*Continued from Uncharted, Part V
"Clock?" Compass' voice crackles electronically through the intercom. "The bitch with you?"
Clock glances up at the Librarian, who pretends to have taken no offense. "Yes, Compass. What do you need?"
"I need those fucking numbers, ASAP."
Clock lets go of the intercom. "You haven't given them to him?" Clock is not happy.
"I gave them to you, not that impudent pup."
"That impudent pup is a Navigator, Librarian. You, on the other hand, are not."
Clock doesn't hear the gunshot. Nor should he have, for the silencer is of the highest quality.
***
The tendrils snake towards Spyglass and she's unable to move. She tries to scream, but all she can manage is a whimper. It's cold here. Dark. Completely black. Light absent and absorbed. And it's where she's stuck.
A scaled tendril, tentacle, wraps around her bare leg and begins feeling its way up her body. Another wraps her other leg. Still more wrap her arms. They begin to constrict. It begins to feed. Her breasts palpate, her body squeezes. Something penetrates her.
She manages another whimper.
***
"So, Spyglass calls it Krueger because it gives her nightmares..." James tries to work out what's going on as he sifts through volumes upon volumes of archives. He loves libraries - always has - and the Order's is as impressive a private library as any.
"Yes," Compass confirms, hoping James will shut up. Compass is already annoyed that there's no imagery from the Jezercë Tunnel, forcing him to work with intelligence gathered from Giewont, but being stuck with James makes it worse.
"... and Sextant calls it Kracken because...?"
"Something about something that looks like an octopus."
"Krueger looks like an octopus?"
Before he lets loose, Compass decides to ignore James, concentrating instead on symbols found on Tunneler artifacts over the years. There are three in particular taking most of Compass' attention. Numbers of some sort. He momentarily recalls the previous Clock, a mathematician who successfully identified and decoded more than a dozen numbering systems used by the Tunnelers. Though that Clock took copious notes, he died of a heart attack before he could finish organizing them into something useable. Continuing that work should be the new Clock's responsibility, but as the new Clock is more time-keeper than number-cruncher, the task somehow fell to Compass.
Compass is regretting not having spent more time on it. The Order would love nothing more than to have someone who can simply read the symbols and Compass would love nothing more than to have one less thing to rely on the Librarian for. Speaking of...
"You seen the hag?"
James, lost in a some web-search, looks up from his screen. "What?"
"The Librarian. Have you seen the Librarian? She's supposed to be coming with the numbers."
Afraid to admit that he's typically unaware of his surroundings, James glances around before responding. "Ah, no."
***
Marianne sits on the floor in front of the fireplace. Though she's under the impression things should be more hectic, particularly during a Kracken Protocol, she likes that Sextant has decided to tell her stories of the Order's history.
"Pope Pius XI met with Mussolini because of the Order?"
Sextant takes a drag from a cigarette and quickly ashes in his von Braun ashtray. "Not singularly, but, yes. He had information that a fascist leader knew of the Order and was preparing his own occult forces."
"But that was Hitler."
Sextant chuckles his, by now, familiar chuckle. "Exactly."
"Hitler wasn't even power in 1932."
"Exactly." The old man pauses and stares at Marianne. Sextant is no, well, sexist, but he's generally surprised by young women with such a detailed knowledge of history. Then again, he's generally surprised by anybody with such a detailed knowledge of history. He shoots her a smile, takes another drag, and explains how each current member of the Order was recruited.
***
Her knees ache. Her ankles. Every joint in her failing body. But she has to move quickly. She's shaking, and not from frailty. The rush she experienced from shooting Clock has yet to subside. The Librarian found it... exciting. She understands now why so many in the world love firearms.
For far too long she's watched these inept fools run the Order into the ground - never mind that Sextant has been in the order for much longer than she's even known about it - but it's her time. She's the smartest. She's the most capable. The Order deserves to be hers.
***
Though the current Clock hasn't been Clock for very long, he's been associated with the Order for years. Prior to his appointment, he was the second-in-command of the Phalanx Nautikos. He'd been promoted to Clock over the other finalist candidate... the Librarian. His predecessor had also been promoted over the Librarian. Come to think of it, Derartu Kebede disappeared shortly after the Librarian was hired.
That Clock has worn a bullet-proof vest under his clothing ever since he'd been shot as a rookie cop in the Chicago Police Department allows him to connect some dots that had, until just now, not been connected. He hadn't been sure that his death throes were convincing. Thankfully, the Librarian has never shot anyone before. Nor seen anyone die of a gunshot wound from up close. She didn't even have the presence of mind to shoot him again, just to make sure.
He knows he'll have to beat Compass to it, but Clock can't wait to kill the hag.
***
Even as she experiences death in her dreamworld, she experiences life. Her heart stops beating just as she's brought to orgasm.
"Sarah..."
This time, the whimper is a scream. She throws off her covers and jumps out of bed, running blind to her bedroom door and through the haunting corridors of the manor.
***
"You ever seen drawings of Cthulu?"
Compass pauses. He knows where James is going. "Yes. It's not Lovecraft's version of Kracken. Lovecraft wasn't in the Order. He was just a creepy writer." Compass glances a James in time to see a dejected frown. "What are you doing? Googling tentacled monsters?"
"Yeah. The only things I'm finding so far are Lovecraft, Jules Verne, and this story by two weirdos about an alien soccer war."
Compass laughs. "Ah, the Garghouls."
"That's the one."
"You should read it. It's pretty funny. Authors were definitely doing drugs, though." The extended conversation is Compass' method of encouragement. He doesn't bother to see that it's lost on James, who simply takes it as extended conversation. Compass might have bothered, but his attention is suddenly diverted back to his screen.
The numbers he's been looking for. Three symbols from the 20-numeral system of the Tunnelers. 9. 8. 3. Placed in a semi-circular pattern. Like a combination lock. Trying to stifle any excitement at the possible - emphasize possible - discovery, Compass taps the print command repeatedly until he hears the printer whir to life.
Running over to it, he grabs the page before it's completely out of the machine, tearing it at a bottom corner. Compass runs for the door. As he reaches it, a sweating and obviously nervous Librarian opens it and enters. Compass brushes her, waving the paper in her face.
"See, bitch? That's why I needed the numbers!"
Letting the shock dissipate, the Librarian continues to her desk, nodding a greeting to James. There, she retrieves a backpack, an attaché case almost too heavy to lift, and exits the library as quickly as she entered.
***
Sextant is mid-sentence of an embarrassing tale - embarrassing to Marianne, that is - when the alarms begin blaring. Relieved that she'll not learn of a Portuguese woman's gyrating ass, Marianne nevertheless becomes instantly worried. "What's going on?"
"I'm not sure. Stay calm, Marianne. The Phalanx will have sentries outside. We've nothing to fear."
She knows she shouldn't, but she believes Sextant. Marianne's never met anyone quite so calming, even when the situation screams that they have everything to fear. As if confirming her subconscious thought, a heavy pounding on the door to the den breaks the calm instilled by Sextant. Marianne swears she sees confusion sweep across Sextant's face, but only for an instant.
Sextant stands and heads to the door. He is confident, but cautious. "Yes?"
"It's the Librarian."
Reflexively, he unbolts the door - bolted automatically when the alarms activated. "Where are the sentries?"
The Librarian waddles in, weighed down by her bag and case. "What sentries?" She looks around, grimaces when she sees that Sextant is not alone. No matter. The wheels are already spinning. Pulling a stun gun from her bag, she fires it into Sextant.
***
Clock, along with Captain Danquah and two other Phalanx soldiers, storms into the library. James jumps from his work, startled.
"Where's the Librarian?" Clock asks. There is no patience in his voice.
"She's, ah... she left. Grabbed some stuff and left."
Clock turns to Danquah. "Get to Sextant."
Danquah nods a quick acknowledgement and he and the two soldiers take off running. Clock looks to James. "This is why you're still alive, James."
James, already confused, is even more so. "What?"
Clock waves his hand, motioning to the library and everything inside of it. "This is yours now. Whether you want it or not. Deal with it."
The thought to ask what's going on doesn't have time to materialize. Clock makes eye contact with James, ensuring James heard him, then turns to leave. "But choose a new title. Librarian has been soiled."
Dumbfounded, James barely realizes that he finally utters a question, albeit one fairly useless in the current predicament. "Bibliothēkē?"
***
Compass was the first to arrive. More out of hatred for the woman than for recognition of what she was doing, Compass rushed her and tackled her to the floor. The Librarian still had her stun gun, though, and Compass doesn't remember what happened next. He never heard Spyglass yell. Never even knew she'd arrived.
Spyglass had come for reassurance. Sextant was the only member of the Order who knew - and understood - the full extent of Spyglass' dreams. He would have been the only person capable of calming her down before another vision burst. Seeing his unconscious form and what she thought was Compass' lifeless body eliminated any chance of that happening.
It was unfortunate, but both the Librarian and a wholly-freaked out Marianne bore witness to what a vision burst looks like. Its effect frightened Marianne even more, but only made the Librarian smile.
"What are you doing?" Spyglass had screamed.
Not needing the stun gun for Spyglass, the Librarian had brandished her pistol. She would have pulled the trigger, too, were it not for the timely arrival of Captain Danquah and other members of the Phlanax Nautikos.
The Librarian had, in fact, pulled the trigger, but given her lack of training, the bullet had struck harmlessly into a wall. Danquah and the PN, however, are well-trained marksmen. And the Librarian activated her door a mere moment after enduring three bullet wounds.
It was unfortunate that Compass, the member of the Order who desperately needed to see a door in action, was unconscious for the Librarian's escape.
But, as Sextant would say, such is life. Except... Sextant is dying.
***
It is a quick conference between Clock, a calmed Spyglass, and a conscious Compass. Gone are Danquah and the Phalanx Nautikos, but still present is Marianne, who cries profusely over Sextant's body.
"We need to transfer what's left of Sextant's powers, before it's too late." Clock's statement is cold, matter-of-fact. But the situation affords no time for mourning.
"To who?" Compass asks. There's been no time for a vetting process, and none of the Order are aware that Sextant had already conducted one in secret.
Spyglass, tears dry from experiencing abject fear for the past few days, finds her thoughts elsewhere. "The Librarian is working with the Tunnelers?"
Still concerned with succession, Clock answers Spyglass' question anyway. "No. She's against them, just like we are. She's just also against us."
"How much of Sextant's powers did she steal?"
Compass grabs the tube from the Lichtenstein print. "It's electromagnetic, whatever it is. It wasn't active before, but it's definitely fucking with my direction-finding."
"There's no way to tell. We'll have to study his successor."
The three Navigators know that there's a strong possibility that the line of Sextants is about to be broken. Already dead, the essence of the Sextant won't remain in his body for much longer. Seconds pass, each Navigator lost in thought.
Marianne, all but forgotten by the others despite her presence directly in front of them, continues to cry. "What are Sextant's powers? He never said."
Compass glances up at Clock. Clock's eyes maintain their steadfastness, returning Compass' look, then shifting to Spyglass.
Spyglass shrugs. "But, she's Catholic." Spyglass isn't used to being part of the decision process of the Order. Even if she were, she's still rattled by her dream.
"As was I," Clock responds. "It doesn't last long."
"Clock?" There is a overwhelming sense of urgency in Compass' voice. "Now or never."
Clock nods.
Compass turns to Marianne. "You're about to find out."
"What?"
"Lie down," Compass orders, pulling a knife from Sextant's belt. "This might hurt a little."
*To be continued...
The Complete Uncharted: Map One
Showing posts with label fantasy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fantasy. Show all posts
Monday, January 10, 2011
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Uncharted, Part V
*Continued from Uncharted, Part IV
"Spear 6 to Aegis, we are ready to close the tunnel." Aleksandr Lermontov has been a soldier in the Phalanx Nautikos for seven years, but this is the first time he's ever seen one of the portals. Barely visible, it almost looks like a single drop of water hanging from a freshly used faucet, only larger than a man. This one, the Jezercë Tunnel, happens to be larger than a bus. According to Compass, the Jezercë Tunnel hasn't been here long.
If everything goes according to plan, it won't be here much longer.
Aleksandr's earpiece buzzes. "Spear 6, Aegis. Proceed with detonation."
He snaps his fingers and the three others with him begin moving down the mountain, one taking care to brace a detonator as they begin lumbering their way, weighed down by climbing gear. Ordinarily the team would consist of nearly a dozen - seven more wait at the base of the mountain - but these four are the only expert mountaineers in all of the Phalanx Nautikos. In a few moments, the PN will be devoid of expert mountaineers.
The drop of water shimmers, instilling a vision of a splash in Aleksandr's vivid imagination, and something comes through. Before he can react, its arms - matted in a putrid-smelling fur - grab Aleksandr around his stomach and snap his spine in half. He's already dead when it pulls him back into the tunnel.
A moment of panic causes the demolitionist to twist and pull the detonator. Snow and rock tumble through the moonless Albanian night and the three remaining mountaineers tumble to their deaths.
***
Spyglass bolts awake, sweating profusely under a blanket. It takes a moment, but she realizes that she wasn't in Reception. Merely dreaming. Another nightmare.
"You okay?"
"Oh, shit." She forgot someone else was in the room. Compass. Slaving over his blasted laptop, tinkering with schematics and spreadsheets in an attempt to design an effective system of locating the Tunnelers.
Compass stares at her, wide-eyed. His expression reveals one trying to figure out whether to offer assistance or to start laughing his ass off. Since he's crushing on Spyglass, he chooses the former. "Nightmare?"
The adrenaline subsiding, Spyglass feels her cheeks turn red. Another embarrassing moment in front of Compass. He may never ask her out at this rate. If he wanted to, that is.
She nods quickly, pulls the blanket over her head - barely tolerating the smell of her own perspiration - and tries to control her breathing. Terror and embarrassment are a difficult mixture. She hears the tone of Compass' phone and his muffled greeting.
"On the way." The phone snaps closed, then the laptop.
"Get up, Spyglass." Spyglass knows something's wrong. That's the only time Compass addresses her by title. "Shit hit the fan."
***
Captain Kofi Danquah hates debriefing the Navigators. Not that he minds their company, but given his level of autonomy in running the Phalanx Nautikos, Danquah tends only to debrief the Navigators after something bad has happened. Born in Greece - the son of a Ghanaian diplomat - Danquah finds the winters of Switzerland far too cold. But he loves his job.
Except this part of it, of course. The only thing worse than debriefing the Navigators is doing so in front of a blinding projector light.
"At 0217 Central European Time, Sergeant Lermontov's team conducted a peripheral reconnaissance of the Jezercë Tunnel..."
Clock interrupts. "Peripheral?"
Danquah nods, answering Clock's implied question before resuming the debrief. "Two members of Lermontov's team entered the tunnel, which is when they discovered this." Danquah taps his remote and the projected image changes.
"What the fuck is that?" Nobody has to ask whether or not that was Compass.
"We don't know," Danquah replies. "Permission to conduct a recon in-depth was not granted."
"Nor was it asked for, Captain," scolds Clock.
