was uneventful. They went home determined to keep the episode a secret between themselves, and a secret it remained for thirty years.

avin told that story to me recently. He did so because he wanted a second opinion on the subject of karma and reincarnation. He and I have been colleagues for a while and he knew of my interest in Vedic philosophy. He had just learned that Colin was dead, and the circumstances of the accident that had caused it seemed to point to a connection with their nocturnal adventure on the fells. He naturally sought the opinion of someone whose beliefs would lend themselves to the provision of a sympathetic ear, and felt that Colin’s demise had freed him to tell the story. He continued with the following postscript. The year after their strange encounter with the ram, the two boys parted company. Colin saw no reason to continue his education beyond the age of sixteen as he was simply not academically minded. He had a yen to go into farming and, through some connection of his father’s, managed to get a job as a labourer in the Wicklow Mountains in Ireland. The farmer kept a large herd of pedigree sheep and his shepherd was approaching retirement. He asked Colin if he would like to be apprenticed to the old man and take over when the time came. Be-

ing so fond of animals, Colin readily agreed. As he pointed out in a letter to his old school friend, however, he was a little nervous at the prospect of working with sheep. Gavin took a very different course. He continued his education and then went into the Royal Navy as an officer cadet. He spent the next fifteen years travelling the oceans of the world while Colin worked quietly away tending his flock in rural Ireland. At first the two young men corresponded regularly, but their widely differing paths gradually caused their friendship to drift. By the time Gavin retired as a lieutenant commander and moved back to his home town, their correspondence had long since faded to nothing. Many years later he had a chance meeting with another old classmate and learned that a school reunion was being planned. He agreed to attend and thought that Colin should be made aware of it too. He remembered his old friend’s sentimental nature and thought that he might well be enthusiastic about making the trip. He had no idea whether Colin still worked at the farm in Ireland, but it was the only address he had and decided to send the invitation there. Three weeks later a package arrived bearing an Irish postmark. Inside was the envelope containing Gavin’s letter to Colin and several handwritten sheets. Gavin gave them to me to read. They said: Dear Mr Bowyer, First of all I must apologise for opening your letter. I had to in order to get the return address, since I felt that I must write to give you some bad news I regret to have to tell you that your friend died in a tragic accident recently and you might wish to know that he died honourably in the furtherance of his duties You will know, I suppose, that Colin was our shepherd. My father employed him some thirty years ago. He quickly became a close friend of the family and was well respected for his diligence and the quality of his work. His loss affected us all very deeply. I’m sure you would like to know how the accident happened. We farm in the old fashioned way and keep

our own ram to service the ewes. One day, about six months ago, my daughter told me that the ram’s pen was empty and the animal was missing. He had broken out before and I was not unduly worried. I knew that Colin would pick him up in the course of his rounds over the next day or two. But then my neighbour, who farms on the other side of the valley, called me up on the telephone to tell me that he had seen my ram making for a part of the valley where there is a dangerous waterfall. We have lost a few sheep there over the years. He also said that one of the ewes and her young lamb were following close behind. I knew that Colin was out on the quad bike with my eldest boy Declan, and decided to call him on his mobile phone and ask him to make for the waterfall to see that no harm should come to the animals. It is sadly ironic that the ram should have made for that spot, since it was Colin’s favourite. He said it reminded him of a beautiful place he knew in The Lake District in England. When Colin and Declan reached the falls, there was no sign of the ram. They could see only the ewe, which was bleating pitifully. But they could also hear the lamb calling back to her and went to investigate. There is a rocky ledge on one side of the waterfall, very close to the top, and the lamb was standing on it. It had somehow got down but was unable to climb back up again. Colin, as always, did his duty. He climbed down to retrieve it. The climb is dangerous for, although it is only a matter of nine or ten feet, the ground is steep and the ledge at the bottom is narrow. Colin placed the lamb over his shoulder and climbed back up, managing to hold onto the animal with one hand while he steadied himself with the other. As soon as he came level with the top of the slope, Declan took hold of the lamb and turned around to place it on the ground. He was surprised to see that the ram had reappeared and was running towards him. He was not unduly worried though for, although it is a strong beast, it has never shown any inclination to attack anyone. It was probably just curious to know what was going on. He turned back to offer a hand to Colin

who was climbing over the lip of the slope. At that moment Colin looked up and saw the ram running towards them. Declan says that he looked suddenly startled and seemed to shudder. His foot slipped off the rock on which it was braced and he slid back down the slope. The speed of his fall meant that he was unable to keep his footing when he reached the ledge and he tumbled over, falling headlong into the pool below. Declan climbed onto the bike and made all haste to the bottom of the falls, hoping to find Colin unhurt. It was not to be. It takes several minutes to get around to the pool by land and, by the time he got there, he found Colin lying face down in the shallows at the front edge of the pool. He pulled him out immediately, but Colin was already dead. The fall must have stunned him for the Garda report said that he had died of drowning. He had always said that he regarded Ireland as his true home and wanted to be buried here when he died. We asked the permission of his parents to honour this wish and they agreed. Colin was buried in our local churchyard and we deem it a privilege to maintain his grave as though he were one of our own family. Should you wish to visit and pay your respects, we would be honoured to offer the hospitality of our household for your stay. I am sorry again that I have to be the bearer of such bad news. Yours sincerely, Martin Connolly.

“holding the lamb with one hand while he steadied himself with the other” contained an echo of his action in climbing over the wall on the way to Thirlmere. I suggested to Gavin that it might have produced some resonance deep in his subconscious, and might have been the reason for his being so startled when he saw the ram. As for the question of whether Colin’s accident was the repaying of karmic debt, I said that I was unqualified to offer an opinion. I explained that karma is an infinitely complex process of cause and effect, unfathomable to the limited brain of a human, in which all actions and reactions are interconnected. It’s not quite as simple as “an eye for an eye.” I did admit, however, that it seemed a possibility. Gavin looked concerned. If that were the case, he said, it would confirm Colin’s memory of the sacrifice, an incident in which he, too, had played a part. He wondered whether he was destined for some fate that would reflect his own actions. Was he about to lose his head in some way, physically or metaphorically? I told him not to worry. His level of culpability was lower than Colin’s, since he had been acting under orders. “So were the guards at Auschwitz,” he said. “Yes, but you didn’t do the actual killing,” I replied. “I suppose not,” he said. But, this time, it was Gavin who looked unconvinced.

I remarked that it was a surprisingly detailed account of the circumstances. “I know,” said Gavin. “But that’s the Irish for you, isn’t it? Story telling seems to be in their blood. If it had been an English farm, I would probably have got a brief note saying ‘Colin died in an accident at work’ and I wouldn’t have thought any more about it. But this tells the whole story. I almost wish it didn’t. It seems the ram got its revenge after all.” I found it hard not to agree that the circumstances of Colin’s death were, at the very least, remarkably ironic. Even the reference to him

A Hunter Hunted

by Alva J. Roberts When opportunity shows up at the door, some people just refuse to answer the knock.

Sara rubbed her hands together and glanced

at her watch. It was getting late, the bar would be closing soon, and she didn’t want to go home alone. She needed it bad. The bars in Cheyenne, Wyoming, were unexciting to say the least. This particular one, Randy’s Round Up Bar & Grill, had a Western theme. The walls were covered in old faded wood, and adorned with a collection of eclectic junk that looked as if it had been purchased in a thrift store for five dollars. Matching wagon wheels stood by the entrance. Her green eyes scanned the dark, smoky room until they rested on a fat man in his late forties sitting at the bar. He had a wide-brimmed cowboy hat, dirty boots, and a giant belt buckle that proclaimed him the Laramie County Belching Champion. Her desire built like a hungry, monstrous thing inside of her. He was perfect. She flung her giant purse over her shoulder. The bag was cheap, purchased at Wal-Mart from the clearance rack. It was brown and didn’t match her black form-fitting jeans or her white low-cut blouse. However, there were things a girl needed and carrying capacity was more important than aesthetics. She sauntered over to the bar, her hips swaying seductively. Small in stature, she barely reached the fat man’s flabby chins. Her long black hair framed her delicate features and piercing green eyes. She worked out five times a week and it showed in her trim, fit frame. The muscular tone of her body did nothing to take away from her feminine curves. She was a ten and she knew it. “Hot damn, you’re about the prettiest thing I ever saw. I may not be Fred Flintstone, but I bet I can make your bed rock,” the fat man yelled. He turned to his friends, laughing obscenely, making grinding gestures in the air as he pointed at her. Oh, yes. He was perfect.

“I ain’t got no bed around here, cowboy, but if you want to follow me out to the parking lot, I bet we can rock your truck,” she crooned in her most sensual voice. She flashed him a smile and walked toward the exit. He stood for a moment, his mouth gaping like a landed fish, before he ran after her. She was out the door before he caught up with her. “Did I… did I hear ya right?” he asked, sweat dripping from his forehead, splashing salty droplets on to his bulging button-up western-style shirt. “Only if you’re coming out here to show a lady a good time. I can’t help myself when it comes to big ol’ cowboys. You got a truck here?” “Sure do, hon. That big black dooley Ford F150 over there. Paid extra for the side step. My brother Jed mounted the horns on the grill for free. He‘s an artist.” “Lead the way, sugar.” She followed him to the truck. His stench filled her nostrils, a mixture of stale sweat, vomit, beer, cigarette smoke, and urine. He could satisfy all her desires. Beer cans and old fast food containers littered the cab of the truck. She hopped up onto the stained seat, kicking out some of the trash as she did. Her hands crossed over her back to pull her shirt over her head. Her firm, supple breasts strained against her black, lacy bra. “Shit fire! Yer so damn sexy, baby. Ya mind if I keep my chewin’ tobacco while we do it? Ain’t nothing better than dippin’ it in with a dip in.” He laughed at his own pun. “What ever you want. You gonna get in the truck or stand out there staring at me all night?” He crawled in on top of her. His bloated mass weighed her down. She moved her head to the side to avoid his sour breath. “You sure are going to love this,” he said, fumbling with his huge belt buckle. “I know I am, sugar.”

He ripped her bra from her body, the front clasp breaking from the force. A thin line of spittle ran from his mouth to her pink nipple. Her left hand caressed his cheek as her right hand grasped a long knife she’d pulled from her hidden hip holster. The blade sliced neatly through his fat, jiggling neck, severing his jugular vein. Blood spurted out of the gash, covering her face and bare breasts. She giggled as she rubbed the precious fluid all over her face and chest. He let out a gurgling wheeze, trying to stand. One of his hands moved up to stop the flow of blood, only to fall limp about half way there. She pulled him back on top of her. The cab of the truck was filled with the coppery scent of blood, all but drowning out the stink from earlier. Blood still pumped from the gaping neck wound, but it was slowing. His eyes had the glazed, vacant stare of the dead. “Mmm. Was it good for you, baby?” She whispered. “You friggin’ pig.” She reached for her huge purse, specially packed with tools of a killer‘s trade. This was not her first kill. She started her career in San Francisco where she had sent six men to Hell. She had made her way east across country, traveling on Interstate 80 ever since. There were plenty of pigs ripe for the slaughter on the open road. Forty-three stops in her journey so far, the body count at least twice that amount. Every stop had helped her learn, and made her better. She liked cities best, places where she could make more than one kill before moving on. She remembered Reno and Salt Lake City with fondness. Yet it seemed like something was pulling her east.

She pulled a Supergirl beach towel from her purse and wiped her face and chest. It was important to get the blood off before it dried. A disposable package of wet wipes helped finish the job. Everything went back in her purse, even her bloodsoaked shirt. She pulled on a fresh one after she stepped out of the blood-spattered truck. She felt rushed. She should have called off the hunt. It had taken too long to find the fat cowboy. Closing time was fast approaching. Within minutes the parking lot would fill with drunks looking for their rides home. She needed to finish before the dead cowboy's friends discovered her. She wiped her fingerprints from the dashboard and door handles with a wet wipe, remembering at the last second to lean over and grab the giant belt buckle. She needed it for her collection. She slipped into the shadows of the parking lot as one of the dead man's friends stumbled to the truck. “Hey Billy, Your truck ain’t a rockin’ so I come a’knockin’ You done already, you fat bastard? She still naked? Ask her if she wants a real man!” the friend bellowed as he reached the truck, his knuckles rapping against the door. “Damn! She killed Billy! She killed him!” His screaming caught the attention of the rest of his friends. They ran to the truck. A taxi pulled into the parking lot, its headlights exposing her location. “There she is! “ one of the men shouted, pointing in her direction. The men sprinted toward her. She sucked in her breath and darted toward the alley. She could hear the men panting heavily as they pursued her. The alley was dark, over-filled dumpsters lin-

The sharp retort of a police issued service revolver shattered the air. A car window next to Sara exploded in a shower of glass, spraying her with shards of jagged fury.

ing one side of the narrow passage. She thought she heard something rustling in the trash, but when she glanced over there was nothing there. She shook her head, certain the dark shadows of the alley had played tricks on her eyes. She quickly out-paced the men. She prided herself on keeping in shape, something the fat, beerguzzling men chasing her couldn‘t boast. She stopped dead in her tracks. A wall blocked the alley. It was impossible. She had scouted locations for nearly an hour, would have remembered such an impediment to her exit. She had selected Randy’s because the alley provided quick and unobstructed access to a busy street where she could blend in, catch a bus, and get the Hell out of Dodge. This wall had not been there a few hours ago. She pulled her knife from her hip holster and turned, waiting for the men to attack her. She was outnumbered four to one. She could have dealt with one, maybe two, but four was too many. The men staggered down the alley, their labored breath coming in ragged gasps. “We caught you, dumb bitch! Did ya think we’d let ya get away with killin’ Billy?” He leered at her, adjusting his crotch. “I’m gonna kill ya. First we’re gonna have a little fun. Tommy here, he’s the sheriff, and he ain’t gonna mind what we do to ya. He married Billy’s little sister.” Sara readied herself. It would not be the first time she had been raped. She could kill at least one of the men before they grabbed her, the slow one still trying to catch his breath was an easy target. Her knife slashed out as they closed in. The slow man screamed in pain, blood spraying from his wrist. She thrust the blade into the bloated stomach of Tommy, the sheriff. He pulled the knife from his belly and grabbed her wrist, his fist smashing into her chin, lifting her into the air before dropping her to the ground. Sara rolled into a crouch, ready for the next assault. She picked up a large piece of broken concrete. “Hey, where’d she go? How the hell did she get away?” Tommy yelled. “I dunno,” answered one assailant unscathed by

her blade. The sheriff pressed his palm into his stomach, trying to ebb the flow of blood. “I’m hurt real bad. Bitch tried to gut me. I need to get to a hospital.” “Bobby’s arm is bleedin’ real good, too, Tommy. Let’s get out of here!” Sara dropped the concrete chunk into her purse as she watched the men leave. How could they have missed her? “Hello, Sara,” a deep voice rumbled. Startled, she turned toward the sound. A gigantic man stood in the shadows, his back to the newly constructed wall. He was easily the tallest man she had ever seen and as broad as two or three men. His powerful presence was overwhelming, making it difficult to focus on him. “I’ve been watching you, Sara. I was happy to offer my assistance,” he said, still cloaked by the alley’s shadows. “What do you mean? How do you know my name?” she asked. She wished she still had her knife. “Yes, I am most familiar with your work. Over a hundred slain. You have been a very busy girl. I have a proposal for you to consider.” “Honey, any proposal from a big, strong man like you sounds good to me,” Sara purred, batting her long eyelashes seductively. Her purse smashed into the man‘s face. There was a loud cracking noise as the concrete made contact with his strong, square jaw. Sara let the momentum of the swing carry her around, then ran down the alley. Fear coursed through her when she saw red and blue flashing lights in the bar’s parking lot. She saw the taxi that had given away her hiding place earlier void of a driver, its engine running. Paramedics, giving their statements to the police, were attending to Billy’s friends. There were uniformed officers everywhere, yellow ticker tape looped loosely around the dead man’s truck. They shouted and screamed the moment they spied her. Sara heard a police officer yell for her to stop, but did not slow down as she ran for the cab. The sharp retort of a police issued service revolver shattered the air. A car window next to Sara exploded in a shower of glass, spraying her with

shards of jagged fury. She dived through the open door of the taxi, buckled the seatbelt, and threw the care into reverse. The engine roared as she floored it, the tires screeching as she shifted into drive. She knew she was in deep trouble. Unfamiliar with Cheyenne, she didn’t know if she could lose the police within the city limits. Her stolen car did not possess enough power to outrun a police cruiser on the open highway. She glanced in the rear view mirror, the flashing lights of the police cruisers dancing in the reflection, making her dizzy. She looked down at the speedometer, the needle pegged at top speed. She struggled with the dangerous speed as she navigated the unpredictable side streets. Statistically, the longer the chase, the more likely she was going to get caught or killed. She needed to find a way to end this quickly. Buildings blurred together as she sped past them. She flew through an empty stop light. The sedan’s engine groaned, protesting the demanding speed. It shimmed slightly from side to side. More and more lights joined those behind her, red and blue twisting and turning until she felt she was going to be ill. She knew that a helicopter would soon join the chase. The cops were on their radios, tightening their technological net around her. Her route was taking her to a more populated part of Cheyenne. Tired drivers swerved on the road, getting in her path, slowing her down. The police backed off to avoid harm coming to innocent citizens. She fumbled in her purse for a smoke and a lighter. She needed to think, to calm down. She lit the cigarette, inhaling deeply, enjoying the harsh burn at the back of her throat. She took another drag, the nicotine soothing her frazzled nerves. Up ahead she spotted a large multi-level parking garage connected to an office building. “You’re crazy,” she told herself as she let off the gas to make the corner into the complex. The car tires squealed as she accelerated out of the turn, gaining momentum. She raced up the ramp, through one level and then the next, eventually reaching the roof. She did not stop to think about what she was

doing, just pressed the gas pedal to the floor. She jumped from the car just as it hit the guardrail and flipped through the air to drop seven stories to the pavement below. Sara rolled to a stop, covered in scratches and bruises, but in one piece. She limped to the elevator, eager to get into the office building before the complex was sealed and searched by the police. They would soon realize that her remains were not part of the taxi‘s wreckage. She leaned against the back wall of the elevator, studying the fire exit diagram. From the fourth floor she could take the stairs out of the building and on to the street where she could hide until daybreak. She caught her breath as the elevator descended, the lights flickering briefly. “You are quite impressive,” a too-familiar voice rasped. The elevator went pitch black. Sara threw herself to the corner of the elevator, terrified of the oppressive darkness. She reached into her bag for the chunk of concrete, but found only dust. “It shattered when you hit me with it earlier. Hear me out. You may decline my proposal without fear of retribution.” The doors spontaneously opened, the light of the empty office building pouring into the elevator. Sara threw a handful of dust at his face and ran into the hall. She reached into her bag again, searching for another weapon. “Police! Freeze!” a voice yelled from the hall. Sara yanked her hand from her bag, spinning to look at the officer. A gunshot echoed through the hallway. White-hot pain burned through Sara’s shoulder. She hurtled herself back into the elevator. “Look at you now,” the huge man said, staring down. “Police!” Two figures stood in the doorway of the elevator. “Quiet,” the big man said and the police officers froze, turning rigid as stone statues. “What… what did you do? How did you do that?” Sara hunched over, her hand clutching the gunshot wound in her shoulder in an effort to control the bleeding. “How I did it is unimportant. I have need of your services.”

“You’re crazy. You're friggin’ crazy!” Sara yelled, turning to leave. “I grow tired of your impertinence. You will be silent and listen to my proposal or I will let the police have you. If you speak to me again in that tone I will destroy you completely.” She stilled. “Okay. I'm listening.” Lightning sparked at his fingertip, the bolt shooting out to her gunshot wound. Instantly the hole sealed. “What the-” Sara stuttered, her voice quivering with awe. There was no pain in her shoulder. The only evidence that there had ever been an injury was her blood, still warm, dripping from her hand. “The organized religions of this world intrigue me. I wish to have buildings erected to worship me, effigies raised in my honor. I will be revered. Since my arrival, I have found very few who carry the true spirit of the hunter. You are one of the few I have found that relishes in the blood and pain. You are intelligent and resourceful. Swear your allegiance to me. Devote your life to me, become the High Priestess of my church. Recruit other women into my flock and teach them to hunt as you do.” Sara stared at the huge man. She was sure now that he wasn’t human. But what was he? It didn’t matter. The choices he offered were simple enough, a life of subservience, or jail time at the very least. “Shove your flock up your ass!” Sara screamed, turning to run toward the exit. The police service revolvers roared once, twice, and a third time. Sara fell, dying before she hit the ground. “How disappointing. There will be others, but she was perfect,” the man said to himself before disappearing without a trace.

Visit our Web site at www.blackmatrixpub.com for information on upcoming projects. Look for: NIGHT CHILLS OUTER REACHES and REALMS winter editions coming soon. Each 104 pages and over 70,000 words of quality fiction. More book releases also planned.

The XY Conundrum

by James A. Stewart When an experiment that goes horribly wrong, the fix can be hard on the family.

I ran. I ran fast, very fast.

The splashing of the puddles threw up mini tsunamis all around me as my feet thudded against the ground at decreasing intervals. The beating of my heart was anything but metronome like and was no doubt further spooked by the dark night and wispy fog. I could hear the shrill of emergency sirens all around. It had started, just like he had predicted. *** “Dad. What's a monster?” Billy's face was a mix of confusion and expectation. As far as he was concerned his dad knew everything. John answered somewhat distractedly, “They don’t exist, son. It's what naughty nannies and bad babysitters use to threaten young boys like you to try to get you to behave.” He was busy checking his work e-mail through his virtual private network access and Billy’s incessant questions served only to slow him down. *** I knocked at the door, the agreed three short taps and one long thud. I heard movement inside. The spyglass darkened and then Michelle opened the door and let me in. “What’s it like out there?” she asked. In between gulps of air, I replied, “Madness. Utter madness. There are bodies everywhere. Right from University down to St. Andrews station.” Before I could say anymore, Michelle interrupted me. “Did you find him and get the tracking device in place?” “Yes.” I replied, my voice trailing off. “And?...” *** John was loading the car, packing for the Easter weekend at the Lakes. He was looking forward to the break and unwinding. Things had been difficult in the last couple of years with the funding crisis and the fact that all the investors were sitting on their ill-gotten gains of the boom yearsl No one was investing in his research.

Billy had been at his mum’s until this morning and had been rather aloof all day, but still asking his usual range of questions and the conversation continually recycled back to monsters. “Are monsters bad?” John sighed, “Monsters don’t exist, unless you include the board and bosses.” Billy had the kind of intuition that only a kid possesses, and the ability to ask the most innocently scathing questions. “What’s wrong? Have I been naughty?” he asked his dad. John looked at his son. Billy was a complex little fellow, and at only eight years old he was small in stature but his mind seemed to be eighty at times and he was always asking questions, probing on all manner of subjects to try and work out things that were beyond his ken. Even at this early age, Billy could already outsmart his father at cryptograms. “Never, son. You’re the best boy in the world.” “Would I still be the best boy in the world if I was a monster?” “Of course you would.” John said, and he went back to loading the car. *** I couldn't believe what I had witnessed. The army had surrounded the main university building, and gunfire peppered into the night sky. Screams were audible above the constant pop and boom of the ground level assault being carried out. I swear I thought the number of guns firing was dropping as the battle went on, and conversely the screams were increasing in number and volume. In retrospect, I was right. *** On the drive to the Lakes, Billy continued to ask all manner of questions. John, for his part, answered them with a distracted air as his thoughts turned back to work and the latest results. They had been mixed, with many subjects ruined. He was practically ordered by Dr Eisenberger, his boss, to take this break. Despite his protestations, John agreed to take a few days away. He tried to

convince himself it would be good for him and the boy. Billy's sister and her family were going to join them, which John hoped would be good for Billy. *** Their shrill filled the air as they moved through the city, destroying everything in their path. Michelle gathered our belongings as I did a quick once round the house to establish the best way to leave. We agreed to make our way north, away from the eye of the storm. As we left the building, more blue flashing lights raced toward the epicenter of the trouble. *** “What's wrong, Dad?” Billy asked. They were skimming stones into the lake at the bottom of the garden. The cottage had belonged to John's parents and was a welcome retreat, and one he wished he'd used more often. “Nothing. I'm just a bit on edge, son. Michelle will be here soon,” John said. He hoped his attempt to change the subject wasn’t too obvious to Billy. “Dad?” “Yes.” “I love you.” “I love you, too, Billy.” *** Michelle hot-wired a ninety-seven Ford Cougar and we headed toward the Lakes. I told her what I saw; “He recognised me, that's for sure. I could see it in his face, first confusion, then a glimpse of humanity. We can save him, Michelle...” “Are you absolutely certain?” she asked. “Yes,” I replied and she immediately put the car into a spin, a sharp handbrake turn and we made for the city once more. “I have a plan.” said Michelle with a glint in her eye. *** The weekend had been slow for John. Michelle and Billy had fallen out, again. Billy blamed her for breaking up his family, and even though she was his half-sister, he couldn't seem to accept her. John was itching to get back to his research after the enforced absence, 'for his own sanity' according to Dr. Eisenberger. The seeds of a new idea had been growing in John's mind. Back in the lab he hoped he could

turn these acorns into fully-fledged trees. The problem was that he worked best when the idea was fresh. Billy sat next to him by the lakeside, almost as motionless as their fishing rods had been all morning. “Dad?” “Yes, Billy?” “What do you want me to be when I grow up?” John thought for a moment, ideas of greatness flooded through his mind. “All I need you to be, son, is good. And always look after your family.” “I can do that,” said Billy, as the first hint of a smile in three days played on his lips. *** “What are they?” shouted Michelle over the noise of the car's stuttering engine. She had driven the Cougar straight into the first floor canteen, smashing windows, chairs, tables and a weathered looking Coke machine in its wake. “Revanent soldiers. They had been kept on the islands, but somehow have escaped.” I replied as Michelle and I jumped out of the car and bolted toward the corridors. Michelle was gulping for air as we ran, the bleep of the GPS tracker told us he was inside. I was struggling too, and the weight of the rucksack was slowing me down. The place was crawling with soldiers, both alive and half-deads, and they seemed preoccupied enough to allow us to slip by. I wanted to shout for him but knew better of it. I didn’t want the soldiers to notice us. “How do you know what they are?” Michelle asked as we made our way to the source of the signal. “It’s a long story...” *** “Billy, Dad is going to have to go away for a few weeks. I want you to be good for Mum. Can you do that for me?” Billy nodded and John’s eyes were welling up as he spoke to him. Carrie, Billy’s mum, stood with arms folded. “Are you sure about this, John?” she asked. “I am. It’s my only hope, the tumour is too far gone for surgery.” “But the procedure is at research stage at best. And anyway, God did not intend us to alter our genetic make-up.”