As he's not yet been made privy to all of the radio transmissions, Danquah was not aware of this. He purses his lips and attempts to hide his burgeoning anger at being left out of the loop. They were his men, after all. His soldiers. He should've been allowed to oversee the operation, even if from a remote location. But Clock had demanded oversight. One does not question the decision of a Navigator, even the commanding officer of the Phalanx Nautikos. Wisely allowing his ire to pass, Danquah continues.
"Preliminary analysis suggest a lock of some kind."
Sextant speaks this time, which shocks everyone. Such an act is a rarity in any formal Order conference. "A lock? For what?"
"We don't know that, either."
"Is there any imagery?" Compass asks.
"Destroyed in the accident."
Marianne and James, sitting unobtrusively in the back, begin whispering to each other. Though it was his idea to reveal the Order to them, Clock is annoyed by their presence in the conference room. "Something to share?"
"If it's a lock, and this tunnel is newer than the other ones, what if it's not a tunnel at all? What if it's a door?"
Sextant speaks again. "Manufactured?"
"Well, yes. Why not?" Marianne is rather pleased with herself. The pleasure doesn't last long.
Sextant snaps his fingers. "Kracken Protocols. Immediately."
Two seconds ago, there were nine people in the room. The four navigators, Captain Danquah, two PN intelligence specialists, and Marianne and James.
Two seconds later, there is only Marianne and James.
***
Marianne sprints through the corridor, chasing Compass. James struggles to keep up behind her.
"Compass!"
"What?" Compass doesn't turn to look at her. Nor does he stop jogging.
"What's going on?"
"Sextant thinks we're about to get invaded."
Marianne stops, dead in her tracks. "Invaded? By the Tunnelers?"
"No. Just one Tunneler."
***
Elsewhere, entering her dormitory, Spyglass shivers. She hopes Sextant is overreacting - he's done so before. In fact, this will be the third time the Kracken Protocols have been implemented since she's been Spyglass. But never before has it happened after a Phalanx Nautikos mission went awry. And never before has anyone even considered the possibility that the Tunnelers can make their own tunnels.
All Spyglass knows is that she's no desire to meet Krueger in person.
*Continued in Uncharted, Part VI
The Complete Uncharted: Map One
"Spear 6 to Aegis, we are ready to close the tunnel." Aleksandr Lermontov has been a soldier in the Phalanx Nautikos for seven years, but this is the first time he's ever seen one of the portals. Barely visible, it almost looks like a single drop of water hanging from a freshly used faucet, only larger than a man. This one, the Jezercë Tunnel, happens to be larger than a bus. According to Compass, the Jezercë Tunnel hasn't been here long.
If everything goes according to plan, it won't be here much longer.
Aleksandr's earpiece buzzes. "Spear 6, Aegis. Proceed with detonation."
He snaps his fingers and the three others with him begin moving down the mountain, one taking care to brace a detonator as they begin lumbering their way, weighed down by climbing gear. Ordinarily the team would consist of nearly a dozen - seven more wait at the base of the mountain - but these four are the only expert mountaineers in all of the Phalanx Nautikos. In a few moments, the PN will be devoid of expert mountaineers.
The drop of water shimmers, instilling a vision of a splash in Aleksandr's vivid imagination, and something comes through. Before he can react, its arms - matted in a putrid-smelling fur - grab Aleksandr around his stomach and snap his spine in half. He's already dead when it pulls him back into the tunnel.
A moment of panic causes the demolitionist to twist and pull the detonator. Snow and rock tumble through the moonless Albanian night and the three remaining mountaineers tumble to their deaths.
***
Spyglass bolts awake, sweating profusely under a blanket. It takes a moment, but she realizes that she wasn't in Reception. Merely dreaming. Another nightmare.
"You okay?"
"Oh, shit." She forgot someone else was in the room. Compass. Slaving over his blasted laptop, tinkering with schematics and spreadsheets in an attempt to design an effective system of locating the Tunnelers.
Compass stares at her, wide-eyed. His expression reveals one trying to figure out whether to offer assistance or to start laughing his ass off. Since he's crushing on Spyglass, he chooses the former. "Nightmare?"
The adrenaline subsiding, Spyglass feels her cheeks turn red. Another embarrassing moment in front of Compass. He may never ask her out at this rate. If he wanted to, that is.
She nods quickly, pulls the blanket over her head - barely tolerating the smell of her own perspiration - and tries to control her breathing. Terror and embarrassment are a difficult mixture. She hears the tone of Compass' phone and his muffled greeting.
"On the way." The phone snaps closed, then the laptop.
"Get up, Spyglass." Spyglass knows something's wrong. That's the only time Compass addresses her by title. "Shit hit the fan."
***
Captain Kofi Danquah hates debriefing the Navigators. Not that he minds their company, but given his level of autonomy in running the Phalanx Nautikos, Danquah tends only to debrief the Navigators after something bad has happened. Born in Greece - the son of a Ghanaian diplomat - Danquah finds the winters of Switzerland far too cold. But he loves his job.
Except this part of it, of course. The only thing worse than debriefing the Navigators is doing so in front of a blinding projector light.
"At 0217 Central European Time, Sergeant Lermontov's team conducted a peripheral reconnaissance of the Jezercë Tunnel..."
Clock interrupts. "Peripheral?"
Danquah nods, answering Clock's implied question before resuming the debrief. "Two members of Lermontov's team entered the tunnel, which is when they discovered this." Danquah taps his remote and the projected image changes.
"What the fuck is that?" Nobody has to ask whether or not that was Compass.
"We don't know," Danquah replies. "Permission to conduct a recon in-depth was not granted."
"Nor was it asked for, Captain," scolds Clock.
As he's not yet been made privy to all of the radio transmissions, Danquah was not aware of this. He purses his lips and attempts to hide his burgeoning anger at being left out of the loop. They were his men, after all. His soldiers. He should've been allowed to oversee the operation, even if from a remote location. But Clock had demanded oversight. One does not question the decision of a Navigator, even the commanding officer of the Phalanx Nautikos. Wisely allowing his ire to pass, Danquah continues.
"Preliminary analysis suggest a lock of some kind."
Sextant speaks this time, which shocks everyone. Such an act is a rarity in any formal Order conference. "A lock? For what?"
"We don't know that, either."
"Is there any imagery?" Compass asks.
"Destroyed in the accident."
Marianne and James, sitting unobtrusively in the back, begin whispering to each other. Though it was his idea to reveal the Order to them, Clock is annoyed by their presence in the conference room. "Something to share?"
"If it's a lock, and this tunnel is newer than the other ones, what if it's not a tunnel at all? What if it's a door?"
Sextant speaks again. "Manufactured?"
"Well, yes. Why not?" Marianne is rather pleased with herself. The pleasure doesn't last long.
Sextant snaps his fingers. "Kracken Protocols. Immediately."
Two seconds ago, there were nine people in the room. The four navigators, Captain Danquah, two PN intelligence specialists, and Marianne and James.
Two seconds later, there is only Marianne and James.
***
Marianne sprints through the corridor, chasing Compass. James struggles to keep up behind her.
"Compass!"
"What?" Compass doesn't turn to look at her. Nor does he stop jogging.
"What's going on?"
"Sextant thinks we're about to get invaded."
Marianne stops, dead in her tracks. "Invaded? By the Tunnelers?"
"No. Just one Tunneler."
***
Elsewhere, entering her dormitory, Spyglass shivers. She hopes Sextant is overreacting - he's done so before. In fact, this will be the third time the Kracken Protocols have been implemented since she's been Spyglass. But never before has it happened after a Phalanx Nautikos mission went awry. And never before has anyone even considered the possibility that the Tunnelers can make their own tunnels.
All Spyglass knows is that she's no desire to meet Krueger in person.
*Continued in Uncharted, Part VI
The Complete Uncharted: Map One
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Uncharted, Part IV
*Continued from Uncharted, Part III
The beast is a familiar one. Spyglass has seen it many times before. It spoke to her once, even as it stuffed its maw with the flesh and tissue of Leonard Cayce. Spyglass hadn't known it at the time, but Leonard was once a candidate to be Compass. Not that it mattered. The image of his devouring sort of ended any speculation that the current Compass could be replaced.
Its wings aren't feathered, but scaled. At least they look scaled, for even during Reception, Spyglass is too afraid to take a closer look. Some of these Tunnelers are reported to be psychic, after all. Proximity in dreams may be as dangerous as proximity in body. Though young, Spyglass has never been one for taking unnecessary risk.
She remembers what it said to her: "You will understand my tongue." The obvious interpretations were clear, given Leonard's body as a meal and the fact that it communicated in English, but Sextant assured her that neither was what it meant. Spyglass has taken to calling it Krueger - after the horror film antagonist - and often finds herself combating it in her own dreamworlds.
Its fingers, like its film counterpart, are blades. Its skin, depending on the angle, appears charred. But there the similarities end, for there is nothing human about this Krueger. Its mouth is tentacled, replete with toothed suckers like a giant squid and barbed tips like stingers on scorpions. And its eyes... not terrifying in their appearance... but terrifying in that they always seem to be looking at her, whether during Reception or dream.
It finishes killing someone. She's not sure who... or what gender... but that's not what terrifies her this time. What terrifies her is that it speaks to her again...
"Sarah..."
***
Compass is in a bad mood. It's enough that he has to ask the Librarian for some assistance; it's worse that Marianne tags along. Yes, she's kinda cute and, he must admit, her voice has a lusciously sultry tone to it, but the fact that she has a boyfriend obviates any dirty thoughts for her body that Compass might have. He may be a jerk, but he's got scruples.
Thankfully, he's either walking too fast or has too intense an expression on his face for Marianne to try to make smalltalk. She just follows him through the Karl Moser-designed manor, taking turns staring at him and glancing at some of the paintings and artifacts on display throughout. She's never actually been to the Library and doesn't know where it is, but when Compass pauses in front of a large set of oak double doors, inhales, then exhales, she knows they've arrived.
Compass pushes open the doors, as quickly as their weight will allow, and without even knowing if the Librarian is inside, calls out.
"You get those numbers I asked for?"
The Librarian appears behind a stack of shelves in the northwest corner. She fumes subtly. "I'm a librarian, Compass. Not a researcher. You may get them yourself."
"You gave them to Clock. He lost them. I need them."
"No."
"Pardon me?"
"I did the work once. I need not do it again."
Compass secretly wishes the Librarian were a man. He'd love to break her jaw. "He said you pulled them up on your computer. How hard would it be to, I don't know, just bring them up again?"
The Librarian returns to whatever it is she was doing. Compass' expression makes Marianne wonder if he's going to beat the old woman to death with a heavy book. That there's a dictionary on a reading lectern a few feet from where Compass currently stands makes Marianne worry.
"You do realize we're in the middle of something important, don't you?" Compass asks, a final polite gesture before, no doubt, things get ugly.
The Librarian continues her work as if neither Compass nor Marianne are in the room.
"Fine, bitch. I'll check Clock's office again." Compass bolts out, brushing by Marianne. How an order so seemingly dysfunctional manages to save the world on a near-daily basis is beyond her.
After Marianne is gone, the Librarian walks to the lectern and brushes her fingers on the dictionary. It's a vintage American Webster's, dated 1900. She flips through the pages with her eyes closed, blindly pointing at a random word. Petulant. Insolent or rude in speech or behavior. The Librarian laughs and takes a closer look. The preceding word is petunia. She laughs again.
"That'll do nicely." Closing the dictionary, she returns to the shelves.
***
The four men and two women standing before Cardinal Grant are obviously soldiers. Elite ones, at that. Their leader, a man who identified himself only as Corporal, holds out a hand. In his palm, innocently placed, are two white tablets.
"I cannot commit suicide. Such an act would consign me to Hell."
"The alternative is painful, Cardinal," Corporal replies.
"God would never forgive me."
"I don't believe in your god. I couldn't care less."
"Child." It is a defiant tone with which Cardinal Grant speaks. He looks at the other five soldiers. "Children. It matters not what you believe. Only what He believes."
Corporal fights back a smile. Despite appearances, he doesn't enjoy this part of his work, and it's merely a nervous reaction. The Phalanx Nautikos were formed to combat the Tunnelers, not conduct assassinations. The unfortunate revelation that several species of Tunnelers were telepathic made the secrecy of the Order of Navigators tantamount to the survival of the Human race. The survival of Earth, as well, for that matter. Given the incident of 1489, in which Martin Truchseß von Wetzhausen - then the Grand Master of the Teutonic Knights - was almost compromised by the Tunnelers a second time, the tradition of assassinating those outside of the order who knew of the order began.
"He believes, Cardinal," Corporal begins, replacing his almost-smile with as grim a look as possible, "that if you do not consume these pills, you will suffer worse pain than your Lord and Savior did at Golgotha."
Corporal lets that sink in, then continues in a softer tone. "I can assure you that your god does not wish that upon you."
The Cardinal looks into Corporal's eyes and takes a breath. Regardless of choice, it is time for belief to be tested.
***
Clock sits across from Sextant, who is currently regaling Clock with tales of Derartu Kebede, the Ethiopian princess who was Clock prior to his own predecessor. It is obvious that, despite all that Kebede instructed Sextant, Sextant wanted nothing more than to bed her. It is also obvious that Sextant never did.
A buzzing noise interrupts Sextant's story and Clock reaches into his pocket, retrieving his cellular phone. He answers it, slowly nods, and hangs up.
"It's done."
Sextant frowns. Both men's curiosities try to determine if the pills were taken, but both men have too much respect for Cardinal Grant to ever ask. Besides, if God is real, they'll find out soon enough.
*Continued in Uncharted, Part V
The Complete Uncharted: Map One
The beast is a familiar one. Spyglass has seen it many times before. It spoke to her once, even as it stuffed its maw with the flesh and tissue of Leonard Cayce. Spyglass hadn't known it at the time, but Leonard was once a candidate to be Compass. Not that it mattered. The image of his devouring sort of ended any speculation that the current Compass could be replaced.
Its wings aren't feathered, but scaled. At least they look scaled, for even during Reception, Spyglass is too afraid to take a closer look. Some of these Tunnelers are reported to be psychic, after all. Proximity in dreams may be as dangerous as proximity in body. Though young, Spyglass has never been one for taking unnecessary risk.
She remembers what it said to her: "You will understand my tongue." The obvious interpretations were clear, given Leonard's body as a meal and the fact that it communicated in English, but Sextant assured her that neither was what it meant. Spyglass has taken to calling it Krueger - after the horror film antagonist - and often finds herself combating it in her own dreamworlds.
Its fingers, like its film counterpart, are blades. Its skin, depending on the angle, appears charred. But there the similarities end, for there is nothing human about this Krueger. Its mouth is tentacled, replete with toothed suckers like a giant squid and barbed tips like stingers on scorpions. And its eyes... not terrifying in their appearance... but terrifying in that they always seem to be looking at her, whether during Reception or dream.
It finishes killing someone. She's not sure who... or what gender... but that's not what terrifies her this time. What terrifies her is that it speaks to her again...
"Sarah..."
***
Compass is in a bad mood. It's enough that he has to ask the Librarian for some assistance; it's worse that Marianne tags along. Yes, she's kinda cute and, he must admit, her voice has a lusciously sultry tone to it, but the fact that she has a boyfriend obviates any dirty thoughts for her body that Compass might have. He may be a jerk, but he's got scruples.
Thankfully, he's either walking too fast or has too intense an expression on his face for Marianne to try to make smalltalk. She just follows him through the Karl Moser-designed manor, taking turns staring at him and glancing at some of the paintings and artifacts on display throughout. She's never actually been to the Library and doesn't know where it is, but when Compass pauses in front of a large set of oak double doors, inhales, then exhales, she knows they've arrived.
Compass pushes open the doors, as quickly as their weight will allow, and without even knowing if the Librarian is inside, calls out.
"You get those numbers I asked for?"
The Librarian appears behind a stack of shelves in the northwest corner. She fumes subtly. "I'm a librarian, Compass. Not a researcher. You may get them yourself."
"You gave them to Clock. He lost them. I need them."
"No."
"Pardon me?"
"I did the work once. I need not do it again."
Compass secretly wishes the Librarian were a man. He'd love to break her jaw. "He said you pulled them up on your computer. How hard would it be to, I don't know, just bring them up again?"
The Librarian returns to whatever it is she was doing. Compass' expression makes Marianne wonder if he's going to beat the old woman to death with a heavy book. That there's a dictionary on a reading lectern a few feet from where Compass currently stands makes Marianne worry.
"You do realize we're in the middle of something important, don't you?" Compass asks, a final polite gesture before, no doubt, things get ugly.
The Librarian continues her work as if neither Compass nor Marianne are in the room.
"Fine, bitch. I'll check Clock's office again." Compass bolts out, brushing by Marianne. How an order so seemingly dysfunctional manages to save the world on a near-daily basis is beyond her.
After Marianne is gone, the Librarian walks to the lectern and brushes her fingers on the dictionary. It's a vintage American Webster's, dated 1900. She flips through the pages with her eyes closed, blindly pointing at a random word. Petulant. Insolent or rude in speech or behavior. The Librarian laughs and takes a closer look. The preceding word is petunia. She laughs again.
"That'll do nicely." Closing the dictionary, she returns to the shelves.
***
The four men and two women standing before Cardinal Grant are obviously soldiers. Elite ones, at that. Their leader, a man who identified himself only as Corporal, holds out a hand. In his palm, innocently placed, are two white tablets.
"I cannot commit suicide. Such an act would consign me to Hell."
"The alternative is painful, Cardinal," Corporal replies.
"God would never forgive me."
"I don't believe in your god. I couldn't care less."
"Child." It is a defiant tone with which Cardinal Grant speaks. He looks at the other five soldiers. "Children. It matters not what you believe. Only what He believes."
Corporal fights back a smile. Despite appearances, he doesn't enjoy this part of his work, and it's merely a nervous reaction. The Phalanx Nautikos were formed to combat the Tunnelers, not conduct assassinations. The unfortunate revelation that several species of Tunnelers were telepathic made the secrecy of the Order of Navigators tantamount to the survival of the Human race. The survival of Earth, as well, for that matter. Given the incident of 1489, in which Martin Truchseß von Wetzhausen - then the Grand Master of the Teutonic Knights - was almost compromised by the Tunnelers a second time, the tradition of assassinating those outside of the order who knew of the order began.
"He believes, Cardinal," Corporal begins, replacing his almost-smile with as grim a look as possible, "that if you do not consume these pills, you will suffer worse pain than your Lord and Savior did at Golgotha."
Corporal lets that sink in, then continues in a softer tone. "I can assure you that your god does not wish that upon you."
The Cardinal looks into Corporal's eyes and takes a breath. Regardless of choice, it is time for belief to be tested.
***
Clock sits across from Sextant, who is currently regaling Clock with tales of Derartu Kebede, the Ethiopian princess who was Clock prior to his own predecessor. It is obvious that, despite all that Kebede instructed Sextant, Sextant wanted nothing more than to bed her. It is also obvious that Sextant never did.
A buzzing noise interrupts Sextant's story and Clock reaches into his pocket, retrieving his cellular phone. He answers it, slowly nods, and hangs up.
"It's done."
Sextant frowns. Both men's curiosities try to determine if the pills were taken, but both men have too much respect for Cardinal Grant to ever ask. Besides, if God is real, they'll find out soon enough.
*Continued in Uncharted, Part V
The Complete Uncharted: Map One
Friday, January 7, 2011
Uncharted, Part III
*Continued from Uncharted, Part II
Excerpt 1 -
It is estimated that the tunnels have been open since the year 949. In the early part of that year, all of the planets in the Solar System were aligned in the same 90-degree arc. For reasons as-yet unexplained, the gravitational alignment of the planets resulted in a tear in space-time and doorways (what the Order refers to as the tunnels) to other dimensions were opened. These Meean tunnels (so named after Jean Meeus) weren't hypothesized until later in the 20th Century and the discovery of the first tunnel in Poland (near Giewont in the Tatra Mountains) confirmed their existence.
The Order of Navigators, leading a pseudo-military incursion, has reportedly closed the Giewont Tunnel, though Navigator Sextant has so far refused to reveal the method of closure. Lacking conclusive evidence, as well as the order's reluctance to cooperate fully with Vatican authority, I am of the opinion that there are many more tunnels and that more creatures have come through them.
Excerpt 2 -
Given legends such as the Beast of Gévaudan (and several others), I believe that creatures have been coming through these tunnels for centuries. The irony that a Pope authorized the annexation of an atheist order of "Knights" for the purposes of protecting our existence only serves to reinforce how important and real this situation is.
Excerpt 3 -
That stated, the operational and administrative status is an affront to our Catholic beliefs. That you were successful in convincing Navigator Clock to disband their military arm (along with their assassination practices) bears poorly on our sovereignty and, in my humble opinion, our very legitimacy. We are more than capable of handling these Demons using our existing assets. My appeals to do so have been denied now for the seventh time.
Excerpt 4 -
It is with great regret that I resign from my position as Prefect of the Supreme Tribunal of the Apostolic Signatura.
Cardinal Jonathan M. Grant
***
"Wow. He resigned?" Marianne doesn't know what to think. Cardinal Grant was who first informed her that the Order of Navigators were even real. She didn't know him well, but she considers him a mentor.
Compass, testing an algorithm on his computer, nods. He fails to mention that the military arm of the order isn't exactly defunct and that, with the Pope's reluctant blessing, Cardinal Grant will suffer a fatal heart attack by the end of the day.
Tired of watching the computations, Compass stands from his chair and heads for the door.
"Where are you going?"
"To the Library. Need some information."
"Can I come?"
Compass shrugs as he exits.
Watching from his high-backed smoking chair in the corner, Sextant - who had been frowning up to that point - lets loose a wry smile. It was strongly advised that he select a different Compass, but Sextant needed the apathetic humor that this Compass provides. Sextant recognized that his own skills and, indeed, his own discretions were falling by the wayside. While he wants nothing more than for his successor to be as empathic as possible, he needs his Compass to be as blunt and straightforward as he - Sextant, that is - used to be.
A long time ago, that was.
***
Even before Sextant became the head of the Order of Navigators, he was an accomplished navigator. Once a Lieutenant in the Royal Navy, he had been aboard the HMS Repulse when it was sunk by the Japanese in the early days of the Pacific War. It was then that he'd met his predecessor for the first and only time.
Drowning in the South China Sea, somewhere East of Endau, a young British sailor prepared himself to pass through to the other side. Except... he didn't.
Prior to passing out from the lack of oxygen and the water pressure, that sailor witnessed the oddest of sights. A black man locked in a physical struggle with what could only be described as an octopus made of smoke. And a green turtle that, moments after the sailor spied it, exploded in a fissure of flesh, blood, and shell. Or, perhaps, imploded.
When he had come to, Sextant found himself lying on a beach in Sumatra, very much alive. The black man was reciting some strange incantations and carving symbols into Sextant's chest. Sextant tried to resist, but found himself too weak. And found his arms pinned by two green turtles, both of whom appeared to be smiling. To this day, Sextant swears one spoke just before he had passed out again. "Welcome," it had said. But, other than the first Clock he had worked with, Sextant mentioned it to no one.
Indeed, until he had met his first Clock the year after the Japanese surrendered - he'd been captured on Sumatra and spent most of the war in a prisoner of war camp on Hokkaido - he had no idea who that black man even was. When he'd woke the second time, the black man was lying dead beside him, and the green turtles were gone.
***
Sextant had been sleeping in his flat in London when his first Compass had knocked on his door. With him was his first Clock, a strikingly tall Italian woman with whom he'd have many sexual encounters until her death three years later (an untimely death, largely Sextant's fault).
"Who are you?" Sextant, then still operating under his birth name, had asked.
Both Compass and Clock were carrying pistols - American Colt 1911s, if memory serves Sextant correctly - and Clock had ordered Sextant to pack some clothes and come with them. In a position to cherish life as fully as possible, Sextant obeyed. By the time the DC-3 had landed in Switzerland, Sextant had learned who the black man was - the Third Sextant. He'd learned that prior to the First Sextant the position was known as Quadrant and prior to being known as Quadrant it was known as Astrolabe. He'd learned who Compass, Clock, and Spyglass were and what they did. He'd even learned that, from the time he'd been imbued by the previous Sextant to the time he'd been found by Compass, he had been growing younger and is, in fact, 12 years older than his body thinks it is.
Neither the Compass nor the Clock at the time expected Sextant to fall into line so quickly, but he had. And for no other reason than having seen an octopus made of smoke and being welcomed by a turtle.
*Continued in Uncharted, Part IV
The Complete Uncharted: Map One
Excerpt 1 -
It is estimated that the tunnels have been open since the year 949. In the early part of that year, all of the planets in the Solar System were aligned in the same 90-degree arc. For reasons as-yet unexplained, the gravitational alignment of the planets resulted in a tear in space-time and doorways (what the Order refers to as the tunnels) to other dimensions were opened. These Meean tunnels (so named after Jean Meeus) weren't hypothesized until later in the 20th Century and the discovery of the first tunnel in Poland (near Giewont in the Tatra Mountains) confirmed their existence.
The Order of Navigators, leading a pseudo-military incursion, has reportedly closed the Giewont Tunnel, though Navigator Sextant has so far refused to reveal the method of closure. Lacking conclusive evidence, as well as the order's reluctance to cooperate fully with Vatican authority, I am of the opinion that there are many more tunnels and that more creatures have come through them.
Excerpt 2 -
Given legends such as the Beast of Gévaudan (and several others), I believe that creatures have been coming through these tunnels for centuries. The irony that a Pope authorized the annexation of an atheist order of "Knights" for the purposes of protecting our existence only serves to reinforce how important and real this situation is.
Excerpt 3 -
That stated, the operational and administrative status is an affront to our Catholic beliefs. That you were successful in convincing Navigator Clock to disband their military arm (along with their assassination practices) bears poorly on our sovereignty and, in my humble opinion, our very legitimacy. We are more than capable of handling these Demons using our existing assets. My appeals to do so have been denied now for the seventh time.
Excerpt 4 -
It is with great regret that I resign from my position as Prefect of the Supreme Tribunal of the Apostolic Signatura.
Cardinal Jonathan M. Grant
***
"Wow. He resigned?" Marianne doesn't know what to think. Cardinal Grant was who first informed her that the Order of Navigators were even real. She didn't know him well, but she considers him a mentor.
Compass, testing an algorithm on his computer, nods. He fails to mention that the military arm of the order isn't exactly defunct and that, with the Pope's reluctant blessing, Cardinal Grant will suffer a fatal heart attack by the end of the day.
Tired of watching the computations, Compass stands from his chair and heads for the door.
"Where are you going?"
"To the Library. Need some information."
"Can I come?"
Compass shrugs as he exits.
Watching from his high-backed smoking chair in the corner, Sextant - who had been frowning up to that point - lets loose a wry smile. It was strongly advised that he select a different Compass, but Sextant needed the apathetic humor that this Compass provides. Sextant recognized that his own skills and, indeed, his own discretions were falling by the wayside. While he wants nothing more than for his successor to be as empathic as possible, he needs his Compass to be as blunt and straightforward as he - Sextant, that is - used to be.
A long time ago, that was.
***
Even before Sextant became the head of the Order of Navigators, he was an accomplished navigator. Once a Lieutenant in the Royal Navy, he had been aboard the HMS Repulse when it was sunk by the Japanese in the early days of the Pacific War. It was then that he'd met his predecessor for the first and only time.
Drowning in the South China Sea, somewhere East of Endau, a young British sailor prepared himself to pass through to the other side. Except... he didn't.
Prior to passing out from the lack of oxygen and the water pressure, that sailor witnessed the oddest of sights. A black man locked in a physical struggle with what could only be described as an octopus made of smoke. And a green turtle that, moments after the sailor spied it, exploded in a fissure of flesh, blood, and shell. Or, perhaps, imploded.
When he had come to, Sextant found himself lying on a beach in Sumatra, very much alive. The black man was reciting some strange incantations and carving symbols into Sextant's chest. Sextant tried to resist, but found himself too weak. And found his arms pinned by two green turtles, both of whom appeared to be smiling. To this day, Sextant swears one spoke just before he had passed out again. "Welcome," it had said. But, other than the first Clock he had worked with, Sextant mentioned it to no one.
Indeed, until he had met his first Clock the year after the Japanese surrendered - he'd been captured on Sumatra and spent most of the war in a prisoner of war camp on Hokkaido - he had no idea who that black man even was. When he'd woke the second time, the black man was lying dead beside him, and the green turtles were gone.
***
Sextant had been sleeping in his flat in London when his first Compass had knocked on his door. With him was his first Clock, a strikingly tall Italian woman with whom he'd have many sexual encounters until her death three years later (an untimely death, largely Sextant's fault).
"Who are you?" Sextant, then still operating under his birth name, had asked.
Both Compass and Clock were carrying pistols - American Colt 1911s, if memory serves Sextant correctly - and Clock had ordered Sextant to pack some clothes and come with them. In a position to cherish life as fully as possible, Sextant obeyed. By the time the DC-3 had landed in Switzerland, Sextant had learned who the black man was - the Third Sextant. He'd learned that prior to the First Sextant the position was known as Quadrant and prior to being known as Quadrant it was known as Astrolabe. He'd learned who Compass, Clock, and Spyglass were and what they did. He'd even learned that, from the time he'd been imbued by the previous Sextant to the time he'd been found by Compass, he had been growing younger and is, in fact, 12 years older than his body thinks it is.
Neither the Compass nor the Clock at the time expected Sextant to fall into line so quickly, but he had. And for no other reason than having seen an octopus made of smoke and being welcomed by a turtle.
*Continued in Uncharted, Part IV
The Complete Uncharted: Map One
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Uncharted, Part II
*Continued from Uncharted, Part I
They are at home in the dark. They are at home in the light. Myths propagated by the banal imaginations of those who wanted nothing more than control of their congregations led humanity to believe that monsters only exist at night. But what of monsters that are not? There is nothing about them in the legends of these cultures. No revelations. Could they read the languages of man they would but laugh at the explanations of what lies beyond.