“God does not exist.” “Let’s not have that argument, John, it’s already torn the family apart.” “OK, sorry, cheap shot. You have a right to believe in what you see fit.” said John. He ruffled Billy’s hair. “Remember, be good and I’ll see you soon.” John was walking away when Billy shouted after him, “Dad?” “Yes, Billy?” “What’s a tumour?” *** I showed Michelle the letter. I told her I had last seen him nearly fifteen years ago. He left me a goodbye note, in case he didn't make it. It told me to be good and not be scared of monsters. Good boys don't become monsters it said. I told Michelle the story. Then, I got a call out of the blue, warning me to leave the city. I recognised the voice, his voice. He implored me to leave the city as soon possible. The furor on the news about a break out from the island prisons was created by him and his fellow half-deads. They were underground and planning to strike against the establishment which had created then failed them. I asked to meet him, to try and talk some sense into him, and just to see him. He said no, it wasn’t possible as he could turn at anytime, and that is why I need to leave. Turn into what, I asked him. "A monster," was all he would say. *** Dr. Eisenberger came to tell Billy and Carrie the news, “John passed away this morning.” “What happened?” Asked Carrie. “Complications in the theatre, Ms. Cholmsky.” And with that he left. Carrie hugged Billy closely and cried. *** I told Michelle of his experiments. He was trying to alter the gene sequence in soldiers to stop them feeling pain, and to give them super regenerative powers, meaning they would be almost injury and illness free. Only fatal wounds would stop them, and even then it would not be immediate. “How did you find out?” she asked. “I found some research papers he had hidden in the attic.” We crept along the corridor. We could hear the cackling of the half-dead soldiers res-

onate around the tiled corridors of the first floor. Through a frosted glass window I could see them toss a body around like a rag doll, no doubt some unfortunate victim of the attacks from earlier. Things had quietened down outside. The army was likely regrouping and considering the next move. I had business to attend to. “But, again, how did you know the soldiers were half-deads?” Michelle asked as we were closing on the source of bleep. A familiar voice replied on my behalf, “Because he read the papers, Michelle. Do you think I left them by accident?” “Hi, Dad.” *** Billy's mum died ten years after John, leaving their only son orphaned, and alone. He was a bright student, following in his father's footsteps at university. He excelled in Biomechanics and sat his PhD in Oxford. He took inspiration from the notes left in the attic. When he returned from Oxford he looked up Dr. Eisenberger who remembered the scraggly haired son of the great John Dawes. The doctor offered Billy a job immediately when he read his thesis on using a combination of IGF-1 and stem cell injections, deep brain implants and gene therapy to create a super-soldier. With the right technology, a neural prosthesis could be used to control an army of soldiers by thought alone. “Before I accept I have one question.” “Sure, Billy, go ahead.” “Is my father still alive?” *** My dad stood there, looking bedraggled in dress and in his general appearance, but otherwise fit and healthy. He was well fed and the only differences in his features from fifteen years ago were a few wrinkles, longer hair and sandy beard. Well, that and the paranoid eyes. “What’s going here, Billy?” Michelle said to me, the concern in her face was very real. “What the fuck is going on?” she shouted. “Well, sister, Dad here was never ill. He had to fake death in order to go full-time on his experiments. You know the island prison built in 2011 for the criminally insane?” “Yes.” “Well, that's a research facility. Dad here tried

to alter his own DNA, attempting to upgrade himself. But, he quickly found a flaw. He needed to combine DNA from a female and male family member – we call it the XY conundrum. One of the subjects has to die as the surgery requires removing one of their brains. And of course, by the time he discovered this he had already damaged himself and the others beyond repair. They were ordered to remain on the island, and the project was shut down until I came back from England with a major breakthrough.” Michelle turned to Dad, “What is wrong with you then?” *** Billy met Michelle in the Tim Horton's at the Bay Trading building on Queen Street East. She wanted a public place after his last outburst at his mother's funeral. “Coffee?” he asked. “Just get on with it, Billy. What do you want?” she replied, making no move to sit down or take off her jacket, despite the humidity of the coffee shop. “I need your help.” “The great Billy Dawes needs the help of his, quote, ‘sluttish, home wrecking, half sister,’ - my, I am intrigued.” “Look, I'm sorry. I should never have blamed you for my dad’s infidelity. You were just the outcome, and I should have been glad to have you... but it is dad I asked you here to talk about.” “What about him?” “He’s alive and I need your help to free him.” *** “Michelle, I am insane. Violently schizophrenic and a danger to society. You see those half-deads out there?” Dad pointed to the window. Michelle looked out the window to see almost two hundred zombies standing in army style rank and file in the gardens of the university and stammered in response, “Yes.” “I created them all leading up to my last experiment: me! I have nightmares about them every night. I can’t sleep. I can’t think without them creeping into my thoughts. It has driven me insane.” Michelle looked at them, awestruck by their discipline. “Poor things.” Dad replied, “Pah! Poor things nothing. Every-

one of them is a failure. I see my own mistakes and arrogance in them. They were nothing, just criminals, beggars and vagrants. No one missed them and that was the problem, no DNA match. They’re madder than me.” “So, why are they just standing there?” “Your brother is controlling them through a neural link I invented, but one he perfected. He could control me, too. In fact, he ordered me to take off the jacket upstairs so that the tracking device remained there and it would seem plausible that you were looking for me; and he has been relaying all your conversations to me.” John reached his hand out to Michelle, and she took it cautiously. “The phone call story from earlier, was that all a lie?” Dad replied, “I’m afraid so, honey.” “What now?” I replied this time, “We rescue Dad.” *** Dr. Eisenberger agreed to take a letter and a parcel from Billy to his dad at the island. He said that he owed Billy that for the amazing advances he had made. The parcel included some letters, pictures from their visit to the lakes and a cake with hundreds of tiny microchips disguised as dried fruit. John immediately recognised the code in the letter. Within minutes he knew what to do with the microchips. Within a week, every half-dead residue from past experiments, fully limbed or not, was under Billy’s control. The break out began the next day. *** I looked into Michelle's eyes for a moment. There was no sign that she was getting it at all. She had clearly inherited her mother's brains. She looked confused, perplexed and most of all, shitscared. “Sister. Remember when I was telling you we needed to combine male and female DNA from the same family?” I asked her, unzipping my rucksack as she listened. “The XY conundrum,” she replied, slowly. “Exactly. And if Dad’s the male, that makes you...” “The female.” “Give that girl a prize! Dad, it’s time to uncreate a monster.”

Stairway To Heaven

by Lou Antonelli and Edward Morris Sometimes it takes an encounter with the past to give you hope for the future.

Sorry, I need to back up a little.

y eyes aren't what they used to be. Any more, they strain after a fraction of the time I'd already spent that night staring at my monitor. I was trying to make Page 3 of tomorrow's Street Edition of the paper fit into a space under a block long. Editing is a dirty job, but any more, there was no one to watch the world while I was sleeping, at work or at home. I threw myself into the paper years ago. I had my reasons. At that point, pondering and oscillating, I heard a barely-audible whine like a camera flash charging up. It tickled a nerve from my ear down into my neck and throat, and made me twitch involuntarily. The smells of dust and paper and old ink in my office were suddenly overlain with a thick bloom of lavender. My mind and body threw up every red flag the old proximity-sensors could bark into muster. Laurie McKenzie stood there in my office, again. Her hair, which must have been waist-length, was bound in double French braids just like before. This time, she was wearing a green Nehru jacket with a high, stiff collar. Laurie's witchy green eyes sparkled in the dark. The black, multi-lensed pistol she was pointing at me looked like it could drop a commercial plane. I laid my hands palm down on the desk. "Still mad at me, I see," I said flatly. "I wasn't really going to give you to the cops. Is that… Is that a weapon, or…" But I couldn't hang anything on the ‘or'. It had been a long night. Laurie smiled. One of her front teeth was silver. "It's multi-purpose. I brought it with me from home. This little baby could dissimulate your tachyons. You'd disappear two weeks ago." I've been through too much to be in this damn fix, I thought, maddened and worn down to a nub. How did this happen, again?

Texas is a conservative state. East Texas is the most conservative part of the state. Juniper Valley is the most conservative town in East Texas. That conservatism was visually embodied in the McKenzie home place, just on the edge of old downtown--two blocks from the office of the newspaper I own, the Juniper Valley Chronicle. The McKenzie home was three and a half stories worth of Prairie Gothic cathedral, a visual riot of gables and widow's walks and gingerbread scrollwork, painted a pearl white whose glare even put the moonlight to shame. Old Man McKenzie had it built a hundred and thirty years ago. For fifteen years, it lay deserted after Ione McKenzie's lamentable demise. None of her children lived in Juniper Valley, either, having scattered to Lubbock, Huston and Nacogdoches, respectively. One or the other of the kids kept the house vacant as a tax write-off, and paid good money for its care-taking. Over the years, many out-of-towner's had stopped by my office and asked whether I knew who owned that beautiful old house--which was obviously unoccupied--and whether it was for sale. I always answered the same: Yes, and no. That first night, the moon was full and bright as a new silver dollar when I drove past the McKenzie place at ten. Driving through old downtown at ten felt like whistling past a graveyard. Part of me expected to be sharing the road with tumbleweeds. A shadow on the back porch of the McKenzie place was leaning down, fiddling with the knob and lock on the door. I swung around to the opposite side of the house, pulled in and got out, hoping to remain unobtrusive and unobserved. There was no time to reach for my cell phone and dial 911. The burglar looked kid-sized. Maybe I could scare him off. Her, I amended, leaping

onto the porch and grabbing the girl's wrist as she twisted the knob. She had big green eyes, an insouciant mouth, and looked vaguely familiar. When I bent her wrist back and thumb-locked her, she yelped. "Busted!" I said loudly. "Breaking and entering! I'm placing you under citizen's arrest." She couldn't have been more than five-two, but powered out of the lock with the strength of a fullgrown man, and began rubbing her wrist, reaching for the knob again with her left hand. "Excuse me. I live here. And if we're going to talk about citizens' arrests, I've got you for assault. Please get off my property." I reached for my cell phone. "Missus McKenzie passed on fifteen years ago. She lived here. Nobody else has since. You want to start making sense, soon?" She looked at my phone like she'd never seen one before, and tried to back up a step. "What are you going to do with that?" "Call 911," I replied. Her brows furrowed, and she took me in. "Now who's not making sense?" She paused. "You said Momâ&#x20AC;Ś Mrs. McKenzie, sheâ&#x20AC;Ś died?" I nodded, waiting. Her eyes misted up and she started to cry, leaning against the door as the sobs took hold of her and her small, lithe frame racked and wobbled with their force. "It's okay, they'll probably just fine you and let you off with a w---" Then I looked down, and saw the key in the lock. Clearly, getting caught out wasn't what made her cry. I put my phone back in its holster at my belt.

She was wiping at her eyes, taking deep breaths and getting herself under control. The fire in her cheeks died down a notch. I leaned forward. "Are you one of Ione's grandkids? Shame you didn't hear." At that, she stood up straight and in a careless gesture shoved the door open, peering into the darkened house as if expecting dead bodies or ghosts. "I'm her daughter," she informed me like it was nothing, not meeting my eyes. I grew irritated. "Jill McKenzie Nelson, for your information, lives way the hell in Nacogdoches, You ain't her." She put a hand on her hip and looked at me with slitted eyes. "Oh, so she married Bill Nelson after all. What a chump. Laurie Evelyn McKenzie is, under the circumstances, not very pleased to make your acquaintance." I reached in and switched on the porch light. For the cops. In the light, the girl looked no more than twenty, wearing the kind of rectangular granny-glasses that a singer named John Sebastian made popular back in my misspent youth. The crocheted shawl over her shoulders was every color of the rainbow, covering a purple tie-dyed tank top that left very little to the imagination, including her lack of bra. Her jeans were Levi's, of a cut I dimly remembered, carelessly hacked-off at the knees and held up with a hemp belt. She was wearing heavy Mexican peasant sandals--huaraches, I think they call them. A yellow Peace-sign button clipped her shawl in place. "Jesus," I blurted. "I'm having an acid flash-

Laurie smiled. One of her front teeth was silver. "It's multi-purpose. I brought it with me from home. This little baby could dissimulate your tachyons. You'd disappear two weeks ago."

back! Halloween's not for a while, little sister. Where did you get that get-up?" She self-consciously tugged the edges of the shawl to better cover her chest, undid the pin and clasped it tighter. "Do I look that strange to you?" she snapped. "Honestly, how far to the right has this country swung? I remember, Hunter Thompson said that---" "Hunter Thompson ain't sayin' much, nowadays," I replied shortly. "You got the period costume pretty well right, but---" She cut me off in turn."What do you mean, he's not saying much? He's the greatest writer Rolling Stone ever hired! He'll live to be two hundred and spit in everyone's eye! He---" "Where have you been? He got a hip replaced, and he was in so much pain afterward he went and shot himself. This has gone on far enough. Do you have any identification?" But she flopped to a sitting position and wept. I waited again. "Laurie McKenzie went missing when she was twenty-one," I explained patiently when the sobbing stopped. She was hugging her knees, head down. "She'd be fifty-six. Now, I'm not handing you a line at all when I say that you don't look anywhere near fifty-six." She stood up, reaching in her pocket, wiping at her eyes with her other hand. "Because of the Time-Dilation Effect," she answered glumly at the ground in a voice that was dead. "Poor, poor Hunter. Better to burn out than to fade away." Then her hand left her pocket. She whipped something in the general direction of my face, and--

y face. I felt a splinter in my cheek when I rolled over. The Indiglo face of my watch read 4:00 A.M.. The porch light was off. Picking myself up and stepping through pools of moonlight and shadow, I staggered my bleary way back to my pickup. My head hurt and rang, and felt empty. My mouth was very dry. I could call the cops. I could. And tell them what, exactly? I'd never evolved a response to process anything that had just happened. For a while, I tried, bitterly wishing I hadn't quit smoking all those years ago. I

settled for a short drive back home and a long, quiet glass of beer in my armchair until the shaking stopped. Tomorrow was another day. Eventually, I convinced my conscious mind that the whole episode was some kind of hallucination, brought on by overwork and fatigue.

month went by. Circulation increased. I bought up a struggling little weekly out near Garland, and was suddenly saddled with three times the responsibilities I had before. I felt like Perry White in the old Superman comics, chained to my desk for seven to ten hours a day and constantly just about to nuke on someone. I read somewhere that work expands to fill the time available, but this was ridiculous. Hip-deep in copy on a long night shift, I heard a whine that hurt my teeth, fading into the sound of that soft, smoky voice again. "So you knew my mother?" I jerked upright in my chair, its wheels rushing backward, and bonked my head against the wall behind my desk. "JESUS!" I bellowed," Where the hell did you come from?" Laurie wore a white peasant blouse, unlaced to a degree of impropriety. The cutoffs, sandals and shawl were the same. She ignored my question. "You knew my mother," she repeated gently, like she was talking to a child. Without asking, she took the other chair in front of my desk and sat in it, folding her hands in her lap. I felt like one of my reporters was interviewing me, and began rubbing hard at the high-water mark on my forehead that was my former hairline. "Tell you what," I countered. "I'll answer all your questions now if you promise to answer mine later." Once more, that silver tooth flashed. In my younger days, I would have worked very hard to make such a woman smile like that. "Fair enough," this self-assured little creature told me. I clasped my hands and rested my elbows on my desk. "How did you know my mother?" she asked. "I became Editor here," I gestured around me, "Back in 1987. For four years, Ione McKenzie

wrote a genealogy column for this paper before she passed on." She cringed a bit. "How… How'd Mom die? Please." I took a deep breath, trying to collect what I had to say. She saw me hesitate, and felt me biting my tongue. I know she did. "She... she was at the corner of Pleasant Valley and Wilson Road and didn't come to a full stop at the stop sign." I heard my teeth grit together. "Ah, God, she rolled right through the intersection and tboned another car, broadside. I'm… I'm sorry. " She shook her head. "Mom always was a careless driver. I tried to tell her." SQUEAK. My teeth ground together again. She looked up, but didn't remark on that. "Who's been keeping up the house?" was all she said. "The children. Tom, Kirk and Jill. They spend good money and pay local people for the maintenance and landscaping." The next question was personal. "So who are you?" I sucked in my breath. "My name's Tom Di Salvo. Like I said, I came to Juniper Valley back in 1987 to edit this rag, here. I bought out the old owners later on. I guess you could call me chief cook and cottle washer now. I edit, publish, sweep out the shop, swamp out the toilets… the whole tamale." She clasped my hand lightly, shaking it once. "Very pleased to meet you, Mr. Di Salvo. It's obvious from your accent you're not from East Texas," she said. "So how did you end up in Juniper Valley?" "I met a Juniper Valley girl in college, and we married and moved back here back in the ‘80s. OK, now it's my turn," I furrowed my brow. "Now who the hell are you?" She leaned back in the chair, still looking completely composed. "Told you last night, I'm the baby of the family. Laurie McKenzie." Here we go again, I thought. "Riiight. Last night. A month ago. And… you're fifty-six, but you obviously just got back from outer space, which has been your place of residence since 1971. You seem rational enough to explain this in Outpatient Psych, which is where you'll probably end up if you haven't already escaped." I got to my feet. "It's been a pleasure talking

with you. Very educational. And now, my dear---" I bowed, and moved to walk her toward the door. She pushed my hand away with that same surprising strength. "Why are you so sure I'm lying?" she asked, open incredulity on her clear, bright face. She turned to gesture at the tall, groaning bookshelf to the left of my office door. "Isaac Asimov." she said, "Ray Bradbury. Arthur C. Clarke. Robert Heinlein. Don't they all write about time travel all the time? Why is it so hard for you to accept?" I turned quickly to look back at the books she was referring to. She hadn't mentioned the shelf below it, full of Sterling, Gibson, and Stross. "Heinlein, Asimov and Clarke are dead," I said shortly. "Bradbury's very, very old. The future ain't what it used to be." Her mouth pursed and she folded her arms, shaking her head and tapping her foot." Just another narrow-minded East Texas asshole," she snapped. "Just another part of the problem I ran away from in the first place. Hello, I must be going." "Wait…" She stopped and turned, reaching behind her back. In the pause, it seemed whole histories flared up and fizzled out, empires rising and falling on the bones of unnumbered dead. I heard myself speak from far away, down a long corridor of type filled with basketball games and car wrecks and flower shows, Full Story On Page 3. But maybe there was no Page 3. Or maybe Page 3 was about to wiggle out my office door. Her mouth opened, but she said nothing just then. I yanked open the top drawer of my desk and grabbed my old micro-cassette recorder, looking her dead in the eyes. "If what you're saying is even remotely true, this is the biggest story in history. Please," I begged. "Tell me the rest." Her hand came from behind her back, and then our receptionist Beth was pouring a glass of water on my face. I jumped up, knocking over my chair. "Sorry, boss," she told me apologetically. She knew my habits well. Sunlight was streaming through the windows. "This was just like that one time last year, when I had to carry you to the couch. Didn't want anyone else to see…"

It's kind of sad, I guess, when one of the best

things people say about you is "He's a nice drunk." Beth, bless her heart, assumed I'd been drinking alone and passed out. But she was concerned when she saw the welt on the side of my face. "Musta hit my head on the desk," I told her lamely. She didn't pursue the matter. Another month went by, and then Laurie was standing there aiming some kind of weapon at me. "OK, you've made your point with your Ronnie Ray-Gun. I'll be good." One eyebrow arched. "Funny. That old cowboy actor who was the Governor of California. Point for you." "He was President, too," I blurted, "In the Eighties." Her jaw dropped. "I… What? Really? Wow. This country really did go to hell." "Okay." I took a deep breath, steepling my fingers. "Sorry things got out of hand, but… please, will you put yourself in my shoes for five seconds? Who the hell would believe you. This is East Texas, for crying out loud. Let's be real here." She kept the weapon trained on me, moving a bit closer. "Did you vote for Reagan?" I sat back in my chair. "Yes, as a matter of fact I did. Twice." Her expression became one of weary contempt. "You know, I had a few good friends in the SDS who'd say I should off a fascist pig like you." "Come on," I said, waiting for someone to walk in and end this. "Give Peace a chance! Are you gonna just… discombobulate my tachyons, or whatever the hell you said?" "I told you, there are different settings on this." She looked like she'd decided something. "Actually, I thought the best revenge would be to show you what you're missing." Her smile wasn't very reassuring. "Let's head out the back door. Move."

s we traversed the vast, vacant field between my office and the grounds of the McKenzie Place, Laurie began filling me in. "I hitchhiked out of this piss ant little town in the spring of '71. Made it all the way to Mount Shasta, out in California.

Very Kerouac of me. It was fun." By then, she'd lowered the bulky, vaguely Dust Buster-shaped weapon to port arms. I was following her by choice, now. My knees hurt, and the sun was too bright, but I wouldn't miss any of this for the world. I listened, staring at my sneakers as we got close to the house. "I met some people who were running a commune up on the slopes of Shasta," she continued. "Very beautiful, all these giant trees covered with lichen, mountains with white snowcaps. They said there's a city full of caverns under the mountains. Beautiful place." I nodded. "I've been out that way. It must have been quite a place." She relaxed a little. "It was. It almost felt like The Man couldn't touch us. Like Nature was all there was. One of the old heads there called himself ‘Mr. Tambourine Man'--like from the Dylan song. I suppose Dylan's dead, too." I shook my head. "He's still playing sold-out shows, but he's completely lost his English." She giggled, patting me on the shoulder. "Since when did Bob Dylan ever sing in English?" I looked at her hand. "The more things change, right?" she asked, smiling winsomely. "Anyway, Mr. Tambourine Man was way older than his years. He always talked about all life being interconnected, and said that if we could just activate our DNA and keep it active, we could all get to a higher consciousness that would make more mature races take notice of us…" "Heard that before," I smirked. "What was his gimmick?" She looked at me like I was some new species of lesser beast. "He was grooming us." In my hip pocket, the tape-recorder whirred on and on. I hoped the mic was as good as it used to be. "For what?" We were standing in the front yard now. "Early in May, we heard what happened in Ohio--at Kent State. Some of the members of the commune went into town and came back with newspapers, crying. It was tough. We were all a mess." That got to me. I could have told her that I was there, in the wake of the carnage, as a freelance photographer for the San Antonio Star-Herald. I could have told her about the weeping moth-

ers, surly National Guardsmen lying each other up, and a redneck who smashed my camera with an axhandle for the crime of going to the wrong dive for a sandwich and some suds. The whole country was crazy then. But I didn't tell her that. I just listened, hoping my remaining hair wasn't standing on end. "Mr. Tambourine Man made everyone promise not to smoke anything or drink anything, or whatever, for a whole day. That night, he had all the old heads call a counsel. We built a big fire." Her small hands stitched the air like dragonflies as she spoke. She was shaping the words, struggling with them. "And he said… he…" A tear tracked its way down her face. She didn't wipe it away, and neither did I. For some reason, she was also smiling. "He said," her voice got low and raspy (she was a good mimic), "‘There'd been people up in space for a lot longer than the first Moon landing. But we Telians, like They call us, gotta do it the hard way, brothers ‘n sisters. We gotta do it on our own until the bloodmouths in suits all get killed off and the rest of ‘em change the game. When we're a mature race… the rest of ‘em can play too." She let that sink in. I felt the recorder whirring in my pocket, sure she could hear it. By then, I was past caring. "He kept talking about something he called The People. Kind of a …a Soviet of all these intelligent species. He said The People still recruit on Earth, but only from folks who've been marginalized by civilization. The ones the world beats senseless have no problem cutting all ties. And he…" She swallowed hard. "He asked us to join him. All eight of us said yes right away. I think some of the guys, like Turtle, they were expecting it to be a joke, and then they could rib Tambourine Man about it later, you know, when he came down, but--" "It was no joke," I finished for her. She looked at me gratefully. "No, it really wasn't." It seemed like she'd been waiting a long time to let that exhale out. I tried to reckon how long, and couldn't. It made my brain hurt. "How come you're back yourself, then?" I ventured.