For nothing lies beyond. Save for them. What is seen is what begets. And what begets is fear. The evolutions of creatures subject to biological conditions not yet imagined by the chemical reactions known as thought. Chemical reactions some mistake as a gift granted by yet another imaginary evolution.
It is these mistakes upon which they pray. It was not God responsible for the alignment of the planets on that fateful day in the 10th century. It was not gods ignorant to the gravitational pulls of celestial bodies that ripped open a small tear in the fabric of space-time. It was simply chance. One in unimaginable billions. The same chance that created life here. The same chance that created death there. The same chance that opened the tunnels.
But the myths got something right. There are great powers in the universe. And they are more common than the son of one. More common than an adversary. And the creatures from the other side of the tunnels can smell them.
To humanity, these great powers are miraculous. Rightfully the stuff of legend. To the Tunnelers... they - along with the rest of carbon-based life on Earth - are food.
***
James cuts into the rib-eye steak, much to the chagrin of Marianne. She can barely hide her disgust at James' propensity to eat rare meat. It's the blood. He's a great work partner, but she's slowly coming to realize that he's not as good a life partner as she'd once hoped. James has done nothing all that irritating in the past few months - not since the debacle at her parents in Brussels - but it's not helping his cause that she's heavily attracted to Compass. Worse, it's hurting that it is James who was assigned to observe Compass. Though Marianne is in awe of Sextant, she wishes she could spend more time with the direction-finder. Through today, she's only seen him a handful of times and has only spoken to him once... and that was merely a quick introduction and exchange of names.
"How's the old guy?" James asks, oblivious to his current station in Marianne's perception.
She looks up, nibbling on her salad - a much more sensible meal, in her opinion. "Oh, he's wonderful. Weird and charming."
James scrunches his brow. Weird and charming? "Compass is a bit of an asshole." He hesitates to mention Spyglass, fearful that Marianne will somehow notice James' attraction to Spyglass in his voice.
Marianne would have noticed no such thing, but she does notice James' disdain for Compass, which further sours her mood. "Oh, you don't even know what the Hell it is they're doing."
James shrugs, taking it as a point of fact. He doesn't know what they're doing. He's only here because he's been Marianne's - his girlfriend - research assistant. She seems to know most of what's happening, but her ability to explain it is much like the ability of any of his female friend's ability to explain anything: nonexistent.
"I wish they'd let us out of here," James mutters, recalling that his university friends are currently somewhere in the Italian Alps, enjoying some powder and, no doubt, ski bunnies.
Unfortunately for James, there's no place Marianne would rather be. Eating dinner with her soon-to-be ex-boyfriend - should all go as planned - in front of a hearth in one of the many dens in the headquarters of the Order of Navigators.
As she imagines running her fingers up and down the spine of Compass, James chews on his steak, considering the irony of a religious order full of members who don't believe in God.
***
The crone-hag fast approaches - carrying a cardboard tube - and he can already smell her medicated odor. Compass has never liked the Librarian and, he's quite sure, never will. He hates people who are nothing but facades. Everyone has a facade, he knows, but it takes a dedicated faux-intellectual who grew up in faux-intellectualism to actually be nothing but a facade.
It certainly doesn't help his impression of the Librarian that she's not even an official member of the order, despite her title. He's convinced that she's only around because she's older than any of them, save Sextant. That she looks older than Sextant almost makes him pity her. Were she pity-worthy, that is.
Where's Spyglass when he needs eye-candy?
"Compass."
He also hates how she calls his name so matter-of-factly. No question, no greeting. Just blunt adjective.
"What?" Compass dropped the fake smile for her years ago.
"I need you to give this to Sextant," she states, holding the tube out for Compass to grab. "It's for his birthday."
Compass stares at the tube, not taking it. "What is it?"
"It's a birthday present."
"You said that. What is it?" He can't help himself. He loves being a dick to the hag. Particularly because she reacts to poorly to it. Almost like a child. Then again, it's not his fault she's not allowed direct access to Sextant.
"A Lichtenstein."
Compass continues to stare at the tube, then slowly shifts his gaze to the Librarian's bespectacled visage. Wrinkly and thoroughly unattractive. Probably smoked cigars for a time.
"He's a pop culture artist from America, was popular during..."
"I know who he is, hag." It's an interruption Compass will cherish for hours. He grabs the tube and turns to leave, not wanting to remain in her presence.
"Compass."
He stops, mentally shrugging. "What?"
"Just give it to him. Don't say anything; just give it to him."
"Why?" He stares into her eyes as she glares at him. She knows nothing of his combat histories and, as many professionals who've long had to discipline students, believes her gaze to make men nervous. For Compass, it just gives him the opportunity to make mental jokes of her beady little turkey eyes.
"I don't want you to dilute the gift."
"By saying something?"
"It doesn't require your voice-over."
He shakes his head, stifling laughter. "It's a Lichtenstein."
The Librarian stares, as if questioning his answer and trying to answer his question.
Compass explains. "I could take a shit on it, and it will still be a Lichtenstein."
"Please just hand it to him."
The dam breaks. "You know, for all that useless factual knowledge stuck in your head, you're pretty fucking stupid."
It's a statement Compass will cherish for days. Then, he's no idea what he's set in motion.
***
"Why do Compass and the Librarian hate each other?" Spyglass asks Sextant. She's always wondered, but never remembered to inquire.
Sextant pulls on his cigarette, savoring the smooth Turkish flavor, and chuckles his comforting chuckle. "Because she's pretentious and he's apathetic."
Spyglass frowns a bit. It's an involuntary reaction. Even she doesn't yet realize how defensive of Compass she tends to be.
Sextant taps the cigarette over an ornate ash tray made from portions of a V2 rocket's gyro control mechanism - supposedly a gift from Werner von Braun. "Sad woman, that one."
Spyglass doesn't hear him, her thoughts elsewhere. As if on cue, Compass enters and tosses the cardboard tube onto an empty chaise longue. "Happy birthday, Sex. Bitch got you a Lichtenstein. Where's Clock?"
"Late, I'd imagine," Sextant replies, chuckling again.
*Continued in Uncharted, Part III
The Complete Uncharted: Map One
They are at home in the dark. They are at home in the light. Myths propagated by the banal imaginations of those who wanted nothing more than control of their congregations led humanity to believe that monsters only exist at night. But what of monsters that are not? There is nothing about them in the legends of these cultures. No revelations. Could they read the languages of man they would but laugh at the explanations of what lies beyond.
For nothing lies beyond. Save for them. What is seen is what begets. And what begets is fear. The evolutions of creatures subject to biological conditions not yet imagined by the chemical reactions known as thought. Chemical reactions some mistake as a gift granted by yet another imaginary evolution.
It is these mistakes upon which they pray. It was not God responsible for the alignment of the planets on that fateful day in the 10th century. It was not gods ignorant to the gravitational pulls of celestial bodies that ripped open a small tear in the fabric of space-time. It was simply chance. One in unimaginable billions. The same chance that created life here. The same chance that created death there. The same chance that opened the tunnels.
But the myths got something right. There are great powers in the universe. And they are more common than the son of one. More common than an adversary. And the creatures from the other side of the tunnels can smell them.
To humanity, these great powers are miraculous. Rightfully the stuff of legend. To the Tunnelers... they - along with the rest of carbon-based life on Earth - are food.
***
James cuts into the rib-eye steak, much to the chagrin of Marianne. She can barely hide her disgust at James' propensity to eat rare meat. It's the blood. He's a great work partner, but she's slowly coming to realize that he's not as good a life partner as she'd once hoped. James has done nothing all that irritating in the past few months - not since the debacle at her parents in Brussels - but it's not helping his cause that she's heavily attracted to Compass. Worse, it's hurting that it is James who was assigned to observe Compass. Though Marianne is in awe of Sextant, she wishes she could spend more time with the direction-finder. Through today, she's only seen him a handful of times and has only spoken to him once... and that was merely a quick introduction and exchange of names.
"How's the old guy?" James asks, oblivious to his current station in Marianne's perception.
She looks up, nibbling on her salad - a much more sensible meal, in her opinion. "Oh, he's wonderful. Weird and charming."
James scrunches his brow. Weird and charming? "Compass is a bit of an asshole." He hesitates to mention Spyglass, fearful that Marianne will somehow notice James' attraction to Spyglass in his voice.
Marianne would have noticed no such thing, but she does notice James' disdain for Compass, which further sours her mood. "Oh, you don't even know what the Hell it is they're doing."
James shrugs, taking it as a point of fact. He doesn't know what they're doing. He's only here because he's been Marianne's - his girlfriend - research assistant. She seems to know most of what's happening, but her ability to explain it is much like the ability of any of his female friend's ability to explain anything: nonexistent.
"I wish they'd let us out of here," James mutters, recalling that his university friends are currently somewhere in the Italian Alps, enjoying some powder and, no doubt, ski bunnies.
Unfortunately for James, there's no place Marianne would rather be. Eating dinner with her soon-to-be ex-boyfriend - should all go as planned - in front of a hearth in one of the many dens in the headquarters of the Order of Navigators.
As she imagines running her fingers up and down the spine of Compass, James chews on his steak, considering the irony of a religious order full of members who don't believe in God.
***
The crone-hag fast approaches - carrying a cardboard tube - and he can already smell her medicated odor. Compass has never liked the Librarian and, he's quite sure, never will. He hates people who are nothing but facades. Everyone has a facade, he knows, but it takes a dedicated faux-intellectual who grew up in faux-intellectualism to actually be nothing but a facade.
It certainly doesn't help his impression of the Librarian that she's not even an official member of the order, despite her title. He's convinced that she's only around because she's older than any of them, save Sextant. That she looks older than Sextant almost makes him pity her. Were she pity-worthy, that is.
Where's Spyglass when he needs eye-candy?
"Compass."
He also hates how she calls his name so matter-of-factly. No question, no greeting. Just blunt adjective.
"What?" Compass dropped the fake smile for her years ago.
"I need you to give this to Sextant," she states, holding the tube out for Compass to grab. "It's for his birthday."
Compass stares at the tube, not taking it. "What is it?"
"It's a birthday present."
"You said that. What is it?" He can't help himself. He loves being a dick to the hag. Particularly because she reacts to poorly to it. Almost like a child. Then again, it's not his fault she's not allowed direct access to Sextant.
"A Lichtenstein."
Compass continues to stare at the tube, then slowly shifts his gaze to the Librarian's bespectacled visage. Wrinkly and thoroughly unattractive. Probably smoked cigars for a time.
"He's a pop culture artist from America, was popular during..."
"I know who he is, hag." It's an interruption Compass will cherish for hours. He grabs the tube and turns to leave, not wanting to remain in her presence.
"Compass."
He stops, mentally shrugging. "What?"
"Just give it to him. Don't say anything; just give it to him."
"Why?" He stares into her eyes as she glares at him. She knows nothing of his combat histories and, as many professionals who've long had to discipline students, believes her gaze to make men nervous. For Compass, it just gives him the opportunity to make mental jokes of her beady little turkey eyes.
"I don't want you to dilute the gift."
"By saying something?"
"It doesn't require your voice-over."
He shakes his head, stifling laughter. "It's a Lichtenstein."
The Librarian stares, as if questioning his answer and trying to answer his question.
Compass explains. "I could take a shit on it, and it will still be a Lichtenstein."
"Please just hand it to him."
The dam breaks. "You know, for all that useless factual knowledge stuck in your head, you're pretty fucking stupid."
It's a statement Compass will cherish for days. Then, he's no idea what he's set in motion.
***
"Why do Compass and the Librarian hate each other?" Spyglass asks Sextant. She's always wondered, but never remembered to inquire.
Sextant pulls on his cigarette, savoring the smooth Turkish flavor, and chuckles his comforting chuckle. "Because she's pretentious and he's apathetic."
Spyglass frowns a bit. It's an involuntary reaction. Even she doesn't yet realize how defensive of Compass she tends to be.
Sextant taps the cigarette over an ornate ash tray made from portions of a V2 rocket's gyro control mechanism - supposedly a gift from Werner von Braun. "Sad woman, that one."
Spyglass doesn't hear him, her thoughts elsewhere. As if on cue, Compass enters and tosses the cardboard tube onto an empty chaise longue. "Happy birthday, Sex. Bitch got you a Lichtenstein. Where's Clock?"
"Late, I'd imagine," Sextant replies, chuckling again.
*Continued in Uncharted, Part III
The Complete Uncharted: Map One
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Uncharted, Part I
Black. The absence of light. The absorption of it. And it's where she's stuck.
Her breath is amplified. Deafening. Despite her best efforts to remain quiet and, by proxy, perfectly still. She's being too loud. She knows it can hear her.
She also knows it can see her.
She's breathing too loud.
Too loud. Much too loud. She can't hear it approaching, but she knows it's coming.
Were there any light, she'd have seen the tendrils, wafting in the still air amid dust particles that found their place places based on density, like oil and water. Air settled only by her unwillingness to move. Were there any light, she'd have seen that the tendrils created no wind, offered no disturbance.
Were there any light, she'd have not felt the vertigo. Not been confused as to whether or not she was underwater, in spite of her deafening respiration.
But there is no light. She sees nothing. Feels nothing.
Until it rips her apart.
Oil and water. And blood.
***
Spyglass' eyes open. She wasn't sleeping, but the effect still disorients. "Damn." It's all she can mutter.
"What?"
"They got another one." Spyglass curls up, propping herself with her elbows behind her back. She winces for a moment as a lock of her hair gets caught under arm. There's a futile hopping gesture - hard to do when one is still essentially lying down - and a flinch of the neck. It's unnecessary - and, indeed, unnoticed - but she's hit by a twinge of embarrassment, thinking her clumsiness makes her appear unattractive.
"That's not good." Compass doesn't notice her stuck hair as he busily types notes into his archaic laptop computer. Not that he would've cared; he probably would've enjoyed the sight of her pert breasts jiggling atop her nubile form. As it is, he's caught up in data entry of a most unusual kind on a computer he berates under his breath. Still, he's not one to pass up an opportunity to ogle Spyglass.
Fortunately, for the both of them, there are more important matters at hand.
"Which one?" Compass asks.
"Da Silva, I think," Spyglass replies, kicking her legs to the side of the leather couch and sitting up properly. She blows some loose hair away from her eyes - probably from the same lock she caught herself on - and rubs her eyes. She's barely 25, but worry lines are starting to draw her in her 30s. "It was definitely a woman."
"Which one?" Compass is not repeating the earlier question. It's apparent to the third person in the room, James Lüpertz, that these two have done this many times already. It is not a good revelation. Even more so since he doesn't even know what's going on.
Spyglass scrunches her brow and looks to the ceiling. She pauses on the faux-Gothic chandelier - replete with ceiling fan attachment - and wonders for a moment if anything as romantic as the Phantom of the Opera could ever be real. The blades batter the air and Spyglass shivers at the reluctant memory of... whatever it was.
"Which one, Sarah?" He is repeating, this time.
She shrugs, blindly noting his use of her real name. She'd return the favor, but rumor has it Compass had his name legally changed to Compass upon his assignment. "I don't know. I've never felt that one before."
Compass frowns and taps more keys in rapid succession. Between Spyglass' admission and the outdated CPU in the laptop, Compass' frustration boils over. "Well, that's fucking wonderful."
"What does that mean?" James isn't supposed to say anything - he's merely there as an observer - but he can't help it. Confusion is rapidly disappearing into layers of more confusion.
Spyglass lies back down on the couch. Compass keeps typing. James look to one, then the other, then back to the first. It is Compass who finally answers. "It means shit's still coming through."
"How? The tunnel in Poland was closed."
"Fuck if I know, dude." Compass speaks as if a teenager, though he's well into his 30s. His lengthening hair effectively disguises nearly two decades of military service, and people often take him less seriously than they should. Then again, Compass wouldn't have it any other way. "Maybe there's another tunnel? Hello?"
James turns to look behind him - a reflex - but no one is there. It takes him a moment to realize that Compass' greeting was American sarcasm. Why can't the bastards ever give straight answers?
"Am I next?" Spyglass lazily asks, about ready to fall asleep. Reception is exhausting.
Compass shrugs. She pouts and almost begs for reassurance, but he beats her to it. "I doubt it. You're pretty low on the totem pole."
That's not very reassuring, she thinks, as she lets herself slide into a dreamworld... her own, this time.
***
Marianne Dequenne stares in awe of the two men seated in front of her. Well, one of them, anyway. The elder one. Nearly 80 years old, he is a man who has - quite literally - seen everything. Everything the stars have seen.
The stars looking at Earth, anyway.
He is Sextant. A position he's held for 67 years, longer than any previous Sextant by more than two decades. He came into the title by pure accident, the wrong place at the right time, and has held it professionally ever since. Even though his first few years with the responsibility were disastrous - the Earth was almost destroyed twice - the woman who was Clock guided him well. As did her successor, a would-be Ethiopian princess once known as Derartu Kebede.
The other man in front of Dequenne is the new Clock. He's only been Clock for two years, which is why Marianne isn't in awe of him. As of yet, he's accomplished little of note.
Publicly, that is.
She's no idea that it is this new Clock who has granted Marianne Dequenne and James Lüpertz direct access to the Navigators.
It is a gesture unprecedented in the history of their order. Previously, when the existence of their order was discovered - or strongly suspected - "accidents" were arranged. An unfortunate side effect necessitated by the enemy they face.
But there would be no accident, not this time. The reasons for their disclosure are few, but important. Marianne has no idea what any of them are.
Or how close she and James were to being erased from existence. Fortunately, for her and for James, Clock identified something useful in the two of them.
And, besides... existence is still young.
*Continued in Uncharted, Part II
The Complete Uncharted: Map One
Her breath is amplified. Deafening. Despite her best efforts to remain quiet and, by proxy, perfectly still. She's being too loud. She knows it can hear her.
She also knows it can see her.
She's breathing too loud.
Too loud. Much too loud. She can't hear it approaching, but she knows it's coming.
Were there any light, she'd have seen the tendrils, wafting in the still air amid dust particles that found their place places based on density, like oil and water. Air settled only by her unwillingness to move. Were there any light, she'd have seen that the tendrils created no wind, offered no disturbance.
Were there any light, she'd have not felt the vertigo. Not been confused as to whether or not she was underwater, in spite of her deafening respiration.
But there is no light. She sees nothing. Feels nothing.
Until it rips her apart.
Oil and water. And blood.
***
Spyglass' eyes open. She wasn't sleeping, but the effect still disorients. "Damn." It's all she can mutter.
"What?"
"They got another one." Spyglass curls up, propping herself with her elbows behind her back. She winces for a moment as a lock of her hair gets caught under arm. There's a futile hopping gesture - hard to do when one is still essentially lying down - and a flinch of the neck. It's unnecessary - and, indeed, unnoticed - but she's hit by a twinge of embarrassment, thinking her clumsiness makes her appear unattractive.
"That's not good." Compass doesn't notice her stuck hair as he busily types notes into his archaic laptop computer. Not that he would've cared; he probably would've enjoyed the sight of her pert breasts jiggling atop her nubile form. As it is, he's caught up in data entry of a most unusual kind on a computer he berates under his breath. Still, he's not one to pass up an opportunity to ogle Spyglass.
Fortunately, for the both of them, there are more important matters at hand.
"Which one?" Compass asks.
"Da Silva, I think," Spyglass replies, kicking her legs to the side of the leather couch and sitting up properly. She blows some loose hair away from her eyes - probably from the same lock she caught herself on - and rubs her eyes. She's barely 25, but worry lines are starting to draw her in her 30s. "It was definitely a woman."
"Which one?" Compass is not repeating the earlier question. It's apparent to the third person in the room, James Lüpertz, that these two have done this many times already. It is not a good revelation. Even more so since he doesn't even know what's going on.
Spyglass scrunches her brow and looks to the ceiling. She pauses on the faux-Gothic chandelier - replete with ceiling fan attachment - and wonders for a moment if anything as romantic as the Phantom of the Opera could ever be real. The blades batter the air and Spyglass shivers at the reluctant memory of... whatever it was.
"Which one, Sarah?" He is repeating, this time.
She shrugs, blindly noting his use of her real name. She'd return the favor, but rumor has it Compass had his name legally changed to Compass upon his assignment. "I don't know. I've never felt that one before."
Compass frowns and taps more keys in rapid succession. Between Spyglass' admission and the outdated CPU in the laptop, Compass' frustration boils over. "Well, that's fucking wonderful."
"What does that mean?" James isn't supposed to say anything - he's merely there as an observer - but he can't help it. Confusion is rapidly disappearing into layers of more confusion.
Spyglass lies back down on the couch. Compass keeps typing. James look to one, then the other, then back to the first. It is Compass who finally answers. "It means shit's still coming through."
"How? The tunnel in Poland was closed."
"Fuck if I know, dude." Compass speaks as if a teenager, though he's well into his 30s. His lengthening hair effectively disguises nearly two decades of military service, and people often take him less seriously than they should. Then again, Compass wouldn't have it any other way. "Maybe there's another tunnel? Hello?"
James turns to look behind him - a reflex - but no one is there. It takes him a moment to realize that Compass' greeting was American sarcasm. Why can't the bastards ever give straight answers?
"Am I next?" Spyglass lazily asks, about ready to fall asleep. Reception is exhausting.
Compass shrugs. She pouts and almost begs for reassurance, but he beats her to it. "I doubt it. You're pretty low on the totem pole."
That's not very reassuring, she thinks, as she lets herself slide into a dreamworld... her own, this time.
***
Marianne Dequenne stares in awe of the two men seated in front of her. Well, one of them, anyway. The elder one. Nearly 80 years old, he is a man who has - quite literally - seen everything. Everything the stars have seen.
The stars looking at Earth, anyway.
He is Sextant. A position he's held for 67 years, longer than any previous Sextant by more than two decades. He came into the title by pure accident, the wrong place at the right time, and has held it professionally ever since. Even though his first few years with the responsibility were disastrous - the Earth was almost destroyed twice - the woman who was Clock guided him well. As did her successor, a would-be Ethiopian princess once known as Derartu Kebede.
The other man in front of Dequenne is the new Clock. He's only been Clock for two years, which is why Marianne isn't in awe of him. As of yet, he's accomplished little of note.
Publicly, that is.
She's no idea that it is this new Clock who has granted Marianne Dequenne and James Lüpertz direct access to the Navigators.
It is a gesture unprecedented in the history of their order. Previously, when the existence of their order was discovered - or strongly suspected - "accidents" were arranged. An unfortunate side effect necessitated by the enemy they face.
But there would be no accident, not this time. The reasons for their disclosure are few, but important. Marianne has no idea what any of them are.
Or how close she and James were to being erased from existence. Fortunately, for her and for James, Clock identified something useful in the two of them.
And, besides... existence is still young.
*Continued in Uncharted, Part II
The Complete Uncharted: Map One
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Requiem for a Satellite of Zeus
"You gonna kill her? What the Hell for?"
"Nah, there's no need. She'll die on her own."
"You have a strange way of falling out of love."
"Don't I, though?"
The wink seems flippant, but it's hiding a sadness even he can't fully comprehend.
***
Aoede's voice is silent. Unable to sing, she instead writes her concerns on a tablet. It is a depressing lyric, one that springs her mother into action.
How dare this fool try to forget her daughter. Especially after having used her so. A Muse scorned might be something mortals can survive. Her mother is another matter entirely. She is Mnemosyne. This will be too easy.
***
"What are you writing?"
"A story about a falling star."
"Can I see it?"
"Sure."
His friend reads the genesis of the tale, surprised at the description of the woman.
"I thought you were letting her go."
"What? What do you mean?" He grabs his story from his friend and scans the words quickly, coming to the character of the woman. It is her. Described to her finest points. In spite of his intent.
***
Aoede goes about her business, unaware of her own influence in the world of men. Her mother smiles at her, wondering how such a beautiful creature can think she walks about unnoticed. There's a touch of melancholy to the thought, but also an enormous sense of pride. Aoede is not one to settle, even for a fickle poet who once wrote volumes of his lust for her. And, Mnemosyne almost giggles, will again. And forever.
***
"What's wrong?"
"I need to get over her. But I can't. Why the fuck can't I?"
"Muses are rather tricky like that. Should've kept your intentions private."
"How could I? She's beautiful."
"Shouldn't have told her mother, at least."
He needs to write, but is afraid to. Memories, ideas, and impressions of her will threaten to permeate every single letter he puts to paper. Regardless, he writes.
***
Aoede asks her mother what Mnemosyne is laughing at. With a twinkle in her eye, Mnemosyne convinces her daughter that it's unimportant, though both know that's a lie.
Every word written by this fool gives Mnemosyne another perspective with which to interpret her daughter. Another color. Another shadow. It is quite wonderful to know there are those out there who might love Aoede as much as her mother does. Even if they are scarred by that love.
***
He can't forget her. She's everywhere. In heroes, villains, lovers, nobles, peasants, soldiers, slaves. Try as he might, the Muse never fails to find herself in his pages.
His friend was right. He should not have told her mother. For she is Mnemosyne. The Titaness. The mother of the Muses. Memory personified. Any who scorn her shall always remember. And always regret.
"Nah, there's no need. She'll die on her own."
"You have a strange way of falling out of love."
"Don't I, though?"
The wink seems flippant, but it's hiding a sadness even he can't fully comprehend.
***
Aoede's voice is silent. Unable to sing, she instead writes her concerns on a tablet. It is a depressing lyric, one that springs her mother into action.
How dare this fool try to forget her daughter. Especially after having used her so. A Muse scorned might be something mortals can survive. Her mother is another matter entirely. She is Mnemosyne. This will be too easy.
***
"What are you writing?"
"A story about a falling star."
"Can I see it?"
"Sure."
His friend reads the genesis of the tale, surprised at the description of the woman.
"I thought you were letting her go."
"What? What do you mean?" He grabs his story from his friend and scans the words quickly, coming to the character of the woman. It is her. Described to her finest points. In spite of his intent.
***
Aoede goes about her business, unaware of her own influence in the world of men. Her mother smiles at her, wondering how such a beautiful creature can think she walks about unnoticed. There's a touch of melancholy to the thought, but also an enormous sense of pride. Aoede is not one to settle, even for a fickle poet who once wrote volumes of his lust for her. And, Mnemosyne almost giggles, will again. And forever.
***
"What's wrong?"
"I need to get over her. But I can't. Why the fuck can't I?"
"Muses are rather tricky like that. Should've kept your intentions private."
"How could I? She's beautiful."
"Shouldn't have told her mother, at least."
He needs to write, but is afraid to. Memories, ideas, and impressions of her will threaten to permeate every single letter he puts to paper. Regardless, he writes.
***
Aoede asks her mother what Mnemosyne is laughing at. With a twinkle in her eye, Mnemosyne convinces her daughter that it's unimportant, though both know that's a lie.
Every word written by this fool gives Mnemosyne another perspective with which to interpret her daughter. Another color. Another shadow. It is quite wonderful to know there are those out there who might love Aoede as much as her mother does. Even if they are scarred by that love.
***
He can't forget her. She's everywhere. In heroes, villains, lovers, nobles, peasants, soldiers, slaves. Try as he might, the Muse never fails to find herself in his pages.
His friend was right. He should not have told her mother. For she is Mnemosyne. The Titaness. The mother of the Muses. Memory personified. Any who scorn her shall always remember. And always regret.
Friday, July 23, 2010
A Winter Tale, Part II
*Continued from A Winter Tale, Part I
"The twilight thickens, and the fleeting scene
Leaves but a hallow’d memory of love!" - H.P Lovecraft, "Sunset"
"What happened here?" They were the first words spoken by either my partner or myself since we first set our footprints on this property this night. The horrible conclusion which had been gradually obtruding itself upon our confused and reluctant minds was now an awful certainty. This manor was no house, but a lair. And somewhere inside - with us - there lurked a beast.
***
My partner shot me a questioning glance, his left hand on the edge of the door. I could only reply with a nod and watched in subdued terror as he shut the double-doors behind us. The encroaching fear each of us had experienced was now fully present and it was likely only our overzealous pride that forced us to remain enclosed in the manor. There was no doubt that my partner briefly considered a rapid absconding, as I had. The consideration likely occurred a subsequent instance, as the flickering light from my hasty torch revealed blood-stained keys on the grand piano. The stains were black under the orange light, but the dried texture was unmistakable. Beyond the occasional crackle from the flame and the conventional creaks and groans of such a large structure, we could hear nothing save our own respiration.
Moving into an adjacent gallery, shadows thrown onto portraits of the manor's residents and their ancestors heightened our anxieties and almost caused me to allow the torch to extinguish itself. Painted eyes stared at us as we walked toward the hallway leading to the grand salon and the staircase to the upper levels. Though a childish notion, the eyes seemed foreboding, as if they could see the outcome of this night. Equally childish, the thought that those same eyes bore cognizant witness to earlier events bore its way into my imagination and I mentally interrogated the portraits within my own mind. That the image of a previous matriarch answered my query with mortal warning served only to reinforce my own intuition or my own insanity.
Fortuitously, most of the manor's walkways were at least partially carpeted and afforded us the ability to maneuver through the home in relative silence. Communication between my partner and myself was a necessity, but the strengthening of the odor as we ascended the staircase only motivated our taciturn mood, and we withheld our desire for vocal reassurance, preferring instead to utilize visual expressions and an expeditiously concocted language of hand signals.
It was in the second floor dining room that we found the deputy. Rather, a portion of him, identified only by the worn leather holster below what was left of a hip, for his upper torso was nowhere to be found. Neither my partner nor I were very much interested in following the trail of smeared blood that led into the next room, a room designed to fully appropriate a morning's sunlight for the enjoyment of any occupant. This disinterest was perpetuated by the fact that the deputy's firearm - a trusty Colt revolver - was incontrovertibly missing.
Our attempt at avoiding encounter with the remainder of the deputy's body, however, proved fruitless as we again encountered the trail of blood upon the staircase to the third floor. Thankfully, the revolver was located at the bottom of the staircase, likely having dislodged itself from the upper torso that was ostensibly dragged up the steps. I handed the torch - whose flames were by now threatening to expire - to my partner and collected the firearm, verifying that it contained its lethal payload. We were disheartened to learn that two bullets had been fired. Given the deputy's reputation as an expert shot, we could only assume that his aim was certain and that whatever it was that he hit simply did not die before halving the man's figure.