Laurie seemed to anticipate the question. "I called in a few favors. I promised I'd avoid contact. I just wanted to see the old home place and find out about the family, before everything disappeared." She sighed wistfully. "My mother was a real hard-nosed woman, but she was a product of her environment. I guess I do miss her--and finding someone who knew her in the years after I left somehow makes me feel better." She noticed my pained expression. "Is something wrong?" "No, I guess the fresh air is giving me a headache," I lied. "Why are we standing here?" She spun a knob on the side of the strange "ray gun" and pointed it. That whine cycled up louder, louder, louder and every filled tooth in my mouth felt like a tenpenny nail stuck in my gums. My extremities started to feel numb. Laurie appeared entirely unaffected. A negative space appeared ten feet in front of us, a gran matrix of shimmer cut from the air. Within it, I could see only calm, gray light and hear the source of the whine, louder than the gun, the beast-whistle that the hole made when it came. "This is a space-time dimple." She might have been remarking on the weather. "This projectionunit here makes one for a short time. We'll essentially be shielded, and riding down a wormhole. The outpost terminal at the other end was set up to receive Telian travelers. They've had lots of time to build, believe me. It's totally safe." I looked at the ‘projection unit.' "I thought you said that thing could discombobulate my tachyons." She looked down her nose at me through her glasses. "If I wanted it to. Now move your ass or lose it." So I did.

felt no sudden lurch, no displacement, no shifting of internal organs. There were neither shimmering lights, ground-fog effects, nor the voice of God as William Shatner reading me my sins. My view of everything simply changed. Everything was wider, out of place. The wind smelled less like Shasta than Tuscany ( where my wife and I had spent our honeymoon at a cottage

in the hills, vigintillions of aeon's ago in another world called the Sixties, lost and gone from this twisted Now.) I stood in front of a stone house atop a storeystall square pyramid, looking off into a city of buildings similarly shaped. But I'd been to Mexico, too, and this wasn't it. The sun was… green? Well, the sky was green, a sharp bright green you could taste. The air was alive with the cries of jungle birds old Audubon may have glimpsed in his dreams. The city was so clean I couldn't process it all at first. The jungle came down into the streets and marched in lush, verdant park-blocks clear to a vast central common I could barely see. Beside the stone house, a tree like a banyan or a baobab stretched a riot of palm-shaped leaves and strange fruit into the sky. Beneath it, a tall, long-nosed fellow with receding black hair that was going iron-gray, sat in the lotus asana, meditating. He, too, wore cut off Levis, and a black tank top faded from wear. Only this last observation brought the knowledge home to me that this was all really happening. I looked down at my hands, then reached up and slapped my own face. It hurt. Laurie giggled. At the sound of the slap, the man roused himself, standing up and walking towards us. "Hey, Laurie." He tipped a lazy hand at her, bowing in my general direction. His nasal voice was low, expressive, and full of bitter inflection. He talked like the guy in the old Movie Tone newsreels. "You're in the clear. Nobody saw you take your little trip. This time." His expression hardened a bit. "I got your back. But please, wait a little while ‘till you go off again, okay? We could cause a whole lot of trouble if we were found out." Laurie was looking at the ground. "Okay, Roger," she finally said. He shook his eagle head, lifting up one admonishing finger. Buddhist prayer-beads clattered on his wrist. I saw a blue star tattooed on the back of that hand. "Now," he said, a great deal more sharply, "to the matter of your little uninvited guest!" He flashed a two-fingered sign at me. "No worries, brother. Peace. Just a small…uhh, administrative matter."

I thought about waving a single-fingered flag in return, but didn't. "Hell, old-timer," I drawled. "I'm not your brother. Where are we?" He raised his eyebrows, looking at Laurie quizzically, then back at me. "Shambala… friend. Only the oldest Telian outpost there is. Kind of the first off-Earth way station. Am I detecting a note of hostility?" "Probably." I looked around, trying to make any sense out of what I saw. "I didn't come here voluntarily." Roger cocked his head and gestured to Laurie. They went off to the side for a quick huddle. I sat down on the stones and closed my eyes. For an instantaneous journey, it was nonetheless proving to be a long, strange trip. When I looked up, he was walking back in my direction. "I'm very sorry. Laurie is new here, and really not used to our ways. She shouldn't have lost her temper at you--no matter how ill behaved you were-and taken you here." He unholstered his own projection unit, much larger and sleeker than Laurie's, and pointed it behind us. The whining and the cold came again once more as a new dimple shimmered into life. Even over the sound of the dimple, Roger's voice rang in my ears. "You need to return quickly, time-dilation and all. Can't spend too much time with the faeries, or you go back like Rip Van Winkle did. You grok?" I shuddered. My shoulders slumped. "Yeah, I grok all right. Get me home." Laurie stepped forward. "Wait. Think about it. I know you're a Republican..." I smiled, because she made it sound like a bad word, "...But don't you think you'd be happier here?" At the foot of the pyramid, in an olive grove, human beings sat at the feet of something I had no words to describe, something with metal-tipped tentacles woven into a crown atop its head, that held peripatetic discourse in a ringing, golden language like wind through a power line. Beyond that was a pellucid blue pond, whose shores teemed with picnic lunches and open lovemaking. No one seemed to mind. And off in the distance, from the high, tiered steps of the nearest pyramid, creatures human, semiand Other were launching themselves on wings

strapped to their arms, wheeling and soaring and swinging delightedly. I swallowed hard. "Duty calls. This looks beautiful. Enjoy it. Thank you for showing it to me." Laurie took a step forward, radiating a palpable bubble of Pissed Off. "Every time I've visited you, you're working late at your newspaper office. You don't seem to ever go home. What the hell is tying you down?" I looked at her and it suddenly struck me why she came back twice. My reply took a great deal of hard thought. I pretended to shrug disinterestedly. "I was married. My wife was killed in a car crash. Working helps keep me from thinking." Her expression softened. "I thought there might be something underneath that hard exterior." I wasn't done. "I had a loving, perfect marriage for five years, and then... nothing. Nothing for the last fifteen years." "So why won't you stay?" Her voice grew emphatic at the last word. Roger still held his finger on the button, I looked across the landscape. "You said it yourself. I'm a rock-ribbed Republican. This is your world. I wouldn't fit in." I threw up my hands. " Besides, I just can't leave Juniper Valley." She cocked her head. "You're holding back something. What is there in Juniper Valley you can't leave? I grew up there, and I left it in a flash." I wouldn't let her see me cry. "I gotta go. If you ever want to find out," I said as I stepped through the portal, "Instead of dropping by at midnight, meet me for lunch." The sun was coming up as I stepped onto the empty lot. I bagged work that day. Wouldn't you?

aurie walked into the newspaper office at high noon. Beth was at the front desk. She told me the whole story later. "I'd like to see Mr. Di Salvo. Is he at lunch?" Beth, of course, frowned. "Yes. Was Mr. Di Salvo expecting you?" "He said I should come and have lunch with him one day." Beth shook her head. "That's very strange, but he must have a reason. Do you know where The Pine Garden is?" "I'm sorry, no."

"It's at the corner and Elm and Boswood Streets. Thats..." "I know where that is. Isn't there a nursing home there? Sunny Acres?" "Goodness, it hasn't been Sunny Acres for years. It was renamed when it was sold back in the ‘90s." "I guess the restaurant is next door, then?" Beth set her straight. "He eats lunch every day with his wife-at the nursing home."

was combing Eileen's hair when Laurie came in. Sadness and exasperation played across her face. She waited in the doorway. "Why did you tell me your wife was dead?" "She might as well be. She's been like this for fifteen years, ever since the accident." I went back to combing her hair. "I visit her every day at lunch. The nurses bring me something to eat. Eileen's on a feeding tube." "Still, it would have explained a lot to me," she went on. "I didn't want you to know, because…" The light was long in the room. I couldn't finish. "Because what? You're still not telling me something." I finally nuked, and threw the brush at her-hard. Her arms went up. The brush ricocheted from her forearm, clattered against the wall and fell to the floor. "Goddammit, your stupid drunken old mother ran a stop sign and hit my wife! She got her worthless eighty-year old redneck ass killed, but look at my wife! My pretty wife! She's laid there for fifteen years! Fifteen fuckin' years, a living death! I can't believe I haven't strangled you! ‘Mom always was a careless driver.' My ass! Mom couldn't lay off the sauce long enough to take a piss!" Laurie held her hand to her mouth. That hand shook a bit. "Every day, every damn day, for the last fifteen years, I've thought about burning that damn house down. But I haven't had the guts. Then you, the missing daughter--a flower child who got lost in space--shows up." I'd completely, absolutely lost it. I raised my arms, clenching my fists. I screamed so loud my voice broke. "What the fuck do you want from this miserable wreck?"

She ran out. I collapsed in a chair. In a moment, some nurses and aides came running in. "Family argument," I wheezed and lied. "Very bad family argument."

"I know you want to visit, but you are still very weak, Eileen,' he said. "Tom will be right around the corner. Won't you?" "Oh, you bet." I could have collapsed right there. Eileen smiled, nodded, and squeezed my hand. "We'll talk later." I kissed her on the cheek as her eyes fluttered closed, into normal sleep. Branson motioned me out into the hallway. "My God," I said when the door hissed shut. "What a miracle!" "Well, like I kept saying, there's always hope," he replied easily. "It's very rare, but sometimes people in that state do slowly heal." I got that. "What happened, then?" "Oh, it was very normal. She woke up this morning and pressed the button for the nurse--who nearly fainted when she saw her, awake and talking." "Did anyone do anything different? Change her meds?" "No. The only unusual thing was, well, the night nurse in this wing swears she saw someone come out of her room late last night." "Really? Was it another nurse?" "No, she said it was a short, young white girl. Dark hair, with rather strange clothes. One of the other nurses today said the description sounded like the family member you had the shouting match with last month." He saw what must have been quite a look on my face, and changed tacks quickly. "Of course, if she was trying to harm her, I'll have Security combing the videotapes in two minutes. I could never allow such a---" "No," I said in a breathless little croak. "No, quite the reverse. If it was her."

Dr. Branson called me at work a month later.

I could tell who it was by the look on Beth's face. Last winter, Eileen barely made it out of a bout of pneumonia. Every time the Pine Garden phoned for anything, she got uncomfortable. I took the phone, clenching my teeth. Dr. Branson's voice sounded odd. I'd never heard him sound the way he did just then. "Tom," he said laconically, "there's been a change with Eileen. Please don't be alarmed. You need to come down here right away." Beth raised her eyebrows as I shot past. "Don't worry," I said, "I think this might be something good."

entered the room, and all my internal organs entered my esophagus and began to throb there. I first saw the large bandage on Eileen's neck. Then I saw her eyes open. Dr. Branson loomed beside her, holding a chart on a black plastic clipboard. The nurse at her bedside was feeding her applesauce with a spoon. And she was really eating. Three other nurses sat in the room, like it was Old Home Week, and three Nurse's Aides as well. I knew everyone in there. The nurse who was feeding her looked my way. Eileen did, too, her face focusing visibly. The nurse was the first to speak. "Oh, look who came to see you!" I ran over to her bed. "Hello, Tommy," Eileen rasped. "They say I've been out a while. Having… having a little trouble talking, but… What the hell happened to your hair?" I couldn't see through the tears, but still managed to grab her hand and kiss it. "Half of it fell out worryin' about you, and the rest went gray. Same reason." My lady looked like a strong gust of wind would carry her away, but the fire in her eyes had been stoked again. "I love you," she whispered. "I love you," I said back. Dr. Branson stepped forward.

he rest of the day was a blur. I went back to the office and set type for several hours on Adobe, not even reading what I was setting. A few times I stopped and paced the office in a lopsided circle, staring at nothing. That night, Pine Garden's dietary staff was kind enough to cook the large rib-eye I brought in, medium rare. We ate by candlelight. It was our first dinner together in fifteen years…

Returning home, I was out of my mind with

joy, and couldn't fall asleep. Around eleven, I'd crossword-puzzled myself drowsy, when a thought suddenly struck me. I drove my pickup over to the McKenzie place, scribbled "Thank You!" on a slip of paper and tucked it in the door. The next day, a Blue Norther blew though town, followed by a vicious thunderstorm that toppled trees and sent bolts of lightning crashing into rooftops and hay fields. Juniper Valley lost all its power. We watched the storm from the office. When lightning hit the highest gambrel of the McKenzie place, we called it in to the Fire Department. The pumps weren't working well that day, and the pressure was low in the fire hydrants. With the wind as strong as it was, to boot, the house burned to the ground in under an hour.

he McKenzie children returned to Juniper Valley one last time, to oversee the demolition. An outof-town realtor put up a "For Sale" sign on the street side of the vacant lot. Eileen came home a week later. She's still having physical therapy, but otherwise she's picked up where she left off quite well â&#x20AC;&#x201C; considering the time lag. She took it in stride when we told her she had been in a coma for fifteen years. And she felt bad that Ione McKenzie had died in the wreck. I still have to work late at night, sometimes. When I do, and I need to stretch my legs, I always walk over to the grounds of the old McKenzie place and look up at the sky. I heard that realtor just sold the whole lot to Starbuck's. What else is new? But while the lot's still vacant, I look up at the stars and wonder how Laurie is doing--way out there. Once in a while, I'll smoke a cigar, and tap the ashes into the ashy soil to mingle with the sad remains of the McKenzie home place. I go out there a lot when I work late. I have to stretch my legs a lot, you see. Arthritis has settled into all my joints, and I have trouble sitting still at a desk, nowadays. My life is dull, domestic and starting to wind down. My Shambala is here, just as close as

Eileen's faded blue eyes. Last night in the lot, I thought again about Laurie's offer. When I was young and Nixon was president, I thought I knew it all. Now, the one thing I know is the older I get, the less I know. The Summer of Love may have died at Kent State. Some others say it ended at Altamont. But down the years, a few folks (and one very special lady in particular) found a way to stretch that summer out forever. "It wouldn't have worked out, anyway, flower child," I said, preparing for the long trudge back inside to the elevator. "I guess that what I get for voting for Reagan." For Ted Sturgeon and Trent Zelazny

The Kramers

by Blake Kimzey This disturbing little tale shows us the actions of seemingly normal people can provide a chill in our bones just as deep as any supernatural event. January 1998

dialed his home number. It rang twice. “Hello,” Alice said. Howard breathed heavily into the phone. He wiped his nose with the sleeve of his starched shirt. “Alice,” Howard said. “Yes, dear, are you on your way home?” “Alice,” Howard stammered. “I’m not fit to go on.” “Howie, you stop this.” Howard sniffled. “You’ve been drinking,” Alice said. “Where are you?” “Out back.” “Howard—” “I won’t tell the kids about you and Jim. I’ve put you through enough. But you tell Tommy and Amanda I’m sorry I couldn’t have been better.” “Stop this right now. Jim and I haven’t—” “I’m sorry about you and Jim. I am. It breaks my heart. But I’m sorrier about Jenny.” “Howie!” Alice shrieked. Howard rested the phone on the floor next to his knees and consulted the mirror once more to see the red dot hovering in place. He picked up the slender metal rod at his side and pushed it toward the tripod, taut against the weld on the trigger. Howard closed his eyes. The trigger depressed and the shotgun fired, rocking the base of the tripod, causing the floor to creak. He slumped lifeless to the ground, the wall behind him bloodied with skull and brain and bits of hair.

Howard Kramer was on his knees. He looked

across the room at the loaded shotgun pointed back at him and brought his wife’s hand held mirror to his face. In the reflection he saw a graying visage, bloodshot eyes, and the red dot of a laser sight trained on the bridge of his nose. He had finished a handle of whiskey before welding his favorite shotgun to a makeshift tripod, and then bolted it into the wood floor of his barn loft, just behind the house he shared with his wife and three kids. He thought of last January: his daughter falling through a thin patch of frozen pond as they snowshoed across an untouched field, blanketed in white. Snow was falling in sheets, the wind whipping it into a frenzied static. Jenny was out-pacing him by 50 yards, an outline of fuzz in front of him. Howard stopped to catch his breath. When he visored his palm it was too late to notice the slight depression in the field before them. In an instant Jenny dropped through the ice. He could hear her scream, her arms splashing in thick winter water. He tried to run to her: he knew her snowshoes were freezing to her boots, the water constricting her muscles, her soaked clothes an anchor pulling her to the bottom. The tripod stood three and a half feet tall and was situated in the opposite corner. Howard wore his green Vermont Game Warden uniform, pressed and creased for the occasion. His weatherworn bible was on the floor next to him, opened to Philippians 1:20, which he had highlighted: According to my earnest expectation and hope that in nothing I shall be ashamed, but with all boldness, as always, so now also Christ will be magnified in my body, whether by life or by death. Three envelopes fanned out like a hand of cards next to the book, each marked in permanent marker with a single word: Alice, Tommy, Amanda. He picked up the phone from the wall jack and

January 2008

craggly tree limbs scratched the windows and banged against the red peel of the old barn loft where Howard Kramer had knelt. The whir of the floorboard heater was the only other sound, its slow hum keeping Tom warm under woolen layers of itchy bedspread. A front had moved in and

settled over the Green Mountains of northern Vermont, forcefully blowing nickel-sized flurries sideways to the ground. The barn cast an aged, hulking shadow, its outline falling within yards of the bald and bare brush populating the banks of the Gihon River, wending out of sight into the darkness beyond. The drift ice that had been flowing downstream earlier in the day had frozen to the rocky banks, now covered in a soft blanket of navy blue in the thin moonlight. At 2:17 in the morning Tom’s cell phone rattled on the nightstand. He woke immediately, as if he’d been expecting the call. His fingers felt for and twisted the lamp switch, allowing soft light to bloom in the corner of the room. Tom fumbled for his notepad and pen, cleared his throat and then picked up the phone. “Kramer, Fish and Wildlife.” “Sorry to wake you, Tom.” “Hell, Jim.” “We got a Subaru that hit a bull moose about half an hour ago up on Clay Hill, just before Cemetery Road. Went through the windshield. And it’s not dead yet.” “Hell.” “You’re goddamn right.”

he road heading up to Clay Hill was an unpaved mess, buttressed with dirty snow that had been plowed aside, bending its way through a vast conifer forest that shone green and black through the wipers and headlights of Tom’s truck. As he summited the hill, the mute blink of orange hazards and red and blue patrol lights dimmed into focus through the snowdrift. Tom rolled to a stop, his high beams illuminating the scene before him: the injured Subaru, its driver’s side alight from road flares burning on the ground, was a mangled heap of glass and metal and moose, flanked by a wrecker and a patrol truck. Tom put his truck in park and cut his way through the cold to shake hands with Jim Baker. The two lawmen stood face to face, each bundled in uniformed jackets puffy with agency patches. “That doesn’t look promising,” Tom said, his breath a slight mist floating between them. “Yeah,” Jim said. “Spilled its guts on the driver and hooked its antlers right into the head of the pas-

senger.” Tom looked at the wreck. “They going to make it?” “One of them is. Tough to say about the boy who got it in the head. Carol Lennox’s boy.” Tom looked up. “Todd Lennox was in this wreck?” “If I’m not mistaken. Got it pretty bad.” “Hell.” “You know him?” Jim asked. “I know his mother.” “You want me to get on the horn and find out for sure how he’s doing? Ambulance couldn’t have left 15 minutes ago.” “You’re fine,” Tom said. “We’ll hear about it soon enough.” Tom walked over to the car to inspect the colossal bull and noticed its slick black coat, covered in blood and entrails. He circled the crumpled, concave hood of the car, where the bull had come to rest. Tom stood a couple feet back, wary of its broken legs. Jim stood idly by, inspecting the inspection. “I’ll be damned,” Tom said, nodding down at the colorless eyes looking up at him through the back passenger window. “Yep, son of a bitch is still alive.” Jim blew warm breath into gloved fists. “I bet he’s a thousand pounder.” “Well, let’s see what we can do.” “That winch of yours is about to get a workout. Burned my motor up, why I called you.” “I just figured the arthritis had locked you up for good.” “It about has,” Jim laughed. Tom nodded and rubbed his gloveless hands together. “Yell if you need anything,” Jim said. He spat dryly and the wind took it to the ground. “My heater isn’t broken. I’ll be in the truck, managing the situation.” “Should be fine. I’ll put him down and we’ll be out of here before you know it.”

t was five in the morning before Tom pulled into the driveway of his mother’s house. The snow had stopped falling and the yard in front of him was an untouched marshmallow. The clouds above

had parted and the moon shone brightly down, cutting a waxing glow where the curtain of snow had pulled apart. Tom parked under an awning that swooped down and away from the roof of the barn. Floodlights perched high above tinted the blood that coated the truck, a maroon streak where the winch had reeled the animal in. The wind whistled through the bare-branched birches and the river behind was a silent vein hibernating in a frozen ditch of snaking earth. Tom noticed a box of light coming from his mother’s second-story window. He looked at the barn and the steps leading up to the loft where he had been staying for the last week. Tom kicked at the snow. He thought better of sleep and made his way to the back of the house.

“I’m sure Carol is shook up. I haven’t had a chance to phone her yet.” “Well, dear, can I get you some coffee?” “That’d be fine,” Tom said. Alice went to the counter and poured a steady ribbon of black coffee into Tom’s thermos and returned to the table. “Your father hated having to put down an injured moose. Only thing that’d give him nightmares. The injustice of it all, he’d say.” “He never had the stomach for it.” “He’d be proud of you, Tommy.” Alice looked at the empty chair beside her and patted the seat. “Isn’t that right, Howard?” Tom took a sip of coffee. His cold gray hands bled into the base of the aluminum cylinder. “The old man set the bar pretty high.” “You’ll make District Chief Warden, you watch.” “Not if Jim keeps hanging on into old age like he has. He was out there tonight, saying he’s just getting started into his managerial days.” “He’s threatened to retire every spring for as long as I can remember,” Alice said. “Even your dad was waiting around for Jim to retire.” A moment of silence followed. Alice looked at Tom and her face softened. “Honey, I wish you’d come down from that loft. So does your dad. We have the entire house to ourselves and plenty of room for you.” “You’ve got to stop referring to him that way. It makes it worse.” Tom smoothed his thick brown beard with the palm of his hand and stretched his jaw with a wide, forced yawn. “Well, I don’t like the thought of you up there in that loft.” Alice studied her hands; they glistened with moisturizer. She cupped her mug and considered the blackness of it, the flavorful steam rising toward her face. Tom looked out the window at the barn. He regarded its rustic grace, the foundation and wooden frame that were more than a century old. “I’m worried about you,” Tom said. Alice set her mug down and took Tom’s hands in hers. “I’m fine, Tommy.” “I’ve been around for a week and haven’t seen you sleep a lick.” Tom scanned the kitchen and realized nothing had changed in ten years. He

he door creaked shut behind Tom and the smell of fresh coffee filled the narrow hallway leading to the kitchen. He could hear his mother talking loudly and shuffling about in a pair of over-sized house shoes that had once belonged to his father. “Coffee’s ready, Howard!” Alice yelled. “Howie!” When Tom got to the kitchen Alice looked up from the pot of coffee she was pouring and smiled. “Morning, Tommy,” Alice said. She had two cups of coffee in her hands and carried them to a small round table. She wore the terrycloth robe Tom had given her for Christmas and had it cinched just below the sag of her chest. Tom took a seat across from her. He looked at his mother’s weathered face, now an aged canvas of rough lines and creek-bed wrinkles. She sat whispering to herself, wringing her hands. Tom looked at her wedding band and the row of small diamonds on her slender finger, the skin aged and thin as wax paper. “Son, you look like you’ve already had a long day.” “You could say that. Couple kids hit a moose up on Clay Hill.” “Are they okay?” Alice asked. “Looks like it was Carol Lennox’s boy got the brunt of it. Made out about as bad as the moose.” “Oh, my,” Alice said. “Your Carol?” “In so many words.” “Are you worried?”

looked at his mother. “Tommy—” “I’ve gotta run to the hospital, check on Carol and the boy.” Tom grabbed his thermos and stood to leave. “Get some rest.”

om met Carol in the hospital concourse. They sat on a bench next to the gift shop, where balloons and candy and stuffed animals were overpriced and on display in the window. Carol had her long brown hair pulled into a ponytail and her face was winter pale in the absence of any makeup. She held Tom’s hands in her lap, rubbing his knuckles with her thumbs in a slow, deliberate rhythm. “So they took him into surgery this morning?” Tom asked. “Just a few hours ago.” “How is he doing?” “Doctor wired his jaw shut, said he’d be eating liquids for the next two months. He got a line of staples in his head, just under his hairline at the top of his forehead. The doctor said he owed his life to his hard head, and I told the doctor to tell me something I don’t know.” Tom laughed before meeting Carol’s eyes. She put her chin down and Tom leaned in close to her face. “Is he awake?” Tom cupped her chin with his palm and kissed her on the forehead. “Not yet,” Carol said. “My Todd, he won’t like it when he does. He’ll be out of commission until summer.” “Does his dad know?” “I sent him an e-mail, but who knows when he’ll have a chance to check it. Where he is they don’t have as many computers as they did in the Green Zone.” “Do you want me to take you home? Get you a shower and a nap?” “No, I’m going to stay here,” Carol said. “I want to be here when he wakes up.” “Do you want me to stay?” Tom asked. “No, you better not. Just coming to check on me is enough. I don’t want people to talk.” Carol smiled. “No, I know.” “Tell Amanda I say hi.” Carol dabbed her eyes with her sleeve.

“I will.” Carol leaned in to Tom’s chest and buried her head under his chin.

om sat at the All Day Café in downtown Johnson across from his younger sister. Amanda pushed her curly black hair behind her ear and contemplated the menu. “You about ready?” Tom asked. “I can’t decide,” Amanda said. “I’ll have what you’re having.” Tom nodded at the waiter, who started to make his way across the room. “How’s everything in Burlington?” Tom asked. “Things at the mill?” “Okay, I guess.” “Just okay?” Tom asked. He arranged his silverware and napkin, lining them up against the lip of the table. “Yeah, everything's fine.” Amanda looked out the window. The streets had turned to sludge and the passing cars were covered in dirt and dust and exhaust. “Morning,” the waiter said. He wiped his hands on his stained apron and pulled a notepad and pen from the front pocket. “Two specials,” Tom said. “Sunny side up with bacon and toast.” Amanda pushed her empty coffee cup to the edge of the table. “So why did you invite me to breakfast?” Amanda asked. “I haven’t heard from you since Christmas and the only e-mail you’ve responded to was a forward.” “I’m sorry about that.” “I’m not trying to insinuate anything,” Amanda said. “You’re fine. Just wanted to talk with you about mom. That’s all.” “How is she?” “I don’t know. She’s not sleeping much.” “Well,” Amanda said. “What’s new?” “I swung by the house a week ago and couldn’t find her anywhere. I finally went up to the loft and found her painting a big red circle on the wall, right where she found dad, and she had written Jenny’s name over and over on the floor. Dad’s tripod was back in the corner. She looked at me like

nothing was out of the ordinary and invited me down for some lunch. Pimento cheese sandwiches.” “Did you call the doctor?” Amanda asked. “No. But I moved into the loft that night. She’s talking to dad like he’s right there with her.” “You’re sleeping up there?” “You got a better idea to keep her out of there?” “No, it’s just,” Amanda paused. “It’s just creepy.” “I’m all for a second opinion, Mandy. You could swing by, you know.” Amanda studied her fingernails, the nail polish reduced to red flecks, little puzzle pieces on each nail. “I can’t sit with her and listen to her carry on about daddy and Jenny. I can’t.” “Fine. I’ll tell her you say hello. A good hello from you should do wonders.” “Tom,” Amanda said. “Don’t do this.” “Do what?” “Just tell her I love her,” Amanda said. The waiter returned with two specials. “Maybe some ketchup,” Amanda said, after the waiter had turned to leave. “So, are you still seeing Carol?” “Yes.” “Is she divorced yet?” “You’re not going to change the subject that easy.”

Tom rolled onto his back. “Mom is probably running around as we speak, naked as a jaybird in that loft, howling at the moon.” “Did Amanda say she’d help out?” “Not hardly.” “Well, we’ll figure something out.” “Not with Todd in the hospital we won’t,” Tom said. “Besides, you know good and well this is the only thing we do.” Tom patted the mattress with the palms of his hands. “Don’t be a bastard.” “This is all we do.” “If you believe that you can get the hell out of here.” “Carol—” “I’m just trying to get us back to sleep. I’m the one who should be having nightmares with Todd the way he is.” “My mom is unraveling at the seams. Hell, Carol, I’m unraveling at the seams.” “Tom, don’t. I was just saying.” “You know what, you’ve had a day.” Tom sat up in the bed. “I’m sorry—” “You owe me more than a sorry.” “I’m sorry. It’s my mother.” “I’ll beg to differ.” “Pardon,” Tom said. “It’s your father. As much as you’d like to be your father, and as clearly as that uniform says you are, you’re not. He isn’t who you remember. He was a coward.” “This is the only time you’re going to get away with that.” “It only needed to be said once.” Tom rotated his body out of bed, his bare feet arched on the cool carpet. He put his clothes on and walked out the door into the freeze of the early morning. It was still dark outside and the moon hung half visible at the edge of the horizon.

om and Carol were asleep, a tangled mess under the vacuum of her down comforter. The aggression of the storm bearing down outside pushed on the mobile home. Tom tossed before blinking awake in a breathless panic. The heater no longer clanked with life and his head had iced with beads of sweat; the tops of his shoulders were chilled, the skin taut and numb. After a moment, his eyes found themselves in the darkness. Carol stirred beside him and rolled over on her side. “Baby,” she whispered. “Is everything okay?” Tom put his hand under his pillow and faced Carol. “Can’t sleep. I didn’t mean to wake you.” Carol inched closer to cuddle. “Honey, maybe it isn’t such a good thing you’ve moved back home.”

hen Tom pulled into the driveway every light in his mother’s house was on. The front door was open; a sloped pile of snow had gathered on the welcome mat. He parked his truck in the front yard and ran into the house. The stairs seemed to bend under the weight of his steps. Tom ran down the second floor hallway, peeking into each room

as he made his way to his mother’s room at the end of the hall. The ceiling fan was on and her robe was a clump of cloth, dead on the floor. Tom looked out the back window at the barn and saw shadows dancing in the window by the light of a projector.

s Tom walked up the stairs to the loft the familiar smell of damp hay and old, dusty wood greeted him. The barn door below was banging against the wall, the wind pushing it back and forth on rusted hinges. Tom looked down the dark corridor of the loft and saw Alice, naked and hunched by his bed, adding a coat of red paint to the large scarlet circle on the wall. Tom felt his nose run. The fan from a decades-old projector was the only sound in the room, and the note his dad had left Alice was projected on the wall above his bed. Tom could see his breath in the darkness as he walked toward his mother. His boots slipped on the floor, slick with red paint where Alice had written Jenny’s name in straight lines. He stopped short of the tripod, the fading moonlight coming through the window bathing the dull metal legs in pale light. Alice looked up and smiled. Tears had formed in the corners of her eyes. “Tommy,” she sniffled. “It’s my fault.” Alice stood up and kissed Tom on the cheek, and then walked over to the tripod. She wilted to her knees, and bowed her head. “Howie,” she whispered. Alice grabbed a tuft of her thin gray hair and started to pull on it as she rocked her body gently forward. She gritted her teeth, rubbing them together, channeling pressure through her clenched jaw. As Tom watched, Alice arched her back, angling her body on the balls of her knees. She continued to list, forward and backward, side to side. She was wailing. Tom knelt beside his mother and grabbed her shoulders. “What do you mean it’s all your fault?” “Tommy—” “Why did dad say he forgave you?” Tom pointed at the note projected on the wall. “Oh Tommy, I’m so sorry.” “Mother, please.” Tom whispered. He put his fore-

head to her face and hugged her softly. “Jim Baker,” Alice sobbed. “Your dad found us together after he started drinking and leaving without notice. I couldn’t help it. Jim was there, he was always there.” “Jim Baker?” “Tommy, I’m sorry. I’m sorry!” Alice screamed. “Mother, please.” “Howie!” “Mother, Goddammit! Stop it!” Tom grabbed her by the shoulders more forcefully, but Alice would not stop gyrating. Slobber covered her chin. Tom picked her up by the armpits and placed her on his bed. “Shhhh, shhhhh, now,” Tom said, putting his finger to her lips. “Everything is okay. It’s okay. I’m here.” “No!” Alice screamed. “Mother!” Tom pinned his mother down, putting his weight on her frail shoulders. “Quiet now. Shhhh, shhhhh.” “He was a coward,” Alice whispered. Tom grabbed a pillow and placed it on his mothers face. “Shhhh, now.” He bunched his hands into the pillow and applied pressure; he could feel the point of his mother’s nose through the down and the sunken age of her cheeks. His mother began to squirm underneath him, her bony legs pedaling. Her arms felt through the air in suffocating panic, looking for Tom’s face, anything to grab. Muffled words came from under the pillow. “Shhhh,” Tom said. “Shhhhh, mother.” After a last feverish moment of resistance, Alice’s feet stopped kicking and her arms fell to her sides. Tom exhaled and rested his head on the pillow. His mother’s chest was no longer rising and falling, a broken pump. Outside, limbs scratched the window and a fresh snow began to fall.

Childhood's Bitter End

by P. Matthew Kimmel Three goose hunters, a little booze and "Oh, crap. What did I just shoot."

“The bastard never even saw it coming.”

Ordinarily these words are music to a hunter’s ears. Ordinarily they would have been music to Leroy’s ears. But the statement had a decidedly bitter taste for Leroy at this moment. In fact, it might be said that those specific words really pissed him off. “Shut the hell up, Zach,” is Leroy’s only response, not only to what his companion Zach had said, but to every other unspoken thing hovering in the silence surrounding them. The teal green lump lying at their feet apparently had nothing to say one way or the other. Ordinarily a hunter doesn’t really take the prey’s state of mind into consideration when killing it. Whatever they were thinking, doing, or feeling just doesn’t figure into the hunter’s calculations while they aim and shoot the animal. There is one thing they do consider, though, and that’s whether the animal actually knew it was going to die. They like to think that they are so stealthy, so cunning, in essence so much better at the game than the prey that the animal will only realize it’s dead after seeing the Pearly Gates appearing before it. But even here the hunter really doesn’t take the state of mind of the animal into account because there’s no real way to tell what it was thinking beforehand. And it’s obviously impossible afterwards. In the end, the only thing the hunter considers, in regards to the prey, is how fast the animal falls down dead. This is the most consideration the hunter affords the prey. In this case though, Leroy might have to afford a little bit more consideration to his prey. Consideration in the form of serious jail time.

eroy has been looking forward to this day for months. It’s on his calendar at work, home, and, for good measure, even on the little calendar that he keeps in his wallet. It’s the first day of goose hunting season, and it is, for him, the epitome of the epic battle between man and beast.

A goose. A Canadian goose. The words alone throw shivers down his spine every time he speaks them. The words mean that Leroy’s fun gets to start. They mean he gets to enjoy himself. The goose means hunting to Leroy. Any old fool can shoot a deer. There are about thirteen-trillion of them out there anyway. And ducks are just as numerous as the deer, if not more so. But the goose… The goose is special. It’s special because it migrates. It has touched Canada, and it has touched Mexico. It has traveled the world only to stop in front of Leroy so he can kill it. This act is something Leroy cherishes. Killing a goose completes Leroy. So, at the crack of dawn, when even the sun thinks it’s too damn early to get up, Leroy is ready. He has his over and under shotgun all polished, oiled, cleaned and primed for the hunt. He has his brown coveralls all musty with dirt, so the geese can’t get his scent. And he has his orange cap and vest, so his idiot cousin, Jackson, won’t shoot him by mistake. Of course this still leaves the possibility of Jackson shooting him intentionally. But since Jackson is a horrible shot, Leroy doesn’t worry about this. Much. He gets into his truck. A brand-new 4x4 Ford all decked out, ready for hunting. The camouflage covering had cost extra, a lot extra, but a hunter could never be too careful about hiding from his prey. And what his prey was able to see. Every little bit helped. Besides, the covering guaranteed Nora would never drive it. So, in the long run the covering paid for itself. He goes out first to Zach’s place, even though it would be simpler to pick up Jackson first. Leroy doesn’t want to ruin his good mood too early. Zach lives at the end of a dirt road, better termed a rut. His trailer is rundown, even for a trailer. And he has more junk in front of it than five flea markets. He lives alone. Zach is also Leroy’s best friend, though that’s only when he

isn’t being such a serious pain in the ass. Which is about half of the time. “Damn, it’s too goddamned early for this kind of shit. Even the geese are still asleep this fucking early.” Typical Zach. “Well, I could just leave your sorry ass here. And then you’d get to hear Jackson bullshit about it for the rest of the year.” “It doesn’t matter whether I’m there or not, he’ll bullshit anyway. But at least I’ll be able to call him on it. Here, I’ll make us some coffee. You bring the Jack?” “Course. Snort of it’ll keep the chill out.” “Well, at least until we hit the beer. Hand it over.” It’s a well-known fact that hunting, fishing, and most manly activities involve alcohol. A lot of alcohol. However, Zach and Leroy bring this combination to new levels of intoxication. At least, when Nora isn’t looking. Jackson’s home is on the way to their perch. So, it becomes a duel between getting to the stand quickly, and getting to Jackson as slowly as possible. Quick wins out, but they don’t get out to get Jackson. They merely stay in the truck and honk the horn. Jackson is the black sheep of the family. He’s successful. And no one has any idea how. Including Zach. He married a woman who had made goose decoys out of windsocks as a hobby. They were actually horrible decoys that wouldn’t confuse a senile goose with glaucoma. However, they were good at confusing rich city hunters into buying them. Jackson has turned this into a thriving business. He has a factory and dozens of employees, including several family members. Because of this fact most of the family won’t talk to him if they don’t have to. Leroy has to because Jackson’s mother was his mother’s closest sister. And they talk all the time. Leroy works for Jackson at his decoy plant as a foreman. Jackson probably pays him well because his mother tells him to. Jackson doesn’t like the state of things any more than Leroy does, but neither would ever consider doing it any other way. At least until their mothers die. Jackson’s house is an ugly brick affair with a wooden porch and railing, and it has more knick-

knacks than should be allowed by law. It also sits in the middle of a field that is often more mud puddle than grass. Jackson had picked the site personally. “Is it cold enough for you?” Jackson walks out wearing brand new camouflage coveralls that smell exactly like a new car. He carries an obviously loaded shotgun that’s so new the metal nearly glows. He points the gun in their direction, and Leroy considers how much help his orange vest has been. “Shit moron, you wanna kill us?” Zach is on welfare, so he can be a little more accurate in choosing his words with Jackson. “What,” Jackson shoves the gun closer at them. “Jackson, the gun is loaded and aimed at us,” Leroy has a gentler, if equally angry, tone. “Oh, I thought I could catch a few on the way there.” “You can’t shoot it from the truck, dumb ass. Leroy and I ain’t up this early so we can get our asses sent to jail. Besides the roads are bumpy. We’ll hit one, and you’ll shoot your nuts off,” Zach isn’t sure that this would be bad thing. “Oh,” and Jackson unloads his gun. And gets in. “Coffee?” Jackson asks. “Sorry, finished it,” Leroy is sure he doesn’t want Jackson liquored up. “Oh, I guess I’ll have to drink it straight, then,” Jackson gets out a small flask of liquor, and Leroy prays one last time that God’ll protect him, or let some other hunter accidentally shoot Jackson. One of those two. The drive to the stand passes in silence. Jackson tries to make a little small talk. But Leroy pretends he has to concentrate on driving, and Zach just sleeps. They get to the stand about five minutes from dawn. And they spread out in it. It’s a decent stand, concealed well. And off the beaten track. Even so, there’s a, presumably-used, condom in it. “Zach, you been out here?” Leroy asks. “Hell no. Not in this cold. It would freeze my dick off.” “I’m sorry. It was dumb of me to think you’d be getting any tail anyway. It ain’t deer season.” “Fuck you.”

“Keep it down. I think I hear ‘em.” Jackson doesn’t like talking while he’s hunting. He likes to think of himself as a serious hunter, and serious hunters don’t chit-chat. “You shut the fuck up. That shrill squawk of yours would drive off a million more geese than me screaming at the top of my lungs ever could,” Zach looks pissed. “Both of y’all keep it down. I think he’s right,” Leroy whispers. And the noise all three have been dreaming of slithers its way out of the darkness. A honk, halfformed, comes out. And then they scan the purple sky. And there it is: a V. A group of geese instinctively writing a single letter in the sky. Leroy’s heart stills. They’re going to land near the pond in front of the stand. Experienced hunters know that they have to shoot at the same time. Otherwise one hunter’s kill will become another hunter’s missed shot as the group separates in terror. And the three men had been hunting together long enough to know without speech that each was to take part of the group. Jackson, being the worst shot of them, will take the tip of the V. Zach, being better than Jackson, will take the closer end. And Leroy, being the best of the group, will take the farthest end. And he even has a target picked out. It‘s the squirrelly one. One member of the V is flying back and forth and through the group of geese. It makes it noticeable and easy to choose. On the other hand, because it’s moving so erratically, it’ll be a hard shot. And, Leroy has always believed in the culling of the herd principal. And that goose is too playful to last long in this world. He’ll give it a quick death now, rather than the slow one it’ll probably face left to its own devices. He takes aim. Lets out a breath to steady his arm, and as the others do, fires. Jackson, as usual, misses the entire flock and basically shoots at empty space. Zach hits his goose, but it struggles on a bit as it slowly relinquishes the ghost. “Shit,” is Zach’s comment as he realizes he’ll have a hike to get the bird. Leroy’s one almost pops straight down. As usual his aim is right on. But something’s off. The

goose rather than giving a sad, empty honk, screams. Leroy is surprised by this. And even more surprised the others don’t hear the scream too, because they don’t react to it. They didn’t hear the almost human scream. He thinks then that maybe he just heard wrong, and the squawk just sounded like a scream. As usual Zach heads off to collect his bag by himself, mumbling about how it always happens that his goddamned bird manages to fly to everfucking-kingdom-come. This leaves an awkward moment for Leroy and Jackson. Leroy doesn’t want Jackson with him, and Jackson doesn’t like to face the fact that Leroy is a better shot. But it’s expected that Zach go with Leroy since Zach doesn’t have a bird of his own to pick up. Neither is willing to make the first move. So, they just sit there waiting to see who will give in first. Finally it dawns on Leroy that he has to be the big one if he wants to get his bird. “Okay, come on. Let’s go see what she looks like.” “Alright.” They walk up the hill to the pond. The bird came down above the open field to the left of the pond, and is lying in a crumpled heap. What is strange, though, is that it appears green rather than the usual blackish-gray. But that could be the light. The closer they get, though, the more it becomes obvious that it’s green. Emerald green. “Maybe you got a mallard,” is Jackson’s comment. “Maybe,” Leroy knows this isn’t so. Ducks and geese don’t get along all that well. They finally reach the bird, and it’s obvious it’s too big to be a bird. It looks like it weighs sixty pounds at least. And then when they get close enough it becomes obvious: it’s a boy. “Goddamn,” is Jackson’s addition to the situation. It’s a boy, about eleven, though it’s hard to tell with his face in the mud. He lies face down with his rump in the air. He wears an emerald green shirt and what appear to be tights. He has a gleaming object attached to his belt, and when Leroy reaches down to see it better, it turns out to be a miniature sword. His hat, green too, lies a little bit away.

Leroy turns him over, almost automatically. And there it is. A huge gunshot wound to the chest. Leroy’s shot. It looks like it killed the boy instantly. The scream was probably just reflex. “Goddamn. You just killed Peter Pan.” “Shut up.” “But, but, but… You killed him,” at this Leroy grabs Jackson by his arms and barely resists the urge to throttle him. “Shut up. I don’t need your stupid comments messing my head up. I need to think,” and when he’s sure Jackson won’t speak, Leroy lets him go. Then, Leroy turns back to the corpse. “Well, she’s about five pounds I’d say. Not bad… Shit. You killed Sandy Duncan,” Zach says as he ambles up. “I did not kill Sandy Duncan.” “Well, it sure looks like her. But now that you mention it… Damn, it’s a boy. Don’t tell me that’s…” “Yep. I just killed the boy who would never grow up.” “Well, now I guess he never will,” Zach almost laughs with this. “I don’t need that shit, right now.” “Sorry. It looks like a clean shot. The bastard…”

So, the three men stare at the corpse.

“The Disney corporation is gonna have your ass,” Jackson comments with something almost like relish. “No they won’t. They let the kid out to get killed an’ all,” Zach responds. “They don’t even own him. They just made a movie about him. Besides kids’ll have my ass long before they do.” “Well, it was an accident…,” Zach says. “Doesn’t matter. Look at what happened to Skeeter Tulley.” Skeeter Tulley had shot and wounded what he thought was a prowler two Christmases back. He had to move to a Muslim country to get away from kids trying to get the Santa-killer. “Peter Pan ain’t no Santa Claus,” Zach says. “Skeeter only wounded Santa. I killed this boy. It’ll amount to the same thing.” “True,” Jackson says.

“Thanks for the words of support,” Leroy looks like he’s reconsidering his earlier restraint not to kill Jackson. “Hey, listen, I was just agreeing with you, is all. You dumb son of a bitch. If you wanted me to make you feel better, you should have told me.” “I don’t need you to agree, disagree, or even fucking just sit there and hum like the stupid son of a bitch you are. I do need you to shut the fuck the up, so I can think.” “Well, fuck you, too,” but Jackson shuts up. Leroy stares for a long time. He isn’t sure what kind of time he could get for killing a fictional hero, but he sure as shit doesn’t want to find out. “I’m going back to the truck,” Leroy finally declares. “To do what,” Zach says, his tone accusatory. “Don’t you worry about that. Just make sure nobody else comes by and sees the kid,” and Leroy heads off to the truck. Jackson asks after a bit, “You think he just up and left us?” “Shut up.” “Cause he could, and then it would be us that had to deal with it.” “I told you to shut up. And if you don’t, there’ll be two bodies down there, instead of one.” “You try it, and you’re the one that’ll have a hole in his chest.” “Fuck off. Sides, Leroy might leave you. He’d never leave me,” though Zach doesn’t seem as sure. Leroy comes back. He brings shovels. “We can’t report this, and I don’t want to make up shit to answer questions. So, we is gonna bury him.” “We can’t do that. We have to tell somebody. Someone’s probably looking for him,” Jackson says. “Like hell. He is one of the ‘Lost Boys’ remember,” Leroy counters. “Sides. They’ll probably figure pirates have got him,” from Zach. “I’m not gonna be a party to this,” Jackson seems firm. “Oh yes, you are. Cause if you don’t the few friends you got will never talk to you again,” Leroy means it. Jackson looks at them both, weighing his options, “Okay, but I ain’t touching him. Dead

things give me the creeps.” “Then why is you a hunter,” from Zach. “Well, I…” “Let’s just get to work. The quicker we’re done. The quicker we can leave this all behind.” They search the area for a spot that isn’t too frozen over and yet not too conspicuous. And they start to dig. It’s hard work, cause the ground is still hard. And they have to dig it deep, for fear animals might get to it. But they get it dug. And they put the body in. Nobody looks at it too hard. And they place it face down, so they don’t have to see it staring out at them. Finally they fill it up. Several hours have passed. No one knows how many. “Should we say something,” Jackson asks. Like what, moron,” from Zach. “Naw, I don’t think so. He was probably a pagan or something. Besides, we already made a mess of things. A little prayer ain’t gonna make it better,” Leroy says quietly. “What is this we shit. You shot him,” Jackson almost spits. “And you dug him an unmarked grave in the middle of a cornfield. I’d say we’re all up to our necks in this shit,” Zach says. “Fine. I digged a hole. I didn’t kill him. I think there’s a big difference there.” “There is. And we all know it. So, just shut up. Let’s go. Hunting’s over now,” Leroy says as he begins to head back. Zach and Jackson stare at the mound a second more and follow him. “I don’t think we can use this blind anymore,” Zach says. “Yeah” is Leroy’s only response. They all know they won’t be hunting anywhere for a long a time. If ever again. They get in the car, and drive off in silence. They let off Jackson without a word. And when they get to Zach’s place it looks like he wants to say something. But Leroy just lets him out, and Zach keeps it to himself. Leroy gets home, and takes a shower. Nora is out, so he opts to take a nap. In it he has a nightmare where he has a hook for a hand, and a crocodile with a ticking noise following him. He wakes up in a sweat. He still hears the clock in

the house somewhere, though he knows all the clocks in the house are digital. He figures he’s gonna hear that sound for a while. He figures it’s a fair trade. He goes back to sleep waiting for his croc to come again.

The Wintrose Chronicles

by Pete Mesling There is one certainty in the struggle between good and evil - it will never end. I The Desecration of Wintrose Abbey

He saw a terrible thing some nights previous,

and after jotting down a handful of words, he realized he'd not be freed of the image. But he put it down in ink nonetheless. He'd hoped to cleanse his mind of the sight, hoped writing about it would be a substitute for talking with someone, because that was no longer a possibility. He hadn't even spoken to himself since it happened, for fear of breaking the silence that ruled every crack and crevice in the decaying edifice. The quiet was unsettling at first, but he'd grown accustomed to it. He could no longer imagine what it would be like to shatter the stillness with a scream, or even a whisper. It would only remind him he was the last living inhabitant of Wintrose Abbey. He hadn't always been such a fearful man. Seclusion had altered him. Seclusion and the thing he'd witnessed. Although it haunted his waking thoughts, as well as his dreams, to stare it down and describe it in words was a test of his abilities. He had become not only fearful but superstitiousâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;the worst kind of cowardice. He began to worry that by calling attention to what he'd seen, he risked inviting a similar fate upon myself. Seeing the man sway in the moonlight, like a cattail in a spring breeze, had been a break in his monotonous existence. It was the lone monk he'd yearned to make contact with since arriving at the abbey, and the sight of him was a kind of glory to his tired old eyes at first, though it soon became obvious that something wasn't right. Still, the parched mind sometimes puts aside skepticism when faced with an oasis. Here was the man with whom he might finally discuss literature and philosophy. With whom he might joke and laugh, argue and reminisce. He wasn't eager to question such potential happiness. Here he was with the courage at last to confront the holy man, who for once wasn't slip-

ping out of sight before he could reach him. As he neared, however, it became clear the monk was in no condition to converse. His legs had been anchored to the earth with heavy iron contraptions that appeared to be screwed into his calves and shins at about a dozen different points. All around him, driven deep into the ground, was a circle of spikes angled in at him. If his body collapsed in any direction, he would meet the long, sharp points and jerk himself away. This is why the ascetic swayed so preternaturally in the windless cloister. When our wanderer came around to greet the unlucky soul and offer what help he could, he found that the face had been peeled away, the tongue removed. But the eyes had life enough to see. The holy man's arms reached out, though the movement only caused him to fall backward onto a cluster of spikes, and to shoot forward once again. Had there ever been a thing as weary in the eyes as this man was? It was those eyes as much as anything that had forced Wintrose Abbey's newest visitor to slumber during the day. Sleep was an absolute impossibility in the incalculably dark mountain nights that enveloped him for twelve of every twenty-four hours. He sensed it was only a matter of time before he'd be discovered by whoever had done this unholy work. He had no guess as to who it would be, or what the villain had had against the poor man in the cloister. Out of pity, he'd opened the man's throat himself and put an end to his suffering, and that, too, haunted him. He prayed for the courage to end his own life before being found, but it wasn't likely. He was too much of a coward for that. But he would welcome death, in whatever form it adopted, if it brought an end to the images that refused to leave his brain and threatened to drive him mad. His written account of the event didn't amount to much, but he sealed the document and hid it,

hoping it might prove useful to some future soul—if nothing else, as evidence against whatever monster roamed those lonesome woods with blood on its mind.

move around, fortify and contemplate. Drear had come up with the unsettling notion that the horrid beasts weren't just passing through, but were coming up from one of Hell's reeking vents to put down roots in the Rocky Forest. Maybe, he had suggested one night as the three of them passed around a jug of wine, the monsters weren't just after food as they scoured the countryside, snouts low to the ground. Perhaps they were looking for a place to start a kingdom, in much the way Wintrose hoped to realize his dream of a proper mountain hermitage, where the brotherhood could grow and flourish. The idea had an apocalyptic note Wintrose couldn't ignore—or claim to find wholly unappealing. In a way, it strengthened his resolve to raise battlements against the forces of evil. It wasn't impossible that Brother Drear had hit upon the very logic behind God's test, but Brother Wintrose knew to be cautious of convenient answers. Being overly eager to believe, he had learned long ago, was no better than rejecting intimations of the divine out of hand. At length, the clicking trailed off. Presumably the horror had slunk out through the main door. Wintrose could tell the other two men were looking at him, though only a thin, washed-out facsimile of light trickled into the crawlspace. He stared back into their dimly lit faces but said nothing. The door to the house groaned on its heavy iron hinges and snapped shut. Dread crawled down Wintrose's back as he envisioned the thing pausing to close the door on its way out, no doubt with a toothy leer and one of the low grumbles they sometimes made when they were more or less content. At least this one hadn't done any of the hideous caterwauling they often exhibited—never a signal of contentment, only of sheer animal rage and frustration. Wintrose pushed open the trapdoor and took a careful look around. The room was clear, so he hauled himself up and then helped his friends. The thing had left the dozen or so lit candles in the room unmolested, and he wondered if it had sensed holiness here—and feared it. He couldn't help seeing omens in almost everything these days. Sleep didn't come easily to Wintrose. Not only was he shaken by their narrow avoidance of detection and capture, but the intruder had made child's play of the oaken bolt they'd used to lock the door.