Not lacking want of departure, my partner and I silently agreed to hasten our search of the manor, our original intent long abandoned in lieu of solving this mystery we had unwisely decided to decipher. The horrifying discovery made upon entering the master bedroom is what caused my partner to break our self-imposed silence.
***
I had no response. Piled and protected under rudimentary camouflage were several bodies, all unrecognizable in their state of massacre. That three were women was no question - the mother, the daughter, and a servant - but the rest were indistinguishable from one another. Just before the flame from the torch died a fitful death, my partner attempted to point to the floor. I could briefly see a pattern painted in blood before we were engulfed by darkness.
Despite being able to literally see nothing, I leveled the pistol in the darkness, listening to the sounds of my partner feeling along the walls for another mounted lamp.
"Oh, Christ."
My partner inadvertently placed his hand in dried sinew that once belonged to the body of the son. That a seven-year-old boy's flesh had solidified itself to a wall six-feet from the floor was enough to finally convince us to partake in an exit. The match-strike was deafeningly loud and both of us quickly examined the symbol outlined in blood. Resembling a demon with a tentacled mouth, it bewildered our sensibilities. Sections of the image were smeared by footprints. Some human and others... something else entirely. My eyes made contact with my partner's and a cooperative decision was come to - we were to immediately leave.
Upon turning to the doorway, I became educated in what the image portrayed. My partner was never granted the same opportunity. His soul-curdling scream pierced its way into my very bones and I was once again engulfed by darkness.
Lighting my way to the corridor with the flash of gunpowder, the sound of penetrated tissue momentarily encouraged me until I accepted the possibility that I had instead shot my partner. Selfishly - and embarrassingly - I prayed that the beast would stop long enough to enjoy its feast or to preserve my partner's body with the bodies of the others. Amid the chaos of thoughts of death and the reality of blindness-induced vertigo I ran, unsure of whether or not I was even on the ground floor. Even after the fall through broken glass I could not determine how far I descended. Fainting from the impact on iced-over snow was not, I bemoaned, what I wanted my final impression of life to be.
***
In the morning, I awoke to the scrutinizing hands of a doctor and the sounds of a fire brigade quenching thirsting flames. The manor was saved and the bodies of the inhabitants were found, along with the body of my partner and, strangely, the intact - and completely nude - body of the patriarch. He had been shot three times with the gun the local police found in my possession.
It is for that reason that I have been divorced and am currently awaiting the hangman's noose. Only in facing death do I realize the truth. My partner and I invaded the home of a demon surreptitiously living among us in a man's form. A demon, perhaps in an effort to return home, that devoured its own friend and family. I attempt to take solace in the fact that the killing of such a monster might earn my passage into Heaven.
But I fear that even God will not believe my tale.
"The twilight thickens, and the fleeting scene
Leaves but a hallow’d memory of love!" - H.P Lovecraft, "Sunset"
"What happened here?" They were the first words spoken by either my partner or myself since we first set our footprints on this property this night. The horrible conclusion which had been gradually obtruding itself upon our confused and reluctant minds was now an awful certainty. This manor was no house, but a lair. And somewhere inside - with us - there lurked a beast.
***
My partner shot me a questioning glance, his left hand on the edge of the door. I could only reply with a nod and watched in subdued terror as he shut the double-doors behind us. The encroaching fear each of us had experienced was now fully present and it was likely only our overzealous pride that forced us to remain enclosed in the manor. There was no doubt that my partner briefly considered a rapid absconding, as I had. The consideration likely occurred a subsequent instance, as the flickering light from my hasty torch revealed blood-stained keys on the grand piano. The stains were black under the orange light, but the dried texture was unmistakable. Beyond the occasional crackle from the flame and the conventional creaks and groans of such a large structure, we could hear nothing save our own respiration.
Moving into an adjacent gallery, shadows thrown onto portraits of the manor's residents and their ancestors heightened our anxieties and almost caused me to allow the torch to extinguish itself. Painted eyes stared at us as we walked toward the hallway leading to the grand salon and the staircase to the upper levels. Though a childish notion, the eyes seemed foreboding, as if they could see the outcome of this night. Equally childish, the thought that those same eyes bore cognizant witness to earlier events bore its way into my imagination and I mentally interrogated the portraits within my own mind. That the image of a previous matriarch answered my query with mortal warning served only to reinforce my own intuition or my own insanity.
Fortuitously, most of the manor's walkways were at least partially carpeted and afforded us the ability to maneuver through the home in relative silence. Communication between my partner and myself was a necessity, but the strengthening of the odor as we ascended the staircase only motivated our taciturn mood, and we withheld our desire for vocal reassurance, preferring instead to utilize visual expressions and an expeditiously concocted language of hand signals.
It was in the second floor dining room that we found the deputy. Rather, a portion of him, identified only by the worn leather holster below what was left of a hip, for his upper torso was nowhere to be found. Neither my partner nor I were very much interested in following the trail of smeared blood that led into the next room, a room designed to fully appropriate a morning's sunlight for the enjoyment of any occupant. This disinterest was perpetuated by the fact that the deputy's firearm - a trusty Colt revolver - was incontrovertibly missing.
Our attempt at avoiding encounter with the remainder of the deputy's body, however, proved fruitless as we again encountered the trail of blood upon the staircase to the third floor. Thankfully, the revolver was located at the bottom of the staircase, likely having dislodged itself from the upper torso that was ostensibly dragged up the steps. I handed the torch - whose flames were by now threatening to expire - to my partner and collected the firearm, verifying that it contained its lethal payload. We were disheartened to learn that two bullets had been fired. Given the deputy's reputation as an expert shot, we could only assume that his aim was certain and that whatever it was that he hit simply did not die before halving the man's figure.
Not lacking want of departure, my partner and I silently agreed to hasten our search of the manor, our original intent long abandoned in lieu of solving this mystery we had unwisely decided to decipher. The horrifying discovery made upon entering the master bedroom is what caused my partner to break our self-imposed silence.
***
I had no response. Piled and protected under rudimentary camouflage were several bodies, all unrecognizable in their state of massacre. That three were women was no question - the mother, the daughter, and a servant - but the rest were indistinguishable from one another. Just before the flame from the torch died a fitful death, my partner attempted to point to the floor. I could briefly see a pattern painted in blood before we were engulfed by darkness.
Despite being able to literally see nothing, I leveled the pistol in the darkness, listening to the sounds of my partner feeling along the walls for another mounted lamp.
"Oh, Christ."
My partner inadvertently placed his hand in dried sinew that once belonged to the body of the son. That a seven-year-old boy's flesh had solidified itself to a wall six-feet from the floor was enough to finally convince us to partake in an exit. The match-strike was deafeningly loud and both of us quickly examined the symbol outlined in blood. Resembling a demon with a tentacled mouth, it bewildered our sensibilities. Sections of the image were smeared by footprints. Some human and others... something else entirely. My eyes made contact with my partner's and a cooperative decision was come to - we were to immediately leave.
Upon turning to the doorway, I became educated in what the image portrayed. My partner was never granted the same opportunity. His soul-curdling scream pierced its way into my very bones and I was once again engulfed by darkness.
Lighting my way to the corridor with the flash of gunpowder, the sound of penetrated tissue momentarily encouraged me until I accepted the possibility that I had instead shot my partner. Selfishly - and embarrassingly - I prayed that the beast would stop long enough to enjoy its feast or to preserve my partner's body with the bodies of the others. Amid the chaos of thoughts of death and the reality of blindness-induced vertigo I ran, unsure of whether or not I was even on the ground floor. Even after the fall through broken glass I could not determine how far I descended. Fainting from the impact on iced-over snow was not, I bemoaned, what I wanted my final impression of life to be.
***
In the morning, I awoke to the scrutinizing hands of a doctor and the sounds of a fire brigade quenching thirsting flames. The manor was saved and the bodies of the inhabitants were found, along with the body of my partner and, strangely, the intact - and completely nude - body of the patriarch. He had been shot three times with the gun the local police found in my possession.
It is for that reason that I have been divorced and am currently awaiting the hangman's noose. Only in facing death do I realize the truth. My partner and I invaded the home of a demon surreptitiously living among us in a man's form. A demon, perhaps in an effort to return home, that devoured its own friend and family. I attempt to take solace in the fact that the killing of such a monster might earn my passage into Heaven.
But I fear that even God will not believe my tale.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
A Winter Tale, Part I
"Who entereth herein, a conqueror hath bin;
Who slayeth the dragon, the shield he shall win." - Edgar Allan Poe, The Fall of the House of Usher
It is not without depravity that my partner and I live our lives. During the whole of a dark, moonless night in the winter of the year, with reluctant rainclouds scarring the field of stars above, we had been engaging in one of our depraved and insufferable acts. That we are experts in our chosen occupation provides us with misplaced and obsequious senses of superiority. We are better than our fellow man - the fairer gender included - and if we cannot have we feel we deserve, then we shall simply obtain it by any feasible means.
The large house - one easily described as a manor or a mansion - stands as the lone structure on nearly 50 acres of property in southwestern New York. The plot of land appears inviting, serene - and it is most certainly peaceful out here - while the house itself exudes a melancholy aura, as if the very wood and metals it is comprised are embarrassed at their intrusion on an area so pristinely natural, save, of course, for the existence of its foundation, its walls, and its many heavily draped windows. There has been talk of the proprietors erecting other structures - a barn, a guesthouse, a separate quarters for the few employed servants - but the lady of the house, a self-professed follower of Transcendentalism, has so far won out the arguments she often partakes in with her far-too enamored spouse.
My partner and I had been observing the tenants of the home for almost four years. There is a popular utterance among the more professional of our peers that one should never, and I quote, work in one's backyard. And, in light of our own professionalism and the fortuitousness of having both married into wealthy families, my partner and I adhered to this philosophy as if we were the star disciples of Aristotle and Socrates. We had bantered about plying our trade the first winter when each of us noticed - at varying times - that the inhabitants of the manor were absent for nearly a fortnight, leaving only one retired deputy to protect the manor and the grounds, though the grounds themselves needed no protection. The second winter we had even surveilled the property, noting that the deputy, despite his aptitude with the firearm, failed to notice even our footprints slowly filling in with snow just a few feet from the kitchen door on the reverse side of the structure. By the third winter we had managed to draw plans of the house by peering in each window and, on more than one humorous occasion, even sketched the sleeping deputy while standing arrogantly in full view, had he but awoken from his slumber.
And, so, my partner and I decided that should the residents of the house take an extended leave from their abode a fourth straight winter season, then my partner and I shall break our long-held belief and alleviate the residence of its possessions of value.
Though we had both remained calm experiencing an instinctual inclination that something was amiss - there were no signs or hints that the deputy was present, and all the drapes to all of the windows, including those of the higher floors, were drawn shut - we proceeded as we had so carefully devised over the course of the past year. The bolt on the solid oak double doors of the music room turned simply enough, my partner extraordinarily adept at aligning the tumblers of a lock without the use of its appropriate key.
Neither of us were prepared for the fetid and putrid odor that each of our acute senses of smell were assaulted with. My partner immediately turned, covering his mouth, in a futile attempt at preventing his evening meal from committing rebellious upheaval. We were not murderers, though we must both reluctantly admit that we were guilty of having killed, and the familiar stench of death both alerted us to the predicament at hand and invigorated senescent memories of our most vile of acts.
Our intent upon entering the abode was to seal the doors behind us and allow our eyes to adjust to the relative darkness before we began our task. The unpleasant fragrance emanating from the room - my partner theorized the entire house - prevented us from a quick entry and instilled in us an irresistible desire to see. Hastily I created an improvised torch using oil from a mounted lamp and a discarded stick from a pile of stacked firewood nearby. My partner, in the process of gathering his fortitude, queried my decision to not simply remove the lamp from the wall, but resolved himself that the handle might provide whatever creature - imagined or substantial - responsible for the odor additional opportunity to audibly track us through our exploration of the manor.
It is not without hesitation that my partner and I live our lives. During the whole of a dark, moonless night in the winter of the year, with reluctant rainclouds scarring the field of stars above, we hesitated for an eternity before proceeding further and farther into the darkness. That we are the only known souls within miles provides us with a misplaced and fallacious sense of responsibility. There are dead here - perhaps something else - and, like the black cat, curiosities to be sated.
*Continued in A Winter Tale, Part II
Who slayeth the dragon, the shield he shall win." - Edgar Allan Poe, The Fall of the House of Usher
It is not without depravity that my partner and I live our lives. During the whole of a dark, moonless night in the winter of the year, with reluctant rainclouds scarring the field of stars above, we had been engaging in one of our depraved and insufferable acts. That we are experts in our chosen occupation provides us with misplaced and obsequious senses of superiority. We are better than our fellow man - the fairer gender included - and if we cannot have we feel we deserve, then we shall simply obtain it by any feasible means.
The large house - one easily described as a manor or a mansion - stands as the lone structure on nearly 50 acres of property in southwestern New York. The plot of land appears inviting, serene - and it is most certainly peaceful out here - while the house itself exudes a melancholy aura, as if the very wood and metals it is comprised are embarrassed at their intrusion on an area so pristinely natural, save, of course, for the existence of its foundation, its walls, and its many heavily draped windows. There has been talk of the proprietors erecting other structures - a barn, a guesthouse, a separate quarters for the few employed servants - but the lady of the house, a self-professed follower of Transcendentalism, has so far won out the arguments she often partakes in with her far-too enamored spouse.
My partner and I had been observing the tenants of the home for almost four years. There is a popular utterance among the more professional of our peers that one should never, and I quote, work in one's backyard. And, in light of our own professionalism and the fortuitousness of having both married into wealthy families, my partner and I adhered to this philosophy as if we were the star disciples of Aristotle and Socrates. We had bantered about plying our trade the first winter when each of us noticed - at varying times - that the inhabitants of the manor were absent for nearly a fortnight, leaving only one retired deputy to protect the manor and the grounds, though the grounds themselves needed no protection. The second winter we had even surveilled the property, noting that the deputy, despite his aptitude with the firearm, failed to notice even our footprints slowly filling in with snow just a few feet from the kitchen door on the reverse side of the structure. By the third winter we had managed to draw plans of the house by peering in each window and, on more than one humorous occasion, even sketched the sleeping deputy while standing arrogantly in full view, had he but awoken from his slumber.
And, so, my partner and I decided that should the residents of the house take an extended leave from their abode a fourth straight winter season, then my partner and I shall break our long-held belief and alleviate the residence of its possessions of value.
Though we had both remained calm experiencing an instinctual inclination that something was amiss - there were no signs or hints that the deputy was present, and all the drapes to all of the windows, including those of the higher floors, were drawn shut - we proceeded as we had so carefully devised over the course of the past year. The bolt on the solid oak double doors of the music room turned simply enough, my partner extraordinarily adept at aligning the tumblers of a lock without the use of its appropriate key.
Neither of us were prepared for the fetid and putrid odor that each of our acute senses of smell were assaulted with. My partner immediately turned, covering his mouth, in a futile attempt at preventing his evening meal from committing rebellious upheaval. We were not murderers, though we must both reluctantly admit that we were guilty of having killed, and the familiar stench of death both alerted us to the predicament at hand and invigorated senescent memories of our most vile of acts.
Our intent upon entering the abode was to seal the doors behind us and allow our eyes to adjust to the relative darkness before we began our task. The unpleasant fragrance emanating from the room - my partner theorized the entire house - prevented us from a quick entry and instilled in us an irresistible desire to see. Hastily I created an improvised torch using oil from a mounted lamp and a discarded stick from a pile of stacked firewood nearby. My partner, in the process of gathering his fortitude, queried my decision to not simply remove the lamp from the wall, but resolved himself that the handle might provide whatever creature - imagined or substantial - responsible for the odor additional opportunity to audibly track us through our exploration of the manor.
It is not without hesitation that my partner and I live our lives. During the whole of a dark, moonless night in the winter of the year, with reluctant rainclouds scarring the field of stars above, we hesitated for an eternity before proceeding further and farther into the darkness. That we are the only known souls within miles provides us with a misplaced and fallacious sense of responsibility. There are dead here - perhaps something else - and, like the black cat, curiosities to be sated.
*Continued in A Winter Tale, Part II
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
The Storms of Dust, Part II
*continued from The Storms of Dust, Part I
***
Kolfrosta felt both euphoric and guilty from her experience with Áfastr. The euphoria, for obvious reasons. Áfastr was the man she loved, after all. And to share her very first sexual encounter with him was better than she had ever dreamed.
The guilt, however, was from the reason why the encounter happened in the first place. She didn't believe she could ever bring herself to tell Áfastr that, in some strange turn of events, the Hellenes identified Kolfrosta as an Oracle. Oracles, according to Hellenic belief, had the ability to foresee possible futures during acts of sex and, because of this, Líknvé ordered the intercourse to take place. That Líknvé did so in front of the entire Attican Ecclesia meant that, Kolfrosta knew, it was only a matter of time before Áfastr found out. More than anything, she feared breaking Áfastr's heart.
Strangely enough, Áfastr hadn't learned of the order while they were still in the Hellenes. They were well-through Anatolia on their journey when, during a sibling argument, Afvaldr brought it up. Kolfrosta had no idea where Afvaldr had heard the story, but it was clear that the brother was saving it for when he deemed Áfastr needed humiliating. The pain in Áfastr's eyes when he asked her if the story was true was almost too much for her to bear. She couldn't even blame or get angry with him when he called her a worthless whore. Her anger continued to remain dormant when he barraged her with questions about how she learned to fuck - "make love" was no longer in Áfastr's vocabulary. Instead, she replied calmly and lovingly, telling of how the women of the Northmen frequently and casually discuss sex among themselves, and how Líknvé and several Hellenic noblewomen coached Kolfrosta the night before the forced, but voluntary, seduction.
When Áfastr added "lying" to "worthless whore," her anger still refused to flourish. He refused to speak to her for several days afterward, which prompted her to write the poem. She tore the parchment from some of her packed Northmen clothing and wrote it in haste in the middle of the night. It was from pure emotion that she wrote, and she hoped that it would be honest enough to assuage Áfastr's heart.
She almost cried when he threw it into a puddle of mud the day she gave it to him... the day that she and Líknvé were to head to the easternmost river, the Indigna, and follow it to the Pars Sea, while Áfastr and his brother were to continue along the Buranun after linking up with Hellenic guides that had still yet to appear. Líknvé was unsympathetic and afforded Kolfrosta no time to try to comfort Áfastr, and Kolfrosta's last memory of him was that of a man no longer in love.
She did not see Áfastr pick the parchment up and clean it off, for he had waited until she and Líknvé disappeared beyond the horizon to do so.
***
The memories end, replaced by stinging grains of sand from the storm. Áfastr feels a tinge of sadness at not being able to embrace Kolfrosta's wondrous body, but takes solace in the torn parchment he grasps in his hand and, especially, the words that he knows are written on it.
But the wind, however, has other ideas. It takes no account for solace.
Áfastr screams out as an errant gust whips the parchment from his fingers and carries it quickly into the dust-ridden darkness. Reflexively, he lunges in the direction he thinks the parchment has taken flight, but the action is futile.
An instant away from feeling despair at the loss of the only thing his would-be lover has ever given him, he is instead thrown down the hill of sand by a sudden and powerful impact. Something had just struck the very spot Áfastr was sitting in.
Before the adrenaline surge is even over, Áfastr stands at the base of the sand dune with sword drawn, trying to see his enemy through tightly-squinted eyes. Instead, he hears it. Though this is only the second time he's encountered a member of the dragon family, he knows his adversary is a sand wyvern. The wind distorts the sound, but he had listened to a Bedouin merchant recreate the noise merely two days ago, and it was close enough. At once guttural and screeching, there is nothing else it can be.
Áfastr is no berserker, but something overtakes his sensibilities and he charges the creature - or, rather, where he thinks the creature is - swinging his double-edged sword wildly. Much to his delight, the sword connects with the wyvern's front leg, though Áfastr is initially unsure if he hit the beast or a random rock. The ensuing scream of agony, however, assures Áfastr that his strike was true. Áfastr might have smiled had the wyvern's wing not knocked him through the air. Suddenly afraid, accounting for the severity of the wing's blow, Áfastr goes prone and lies still.
The Hellenes call dragons, "drakeins." Translated into Áfastr's language, drakein means "to see clearly," which is why the Hellenes also refer to dragons as clairvoyants. This makes Áfastr sublimely aware that he may be wasting his efforts in hiding, but he knows that he has little hope of victory in a direction confrontation with the beast.
For the next few minutes, Áfastr listens as the wyvern bellows out hunting calls, and he swears he can feel the ground shake with the wyvern's movements. Áfastr hears the thuds and dispersal of sand while the creature leaps and strikes at areas it believes Áfastr to be. Through it all, the man remains motionless.
Hours pass in relative silence - only the howl of the wind - yet Áfastr waits hours more until he is satisfied that the creature is gone and the clairvoyant title is inaccurate. Unburying himself from the accumulated sand and no longer under the influence of adrenaline, Áfastr's body lets him know that it is exhausted. As with people, he's never been one to dwell on being at the whim of nature, and he quickly falls asleep.
***
He gasps for air as he wakes, subconsciously assuming that he's waking while completely buried, but his chest is well above the level of the sand. Scanning his surroundings, appearing almost ridiculous in his half-buried state, he attempts in vain to locate Kolfrosta's parchment. Upset for a moment, it dawns on him that if he hadn't lost the parchment to the wind, he would most certainly be dead. Thankful that he's alive, he digs himself out and starts knocking the sand off of - and out of, apparently - his body.
There's still no sign of his horse or his brother. Áfastr mentally shrugs and sets off toward the southeast, where he hopes to reunite with the Buranun River and find the missing Hellenic guides. The Abyss waits, after all, and there is nothing else to do but continue on.
And to recall the intimate scent of cinnamon.
***
Kolfrosta felt both euphoric and guilty from her experience with Áfastr. The euphoria, for obvious reasons. Áfastr was the man she loved, after all. And to share her very first sexual encounter with him was better than she had ever dreamed.
The guilt, however, was from the reason why the encounter happened in the first place. She didn't believe she could ever bring herself to tell Áfastr that, in some strange turn of events, the Hellenes identified Kolfrosta as an Oracle. Oracles, according to Hellenic belief, had the ability to foresee possible futures during acts of sex and, because of this, Líknvé ordered the intercourse to take place. That Líknvé did so in front of the entire Attican Ecclesia meant that, Kolfrosta knew, it was only a matter of time before Áfastr found out. More than anything, she feared breaking Áfastr's heart.
Strangely enough, Áfastr hadn't learned of the order while they were still in the Hellenes. They were well-through Anatolia on their journey when, during a sibling argument, Afvaldr brought it up. Kolfrosta had no idea where Afvaldr had heard the story, but it was clear that the brother was saving it for when he deemed Áfastr needed humiliating. The pain in Áfastr's eyes when he asked her if the story was true was almost too much for her to bear. She couldn't even blame or get angry with him when he called her a worthless whore. Her anger continued to remain dormant when he barraged her with questions about how she learned to fuck - "make love" was no longer in Áfastr's vocabulary. Instead, she replied calmly and lovingly, telling of how the women of the Northmen frequently and casually discuss sex among themselves, and how Líknvé and several Hellenic noblewomen coached Kolfrosta the night before the forced, but voluntary, seduction.
When Áfastr added "lying" to "worthless whore," her anger still refused to flourish. He refused to speak to her for several days afterward, which prompted her to write the poem. She tore the parchment from some of her packed Northmen clothing and wrote it in haste in the middle of the night. It was from pure emotion that she wrote, and she hoped that it would be honest enough to assuage Áfastr's heart.
She almost cried when he threw it into a puddle of mud the day she gave it to him... the day that she and Líknvé were to head to the easternmost river, the Indigna, and follow it to the Pars Sea, while Áfastr and his brother were to continue along the Buranun after linking up with Hellenic guides that had still yet to appear. Líknvé was unsympathetic and afforded Kolfrosta no time to try to comfort Áfastr, and Kolfrosta's last memory of him was that of a man no longer in love.
She did not see Áfastr pick the parchment up and clean it off, for he had waited until she and Líknvé disappeared beyond the horizon to do so.
***
The memories end, replaced by stinging grains of sand from the storm. Áfastr feels a tinge of sadness at not being able to embrace Kolfrosta's wondrous body, but takes solace in the torn parchment he grasps in his hand and, especially, the words that he knows are written on it.
But the wind, however, has other ideas. It takes no account for solace.
Áfastr screams out as an errant gust whips the parchment from his fingers and carries it quickly into the dust-ridden darkness. Reflexively, he lunges in the direction he thinks the parchment has taken flight, but the action is futile.
An instant away from feeling despair at the loss of the only thing his would-be lover has ever given him, he is instead thrown down the hill of sand by a sudden and powerful impact. Something had just struck the very spot Áfastr was sitting in.
Before the adrenaline surge is even over, Áfastr stands at the base of the sand dune with sword drawn, trying to see his enemy through tightly-squinted eyes. Instead, he hears it. Though this is only the second time he's encountered a member of the dragon family, he knows his adversary is a sand wyvern. The wind distorts the sound, but he had listened to a Bedouin merchant recreate the noise merely two days ago, and it was close enough. At once guttural and screeching, there is nothing else it can be.
Áfastr is no berserker, but something overtakes his sensibilities and he charges the creature - or, rather, where he thinks the creature is - swinging his double-edged sword wildly. Much to his delight, the sword connects with the wyvern's front leg, though Áfastr is initially unsure if he hit the beast or a random rock. The ensuing scream of agony, however, assures Áfastr that his strike was true. Áfastr might have smiled had the wyvern's wing not knocked him through the air. Suddenly afraid, accounting for the severity of the wing's blow, Áfastr goes prone and lies still.
The Hellenes call dragons, "drakeins." Translated into Áfastr's language, drakein means "to see clearly," which is why the Hellenes also refer to dragons as clairvoyants. This makes Áfastr sublimely aware that he may be wasting his efforts in hiding, but he knows that he has little hope of victory in a direction confrontation with the beast.
For the next few minutes, Áfastr listens as the wyvern bellows out hunting calls, and he swears he can feel the ground shake with the wyvern's movements. Áfastr hears the thuds and dispersal of sand while the creature leaps and strikes at areas it believes Áfastr to be. Through it all, the man remains motionless.
Hours pass in relative silence - only the howl of the wind - yet Áfastr waits hours more until he is satisfied that the creature is gone and the clairvoyant title is inaccurate. Unburying himself from the accumulated sand and no longer under the influence of adrenaline, Áfastr's body lets him know that it is exhausted. As with people, he's never been one to dwell on being at the whim of nature, and he quickly falls asleep.
***
He gasps for air as he wakes, subconsciously assuming that he's waking while completely buried, but his chest is well above the level of the sand. Scanning his surroundings, appearing almost ridiculous in his half-buried state, he attempts in vain to locate Kolfrosta's parchment. Upset for a moment, it dawns on him that if he hadn't lost the parchment to the wind, he would most certainly be dead. Thankful that he's alive, he digs himself out and starts knocking the sand off of - and out of, apparently - his body.
There's still no sign of his horse or his brother. Áfastr mentally shrugs and sets off toward the southeast, where he hopes to reunite with the Buranun River and find the missing Hellenic guides. The Abyss waits, after all, and there is nothing else to do but continue on.
And to recall the intimate scent of cinnamon.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
The Storms of Dust, Part I
*a sequel to A Dragon in Winter. Fair warning: adult content.
Áfastr is, indeed, a long way from home. He's survived many a storm, flurry, and blizzard, of water, snow, and even ice. But this is his first time in a sandstorm.
Long separated from his brother, Afvaldr, and regretting the decision to not switch his horse out for a local dromedary, Áfastr sits nearly defeated on a small slope comprised of sand. He feels the loose earth beneath him shifting, but he doesn't care. With his back to the wind and wrapped in local garb that offers his body some protection from the storm - he's thankful that he agreed to that, at least - he holds a torn parchment in his hand.
Oh, lover, my lover... your presence; missed
remember, our last kiss? I cried; realized bliss
as sweat replaced the scent of perfumed mist
and our hearts collided between the touch of hips
He can't see the words, of course, for the sand and dust blot out the sun, and the constant barrage of rock and mineral particles encourages him to keep his eyes closed. But it's no matter; Áfastr's long since memorized the poem Kolfrosta gave to him the day their quest forced their paths to split. Though, in Áfastr's opinion, it's not a particularly good poem, it is unforgettable. For even stronger in his memory - if such a thing were possible - is what the poem is about.
***
It happened over two months ago, when they were still in the Hellenes. Líknvé had arranged for an audience with the Attican Ecclesia, an audience that Áfastr and his brother were not allowed to attend, despite their purported Hellenic ancestry. Not that it mattered, for neither brother spoke the language. That Líknvé did might have been a surprise, but the old woman's revelations had ceased to surprise him long before they passed the Dinarides Mountains on their way to the Hellenes.
Kolfrosta, however, was allowed to attend. Though she did not, to Áfastr's knowledge, speak the language either, Líknvé was resolute in her determination to teach Kolfrosta everything she knew. It was obvious to Áfastr that the old woman was grooming a protégé, though doing so without the permission of Kolfrosta's father was a severe breach of Northmen protocol. Líknvé's attitude that it was okay since Kolfrosta's father was not around to object offended Áfastr greatly, but it was not the place for a 24-year old Northman hunter to rebuke the actions of an adviser to his King.
So, Áfastr and Afvaldr waited in quarters provided to each of them by the Hellenes. Áfastr's preference was to share a room with his brother, for Áfastr was uneasy with being a stranger in a strange land, but their hosts wouldn't allow it. The Hellenes, too, were leery of their strange guests and felt that segregation would provide better security for all parties by eliminating as many misunderstandings as possible. Never one to dwell on being at the whim of others, Áfastr quickly fell asleep.