II The Wintrose Crucible

o you think it's gone?" Brother Gabbin asked. "I can't be sure," whispered Brother Drear. Brother Wintrose only stared up through the cracks in the floor, flicking his eyes back and forth in an effort to catch a glimpse of the thing—or a sign of its departure. The three monks had found the small house several months ago, and Wintrose immediately took it as a sign that he was on the right path, that he was one step closer to seeing his abbey built. Now he wondered why God would provide a shelter in which he and his brethren could begin their studies and plans in earnest, only to introduce such vile horrors into their lives as these beings that had been roaming the woods lately, and now infiltrating their dwelling. As a test of faith it seemed inordinately rigorous, but a divine test was a hopeful possibility, so he allowed it to become belief. If nothing else, it had given him something to tell Gabbin and Drear to ease their harried minds a bit. Wintrose was about to suggest that he leave the crawlspace to investigate, when the clicking of nails on the floor above their heads resumed. He could imagine the long, ugly talons, three per foot, as they sounded on the wood from one corner of the room to another. The shins of these prowlers angled backward to meet knobby knees. This one's long, flat head was likely to be swiveling now, searching at the end of its sinewy neck. Sniffing out meat. Its diaphanous wings would be drawn in to its sides while it was indoors. The monks couldn't hope to avoid capture forever. It was a miracle they hadn't been dispatched already. They had no good estimate of the numbers these creatures had achieved. More every day, at any rate. Or rather, every night, for they only began their hunting and seeking after sunset, which is partly why Brothers Gabbin, Drear, and Wintrose had managed to stay alive this long; the days allowed them to

Tomorrow they would reassemble the mechanism, but nothing prevented the creature, or its deformed cousins, from returning in the night. When sleep finally claimed him, it was deep and consuming. In the morning, he was the last to wake, which was unusual. And how quickly daybreak chased away the flittering shades of nighttime's frights. Adjusting his appearance before a mirror, he attributed his sound sleep to a growing sense of being on the side of righteousness. All thoughts of being too scared to fall asleep in recent weeks were gone from his head, until he stepped away from the mirror and recognized his arrogance. Pride would be the topic of their next philosophical discussion, he decided. "Brother Gabbin," Drear said, excitedly tapping his friend's forearm and struggling to swallow a mouthful of gruel, "do tell Brother Wintrose what you've just told me. You won't believe it." He turned to Wintrose. "You simply won't believe it." Wintrose joined them at the table but took no food, only clasped his hands before him in the manner of prayer. "When I was out yesterday," Gabbin said, "I came upon a house along Bredloe Pass. I was trying to find the most accessible route up the ridge you've talked about as a possible site for the abbey, so I went deeper into the hills than we've yet been." "This house," Wintrose said, trying to steer Gabbin back on course, "who lives there?" "I watched it for some time and only saw a man come and go. Owns a couple of horses, he does. And a barn. He must live off his garden and whatever game comes his way. But I wonder if he might be of some help to us. Perhaps he knows something about these devils that have been sprouting up like tinderweed." "Why have you said nothing of this before now, Brother Gabbin?" "I only wanted to choose a time when you might hear the news with a glad heart." "Not when I most needed a bit of cheering up, eh?" "I'm sorry, Brother Wintrose." "No need for that. I merely tease you, my loyal scout."

Gabbin looked at him with glistening eyes and pulled the hair back from his face, relieved to be in the abbot's good graces still. Wintrose loved the two of them with all his heart. They put so much faith in his guidance, it was almost frightening. They devoted themselves to his causeâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;a cause he himself had trouble believing in without the occasional reservationâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;and asked nothing in return. If he could find more like them, his abbey would be a formidable bastion indeed. Gabbin, with his unruly, graying hair and awkward manners was as true to God as any man Wintrose had known. And Drear's monastic black hair, cut short to frame his face, was the perfect cover for the exuberant wit and imagination of the man. Two very different men, in some ways, they wore the same muted gray cowl as Wintrose. He was their elder, and it was his vision they pursued, but all three men were equals as far as he was concerned. He felt blessed to be in their company. Now they awaited his guidance. "We shall travel to this house, you and I," he said to Brother Gabbin. "Brother Drear, would you stay here to mend our door and devise a better lock?" "Of course, Brother Wintrose." "It's settled, then. Both of you, finish breaking your fast. I'll take food with me on the road." The day was clear and bright, with just a few fat clouds in the crisp blue sky. The high forest was seldom without its breeze, but today there was warmth behind it. The going was easy, and time flew away from them as they walked and chatted. "We've come a long way already, Brother Gabbin. If it's much farther we won't make it back to Brother Drear before nightfall. The sun drops quickly this time of year." "Only a little farther, I assure you. Around that bend you see up ahead." Wintrose stroked his beard and continued in silence. Gabbin, of course, was as good as his word. As soon as they rounded the long curve through this part of the pass, the house and barn could be seen beyond a stand of towering conifers whose branches only began halfway up their trunks. A dramatic, rocky slope predominated the other side of the pass. Smoke drifted from a stone chimney as

they approached the two-story house. The front door was wide open and revealed a woman in a lighted room. Her back was to them, but she appeared to be hunched over something. "Must be the wife of the man you saw," Wintrose said when they were still some distance away. "Yes, very likely," Gabbin said. Their sandals on the wooden porch steps alerted the woman to their presence, and she twirled around to reveal a man in a chair, his feet fastened to the legs with twine. Though a table prevented Wintrose from getting a clear view, the man's hands appeared to be similarly bound. A red handkerchief had been tied tightly around his head to gag him. His eyes looked wild—whether with terror or malice it was impossible to judge. "Good evening, madam." Wintrose bowed slightly. "May we be of service to you in some way?" "What do you want?" she snapped. "Away with you. I've got no alms for the poor." "You misunderstand. I offer our help to you. There seems to be trouble here." "Nothing I can't handle. Now, off with you." Gabbin gave Wintrose's sleeve a frightened tug, but Wintrose wasn't about to leave until he knew what was going on. "I beg your pardon, but if you'll only take a moment to explain …" "Oh, very well. If you're not leaving, come in. Sit, sit." Wintrose and Gabbin lowered the hoods of their cowls and sat across the table from the captive, who thumped up and down in his chair and muttered something urgent behind the cloth in his mouth. The woman brought tea and sat next to the tiedup man. She pushed at her voluminous red hair in a couple of spots and tried to smile. "The name's Meery Dagget. Apologies if I seem a little brusque this afternoon. Caught this one nosing around in the barn this morning. Been trying to figure out what to do with him." "I'm Brother Wintrose, and this is Brother Gabbin. Is this man a thief, then?" She seemed to search for an appropriate answer. "Let me be straight with you, Brother Wintrose.

There have been some strange goings on in these woods of late. Very strange indeed." Wintrose could feel Gabbin's gaze on him but continued to stare at the woman. He tapped Gabbin's knee a couple of times underneath the table in an effort to reassure him. "Do you know what I speak of?" A sound from upstairs claimed his attention momentarily, but he tried not to let on. "Perhaps, madam. Do you refer to the creatures that swarm our hills when the sun goes down?" Her smile widened, and she cackled dryly. "I do! Would you believe, sir, that this little worm is working for the damned things? Helping them to establish dominion right here in the forest, he is." Wintrose's flesh crawled. Perhaps Brother Drear was closer to the truth than any of them had dared imagine. "That's a heavy accusation, Mrs. Dagget. Pray, untie the kerchief and let us hear it from his own lips." "Never! He whines and howls in such a strange tongue—calling to his masters, no doubt. I'll not have them coming round here at his behest." Something fell to the floor upstairs, followed by footsteps. The monks rose, apprehensive, as two pairs of boots could be heard clomping down the stairs. Suddenly a young man burst into the room, his face badly bruised, his shirt torn open. "This isn't the man you saw around the place, is it?" Wintrose asked Gabbin, who only shook his head slowly back and forth. "Free my brother, witch!" The young man shouted breathlessly, pointing at Meery. "Ah, the cat's come out of the bag, I see. And has an urge to do some lashing, eh?" She turned to Brother Wintrose. "Their type never works alone. My husband took that one upstairs while I looked after this one." A short, round man came around the corner at last, rubbing the side of his head. Meery glared at him but said nothing. "That's him!" said Gabbin, with a poke of his elbow into Wintrose's side. "That's the man I saw." "What lies has this viper been filling your ears with, holy man?" the young man asked Wintrose. "No lies, boy," Meery interrupted. "Only the truth of how you and your friend here are agents of the very devil." "Oh, she's a cunning one," the man said with a

sharp laugh. Mr. Dagget shrunk into a shadowy corner and fingered his hat. He didn't appear to want much to do with the escalating tempers in the room. "Enough!" shouted Wintrose. "Someone tell me what in hell goes on here, or so help me, I'll make my own way to the bottom of it." The young man jumped on the opportunity to have his say. "Sir, I'm Char, and this is my brother, Hayt. We recently learned some rather disturbing news about Mr. and Mrs. Dagget. We learned, in fact, that they—not us—have been in communication with the devils that keep us all indoors after dark these days. The last straw came when Hayt went spying and found these two cavorting with the demons in Hider's Glen. Naked, they were, and giving free rein to their basest urges. Isn't that right, Hayt?" His brother nodded enthusiastically. "We had to do something, so we came here to make them tell us all about the hellish monstrosities, see if the villains have a weakness we might exploit." "They have a weakness, I assure you," said Wintrose. "They exist only to hate, and that is a profound weakness against the forces of goodness and justice. Humanity has the upper hand in this fight. Now, madam, what have you to say for yourself? Do you deny this man's charge?" "Oh, what's the use?" Mr. Dagget's eyes went wide at his wife's audacity. "You've no prayer against us. They've given us a taste of their power. We'll share in that power as payment for helping them." "You are beyond naïve, woman!" Brother Gabbin yelled. "You see," Char continued, "these two were able to turn the tables on us. They took us hostage, but as you can tell, I've escaped." He looked back at Mr. Dagget. "This one whistles a different melody now than when I was in bondage, I assure you. There was no end to his threats and bullying then. Or his violence." He dabbed at a wound on his forehead and glanced at the blood that stuck to his finger. "Madam," said Wintrose, "I want this man set free. You've no right to keep him here that I can discern." Meery gazed into Wintrose's eyes a while before

answering. "Very well. I thought he and his brother would make a nice gift for the horde, but we've gained their trust. We don't need these boys. Take them. I never want to see any of you again." Char rushed to his brother's side and untied him. "We'll wait outside," said Wintrose. "Do you think Char is telling the truth?" Gabbin asked once they'd walked a short distance from the house and stopped in the shade of a profuse willow tree. "Char, yes. The question is whether Hayt told him the truth about what he'd seen, and whether the Daggets are really as friendly with the demons as the woman intimates. There are mysteries in these woods, Brother Gabbin, to last a lifetime. And we're getting tangled up in them." "Brothers," Char called as he and his brother hurried toward Gabbin and Wintrose, "thank you for waiting. The counsel of holy men would be most welcome in this matter. But first allow me to make a proper introduction of my brother. Say hello to Hayt." Brother Gabbin bowed. "Good to know you both," said Wintrose. "My friend and I go by the names Gabbin and Wintrose. Can you follow us back to our cottage? We can talk along the way." "We'd be glad to. Wouldn't we, Hayt?" "By all means. The sooner we devise a plan for dealing with the Daggets and those … things, the better." "Agreed," said Gabbin with a hesitant smile. The brothers reminded Wintrose of a traveling comedy team he'd seen as a boy. Char was fully a foot taller than Hayt and much thinner. Nor was there any trace of kinship in their features. As the four of them set off toward the monks' temporary home, clouds amassed overhead, bringing the illusion of early nightfall. Some minutes passed before anyone felt like uttering a word. The Rocky Forest rains were legendary for their beauty, but not for any positive effect they had on the progress of travelers. By the time Wintrose and his party were within sight of the cottage, they were exhausted and drenched. And it was dark. Shadowy movement had been accompanying them along their path for several miles, but what could they do, other than slog on? Terror jabbed and

mocked them, as though they were a menagerie exhibit, but the four men refused to give in to its ridicule. They knew, to a man, that opening the door on fear—out here in the dark, rainy woods, exposed—would be tantamount to tearing down a dike. If it was the devilish creatures that crashed around in the underbrush as the men walked, they seemed content to observe. But there was no telling when that contentment might change to restlessness. Only when Brother Wintrose tried the door and found it locked tight did he allow himself any relief. Brother Drear had managed well without them, it appeared. Wintrose pounded his fist against the heavy door, but there was no response. "Odd," he said under his breath. The sound of pained coughing erupted somewhere. "That came from behind the house," Gabbin said. He was out of sight around the corner before any of the others had time to react. They quickly followed. Sprawled in the wet grass was Brother Drear, glistening red wherever the rain hadn't sluiced away the blood of his wounds. Gabbin dropped to his side immediately and cradled his beaten head. "What happened here, Brother?" Drear's body hitched as he coughed up a stringy clot of blood, but he seemed to nod toward the house. "Look there." Hayt pointed to a shattered window. "Dear God," Wintrose said. "They must have dragged him out. It's a wonder they didn't kill him. What are the scoundrels after?" "They revel in our suffering," Char said in an angry tone. Before anyone could say or do anything more, an ear-splitting shriek came up out of the woods behind the house. Gabbin, Wintrose, Char and Hayt stared in that direction. "All of you, please, stay here and tend to Brother Drear," Wintrose said. "If I can catch these loathsome river maggots in the act of something, I must." If the screaming didn't come again, he'd never be able to track the source, but he knew it would. One scream from an innocent victim wouldn't be

enough for their diseased appetites. His instinct was good. The high-pitched cries came at regular intervals, making it easy to follow the sound deep into the trees. As he drew closer to it, he became less convinced it was a cry of pain and more certain it signaled abject terror. He stepped into a clearing almost without noticing it, for it wasn't the clearing itself that was of interest but what was going on at its center. The devils must have been incredibly quick in their handiwork. Hanging by his ankles from a rope stretched high up between two elder-spruces was Mr. Dagget. In the grip of his hands were his wife's ankles. All that stood between her and a twenty-foot drop onto a cairn of sharp stones was her husband's strength, for as long as it held out. A tittering noise worked its way around the edge of the clearing, but Brother Wintrose saw nothing of the creatures. Meery Dagget started in on another shattering screech but cut it off when her eyes fell upon Wintrose. "You!" she hollered, her voice hoarse. "Holy man, get us down from here. They've turned against us." Wintrose took several steps toward her and examined the pile of rocks. "Not the way I'd choose to die," he said, shaking his head. "If I had a choice, that is." "Look, no one has to die if you'll just cut us down from here before my husband faints. He's been hanging here longer than I have." From a distance he'd wondered why her skirts didn't hang down past her head. Now he saw that her arms and clothing were tightly bound to her body. Her fiery orange hair hung loose, however. Mr. Dagget, meanwhile, was putting his last reserves of energy into preventing his wife's head from colliding with those rocks. His face looked red, even in the dark and the wet. His lips pressed together in fierce determination. "How could you?" Wintrose asked Meery Dagget. "How could you partner with such things as these? My friend lies, as we speak, at the very rim of Death's canyon. They broke into our home, dragged him out into the cold, rainy night and just about knocked the life out of him." "Can we have this discussion after—"

"No, we'll have it now. It appears there are enemies in this world so monstrous even their friends are to be treated with the greatest suspicion and contempt." "Is there no room for pitying the sinful in your doctrine? How rigid are the laws you choose to live by?" "The sinful I can forgive, Mrs. Dagget. The unrepentant damned I cannot." "You're taking a bold step if you walk away from us in this predicament, holy man!" But he was already retreating into the woods. "May your conscience be theâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;" He shivered and closed his eyes briefly at the dull sound of the woman's skull cracking open on the sharp stones. He was glad to have been spared the sight. Then came the sobs of her unfortunate husband. Brother Wintrose pulled the hood of his cowl down over his eyes and returned through the rain to the cottage. The eerie laughter amid the trees had fallen to something like respectful silence, and he wondered if God was really the one testing him.

III The Pilgrimage of Brother Wintrose

he town of Lund lay nearly ten miles from the abbey, and Brother Wintrose was exhausted by the time he got there on foot. Lund's seaside shanties and various shops and homes all had a scalloped look to them, as though the whole town got submerged in salt water every high tide. A bracing, saline wind skittered inland, causing Wintrose to seek immediate shelter. The first establishment to present itself being a tavern, he ordered a mug of keg ale and sat near a fire that hissed and popped in its capacious hearth. He was dimly aware of nodding off and trying to fight it, when the door swung open and in walked Char and Hayt Fasserby, rubbing the chill out of their arms. He hadn't seen them in months. "Well, if it isn't the Rocky Forest abbot himself!" Char exclaimed, closing the door and joining Wintrose at his table. "Two more, Scap," he called to the barkeep, the same number of fingers raised. "My friends," said Brother Wintrose. "It is good to see you, and surprising. Twenty years we've

known each other, yet we meet so seldom." Hayt had been warming himself before the fire but now sat down beside his brother. "You're a long way from Scratch Mountain," Char said to Wintrose. "What brings you to the seashore?" Wintrose tilted his mug and stared into it. "I need a boat, same as many a wanderer who's come before me to Lund, no doubt." "A boat?" Hayt said. "Have you left the abbey for good, Brother Wintrose?" "No, no." Wintrose chuckled dryly and pulled at his beard. "I need to get to the Wizened Isle. A scholar there by the name of Donen has written me, requesting my presence." "Has this to do with the scourge?" Char asked. Wintrose nodded. "Then we'll find you a boat, but it won't be here in Lund, not during high-trade season. And not with half the fleet here laid waste by the demons. We'll need to go half a day north to Briar. A fellow there by the name of Clurry owes me a favor or two." "I can't ask you toâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;" "You haven't asked us for anything. We're going with you, and that's an end to it." Wintrose's lips parted, but instead of speaking he hoisted and drained his mug. Soon the brothers Fasserby were done with their drinks as well, and the three men were out the door, heading north on foot. The temperature dropped along with the sun, and when a cold mist drifted in from the sea, the travelers made camp. Char and Hayt set about building a fire under a span of broad-leafed boughs. No one had mentioned it, but they hadn't come this far without company. For the last several miles, strange laughter had been gathering on both sides of the path the men followed. And a rushing, tumbling movement could also be heard as the laughing things scurried to keep pace while remaining hidden from view. Now that the travelers had stopped for the night, the surrounding brush was quiet. Quiet but watchful, Wintrose presumed. "Perhaps we should find a cave higher up, among the rocks," Wintrose said as Hayt stoked the fire into a good strong blaze. "No," said Char. "I think we all know what's out there, following us. They'd love nothing more

than to trap us in a cave, where they'd have only one entrance to cover. I'd rather see them work a little harder than that if they're going to tear me limb from limb." That settled it. Wintrose was in neither the mood nor the condition to argue. It seemed a cave might be a bit warmer, and there was sure to be one hidden in the rockier terrain, but if his weary body managed to find sleep here in the open, who was he to complain? Tomorrow would be a clean slate. He wouldn't be so quick to acquiesce after a night's sleep and a morning's breakfast. As tired as he was, Hayt and Char were first to drift off—too many of Wintrose's fireside stories, apparently. The feeling of being watched kept Wintrose up, staring into the dwindling campfire, until long after the brothers had been reduced to snores. But fatigue won out in the end, and Wintrose slept until morning without interruption. The far-off cawing of a predatory bird roused Brother Wintrose. He rubbed his eyes against the dawn's glare as it reflected off the sea. He really did feel better as he reached for the small pack he'd carried with him on his journey. That's when he noticed that Char and Hayt were nowhere to be seen, the only remnant of their presence the crooked stick Hayt had used to cook a hare. It was damned odd. He had no worries about reaching Briar. And Char had given him the name of his acquaintance there. But it wasn't like the brothers to pull a disappearing act like this. It didn't smell right. The only thing to do was carry on, but not until he'd had something to eat. He pulled a dry hunk of bread from his pack and nibbled on it. His water was almost gone, but he couldn't resist a long draught. He stuffed what was left of his small loaf back into the pack, along with the remaining swig of water. Then, hoping that Briar would prove to be a community bursting at the seams with abundance and generosity, he hauled himself to his feet with the help of his crook and resumed his course. Many morning sounds accompanied Brother Wintrose on his way. Early birds twittered gleefully from hidden perches. Dew squirted up from the grass in a susurrous drone as he stepped. And the pleasant buzz of reawakening insect life set the very air alive. But there was one sound missing

from the scene: that of impish laughter and shuffling movement. The creatures seldom came out of hiding in the morning hours, but lately they enjoyed making their presence known in a thousand irritating ways, at all hours of the day and night. Wintrose didn't want to make the connection, but his thoughts were there before he could call them back. Char and Hayt's disappearance corresponded with the absence of the devils. Only two explanations seemed possible. Either Char and Hayt were in trouble, or they were in cahoots with the demons. Wintrose's thoughts vacillated between the two possibilities the entire way to Briar. The town itself was bowl-like, as if its acreage had been scooped out to make the setting as unique as possible. Approaching from the far side may not have been as dramatic, because the bowl was shallower there—chipped. But coming at it from the south made it seem like something out of a fairy story. Wintrose had no problem finding Clurry's hut. Char had indicated the location with the same casual precision Wintrose had long admired in the man. He cared about exactness. He cared, period. That's why it was so frustrating to think he and his brother—toward whom Wintrose had always felt the same trust, if not intellectual admiration, he felt toward Char—might have given themselves up to the sinister cause that seemed to have limitless potential for spreading its poison these days. "Yes?" said the golden-haired man who answered the door. "What is it?" "I'm looking for Clurry," Wintrose said, pulling back the hood of his cowl. "Not anymore you're not," the man said, his voice tired and short tempered. "What do you want?" "We have a friend in common, Mr. Clurry. Char Fasserby. He said I might be able to count on you for a favor, on his behalf." "You know Char? Well, why didn't you say so? Come on in. Step lively, now. Let's have it out over a cup of tea, eh?" "That sounds delightful. Thank you." The place hadn't looked like much from outside, but Clurry's eye for arrangement had cast a charming spell over the interior of the one-room hovel. Miniature framed art hung on the walls, and a

cheery fire carried on in a hearth decorated with numerous tiles, each intricately carved as if part of a story. They sat at a small, round table in the center of the room to drink their tea. "It's a boat I seek," said Wintrose. "Passage to the Wizened Isle." "The Wizened Isle? Why, there's nothing to the place anymore. Just Donen's Temple. Donen himself could have died fifty years ago and no one would know." "He isn't dead. He wrote me. I must get to him, and soon." "Then you shall. The day old Clurry can't figure out a way to put a man on a boat is the very day to start forging nails for his coffin." "God be with you, Clurry. Your kindness will not go unfelt in the world if my hopes have any foundation in reality." Wintrose might have reserved his blessingâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;or delivered it with less zealâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;had he first laid eyes on the vessel Mr. Clurry was able to hire for him. It was smelly even for a fishing trawler, and the grease from a recent harvest had coated everything with a slick sheen. Wintrose's crook and sandals were all but useless in keeping him upright as he boarded, but with the help of two brawny stevedores he managed. It instantly became clear to him why Clurry had been so insistent about saying goodbye at the shipping manager's office. He must have known how humble Wintrose's accommodations were likely to be. Of course, humility was nothing to be ashamed of. It was a virtue, and Brother Wintrose would have climbed a mountain of mackerel if it meant he stood a chance at ending the Rocky Forest plague. As it was, he only had to spend two-and-ahalf hours breathing fish remnants before coming within view of the stony shore of the Wizened Isle. The Isle took its name from the view it offered the eastbound traveler. Any seaman coming at the small island, as Wintrose now did, from the west was greeted by the dramatic profile of an extremely old man. It was merely the way the rocks that made up the island had tumbled out of the sea countless ages ago, but the resemblance to human features was startling. Wintrose could think of no better place to begin strategizing the next campaign

in his war against the Rocky Forest devils than in the region of a naturally occurring stone tribute to humanity. He only hoped Donen had as much valuable information to offer as he had made it seem in his recent missive; the scholar's offhanded allusion to three holy relics had prompted Wintrose to leave his precious abbey temporarily without a head. As soon as the stoical captain of the fishing vessel deposited Wintrose amid the sharp rocks and sandy loam of the Isle's jagged shoreline, he turned his boat around and headed straight back to Briar. There was much fishing to be done, and time was money, but the man promised to return in several hours. Before turning his attention to the climb that lay ahead, Wintrose watched the trawler grow smaller and smaller as it scudded toward the horizon. He wouldn't have to go anywhere near the promontory of the Isle. Donen's Temple was famously nestled within a stand of western hemlock, roughly at the midway point of the island's anomalous rock formation. The climb was a test of his old bones, but he suspected they'd support him through worse before this was all over. It was steeper going than the hike between Wintrose Abbey and Briar but not nearly as long. Soon he was face to face with the arched blood-red doors that served as the temple's main entrance. He wasn't sure how to proceed. There was no knocker, and the doors seemed too large and solid for knocking with bare hands. Noticing that one of them was slightly ajar, he opted for the direct approach by squeezing in unannounced. He stood in a small vestibule. Directly ahead, an ornately carved door, much smaller than the main doors, blocked his way. Beyond it must be the temple proper, he reasoned. The small door popped inward with the slightest twist of a handle, the shriek of its hinges echoing around the circular room beyond. "Brother Wintrose, is that you?" He couldn't tell where the voice had originated, only that its reverberations sounded at every point along the perimeter of the room. A thick tree trunk rose from the center of the floor. His eyes followed it up about twenty feet to its midpoint. There heavy ropes were tied around the bole and extended across the high-domed room, anchored to the circular wall at four equidistant points. Something about the scene was very wrong, but Wintrose al-

lowed his gaze to continue up the trunk to the top, which swayed gently despite the securing ropes. A wooden platform, maybe a foot squared, had been affixed to the apex of the trunk. On the tiny platform stood a heavy, trembling old man, his hands bound behind him. Wintrose marveled at the design of it all. "I am Brother Wintrose. Tell me you are not Donen the Scholar." "It is I. There's no time to lose. The demons were able to send a contingent to the Wizened Isle to do this to me. They must be growing stronger than I'd imagined." "They are everywhere," Wintrose said. "In the drawer of a small table, in the vestibule, you'll find a ring of keys. The black one opens the door to my chamber, behind me. The gold one unlocks a trapdoor set into the floor there. It opens onto a foot-deep cubby. In it you'll find a scroll and two small glass spheres. The scroll will describe in more detail the holy relics I mentioned in my letterâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;where to find them and what to do with them. The orbs are for your protection. They are filled with explosive powders and are capable of producing considerable fire when hurled at an object. "I've managed to hold out for your arrival, Brother Wintrose, but I'm afraid my strength is at an end. Please, retrieve the items I've mentioned and be gone, so you won't have to witness anything unpleasant." "But perhaps I couldâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;" "There's no time. Go!" Wintrose hurried into the vestibule. Scanning the small area, he soon found the table with the keys. As he slid open the drawer, a crash from inside the temple caused him to start. It sounded like a heavy vase dropping to the ground and shattering. His pace wasn't nearly as hurried when he retraced his steps into the temple, for he feared what he would find. Fatigue had taken its toll on Donen. The scholar lay prostrate on the floor, his head cloven and its contents spilling outward in an ugly pool of red and gray. Wintrose gave the mess a wide berth on his way to Donen's chamber.

IV Brother Wintrose Collars the Devil Iesvs Nazarenvs Rex Ivdaeorvm

e was far too old to be climbing up and down the mountain, but this had been an important quest. Pausing to wipe rainwater from his brow, Brother Wintrose pushed the hood of his cowl higher up on his head with his crook and eyed his mountaintop destination through wind-whipped rain and pale moonlight. The abbey loomed impossibly high. His body hitched in a kind of laugh. Maybe this was the end. Maybe he was to make it no farther than the rocky slopes that served as ramparts to his beloved abbey. But the box he clutched against his side wasn't as easily put out of mind as his own well being. It was the last of the three relics to be brought to the abbey. At least he hoped Brother Drear and Brother Gabbin had already returned with theirs. If not, something had gone wrong. Regardless, he had to deliver his, and if either of the other two boxes hadn't arrived yet, he would need to send more men out. Then he could die, if Death was so eager to have him. But not before. Even as he thought it, his sandal turned on a slick boulder and nearly launched him into swirling blackness. But he was nimble for his age, and he managed to avert catastrophe by ramming his crook into a patch of mud and pushing off of it with his weight. How the box remained under his arm through it all he had no guess, but it did, and he was grateful. Up he wound, scaling the rock outcroppings of Scratch Mountain to heights that never seemed to bring him any closer to the hermitage. He hadn't eaten or slept for many hours, so he was unsure what hidden reserves of strength he was calling on to proceed. It was as if the stinging rain, blustery winds and low visibility were fuel to him now, as if his soaked cowl urged him on rather than weighed him down. Not that it should have been a complete surprise to him, this surge of willful endurance. At the heart of all that he taught and preached was a strong belief in the human spirit's ability to overcome the limits of the physical world. If he was anything more than another hypocrite in holy raiment, now was the time for God to

prove it by allowing him and the box safe passage to the abbey. Coming over the lip of rock that put him on the same level as the abbey was like stepping into a dream. Though his tired legs threatened to buckle under him and his arm ached from cradling the box mile after lonesome mile, Brother Wintrose paused in the deluge to behold the holy place that bore his name. It had never looked more perfect to him than it did now, with heavy clouds sailing in and out of the moon's persistent glow, rain lashing at its walls and steeple. On this side of the abbey, the mountain dropped down into woods, which in turn gave way to a sprawling valley. The other side was almost butted up against the final rise of the peak. The monks of Wintrose Abbey couldn't have have found a more ideal location, or done a more impressive job on the architecture and construction of the edifice. They'd steadily grown in number over the years, it being easy to recruit men to dwell high on a mountain when the lowlands were every day crawling with more of hell's effluvium. The demons refused to scramble any higher than the last thinning stand of evergreens that encircled the mountain. Wintrose believed the reason for their wariness was twofold. Brother Glendow had been the first to theorize that they didn't want to abandon the hiding places that tree cover provided, and there was likely something to the idea. The monsters were certainly smart enough to consider the consequences of such a disadvantage. But Wintrose knew in his heart that it went deeper than that. Just as he had chosen the loftiest location possible for the abbey—all the better to honor and exalt his one true God—might not the devils have feared the very same closeness to divinity? He felt sure of it, and took strength from it. Brother Licton answered soon after Wintrose sounded one of the bronze cherub knockers adorning the main doors. He looked disheveled, agitated. "Oh, Brother Wintrose! Praise God, it's you." Wintrose waited a moment for the pale young man to offer to take the box and see him in. Brother Licton only stared into the abbot's eyes. "What's the matter?" Wintrose asked. "Why do you not let me in? Have Brothers Gabbin and Drear returned?" "Yes, yes. Oh, I'm sorry, Brother Wintrose. For-

give me. The reliquary is now complete, yes?" He gingerly took the box from Wintrose and stepped aside to let him pass. "It's just that … Well, I really should let Brother Drear be the one … He's the one who saw it." Wintrose closed the door, lowered his hood, and drew patience from a deep inner well. Laying a hand on Brother Licton's shoulder he said, "Tell me where I can find Brother Drear." "He and some of the others are down in the winery. There has been much talk amid the casks tonight." "Mmm, and not a little tipping of the mugs, I suspect." The uneven, spiraling stone steps that hugged the wall on the way to the basement were as treacherous as anything Wintrose had navigated on his way back to the abbey. The men always chose to imbibe down below, thinking they went unnoticed. But such a charade was folly in Wintrose's view. The threat of a deadly fall for a drunk man climbing the demanding flight was very real. He passed through the cellar and its stores of wine to the cozy winery beyond. At a short rectangular table sat Brothers Drear, Gabbin and Glendow. They looked up as he entered, children caught playing an adults' game. "Brother Licton made it sound as though I'd find more of you down here," Brother Wintrose said. "And so you might have," said Brother Glendow in a roaring voice, "if you'd come an hour sooner. What you see here is the wheat, good Brother Wintrose. The chaff have gone to bed." He said this with a flourish of his arms, and laughter trickled around the table. "You have the gift of humor," Wintrose said, smiling despite himself. "I hope it survives the coming days." His smile faded, and a hush fell upon the monks as they stared down at their half-empty mugs of wine. "Brother Drear, may I have a word?" As soon as the two men were out in the hall, Glendow's chatter resumed. Wintrose could tell Gabbin had wanted to greet him, but he was always so afraid of falling out of favor with Brother Glendow. Brother Wintrose smiled despite himself as he and Drear retreated upstairs in silence and stepped outside, into the cloister at the rear of the

abbey. "It's wonderful to see you again, Brother Wintrose." "You as well, my good Brother Drear. You as well. Brother Licton has collected my relic." "That is excellent news," said Drear. "We can begin." "Brother Licton also said you have something to tell me. He seemed out of sorts about it." "It's good news, on the one hand, I assure you." "Let's have it, then, by all means." "I've seen the devil prince." Wintrose said nothing. "Twice I've seen him. Once where the trees begin their descent and once on Kneeling Ridge." "That's much higher than we thought they ever came." "Just him so far, Brother Wintrose. He appears to be as bold as he is ferocious looking. He's at least half again as large as his subordinates, and his hide is a more sickly color." "How can you call this good news, Brother Drear?" "Perhaps the fly has come to the spider and spared her the hunt." "We still have to catch him." Drear fell silent, unable to deny the assertion. Rain poured into the courtyard, but the monks kept dry as they walked the covered perimeter. "Do you think this will work?" Drear asked at last. Wintrose stopped and turned, startled by the question. "I must. And so must we all. Have you doubts, even after the lengths to which you've gone to procure one of the relics? What, if not faith, saw you through such a difficult mission?" "We've known each other a long time. If I express misgivings, it's only because I know I can bare myself completely to you. Please, let us continue walking." "I don't deserve your loyalty. I try to be strong for you and the others, so I pretend not to fear the worst. But we're up against a great foe, one that's grown strong alongside us these many years. I have no right to ask any of you to go one step further in this …" "You needn't ask. We are beside you, and beside you we shall remain." Wintrose clutched Drear's forearm. "Then we

must melt down the relics—tonight. All must be in place before we capture their prince, as you call him." "I'll fetch Brothers Gabbin and Licton." "Good, we'll meet in the chapel, and all are welcome. I'll be there soon." Wintrose took several turns around the cloister after Drear left his side. Of the entire brotherhood, only Brother Licton seemed terrified enough. The others knew what they were up against, knew what was at stake. But they didn't feel it. Even after years of playing cat-and-mouse with the hundreds—maybe thousands by now—of hell-spawn demons that scavenged the Rocky Forest by night, the monks of Wintrose Abbey deluded themselves as to the seriousness of the task at hand. The things could be seen in the sky just before dawn, which was a new development. They'd always had wings and occasionally left signs of recent flight—such as the horrible business with the Daggets more than two decades ago—but lately murders of them were sometimes seen circling the lower flanks of Scratch Mountain. And now their crown prince, whose presence had been rumored for years, was creeping around at higher elevations. The monks should have been out of their heads with fright. God knew Wintrose was. But he had the considerable responsibility of holding it together before his flock. It wasn't quite Armageddon the holy men of Wintrose Abbey were up against, perhaps, but it was nothing less than a battle between good and evil. There was great strength on their side now, with the holy relics in place, but much was still to be done—and sacrificed—before they could pronounce themselves victorious. The chapel was thronged when Wintrose arrived, a chattering tide of gray cowls and mostly bearded faces. Even the drunk and the slumbering had been called to bear witness. Each row of men quieted as he passed, on his way to the altar. "Men," he spoke. "Brethren, the day has arrived. Brother Licton, the reliquary, please." It was an awkward thing to carry. Shaped like a simple church, it was made up of panels of hammered metal soldered together. The roof was hinged along one of its longer sides, and the whole thing was meticulously festooned with decorative studs and painted icons. Brother Licton carried it in

outstretched arms to where Brother Wintrose stood and laid it carefully on the altar. "Open it," Wintrose commanded. Brother Licton undid a latch at the front and swung the roof back. "Here reside three holy relics, brothers. Brother Gabbin has retrieved a bridle from the Provinces of Ire. Brother Drear has fetched a spear point from Mount Blood. And only tonight I have returned from Witch's Hollow with the crown. All three relics are made of iron, but not just any iron. It is time you know the true significance of these sacred objects." A swell of hushed conversation passed among the congregants but was short lived. "Brother Licton, the bridle." Licton withdrew a box from the reliquary and set it aside. He lifted the lid of the box and removed a dullish bridle, which he handed to Wintrose, who held the item up for all to see. "And the spear point." Licton removed the second box and handed Wintrose the spear point from inside. "And now the crown." Licton removed a crown from the third box. Wintrose held all three items above his head and addressed the monks once more. "These relics aren't important because they are bridle, spear point and crown. You've probably guessed that much. They are important because of what they once were. Each of these objects, my brothers, was one of the nails driven into the flesh of Jesus Christ." He handed the relics back to Licton. Gasps he had expected. Maybe even a cry or two. And he wasn't disappointed on either account. But there was also a startling shout of, "Blasphemy!" from somewhere at the rear of the chapel. Wintrose took a moment to lower the relics and find his words. "The only proof I can offer you is in the completion of our task. Some of you know more than others about what is afoot. We shall all have the same knowledge soon. Tonight we melt the relics down and form them into manacles. Then all that will be left is capturing the demon commander—the devil prince …" he winked at Brother Drear in the front row, "… clamping the manacles about his wrists,

and chaining him to a wall in the winery." "Like plucking a cherry from the mouth of a babe!" Someone hollered from the back. It took Wintrose a moment to identify the speaker as Brother Glendow. Wintrose smiled weakly. "Yes, well, maybe not quite as easy as that. But if we can get him inside the abbey, he'll weaken considerably. We should have little trouble shackling him and getting him down to the winery." "Then what?" someone shouted. "For as long as he is bound by irons forged from the nails used in the Crucifixion, this region will be free from evil. Only if someone sets him loose will evil and corruption take hold again in the Rocky Forest. We could kill him—maybe—but that would only enrage the others, not deliver them to perdition. But enough talk. Brother Licton, kindly take the reliquary down to the forge. Brother Slaggert will cast something other than cask rings and wine-making apparatus tonight." He eyed a large man several rows from the front as he handed the relics to Licton. "Won't you, Brother Slaggert?" "It will be an intense joy to do this work," Slaggert replied. "Fine, fine. I'll want to know as soon as the fetters are ready." Brother Slaggert stood, twisting the waist cord of his cowl. "Brother Wintrose, it will take time to cool the iron if we want to avoid imperfections, weaknesses in the finished product. We should also rustle up some limestone or salt peter to use as flux. Any impurities in the—" "You will melt down the relics, form them into a pair of manacles, and quench them in water. These bonds will have a hold over the prisoner far beyond the strength of iron. Let me know when it is done." The chapel was silent as Brother Wintrose took his leave. In the narrow corridor that led to his chambers, he felt a tap at his shoulder. Turning tiredly on his crook he saw by the light of a nearby wall-mounted candle the unmistakable long hair and tall, skinny frame of Char Fasserby. He glanced around for Char's brother, Hayt, but saw no one else in the gloom.

"Welcome, Char. Do you still think you can tempt the devil onto holy ground this night?" "I'm as sure as I was this afternoon when you and I spoke at my home." "Your Abigail seems a fine woman. I was surprised and gladdened to learn of your good fortune. I didn't have time to express myself earlier, but I regret that circumstances have forced you and me to keep our distance from one another. It's a wedding I should have liked very much to attend." "Attend? Had things been otherwise, it would have been you who married us." Wintrose didn't know how to respond, so he showed Char into his room and offered him a cup of wine. "Where is your brother," Wintrose asked. "He's with Kurg, coaxing him higher up the mountain as we speak, I don't doubt." "Kurg. This is the name of their leader?" Char bowed his head, nodded slowly. "An ugly name for an ugly beast. I wish you hadn't elected to mix with such low company for our cause. But there are few outside of the brotherhood who can be trusted these days, so I am grateful. When you and Hayt offered to accompany me on my pilgrimage to the Wizened Isle, I saw the opportunity you acted on, but I wouldn't have dreamed of asking you â&#x20AC;Ś I knew we would be watched along the way, and I didn't know what to expect when I got to Donen's Temple. There was some sense in you and your brother coming back to set things in motion here. I can't deny it." "We would do it again in an instant. We had to get them off your scent. But the biggest piece has yet to be dropped into place." "Very true. I must ask your assistance one last time." "It's yours for as many last times as necessary." "Bless you. Then we best get started." "Does everyone knowâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;" "Only that the time has come, and what we plan to do with Kurg once we've got him. Have you done as we discussed?" "Yes, the rope is piled between the abbey and the mountain's peak. How do I get on the roof? I saw no ladder." "Come," Wintrose opened a drawer, removed and pocketed the small glass spheres from Donen

and led his friend back into the corridor, "I'll show you. There's a ladder built into the wall, near the last chapel window." The rain outside the main doors came down like guillotine blades, but compared to what the night still held in store, what was the loss of a head? They trudged through mud and chill wetness to the side of the abbey where Char's rope lay in a soppy coil. Wintrose pointed farther along the wall. "There's the ladder. Brother Slaggert forged it and attached it to the wall. I can give it no stronger endorsement than that." Char nodded, reached down to take up one end of the rope and climbed with it up the ladder. Wintrose stared after him for a moment before beginning his own climb up a steep path etched into the final rise of Scratch Mountain. The going was treacherous, even with his crook, but he'd practiced the route, knew exactly where to stepâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;and where not to. In minutes he'd reached a flat-topped outcropping. Here he sat with his legs crossed and looked on as Char struggled to keep his balance on the narrow strip of flashing that ran the length of the roof. When he reached the steeple, Char tied the rope securely to the base. He almost lost his balance once or twice on his way back to the ladder, but eventually he made it down. The other end of the rope was fashioned into a loop, which Char picked up and carried to the front corner of the abbey. There he let if fall to the mud and with a broad wave to Brother Wintrose headed straight for the drop-off fifty yards from the main doors. Wintrose watched him clamber out of sight before turning his attention to his own role in the coming drama. Char knew Wintrose would take over once Kurg was snared, but he had no idea what methods the old abbot intended to use. No one did. Wintrose reached a hand inside an interior pocket of his cowl and fingered the two smooth orbs. He couldn't believe it was nearly time to make use of them. Since acquiring the weapons seven months ago, he had dreaded this moment, longed for it. Now that the time had arrived, he found it impossible to believe that events would play out as he intended. The procession of time had made it too easy to put faith in a triumphant outcome. Now

he feared that the devil would win the day. Perhaps somewhere in the middle lay the truth. He looked to the moon for comfort and was almost surprised that it gave him some. Then Hayt was hauling himself onto the far ledge. He helped Char up, and the two of them waited, staring down into the dark drop-off below. With dramatic flourish, Kurg shot out of that darkness, some twenty feet into the air. He was massive, fully three times Char's height and Hayt's girth. He halted in the air, batting his wings powerfully against the sky, rotating his monstrous head this way and that. It was a clear display of dominance and gall, and it made Wintrose despise his enemy anew. The damned thing was laying claim to the abbey. Finally, Kurg came to rest on the ground near Char and Hayt. The brothers immediately started walking toward the abbey, and Wintrose saw hesitation in the beast at last. Kurg hung back, all bravado gone from his movements, which now had something of dread in them. He was afraid of the very abbey he hoped to conquer, Wintrose noted with a chuckle. It wasn't clear to Wintrose how, exactly, Char planned to trap his prey. Presumably he had some clever ruse in mind. Perhaps Hayt would divert the devil prince's attention while Char came up from behind and threw the loop over its long, flat head. There would be no second chance if Char missed, so Wintrose watched with great agitation as the action unfolded below. Hayt disappeared from view, but Char came around to the corner where he'd left the end of the rope. Kurg's head and neck, as well as the tips of his wings, were clearly visible as he followed Char. Wintrose's fist tightened around the glass orbs. His own chances with the devilish brute were limited, too. His timing would have to be well chosen. When Char tilted an arm toward the looped end of rope, pointing it out to Kurg, Wintrose rose to his feet. A pang of suspicion coursed through him. Could Char be in league with the satanic horde after all? Char retrieved the loop, handed it to Kurg. The creature took it in a huge claw of gnarled talons. Char appeared to be telling him something. Suddenly, in defiance of all reason, Kurg pulled the

loop over his toothy snout and broad skull, then pulled it tight around his throat. Wintrose could hardly believe his eyes as Kurg turned away from Char and ran back toward the cliff's edge. He took to the air before covering half the distance, however, only to be snapped back violently when he reached the end of the rope. He managed to stay aloft, but it was a struggle. They had him. He was too dumb to realize it yet, but they had him. Wintrose was still puzzled by what he'd witnessed, but at least his trust in Char was restored. He must have taught the monks a thousand times that trust was as binding a compact as marriage to God or spouse, that judgment against a trusted friend must always be forestalled until all evidence of his innocence has been disproved. And yet he'd needed only the most circumstantial clue to convince him, not for the first time, that Char was in service of the enemy. Hypocrisy would be the subject of his next sermon, if there was a next sermon. At length, Kurg became aware he'd been tricked, and his anger was terrifying to behold. He circled and thrashed, squealing insanely. The rope wrapped around the steeple until he was almost forced to land on the roof, only to unwind again as he flew in the opposite direction. Would he tire? If not, Wintrose doubted the steeple would hold. A dozen iron pegs held it to the roof. They couldn't last forever. Wintrose plucked an orb from the palm of his left hand and cocked his other arm. He glanced down at Char, who gestured wildly for him to act. He looked back at Kurg, who had yet to notice his presence against the slick black stone of the mountainside. He had no idea how much fire the spheres were capable of loosing when they struck a target. It couldn't hurt to aim for the head, in case the explosion didn't amount to much. Though that's exactly where he aimed, the orb fell short of its whirling target entirely, instead striking the base of the steeple. Fire erupted where the ball hit but quickly subsided, leaving a tongue of flame that licked all around the steeple mount before igniting the devil prince's tether. "No!" Brother Wintrose screamed, horrified by the prospect of Kurg's being set free by such an idiotic blunder. The fingers of his right hand found the other sphere. This time he didn't bother to aim.

Kurg's eyes were on him now, and filled with fire as bright and hot as what crawled up the rope. The wings beat faster. Wintrose flung the orb with every whit of strength and will he possessed. He had no idea where it would connect, probably the far side of the abbey, maybe light Hayt on fire. But no, it caught Kurg under his right arm. Again there was a blinding flash. When it died out, Kurg's wing on that side was alive with flame. The demon flapped furiously, flying at Wintrose with terrific vengeanceâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;unholy vengeance. The rain had all but extinguished the rope fire, but Kurg's wing burned strong, the flames no doubt enlivened by his carbuncled flesh. Wintrose knew the rope wasn't long enough for Kurg to reach him, but all the demons of the Rocky Forest had such convincing, conniving eyes. Kurg's, like everything else about him, were more devilish still, and Wintrose half believed the devil prince might find a way to stretch the rope, allowing him to get his hungry jaws around Wintrose's throat and hurtle him off the mountain with a wrench of his neck. Or the rope might simply snap where it was now black and brittle from the fire. Instead, Kurg came to the end of his tether in great pain, a dozen feet from Wintrose's perch. His energy depleted and his wing useless, the leader of devils dropped like a pendulum. Following the arc determined by the rope, he crashed through one of the chapel windows. As if it had held out only long enough to do its job, the rope broke free of the steeple and trailed to the ground below like a ribbon in a breeze. Their only hope now was that the interior of the abbey would be holy enough to further immobilize Kurg until he was properly chained up in the winery. Wintrose inched his way down the crooked mountain path to meet Char near the ravaged window. They stared at each other, both searching for words that wouldn't come. Char threw his arms around Wintrose, who returned the embrace with gusto. At arms' length once more, Wintrose finally said, "Forgive me, but again I doubted your loyalty when you showed Kurg the rope. What in the realm did you say to convince him to tie it around his own neck?" Char laughed. "Oh, that. Well, we've been trying to convince him that his only chance for domin-

ance in this region is to overthrow the abbey. That's why he's been venturing closer lately." "So you mentioned this afternoon." "Well, he thought he was going to use the rope to bring down the wall of the abbey. Little did he know it was a leash!" "Ha! Well done, Char. Well done. And where did Hayt run off to?" "Oh, he slipped inside to make sure no one came out during our little pageant. Kurg may have gotten wise if the monks had started filing out to see what was going on. We should make sure no one was hurt." "Yes, come." The inside of the chapel was a charnel house. Kurg writhed on the floor. His eyes rolled dazedly back and forth, and his ruined wing twitched in the air. Underneath the devil prince was pinned at least one of the brotherhood. Whoever it was didn't move an inch. Other monks lay scattered around, and splatters of blood decorated many pews. It was a place of groans and candlelight. And blood. All movement and sound seemed to be slowed until Wintrose spotted Brother Gabbin, sprawled over the back of a pew, his cold, dead eyes staring upside down at Wintrose. Instead of going to the man's side, Brother Wintrose stepped briskly to the gigantic head of Kurg. He knelt, ignoring a flash of pain in his knees. "You," he whispered angrily into the thing's ear, "have arrived at the worst night of your false life. This is a place of God, and in it you will find no pity, no love, no mercy, no hope. We have lured you here to suffer, and suffer you shall." Hauling himself up by his crook, he called out, "Where is Brother Slaggert? Tell him to bring in the manacles!" Hayt approached Wintrose from the rear of the chapel. "I know not what to say. I thought the chapel would be a safe refuge. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;" "Hayt, you were very wrongly named. Your intentions tonight were good ones. But there is time for neither praise nor grief at present. All things must have their hour." He heard footsteps behind him and turned. "Ah, Slaggert, good. I see you have the manacles." "I have them, yes. But they both cracked during quenching. I would advise againstâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;"

"When your advice is required, Brother Slaggert, I assure you it is melodious to my ears. But now it is your duty to listen to me. Cuff this son of a whore and let us lead him into the basement." Slaggert nodded, visibly shaken by the reprimand, and did as he was told. Getting Kurg onto his feet was the worst part, but once he was upright and the remains of Brother Hazen were peeled away from his underbelly, he was as docile as a pup. Halfway down the winding stairs to the wine cellar, Wintrose stopped the procession. The manacles were clamped tight around Kurg's enormous wrists and connected to each other by a length of chain. Wintrose pulled the connecting chain until Kurg's head swung in his direction and their eyes met. "I think you can find the way from here," Wintrose said as he slammed the curved end of his crook into the Devil Prince's throat. Kurg tried to regain his balance, but it was a wasted effort with his wrists bound. His good wing flickered to life but was incapable of preventing the fall. Down he twirled in a slow revolution that was cut short when his body connected with the hard earthen floor below, sending up a soft plume of dust. "I'll be upstairs when you're through chaining him to the wall. I have something to tell you all." Without another word, Brother Wintrose retraced each arduous step back upstairs to the chapel. He was humbled to see that the bodies had already been removed, the toppled pews righted, the most garish blood stains washed clean. Brother Licton and some others were piling timber from broken pews, but Licton must have heard the tap of Wintrose's crook, even over the wind and rain that howled through the shattered chapel window, for he spun as if startled and quickly approached the abbot. "Was it worth all this, Brother Wintrose? Have we done any good here tonight?" "I think so, yes. Gather everyone around, would you? I have something for all ears to hear." He climbed to the pulpit, and soon the damaged chapel was filled with silent, sullen ranks of men. "Why so glum?" He tried to smile. "Brothers, we have already paid dearly for victory, and we have one more price to pay. But victory is ours.

We snared the Rocky Forest devil tonight, and though we've never located the sore in the earth from which he and his vermin originally seeped, I have no doubt the horde, even now, is crawling over itself to get back into its hole. We've cut off its head. It can only return to the unthinking place that eschews all wisdom, beauty, light, love and compassion. There it can go back to dwelling on its hopeless plightâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;a sinking ship with stone oars." His speech had risen to a fevered invective, yet the congregation barely stirred. "What is this additional cost you speak of, Brother?" someone called out. Wintrose took a moment to regain his composure. "This abbey, my brothers, has been a good home to us, and to God. For years I dreamed of its completion, and it's been all that I ever hoped. But there must be an end to all things. It is not for us to stand in the way of God's work now. Let Him train the power of this place on nothing other than the devil prince, for if that mountain of dung should ever be set free, woe to the people of this region. Woe to the people of the world. "And there is another reason, too, that we must leave our sacred abbey to the whims of fate. Menâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;even men as good as all of youâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;are susceptible to temptation. I would sooner perish in flames than see one of the brotherhood succumb to any devilish tricks and set Kurg loose. If we leave him to his solitary throne, there's a better chance he'll remain a prisoner. Forever." There was no rebuttal, no complaint, no challenge to Brother Wintrose's heavy words. Only quiet acceptance. If this night marks an end to one cycle of the brotherhood's existence, the silence seemed to say, what plan do you have for leading us into the next one, Brother Wintrose? The truth was that he had no solid plan at all. For so many years his prayers and schemes and desires all had revolved around vanquishing the infernal invaders of the Rocky Forest. There had been no future looming behind that all-encompassing objective, no thought given to the bright new day that might dawn after such a long spell of darkness. "First, my good brothers, let us go down into the forest and see with our own eyes what effect our work has had. Perhaps it is our calling to bear

witness to this great event, to let people know to throw open their shutters again. Let them know it's okay to sleep through a summer's night with every window in the house wide open. The time has come for us to readjust our thinking. Our message has changed from one of terror and caution to one of boundless hope and rejuvenation. I say we embrace the change and let ourselves sing for once, instead of delivering warning after warning." The silence broke apart at last in an eruption of cheers and applause as the humble brotherhood of Wintrose Abbey gave voice to its collective, though tarnished, joy. Far below, in the winery, a sickened groan could be heard but dimly.

V A Return to Wintrose Abbey

Hayt Fasserby was a simple man, but not the

simpleton people often took him for. He knew the weight of his decision when he climbed back up to the mountain abbey and took it upon himself to watch over the brotherhood's charge. He felt called to it, just as Brother Wintrose had been called on to build the abbey and his own brother, Char, had been called on to raise a family. But the devil was full of tricks, and it wasn't long before Hayt was being assailed daily with taunts and confusion. It was unfair, the devil prince contended, for Hayt to have been left behind. And when Hayt told Kurg no one knew he'd returned to the abbey, Kurg only scoffed and said it was all the more reason Hayt should be upset. While the brotherhood was out in the world, collecting accolades and basking in adulation, Hayt was stuck on Scratch Mountain, looking after a devil prince who wasn't likely to so much as scratch his nose in a thousand years. While Char enjoyed the love of a good woman and the glory of rearing children, Hayt was pinned to a duty no layman ever should have been burdened with. Kurg promised that once freed he would take Hayt to see his friends and his brother's family. He said he would explain to the brotherhood that his incarceration had been the result of a terrible misunderstanding. If Lucifer was the Father of Lies, then Kurg was the essence of those lies. Mind, the devil prince's trickery wasn't the work of days or weeks. He was at it for years before Hayt finally wore down and did the unthinkable by setting him free. When he did, the brute pushed past him in a rage and wasn't seen or heard for days. Liberated from the creature's influence, Hayt could feel a veil lift, and it revealed to him the truth of what he had done. There was evidence that the devil prince hadn't left the abbey for good. One evening, during a routine constitutional, Hayt discovered something odd in the cloister. Someone had built a circle of pikes, all angled in toward a space at the center, large enough for a man to stand in. A portion of

From every corner of the forest, and from the

valley beyond, the creatures took to the skies. Brother Wintrose and the others had to go no farther than Kneeling Ridge to behold the spectacle. The rain had stopped, and the wind had fallen to a calming breeze, so the moon's glint had a good reach across the wooded slopes below. A terrible squawking filled the air as the devils circled in erratic descent. The mountain itself seemed to be swallowing them, and Wintrose eventually saw the jagged cut into which the things drained. In minutes it was over. The screeching, the flapping of wings, the ugliness â&#x20AC;Ś all gone. Wintrose fell to his knees, not out of pain or exhaustion but out of the profoundest joy his heart had ever known. Perhaps, in an odd way, he owed the demon horde some small thanks for allowing him the deep thrill of their undoing. Brother Drear was at his side in an instant, helping him back to his feet. Char was nearby as well. And Hayt. "Brother Gabbin's death was not in vain," Wintrose said to Drear. "It will be answered with a million gestures of kindness and humility that wouldn't have been allowed to enter the world if the demons were still among us." Drear's large black eyes, framed by his equally black hair, said more than any words he might have mustered had he been capable of speech at that moment. And they spoke for everyone.

the pike barricade hung open like a gate, inviting him in. The contraption chilled his blood, for it was the obvious work of a Rocky Forest devil. Kurg, in other words. That night, while lying in bed and wondering about the young nomad who had recently taken up residence in the abbey, Hayt heard a noise like a door slamming shut. Perhaps the door to the cloister. Fear crawled across his belly as he lay there, motionless. It might have been the stranger, but Hayt hadn't heard a sound from the man since his arrival. He only seemed interested in perusing the volumes of philosophy and metaphysics left behind by Brother Wintrose and some of the others. And besides, the newcomer was early to bed without fail. This was far beyond his usual time for turning in. Another sound echoed down the hall outside Hayt's door, this time the creak of a hinge. He'd so far avoided detection from the abbey's newest inhabitant so he could keep an eye on his movements. But maybe the man was wise to him, seeking him out in the night. No, it had to be Kurg he now heard. He was only trying to assuage his fears by pretending otherwise. He had made a dreadful mistake in letting the devil prince go, and one way or another he was bound to pay a price. Brother Wintrose would be so disappointed in him, if the old abbot still lived. As he lay in the dark, waiting for the demon's final approach, his shame momentarily eclipsed his terror. The very shame that had kept him from fleeing the abbey after setting Kurg loose. He could never again bear the company of men. Besides, he had nowhere to go. The door to his chamber shot inward as if caught in an explosion. Several candles burned dimly in the room, and Hayt wished he'd extinguished them. The flickering shadows they cast only made Kurg's form appear more mutated and huge than it already was. Into the room he came, limping and grunting. He held something heavy at each side. These items he deposited on the bed before leaning over Hayt's troubled features. The creature flashed something like a smile as he brought up a long, rough talon. With his other claw he pulled Hayt's tongue as far out of his mouth as it would go and then sliced it clean

through with an easy swipe of the misshapen nail. Hayt heard the severed portion of his tongue strike a wall where Kurg flung it, but before he could react, the devil was holding a candle's flame to the fresh wound in his mouth, burning it closed. He thrashed and bucked but could produce only the most pitiful gurgling sounds in his throat. Kurg turned his attention to the objects he'd brought in with him, which allowed Hayt to cover his bloodwet mouth with both hands. But soon there was fresh pain. Kurg had clamped metal boots onto Hayt's legs and was now twisting pins into his flesh and bone through holes in the metal to secure the boots. This complete, the devil prince draped Hayt over one shoulder and carried him out to the cloister. The gate of pikes was open as before, and Kurg deposited Hayt in the center of the bizarre device. He drove several long pins through each foot, deep into the ground. Before leaving Hayt to his punishment, Kurg lashed at his face until it was free of skin. What he'd cut from Hayt he chewed on and swallowed, right before the man's eyes. Hayt moaned and cried, but his sorrow and pain only drove the beast to laughter. Kurg threw shut the gate of pikes and hobbled to the rear of the cloister, where he disappeared through a fissure in the wall. Hayt nearly lost his balance and realized the horror of his predicament. Eventually he would tire, and his body would collapse onto the barricade. And while he had any strength or will to live, he would push himself away from the pikes, back to a standing position. It was human instinct to avoid pain. But his strength would drain away. His resolve would ebb. And sooner or later he would dieâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;impaled, faceless and without a final scream to mark his departure from the world. He let his head drop as he burst out sobbing, his body swaying in tiny moonlit circles.

New from Black Matrix Publishing LLC Young Adult Fantasy with a sense of humor... P. E. Snyder's Advent Tour. Available at www.blackmatrixpub.com Also on Amazon.com

Alan Branson was looking forward to managing his mother's coffee shop while she opened the new location across town, until a particularly strange customer wandered in the door. Apparently, if you can brew a good Double Mocha Hazelnut Dream for a reality hopping dead wizard, you're qualified to rule the land of his birth. Not ready for the job? Who asked you? Alan finds himself in a world of magic and strange characters who either think he's a bit of a harmless idiot or want to retire him from his recently acquired throne with sharp, pointy objects. If he can only harness the Power that flows from the realm and through him, he just might survive the tour to meet his new subjects. 93

In the Garden of Time

by Martin Turton What if 2012 is our last year? And what acts will some commit in an attempt to avoid the end?

Perhaps a two-hour bus trip through the Yu-

catan jungle wasn't the best idea to try and rescue their marriage. A bad American movie dubbed into Spanish with the volume cranked hid the silence between them. Gareth turned to look at his wife; she held the flat of her hand against her belly as though she still carried their child. For some reason it annoyed him. He looked back to the window, "You want to go on to Panquen after Chichen Itza?" He saw her reflection in the window shrug silently. Their holiday in Cancun had been a time of accusatory silences on the beach followed by bland meals under the glare of neon lights in their faceless hotel. Too much time to think. To remember. The bus trip to Chichen Itza had been a spur of the moment decision, one last desperate attempt to occupy his mind, to find some topic of conversation other than what they had left behind in England. When he had told Lisa about the idea, she had shrugged and quietly packed her case. Another hour of silence and Gareth was trying to smooth a map of the ancient city on the ground. It was still early morning and the parking lot had only been half full, yet already the site was beginning to fill with tourists with loud shirts and cameras bouncing against their bellies. Most of them were gathered in slow-moving herds following in the wake of tour guides. Gareth pinned the map down with one hand and pointed with the other. "So that," he indicated the stunning temple before them, "must be El Castillo, and that," he pointed to a raised platform to the left, "must be the Venus Platform, and that…" "You know, you could have just paid for a tour guide," Lisa interrupted. "You don't always have to be so cheap." Gareth sighed and rose to his feet, trying to fold the map. Failing to find the right sequence of

folds, he screwed it into a vaguely rectangular shape. "They're nothing but con merchants. I've already had to pay extra just to use the bloody video camera; I'm not going to pay for somebody to tell me what I can see with my own two eyes." A shadow fell on the ground between them. They hadn't even heard the Mexican approach. He had an ingratiating smile and large hands. "Senor, senora, might I be of some assistance? Show you the glories of Chichen Itza, perhaps?" He had the thick, shining black hair that all Mexicans seemed to have, though he was stockier than most; and short, nearly a head shorter than Lisa. His tan shirt was open at the neck, the curls of black wiry hair on his chest already damp with sweat under the blazing sun. "No, no thank you," Gareth waved the man away; the shorts the Mexican wore left little to the imagination—he looked like the porn star of a cheap seventies film. All he needed was a medallion resting on that hairy chest of his. Gareth shook his head, unsure how much English the man spoke. "We don't need a tour guide, thank you." "Tour guide?" The Mexican looked at Gareth in disbelief. "Jorge is no ‘tour guide', senor!" He took a step closer to them, his eyes resting on Lisa longer than Gareth would have liked. For the first time, Gareth noticed how her filmy white dress clung to her breasts. "Even so…" he reached out and pulled Lisa closer, rested his hand on the small of her back. She felt stiff and resistant to his touch. "No, no senor—those tour guides, too interested in feria, yes?" Jorge rubbed two fingers against his thumb. "Money? Yes?" The little Mexican nodded eagerly, "Jorge will show you the real sights." "How much?" Lisa asked. Gareth barely suppressed a sigh. Once you showed these people the slightest glimmer, they were on you like a shark.

Jorge smiled. He had small white teeth. "For me? Nothing, senora. It is reward enough that others should know the glory of my people." Gareth's snort of disbelief was slightly less well concealed than his sigh. "Your people? So you're a Mayan, then?" The man must be angling for a giant tip. He'd be sorely disappointed. The small white teeth disappeared behind a thinlipped smile. "Mayan? No, senor. Though all this," he gestured around the admittedly fantastic site; every colour glaring under the heat of the sun. "Is all Mexican now, eh?" He leaned forward, "See, Jorge will carry your bag for you." "No, no, that's not…" but Jorge had already swung the giant rucksack onto his broad back. Almost all their belongings for the trip were in that bag and it had nearly broken Gareth's back just getting it here from the refreshment area. "I will show you the great pyramid before all the cattle arrive, yes?" He led them to the base of El Castillo, and promptly let out a high-pitched cry which rebounded as an ear-splitting shriek from the temple. "Jesus." Gareth lifted a hand to his still-ringing ear. Jorge doubled over laughing, the weight of the rucksack not seeming to bother him in the slightest. "One of the many wonders of our pyramid, senor." The laughter stopped for just a moment as Jorge's black eyes rested on Lisa, who seemed unmoved by the demonstration. She fanned herself with a guidebook, her blonde curls wisping about her neck in the draught. Jorge finally tore his eyes away from her, looked up the deadly-steep stairs of the pyramid. "It is the same from the top." He pointed with a thick finger. "I could climb these steps and speak in a normal voice, and people for miles around would hear every word." He smiled proudly, as though he had fashioned this glory from stone himself. Gareth looked up to where Jorge pointed. Three groups of people were climbing the steps, struggling and sweating under the sun. One tiny older woman had stopped, her grey t-shirt sticking to her back in black patches as she mopped at her forehead with a handkerchief. "You have timed your visit to Chichen Itza very well, my friends." Jorge was looking at the strug-

gling climbers as he spoke. He offered the resting woman a wide smile and a wave. She shook her head, grey strands of damp hair working their way free of her hat, and carried on climbing. She was barely halfway up the ninety-one steps. "Only recently has the temple been opened to allow us to climb." "Oh, didn't someone die?" Lisa asked. Jorge clasped his hands together, a regretful smile flitting briefly across his face. "A most terrible accident six years ago, senora." A pause as he gazed up at the steps, lost in thought. "The temple has been closed to the people since then, but now so many want to see the end of the world from the temple of Kukulken…" he spread his hands, the regretful smile returning once more. The man was starting to grate on Gareth's nerves. He watched the aged woman. She was struggling even more now, almost crawling, using both hands and feet on the white stone steps. The view from the top must really be something for the old dear to carry on. "What do you mean, ‘the end of the world'?" He reached for Lisa's arm, but she pulled it away. Jorge watched Lisa's movement with close interest before he decided to answer, his toothy smile seeming like an attempt to suggest he hadn't seen a thing. "The end of the world, senor!" It sounded like a most happy occasion. "You must know we only have two days left on this Earth, senor?" "Twenty-third of December, 2012. The end of the world. The end of the Age of the Fifth Sun." It was Lisa who spoke, surprising Gareth. "Yes, senora. The end is almost upon us." For the briefest of moments, the black eyes darkened. And then the wide, white-toothed smile returned. "But who wants to know of the end of the world?! Enjoy the city, my friends! But first I show you the view. Show you what is where." He took a step onto the pyramid, looking back at the two of them expectantly. Gareth looked to Lisa; her bare arms were glistening, her skin already bronzed by the sun. She stepped onto the pyramid without so much as a glance at him. As soon as he followed, he was glad that Jorge had the rucksack strapped to his back. Each step was tall, but the tread where the feet were placed

was narrow. Gareth guessed that was one of the reasons for that strange echo. Apart from all else, it made for an incredibly steep climb. After five steps, he was already panting for breath, and he glanced up to see how the old woman was doing. She didn't seem to have got much higher, and a large man in a loud shirt came back down to check on her. Gareth guessed she was on about step sixty. She was almost laid on the steps, one hand raised to her chest. Dark sweat stains circled the pits of her grey t-shirt. He looked to Lisa; she was a couple of steps ahead of him, her legs long and sun-kissed. Even now, after five years of marriage and all that had happened since, even now he still wanted her. "How come you know so much about the Mayans, anyway?" he asked, admiring the swelling curve of her hip as she climbed another step. Lisa turned, looking over her shoulder, her blonde hair dark where it clung to her damp neck. She wasn't wearing any make-up; each cheek and the bridge of her nose were flushed red from the sun. She opened her mouth to answer him. For the first time, Gareth thought that this trip might have been a good idea after all. Might bring them closer together after all the fraught silences. That was when they heard the scream. The old woman's companion had barely turned his back. The woman stood, limp and wilting under the sun; and then sheâ&#x20AC;Śtoppled, her legs collapsing as though swept away by an axe. The fat companion was only alerted of the danger by the scream higher up the pyramid. He was far too slow, grabbing at thin air even as the old woman's shoulder struck the steps below. She fell with frightening speed. A sickening thud every time an elbow or knee hit a step. Gareth himself barely moved. He made no attempt to stop the poor woman's fall and he only realized that fact as he stared at her lying at his feet. Her only injury seemed to be a stark red graze close to her left eye. "For God's sake! Don't just stand there!" Lisa glared up at him; she had already fallen to her knees next to the woman, lifting her head into her lap. Gareth reached out, grabbed the woman's hand for want of anything better to do. This close, she

looked even older than he had thought. The hair poking out from under her hat looked thin and brittle. She gripped his hand with surprising force, though her bones felt thin and fragile under the papery skin. Her eyelids fluttered, her eyes a faded blue as they fixed on Gareth's own. "So soon," she said, "so soon." A whisper, an exhalation of breath. And then she died. Her eyes remained fixed on Gareth's. He could see the moment she died, sensed the moment her spirit left her body. And still he held her hand, shock leaving him immobile. It was the second time in two months he had held a hand as life passed away. It was the cruellest of reminders of all they had sought to escape. He looked to Lisa, still cradling the woman's head, and knew the sorrow etched in her features was not for the woman who lay between them; but for their child who they had held for the shortest of times over five thousand miles away in London. Gareth felt very far from home; he wanted to drop the dry, lifeless hand and hold his wife. Shouting, cries of fear; some woman wailing as tourists hurried down the temple, awkward and ungainly on the difficult steps, cameras swinging around their necks, and then Lisa was lost from view as the Americans reached them. "Mom!" "Is she okay?" One of them, the fat one in the loud shirt, even grabbed Gareth by the shoulders, "What happened? What happened?" the man kept shouting in his face, as though Gareth had any answers. "She's gone." A young woman knelt by the body, her voice disbelieving, denying. "Noâ&#x20AC;Ś" the man moaned, his hands tight in Gareth's shirt. Gareth tried to push him away. "Lisa," he shouted. "Lisa!" But she either didn't hear him, or was too busy in the gathering crowd. It seemed like everybody in Chichen Itza had been alerted by the screams. All around people were drawn to the scene: shuffling, fidgeting, trying not to look too interested in the corpse on the white stone steps. And then the police arrived, cool in their thin blue shirts; their moustaches seeming to be almost as much a part of the uniform as their black caps. They seemed to mill about as much as the tourists

until a friendly-looking detective in a white shirt and black pants arrived to take over the scene. It wasn't until the evening when Gareth and Lisa were alone once more in their hotel suite. They collapsed onto the bed together, still fully clothed, the questions of Detective Martinez still ringing in Gareth's ears. "How well did you know the deceased?" "How did she fall?" "Was anybody near the deceased when she fell?" "Was she already dead when you held her hand?" Gareth blew a plume of smoke into the air and tapped his cigarette in the ashtray balanced on his chest. Lisa stared up at the ceiling. "You're not supposed to smoke in here." Not supposed to smoke in here? He wasn't supposed to smoke at all; he'd quit when Lisa became pregnant. He hadn't wanted to start again; it would be another reminder of what they'd lost. But then, it wasn't every day a dying woman rolled up to land at your feet. Gareth had decided to allow himself one packet for the occasion. They were so cheap he'd bought two. He took one last heavenly drag on the cigarette before he put it out. He lay back on the bed, slowly exhaling the last of the smoke and trying to think of something to say. So many barriers seemed to have sprung between them. Even talk of the excitement of the day was tinged with too many memories of that which they'd lost. Lisa saved him the trouble of trying to find something worthwhile to say. "We should have stayed in England." There was no arguing with that. Thousands of miles to escape, only to have the harshest possible memory land at his feet like that. Gareth nodded and wished he hadn't put his cigarette out. "It's been a hell of a day." "Gareth," Lisa rolled onto her side, her head propped in one hand, her elbow resting on the pillow. "Do you think we'll ever be like we were, before…?" "Course we will. It just takes time, babe. Think we just need to get our heads around what's happened." He nodded to the window, to where the ancient city waited, brooding in the darkness. "And all that carry-on today hasn't exactly helped."

Lisa smiled, though it didn't reach her eyes. "Poor woman." She looked down at the blanket, scratched with a nail at something she saw there. "But she'd lived her life. Had children, seen them grow." "Yeah," Gareth chewed a lip. Then tried to smile brightly, though it felt false on his own face. "Judging from what you were saying, she only had two days left anyway." He saw her questioning look. "The prophecy? The world is going to end on the twenty-third of December? I think you ought to give me my present now then." The attempted joke fell flat in the quiet of the hotel room. "I didn't know you knew about all that stuff." He tried to cover the failed attempt at humour. "You know how it is: know a little about everything, a lot about nothing." Lisa smiled; her first genuine smile for a long time. It didn't last long. "But after what happened…it just seemed natural to choose the country where the end of the world had been foretold. It seemed fitting somehow." She was opening up to him. For the first time, Gareth was sure that they could work their way through this; overcome their loss and get on with their lives. He reached out, tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "Lisa…" She pulled away, her eyes avoiding his. "Goodnight, Gareth." She faced away from him as she lay down to sleep. Gareth nodded to her back. They'd made a start. Everything was going to be okay. "Goodnight, Lisa."

In the morning she was gone.

Her side of the bed was cold, the sheets tangled and snagged around Gareth's ankles. He kicked them away and walked to the window, squinting against the sunlight. Seven in the morning and already the sun was blazing. It looked huge, a great pregnant burning ball of yellow fire in a sky of brilliant blue. Gareth never knew the sun could look so large. He ran a hand through his mussed hair and looked at the pool below, deserted apart from the pool cleaner. The Mayan seemed to sense Gareth watching him, and turned to wave. Gareth lifted a hand in reply before letting the drapes fall back.

Perhaps she had gone to the ruins alone. Something she never would have done before. But things change. People change. A brief memory of a dying woman tumbling down a pyramid. Where were her family now? Holed up in a sterile police station? Or had they returned to their hotel, numb and silent; avoiding each others eyes, turning inward in their grief? The little Mayan had disappeared when Gareth reached the pool. Even at this time the water was warm; a dull, sapping kind of heat which left him drained and listless after his seven laps. The hotel was beginning to stir to life as he made his way back to their room, towel still draped over his damp shoulders. Still no sign of Lisa. He picked up a local guide book from the bedside table; there was a picture of El Castillo on the cover. The dramatic sky of ominous grey clouds swept toward the pyramid so it looked like the centre of some great swirling vortex. Gareth tapped the book against his palm. The ruins were a ten minute walk away. Would Lisa really have gone there without him? Especially after what they'd seen yesterday? More evidence of how distant they'd grown; there had once been a time when he knew what his wife was thinking almost before she did. He sat down on the bench at the foot of the bed and began reading about ancient cities and dark prophecies. After ten minutes he realized he wasn't taking any of it in, ran a vigorous hand through his still-damp hair and set off for the city. Maybe he would bump into her on the way. The well-worn path to the ruins was already busy with traffic, most of the other travellers offering him a brief "Good morning", or a comment on the merciless sun. Gareth resisted the urge to ask them if they'd seen a young English woman with blonde hair and a sun-burnt nose. Everything seemed somehow bigger now he was alone. El Castillo (which was now once more closed to the public) seemed even higher and steeper than before. Ninety-one steps on each face, which, added together with the single top-most step, came to three-hundred and sixty five, or the number of days in a year. So he had been taking something in when he glanced at that guide book after all. Standing here, under the glare of the sun

which seemed to fill half the sky, and looking up at that pyramid, Gareth was suddenly reminded of the Mexican who had accosted them just before the accident. What was his name? Jose? Jorge? Maybe he might have seen Lisa wandering around the ruins. A quick glance around showed that, this early in the day, most of the tourists were happy to look around the city themselves; none were clustered in the vacant-eyed groups that they'd seen following the guides yesterday. Even the hundreds of sellers who flooded the city must have thought it too hot and too early to harangue the tourists. Their guide of the day before would probably be at home trying to squeeze himself into his shorts about now. Gareth had never noticed the serpents before. They rolled down each side of the staircase, their heads at the bottom, stone eyes staring straight at him, mouth agape. Perhaps he should have spared the few pesos for a guide the day before; Lisa would love to learn about the meaning of those. Maybe later, once he'd found her. He headed for the shade of a group of white columns, Lisa would be struggling in the heat, she'd most likely seek out any respite from the sun she could find. Still no sign. Gareth took off his tshirt and wiped it across his face, sweat stinging his eyes. There were more steep steps nearby and he headed to these, maybe he would have a better chance of finding her from the vantage point. Once he reached the top of the steps, he came face-to-face with an impassive statue staring out across the city. It half-lay, half-sat with a tray held between its hands and placed across its belly. If the thing had risen to its feet, it would have been at least two-feet taller than Gareth. He stopped, rested his hands on his knees and followed the gaze of the statue out over a dead city sweltering under the heat of a pitiless sun in a foreign jungle. "What the hell are we doing here?" Gareth smiled grimly to himself, turned to meet the implacable gaze of the statue, its expression as hard and indifferent as the stone from which it was carved. Gareth was no expert on the Mayans, but he could well guess what had once been placed on that tray resting on the giant's stomach. It did nothing to quell his growing sense of unease. His wife was missing; and as he looked at the statue awaiting its

sacrificial victim, as he looked at the two massive serpent columns, he was reminded of the bloodspattered history of the city. His quiet unease grew into a vibrant fear oscillating down his spine. He almost ran back down the steps, his heart pounding and the breath caught in his throat as he raced back to the hotel. Lisa had to be there by now.

about the fall. The receptionist hung up the phone. Gareth had barely registered that she had been speaking. "I'm sorry, Mr. Knight, but Papantzin didn't see Mrs. Knight either." "Ah, thank you anyway." Gareth tapped the card on the desk, chewed his lip and turned away. A stone fountain bubbled softly and his steps sounded harsh and loud as he hurried across the lobby. What would they be doing now if they were back home in England? Maybe taking the dog a walk, arm in arm on the riverbank. Or curled up together on the settee, talking. Coming to terms with what had happened. He picked up the phone as soon as he was in his room, before he could change his mind. "Hola?" Gareth recognized Martinez's gruff voice instantly. "Er, hello, detective. This is Mr. Knight, er, Gareth. We met yesterday at the pyramid?" "I remember, Mr. Knight. You have remembered something?" The detective's English was fluent, though heavily accented and with the gruff, throaty voice of a forty-a-day man. Gareth scanned the room, looking for his own cigarettes. "No, not about the fall anyway. I feel silly for phoning reallyâ&#x20AC;Ś" The other end of the line was quiet. "What is it, Mr. Knight?" Martinez finally asked. "Well, it's about my wife. She hasn't been gone all that long though. I shouldn't have phoned really." Gareth reached out and opened the packet of cigarettes single-handedly. Another, longer pause. "Mrs. Knight? She is missing?" "Yeah." Gareth lit his cigarette, drew deeply. "Well, I think she is. She hasn't been gone all that long, like I say." He suddenly wished he hadn't bothered the detective. He remembered reading a few years ago that the Chief of Police's head had been found in a box somewhere. Mexican police were busy people. "Mr. Knight? Stay at the hotel. I'll be right there." "Oh. Right." He clutched the packet of cigarettes tight in his fist as he hung up. He realized he'd only phoned Martinez to set his mind at rest. He didn't feel very comforted at all.

hat do you mean? Somebody must have seen her!" The room had been empty and silent on his return. Gareth ran straight downstairs to confront the receptionist. His raised voice echoed in the quiet of the foyer, a cavernous area with the occasional giant pot plant scattered about the offwhite marble floor. Even in here it was sweltering. The receptionist, a pretty Mayan girl with a red ribbon in her thick black hair, held up a hand. "Please, please, Mr. Knight. Nobody has seen Mrs. Knight since you returned with her yesterday evening." "And when did you start work?" "Six o'clock this morning." "Can you phone the other one? The night receptionist?" The girl was getting annoyed with him. Gareth didn't care. "I think she will be asleep, Mr. Knight." Gareth tried his most charming smile. "All the same?" The Mayan girl stared at him a long moment before turning to the phone, tapping out the numbers with the end of her pen. Gareth leaned on the desk with both elbows, watched her gaze up at the ceiling as she waited for an answer. Somebody must have seen Lisa leave. She didn't have her key-card with her, but then she wouldn't have needed it if she presumed he would be in when she returned. But what about money? If she planned on being gone for any length of time, she would have taken some money. Gareth felt in his pocket, trying to remember how many pesos he'd had yesterday. His hand closed around a small card, the edges fresh and sharp enough to dig into his thumb. He pulled it out of his pocket, turned it over. And remembered. The detective's card. Detective Martinez. He'd given one each to Gareth and Lisa on the off-chance they might remember something

Martinez, when he arrived in the late after-

noon, was wearing the same white shirt and black pants he had the day before. Gareth let him in, offered him a seat on the bench at the foot of the bed. "You didn't have to rush straight over, you know. She hasn't been gone all that long. I'm sure you're a very busy man." Martinez was a thick-set man, his eyes creased from too much time in the sun. He had a habit of openly studying the person speaking to him, a frank and open expression which made Gareth fidget under his gaze. "Come now, Mr. Knight. We take great care over the safety of our guests in this country. And you were fortunate enough to telephone me on my day off." He had a warm smile which made his eyes crease even more at the corners. "Now. Your wife, Mr. Knight." He pulled a notebook from the pocket of his shirt. "How long did you say she's been missing?" Gareth ran a hand through his hair. This was all moving too quickly. Back in England, he wouldn't have thought anything about Lisa going for a morning walk, but there was something about this searing heat, about being in an alien jungle so close to those sombre ancient ruins that made his heart ache with worry. "I'm not sure exactly. I must have fallen asleep about one this morning. And when I woke at seven she was gone." Martinez nodded. Wrote a few words down. "And how long have you been in Mexico, Mr. Knight?" He'd asked him this same question yesterday. "Six days. Arrived here the day before yesterday." "Ah," Martinez smiled knowingly. "You came to see the fulfilment of the prophecy, yes?" "No. Why does everybody keep saying that?" Martinez tapped his pencil against the pad; a staccato rhythm. "Because it is important, Mr. Knight. True, people laugh at us and our superstitions, but suppose them to be true. What then?" "What then? I'd say I'd wasted a lot of money on Christmas presents." Gareth took a deep breath; the very oxygen seemed to have been burnt out of the air. "But what has that got to do with Lisa?" Martinez placed the notepad on the bench next to him, leaned forward, his dark eyes fixed on

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Gareth's. "I said earlier that you had phoned me on my day off, Mr. Knight, which is true. Today I come to you in another capacity. There is an infinitely older organization than even our wonderful police force, the details I wouldn't want to bother you with right now. All I will say is that I have a need to be at Chichen Itza tonight. I think your wife is there, Mr. Knight and I will do everything in my power to reunite you with her before the end." A fist of ice clenched in the pit of Gareth's stomach. The end of what? He wondered, but all he managed to whisper was, "Why?" He wasn't sure he wanted an answer. "I saw the way you looked at your wife. Saw the hurt in her eyes, the way she avoided your touch. Love shouldn't end in such a way." He raised a hand as he saw Gareth about to protest. "My own wife was taken from me twenty-six years ago. We argued the last time I saw her, said things that have haunted me every minute since. Love shouldn't end in such a way, Mr. Knight." And this was the man who was supposed to be reassuring Gareth. Now the sun was setting, lengthy shadows stretched their grasping fingers along the pale yellow walls and polished brown floor of the hotel room. Gareth looked at Lisa's hairbrush on the bedside table, strands of blonde hair shining in the last rays of the setting sun. He had watched her brushing her hair before bed last night; it seemed like an eternity ago. A time when he thought they had weeks, months, years to make things right. He needed her back right now. "Are you so sure she hasn't just gone for a walk? She could be back at any minute, you know." Martinez smiled. "I sincerely hope I am wrong. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to see your lovely wife walk through that door right now. In which case I would go to Chichen Itza alone and with a happier heart." The fears stirred, roiled within Gareth's breast. "Chichen Itza? You're so sure that is where she is?" "I think so, Mr. Knight. There is very great evil in the world. Very great evil in the hearts of men. Evil which stems from cowardice, greed, hate. Fear." On this last word, Martinez leaned back, sat up straight, a definite challenge in his dark eyes. "It is fear which brings my wife's murderer to Chichen Itza this day. Fear which compels him and

those with him to take the innocent." "You're saying you think my wife has been taken because some crazy bastards think the world is going to end tomorrow?" He was beginning to seriously wish he'd never phoned the detective. Maybe the death of his wife had sent him over the edge or something. "So why aren't you cops all over this thing?" "Only I and others like me who have been chosen to protect the hidden texts know what will happen at Chichen Itza tonight. What will happen after." Martinez watched him for a long moment. Gareth hated him for the sympathy he saw in those eyes. "You were at Chichen Itza yesterday. She was probably chosen then. Did you speak to anybody there? You and Mrs. Knight were alone when I arrived." Gareth remembered. The tight shorts; the small white teeth. "Jorge." He remembered the name now. "There was a guy called Jorge hassling us. He disappeared pretty quick once that old woman took her swan dive." Martinez only nodded. "What, you think he was one of these crazies who think the world is going to end in a few hours?" Gareth felt sick in his stomach as he remembered how the little Mexican's eyes had lingered on Lisa. The thought of her being helpless in his arms made him cold with anger. "We have to get her back. How can we get her back?" "You come with me, Mr. Knight. To Chichen Itza."

areth had supposed the detective would drive a beat-up car, full of dust and ravaged along its length by a long history of driving along the riotous roads of Mexico. He was almost disappointed to find that Martinez drove a white, relatively new Volkswagen Jetta and it was scrupulously clean, inside and out. The road to Chichen Itza was dusty and cracked and even with the air-conditioning on full, it was like sitting in a baked coffin. "So, why do you think these people are missing? I mean, what's the point of kidnapping all these people if they think the world is going to end?" Martinez glanced to Gareth, turned his eyes immediately back to the road. "I'm afraid you will

soon see how these people plan to stop the end of the world, Mr. Knight." Martinez checked both mirrors before turning slowly and carefully into the parking area. He pulled the car to a halt, turned to meet Gareth's eyes, his hand resting on the back of the passenger seat. "Think of your wife, Mr. Knight. Keep her fixed in your mind. And remember that I am here to help you, and so you have to help me." His dark eyes fixed on Gareth's with that same searing intensity, an open honesty which Gareth would have followed to the very bowels of hell. It was all said in the quietest of voices. Gareth could only nod and follow the detective as he left the car. He felt the dread threaten to rise once more as he saw Martinez didn't even bother to lock his car door. Even at this time of night, the car park of Chichen Itza should have been full of life, full of sounds and colour. And yet there was nothing but silence; all the shops closed, even the lights of the restaurant were out, though the door was slightly ajar, swinging softly on the sweltering breeze. The window where tourists purchased their wristbands for admittance was firmly fastened shut. It wasn't closing time for a good few hours yet. Gareth hurried after Martinez, grabbed his elbow. "This isn't right. What's happened? Should we call the police?" Martinez turned, his face half-hidden in shadow. He gently removed Gareth's hand, held it a moment before releasing it. "I am the police, Mr. Knight." He smiled, though there was only sadness in his eyes. "Though if you mean to call my colleagues, I'm afraid we would be wasting our time. The end has already begun." He paused, his head tilted to one side. "You hear that?" And Gareth did hear it. A distant rumbling almost beyond hearing, like a wave of grinding rocks beginning at the ends of the earth, the last vestiges of the great swell brushing against the stone miles beneath his feet. "What is that?" Gareth listened again and heard nothing. He could almost have believed it had never happened. Almost. "Some earthquake or something?" Martinez nodded absently, checked his gun was loaded. "Or something, Mr. Knight." Satisfied, he holstered his gun and headed straight for the deser-

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ted turnstiles. It was the second dead body Gareth had seen in two days. The Mexican man must have been watching television in his stall when somebody had crept up on him from behind, the flickering blue light from the silent set still lit his face and staring eyes in an eerie glow. A knife with an elaborately carved handle protruded from his neck, the blood looked black and oily as it pooled in his collar bone and trickled down the front of his shirt. Martinez barely paid the body a second glance; he checked the turnstile and, finding it locked, hopped over it with a grace which belied his age and size. Gareth stared at the body long and hard, his only thoughts of Lisa. She was in this ancient city? If somebody was willing to kill this poor guy so savagely, what would they have done to her if they'd had her all day? He clambered after Martinez, banging his shin painfully on the turnstile. Martinez had already started climbing the ramp to the ruins when Gareth caught up with him. Another rumble, a dull roar, rising and rising, a surging wave of sound. But this wasn't beneath his feet; this was coming from Chichen Itza itself. It sounded like a thousand voices screaming and wailing. It was all he could do not to turn and flee. "How can they do that?" Gareth said. "Just kill that guy and leave him there?" Martinez's pace had increased when he heard the screaming. He fingered his holster; he looked like an ageing lion with a scent of blood in his nostrils. "The time of hiding and flitting among the shadows, of secret burials is at an end for the followers of Tezcatilpocaâ&#x20AC;Śtime itself is at an end tonight for them, Mr. Knight. Over five thousand years of blood and sacrifice leading to this one night." Gareth could already smell smoke, sweat, burning meat. He started to run. "Lisa really is there, isn't she? The bastards took her, we have to get her!" It was Martinez's turn to grab him by the arm. "Wait a moment. From the second we get to the top of this ramp, we will be watched. Never doubt that for one moment, Mr. Knight, despite how many people are there. Do as I do, or neither of us will succeed before the end." As if in answer, another wave rumbled beneath

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Gareth's feet. The screams of terror from the city told him they had heard the same. A wet, slapping sound and the screams turned to cheers of encouragement, though filled with hysterical desperation. "Come. We must hurry." Four corpses waited at the entrance to Chichen Itza. Impaled on wooden pikes driven into the ground, the skin had been flayed from each body. Muscle and other glistening red things hung from each skeleton. Each one had its hands tied behind its back; each skull had been almost cleaved in two. The organs had been removed from the stomachs of the four victims, chopped and placed on elaborately decorated bowls spread out before them on the ground. Beyond these horrors waited El Castillo, stark against the night sky and surrounded by thousands of crying, wailing people, every face painted with whorls and swirls and shining in the light of the myriad fires scattered about. "You must eat," Martinez said. He fell to his knees before the butchered figures and their bowls of horror. "What are you doing?" Gareth reached out and tried to drag him back by the collar of his shirt. Instead, Martinez twisted, grabbed Gareth by the wrist and, with surprising strength pulled him down on the ground next to him. "Remember my words, Mr. Knight." Martinez spoke quietly, though really there was no need with the screams all about them. "You must honour Tezcatilpoca, you must share the blood of those who sacrificed themselves to him." Martinez reached out and plucked something red and fatty from a bowl. It was the size of a thumb and hung limply in his hand as he leaned closer to Gareth. "And remember also, we are watched at all times." Gareth raised his eyes. They were indeed being watched. And he also knew where the skins of the sacrifices had gone. Two muscular men, their bodies greased, had slipped inside the skins of two of the dead. Blood and gore and grease pooled on the ground about them as they watched the offerings. Nobody was to be allowed into Chichen Itza without honouring Tezcatilpoca. A scream from the temple on the top of El Castillo. Torches had been lit on either side of the black doorway and a priest stepped from the dark-

ness to hold his arms aloft before the crowd. Jorge had been right about the amplification of sound from the summit of El Castillo--when the priest cried out the name of Tezcatilpoca, it was deafening to hear. "Eat." Martinez elbowed Gareth in the ribs, and Gareth choked back his own bile as he watched Martinez suck and slurp the red thing until it was past his lips and teeth and into his throat. It looked like a bloodied slug sliming its way into his mouth. Martinez smiled, though a fresh sheen of sweat spotted his brow. One of his teeth was stained with blood. "Think of your wife, my friend. She doesn't deserve to die up there." He nodded to El Castillo, three bowing servants were struggling under the weight of a red throne spotted with green jewels and shaped in the form of some cat-like creature. One of the guards was watching Gareth a little too closely. The grease was beginning to slick off him in cloggy rivulets and down his gory second layer of skin. The butchered man must have been even bigger than the guard; he'd had to roll folds of skin down at the neck so it hung loose like some grisly collar. They hadn't been too careful when flaying the sacrifice, chunks of angry red meat and ghostly white flesh still clung resolutely to the skin even as it was wrapped around its new owner. "Do it." The ghastly guard had started to walk towards them. Gareth wasn't sure if he was imagining the slithering, sucking sound the guard made when he moved. Another, deep bass rumble in the ground, this one louder and Gareth could feel the softest of vibrations in the souls of his shoes. People ran and screamed, the priest begged Tezcatilpoca for forgiveness. Gareth paid them no heed. "Think of Lisa, Gareth." Martinez entreated him. "Think of when you first met. Hold that thought and do what must be done." A warm summer's day and a green riverbank. A notepad on his knees and his back against a tree as he sketches the boats idling along the water. It is her bouncing ponytail he sees first. She is jogging along the path, elbows out and hands high against her breasts. And then her iPod falls to the ground. Gareth nearly falls over himself hurrying to his feet to help her, their fingers

touching as he hands it back to her. He hadn't seen the mounds of bodies at first. But now the crowd had surged forward, entreating and pleading the priest at the summit of El Castillo, Gareth saw the piles of dead. The ones who hadn't honoured Tezcatilpoca. The guard was ever closer, his second skin writhing and rippling against his muscles as he moved. Gareth reached out to a bowl; this one was decorated with different creatures: jaguars, serpents and others swallowing human heads. His finger and thumb closed around something soft and wet and pulpy. He should have closed his eyes and swallowed it whole. Instead he looked at it. It had been cut roughly from some larger organ, a strip of something the colour of liver. Gareth hated liver. It looked like it had dried since it had been cut from the body, and yet still it glistened in the firelight. It bulged and wobbled when he squeezed it. He tilted his head back, desperately trying to think of the way the sweat shone on Lisa's chest as she jogged by that riverbank so far away. This time the shaking of the ground was enough to make Gareth drop the spongy flesh into his mouth. He spat it out, recoiling against the feel of it on his lips, on his tongue. He fell forward, gagging against the sensation, his hands sinking up to the wrists in a pool of clotted blood on the ground. A glare, a blinding yellow light. He lifted his hands, but they dripped blood and gore and so he shielded his eyes with his arm. The sun. The sun was rising. And it was almost midnight. Gareth would have doubted his own senses; but the way the people were falling to their knees and begging for forgiveness, begging for Tezcatilpoca to save them, told him it was true. The sun was rising. For the first time he began to believe. Even the two guards dressed in flayed skins had turned to see the rising sun. It moved with unnatural speed. Already half of the sun was visible above the Yucatan jungle, and it almost filled the sky. It was immense. Though it seared his eyes to look at it, Gareth couldn't tear his eyes away; he could almost believe he saw individual fires swirling and burning, see the flames dancing in the sun. "There!" There was a desperate need in the voice that made Gareth blink and look at Martinez.

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The detective was pointing away to the side of El Castillo. "There is the one I have come for." He would have been difficult to miss. The only one running in a sea of people fallen to their knees in a paroxysm of fear. The tan shirt and the offensively tight shorts. Jorge. Martinez was already ten paces ahead before Gareth had gained his feet. The policeman had his gun drawn. Nobody paid him any attention has he sped through the crowd. The sun had risen in the middle of the night. The end was here. The blood had already dried on his hands as Gareth ran after Martinez. He could almost feel the heat evaporating off him as he ran. Another rumble in the rocks below. A scream as the vibrations caused somebody to fall down the steps of El Castillo. Gareth turned away and ran faster. Jorge had to know where Lisa was. As long as the detective didn't kill him first. His legs burned as he ran. It was so hot, he wanted nothing more than to lie down on the blood-soaked ground and wait for death. But not without Lisa. Jorge was fast, his legs as squat and thick as the rest of him. He fell in a skidding heap as Martinez's shot pierced his thigh. He came to a thrashing halt next to a grey stone wall topped with carved skulls. Jorge screamed shrilly as he clamped both hands around his leg, squirming and writhing on the ground. Martinez was already standing over him, the gun hanging loosely in his hand by his side. "No!" Gareth shouted. "No!" As he got closer, Gareth saw that they weren't stone skulls on the wall at all. They were human skulls, the blood still fresh as it dripped down the wall. Gareth fixed his eyes on Jorge. "Where is she?!" he screamed. It was Martinez who answered, "What is this? This is the man who took my wife from me. Antonio Abreu." "This is Jorge! The guy I was telling you about who we saw at the ruins yesterday. Where is she?!" This last directed at the Mexican on the ground. To his amazement, Jorge laughed. Blood was

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seeping through the hands clamped around his leg, and he was laughing. His white teeth were streaked with blood. "I remember the one." He grinned up at Gareth. "Blonde hair. Nice tits." Gareth kicked him in the face and Jorge spat blood. "Had a good feel of them. You were snoring like a stuck pig when we took her. I wish you'd woken; we could have finished you then." "Where is she?" Gareth said over and over, kicking and kicking the guide in the face until it was little more than a bloodied, pulpy mass. "Mr. Knight, Gareth." Martinez wrapped both arms around Gareth, gently pulling him away. He pressed the gun into Gareth's hand, closed his fingers over the trigger. "Take this. Your wife will be at the temple with the other sacrifices. Leave this one for me." Gareth looked dimly at the gun in his hand. He had never held a gun before. "Don't you need this?" Martinez smiled as he looked back at Jorge on the floor balefully regarding them from his one open eye. "I think I will be quite capable of taking things from here, Mr. Knight." The steps of El Castillo were already streaked with blood. Pools of clotted gore formed all around the base of the pyramid. And still the sun rose. Even above the screams, the entreaties, the sun continued to rise, filling the sky. And still the ground rumbled and shook beneath their feet. There. His heart pounded painfully in his chest as he saw Lisa tied to a stake in the ground. He hurried over to her, people running in all directions, some screaming, some falling to their knees and praying to the great god Tezcatilpoca. Gareth barged past them all, even punching some in the face in his desperate fight to get to his wife, pointing the gun at others who threatened to halt his progress. "Lisa! Lisa!" He fell to his knees, working at her bonds, tearing at the ropes with his nails until they were bloodied and raw. And then she was free and in his arms.

wish Alice could have come here with us. She'd have loved it. We'd have taken her lots of places like this. No boring beaches, just lots of sun and showing her the way things used to be. Alice. I can't remember why I argued with you when you

chose that name. It's a good name. She'd have liked it here." Sweat streamed down his face as he leaned his back against the stone. They had a good view here, two flights of steps leading away and down to the ground. And far enough away from the pyramid so as not to be disturbed by all the screaming and killing. Alice. The name of their daughter. Gareth hadn't spoken the name since that night in the hospital in London. He couldn't see any blue in the sky now. Just a burning ball of yellow with flickering, licking flames. He could even hear it burning; it sounded like a gas oven. Gareth held Lisa tighter. "All those times we didn't speak to each other. Well, we're together now. That's the main thing." The ground shook again. Hard enough to make his teeth ache. More stones fell from the building behind them. The Observatory it was called, according to a plaque. A fitting place. "Ah, you found her, Mr. Knight." Gareth smiled proudly. "I did. Thanks to you." Martinez was smiling brightly. Blood smeared his shirt and pants as he climbed the last flight of steps to join Gareth and Lisa at the Observatory. He was silent as he joined Gareth in regarding the blazing sky. "Are they stillâ&#x20AC;Ś" Gareth stroked Lisa's hair and nodded in the direction of the pyramid. Martinez nodded. "I'm afraid so, Mr. Knight. I'm afraid so." "But why? Do they think it can be stopped?" "Fear, my friend. They see only an end to their world. Others see a beginning. The world has ended before and it will end again, Mr. Knight." He smiled fondly down at the couple. "And I have read what will come after, and it is a wondrous thing indeed." Gareth beamed up at him, squinting against the raging light. "Really?" "Oh yes." He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. "If I may?" He tilted Lisa's head to one side, wiped the blood from Gareth's collar, rested her head gently back on Gareth's shoulder. "And now I will leave you two in peace. It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Knight."

"You too, detective." Gareth watched him make his leisurely way back down the steps. "A nice man, that. Never did learn his first name." He smelled Lisa's hair, breathed deeply and smiled as he listened to the world fall silent and watched a fire that spread across the horizon spear to the sky.

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