Just before dawn, he was awakened by Hellene slaves bringing breakfast and local attire. To his surprise, Kolfrosta, dressed in a red peplos, accompanied them. Though Áfastr had previously joked that Hellenic garments reminded him of cheap drapery, he was overwhelmed with the realization that he'd never seen Kolfrosta so... exquisitely beautiful.
Kolfrosta easily noticed Áfastr's attention and partially hid her smile. "What is it?" she asked. To Áfastr, her tone was that of Líknvé's: playful, yet subversively manipulative. The old woman had been training her well. Before he could answer, Kolfrosta continued. "You should put those on," she said, pointing to the Hellenic clothes.
"Why?" His own tone caused Áfastr to wince. It was immature and lacking thought. Kolfrosta's new grin might have angered him, but he was still half-entranced by her beauty. The red of the peplos was a striking and complementary contrast to her black hair and slightly bronzed skin. He always remembered her with pale skin, however, though her skin took to the southern sun much more readily than his own.
"Líknvé convinced the Hellenes to help us," Kolfrosta replied, more seriously. "They know a lot more about these creatures than we do, and guides are being summoned to take us to the Abyss."
Though Áfastr had no idea what the Abyss was, he knew he didn't like the sound of it. Kolfrosta sensed his momentary fear and waited for the slaves to leave. When they did, she picked up the garments left for Áfastr and motioned for him to follow her.
"Where are you going?" Áfastr hadn't noticed her gesture.
"To my room. It's more secure and less-likely to be eavesdropped." Áfastr watched Kolfrosta's body carefully as she exited. She paused in the doorway, nodded to a Hellene guard, and gave Áfastr enough time to enjoy her silhouette. "Come on," she finally said, "we're wasting the morning."
There was something in Kolfrosta's voice that spurred Áfastr's compliance.
***
The first thing Áfastr noticed about Kolfrosta's quarters was that they were much more elaborate than his. Where he had a simple room with a small window, Kolfrosta had multi-chambered quarters that not only offered expansive views of the city, but a balcony overlooking the square below.
The second thing he noticed was the odor.
"What's that smell?" he asked, as Kolfrosta worked her way into the bed chamber, placing his clothes on a small table near the bed.
She turned and smiled. "The bed's been perfumed with herbs and spices. Cinnamon, myrrh, aloe. It's some custom they have."
Wanting to ask why - for it seemed more a cooking pot than a bed - he instead asked, "Cinnamon?"
She approached him, moving slowly, her eyes on his. "A rare spice. From an island world far to the east."
Áfastr was about to admit that the odor was rather pleasant, but Kolfrosta's inexplicable disrobing and her sudden kiss froze him in place.
***
Kolfrosta alternated between aggressive and submissive, and Áfastr was taken aback by the shifting. It took mere seconds to maneuver Áfastr to the bed and remove his clothing. Initially, Áfastr didn't know what to do, but Kolfrosta's aggressiveness was more than enough to disguise Áfastr's indecision and the confusion only made the situation more exciting. There was a hint of embarrassment from both of them. Áfastr was a virgin, and he was under the impression that Kolfrosta was, as well, but as she took him into her mouth, he began to doubt that. Encroached anger burst and dissipated at the softness of Kolfrosta's lips and the tip of her tongue before Áfastr had a chance to protest. A gentle suction removed any thought of resistance from Áfastr's mind. Oddly enough, he kept his eyes mostly closed, preferring to imagine Kolfrosta still wearing the red peplos instead of gazing upon her nude form. Perhaps it was because he was unsure any of this was really happening, or perhaps the scent of sex among cinnamon was stronger when voluntarily blind. Whatever the reason, he was in his own paradise. And with the very woman he desired to be in it with.
As the morning progressed, Áfastr experienced many sensations that he, up until then, had only imagined. The dry-wet of Kolfrosta's mouth, both on his own lips and his phallic heartbeat; the smooth thrust into her vagina and the gentle pull out as she flexed invisible pelvic muscles; the sensation of acidic fluids down his erection and into his mouth; the ticklish and arousing caress of erect nipples brushing his torso. There was some brief discomfort, when Kolfrosta, still mounting him, turned around and faced away. As she leaned forward, bending part of him downward with her, she commanded him to penetrate her with a thumb. Were Áfastr sound of mind at that moment, he'd have refused, but she played his body and desires like a Hellenic minstrel played a lyre.
He learned, very quickly, that he preferred to be on top. While on top, he learned that he preferred Kolfrosta to be flat on her stomach. He didn't know if it was the soft impact of her buttocks against his pelvis, or the fact that she turned her head and looked back upon him as if he were some sort of god, but the position was undeniably the most arousing to him.
Whatever the case, when the act was over and Áfastr and Kolfrosta embraced, covered in the dust of perfume and the moisture of sweat, he decided to ask Kolfrosta to betroth him.
He had not been ready for her response.
"No."
***
*continued in The Storms of Dust, Part II
Áfastr is, indeed, a long way from home. He's survived many a storm, flurry, and blizzard, of water, snow, and even ice. But this is his first time in a sandstorm.
Long separated from his brother, Afvaldr, and regretting the decision to not switch his horse out for a local dromedary, Áfastr sits nearly defeated on a small slope comprised of sand. He feels the loose earth beneath him shifting, but he doesn't care. With his back to the wind and wrapped in local garb that offers his body some protection from the storm - he's thankful that he agreed to that, at least - he holds a torn parchment in his hand.
Oh, lover, my lover... your presence; missed
remember, our last kiss? I cried; realized bliss
as sweat replaced the scent of perfumed mist
and our hearts collided between the touch of hips
He can't see the words, of course, for the sand and dust blot out the sun, and the constant barrage of rock and mineral particles encourages him to keep his eyes closed. But it's no matter; Áfastr's long since memorized the poem Kolfrosta gave to him the day their quest forced their paths to split. Though, in Áfastr's opinion, it's not a particularly good poem, it is unforgettable. For even stronger in his memory - if such a thing were possible - is what the poem is about.
***
It happened over two months ago, when they were still in the Hellenes. Líknvé had arranged for an audience with the Attican Ecclesia, an audience that Áfastr and his brother were not allowed to attend, despite their purported Hellenic ancestry. Not that it mattered, for neither brother spoke the language. That Líknvé did might have been a surprise, but the old woman's revelations had ceased to surprise him long before they passed the Dinarides Mountains on their way to the Hellenes.
Kolfrosta, however, was allowed to attend. Though she did not, to Áfastr's knowledge, speak the language either, Líknvé was resolute in her determination to teach Kolfrosta everything she knew. It was obvious to Áfastr that the old woman was grooming a protégé, though doing so without the permission of Kolfrosta's father was a severe breach of Northmen protocol. Líknvé's attitude that it was okay since Kolfrosta's father was not around to object offended Áfastr greatly, but it was not the place for a 24-year old Northman hunter to rebuke the actions of an adviser to his King.
So, Áfastr and Afvaldr waited in quarters provided to each of them by the Hellenes. Áfastr's preference was to share a room with his brother, for Áfastr was uneasy with being a stranger in a strange land, but their hosts wouldn't allow it. The Hellenes, too, were leery of their strange guests and felt that segregation would provide better security for all parties by eliminating as many misunderstandings as possible. Never one to dwell on being at the whim of others, Áfastr quickly fell asleep.
Just before dawn, he was awakened by Hellene slaves bringing breakfast and local attire. To his surprise, Kolfrosta, dressed in a red peplos, accompanied them. Though Áfastr had previously joked that Hellenic garments reminded him of cheap drapery, he was overwhelmed with the realization that he'd never seen Kolfrosta so... exquisitely beautiful.
Kolfrosta easily noticed Áfastr's attention and partially hid her smile. "What is it?" she asked. To Áfastr, her tone was that of Líknvé's: playful, yet subversively manipulative. The old woman had been training her well. Before he could answer, Kolfrosta continued. "You should put those on," she said, pointing to the Hellenic clothes.
"Why?" His own tone caused Áfastr to wince. It was immature and lacking thought. Kolfrosta's new grin might have angered him, but he was still half-entranced by her beauty. The red of the peplos was a striking and complementary contrast to her black hair and slightly bronzed skin. He always remembered her with pale skin, however, though her skin took to the southern sun much more readily than his own.
"Líknvé convinced the Hellenes to help us," Kolfrosta replied, more seriously. "They know a lot more about these creatures than we do, and guides are being summoned to take us to the Abyss."
Though Áfastr had no idea what the Abyss was, he knew he didn't like the sound of it. Kolfrosta sensed his momentary fear and waited for the slaves to leave. When they did, she picked up the garments left for Áfastr and motioned for him to follow her.
"Where are you going?" Áfastr hadn't noticed her gesture.
"To my room. It's more secure and less-likely to be eavesdropped." Áfastr watched Kolfrosta's body carefully as she exited. She paused in the doorway, nodded to a Hellene guard, and gave Áfastr enough time to enjoy her silhouette. "Come on," she finally said, "we're wasting the morning."
There was something in Kolfrosta's voice that spurred Áfastr's compliance.
***
The first thing Áfastr noticed about Kolfrosta's quarters was that they were much more elaborate than his. Where he had a simple room with a small window, Kolfrosta had multi-chambered quarters that not only offered expansive views of the city, but a balcony overlooking the square below.
The second thing he noticed was the odor.
"What's that smell?" he asked, as Kolfrosta worked her way into the bed chamber, placing his clothes on a small table near the bed.
She turned and smiled. "The bed's been perfumed with herbs and spices. Cinnamon, myrrh, aloe. It's some custom they have."
Wanting to ask why - for it seemed more a cooking pot than a bed - he instead asked, "Cinnamon?"
She approached him, moving slowly, her eyes on his. "A rare spice. From an island world far to the east."
Áfastr was about to admit that the odor was rather pleasant, but Kolfrosta's inexplicable disrobing and her sudden kiss froze him in place.
***
Kolfrosta alternated between aggressive and submissive, and Áfastr was taken aback by the shifting. It took mere seconds to maneuver Áfastr to the bed and remove his clothing. Initially, Áfastr didn't know what to do, but Kolfrosta's aggressiveness was more than enough to disguise Áfastr's indecision and the confusion only made the situation more exciting. There was a hint of embarrassment from both of them. Áfastr was a virgin, and he was under the impression that Kolfrosta was, as well, but as she took him into her mouth, he began to doubt that. Encroached anger burst and dissipated at the softness of Kolfrosta's lips and the tip of her tongue before Áfastr had a chance to protest. A gentle suction removed any thought of resistance from Áfastr's mind. Oddly enough, he kept his eyes mostly closed, preferring to imagine Kolfrosta still wearing the red peplos instead of gazing upon her nude form. Perhaps it was because he was unsure any of this was really happening, or perhaps the scent of sex among cinnamon was stronger when voluntarily blind. Whatever the reason, he was in his own paradise. And with the very woman he desired to be in it with.
As the morning progressed, Áfastr experienced many sensations that he, up until then, had only imagined. The dry-wet of Kolfrosta's mouth, both on his own lips and his phallic heartbeat; the smooth thrust into her vagina and the gentle pull out as she flexed invisible pelvic muscles; the sensation of acidic fluids down his erection and into his mouth; the ticklish and arousing caress of erect nipples brushing his torso. There was some brief discomfort, when Kolfrosta, still mounting him, turned around and faced away. As she leaned forward, bending part of him downward with her, she commanded him to penetrate her with a thumb. Were Áfastr sound of mind at that moment, he'd have refused, but she played his body and desires like a Hellenic minstrel played a lyre.
He learned, very quickly, that he preferred to be on top. While on top, he learned that he preferred Kolfrosta to be flat on her stomach. He didn't know if it was the soft impact of her buttocks against his pelvis, or the fact that she turned her head and looked back upon him as if he were some sort of god, but the position was undeniably the most arousing to him.
Whatever the case, when the act was over and Áfastr and Kolfrosta embraced, covered in the dust of perfume and the moisture of sweat, he decided to ask Kolfrosta to betroth him.
He had not been ready for her response.
"No."
***
*continued in The Storms of Dust, Part II
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
A Dragon in Winter
*This piece, like Gateway, is less a complete story and more a summary/excerpt of larger stories that I'm working on. It's primarily an exercise, but I think it's developed enough to share and be read and criticized.
A day that was ending unusually had begun unusually, in retrospect. Áfastr had never been hunting with a woman, but for some reason - probably the knee-shaking nervousness that comes with courting someone for the first time - he invited Kolfrosta with him. The intention was to hunt for food, as his family's meat stores were getting low, but when Kolfrosta agreed to accompany him, Áfastr modified what was to have been a deer hunt into a hunt for wolves. What better way to show his masculinity to a hopeful bride than to hunt another of Nature's hunters, after all? There was an attempt at protest by his brother, Afvaldr, but as Áfastr is the elder sibling, the protest was a moot point.
Despite being the elder, Áfastr is still young, and his decision to include the pale-skinned, raven-haired beauty - for Kolfrosta certainly reflected her name - caused him to worry needlessly for the entire hunt. While some of that worry was responsibly directed at Kolfrosta and his brother's safety, much of it was concerned with embarrassing himself somehow. The last thing he wanted was to appear foolish in front of this object of desire, especially with a witness present. That the witness was related by blood ensured that any indiscretion would remain a topic of conversation for ages to come, should one have occurred.
As fate willed it, Áfastr's concerns proved themselves fruitless and, in a sort of twisted benevolence, practically guaranteed those concerns be forever forgotten. For the three would-be hunters had found no wolves. Nor had they found deer, for that matter. What they found instead, however, had a much larger implication regarding their immediate futures. Eating through winter, it seemed, suddenly became of less importance.
***
The rest of the villagers - the ones who could fit in the village's relatively small main hall - eye Áfastr and his brother with disdain. Not only is their tale practically unbelievable, there is the issue concerning their ancestry. Áfastr and Afvaldr were, as the stories go, not of a Northmen bloodline, but of a people once found far to the south. Legends referred to those people as Hellenes and many of the old stories are rife with encounters, friendly and otherwise, with them. Áfastr smiles a bit, finding it odd that the matter of his ancestry had never come up before, not even from Kolfrosta's father - who already knew of Áfastr's family history - when Áfastr had approached him for permission to court his daughter. But now that he and his brother were witnesses to what some villagers interpret as the prophetic harbinger, those same villagers look for reasons to blame Áfastr and Afvaldr for the harbinger's arrival. Áfastr cracks another smile, this time wondering what the villagers would be doing were they attempting to solve the problem, rather than lay the blame.
Afvaldr leans into his brother's ear and whispers, "But it was Kolfrosta who saw it first."
Turning to Afvaldr, Áfastr responds, "Mouth shut." Though the taint of love and lust is what is ultimately preventing Áfastr from publicly revealing this fact, he is also wise enough to know that Kolfrosta is from one of the oldest recorded bloodlines in the region and she would not be blamed regardless. She may have, were the brothers of a local heraldry, but they were not, and Áfastr rarely allows himself to engage in futile confrontations. His father had taught him that before he died.
Though both of the brothers are on display in front of the villagers, only Afvaldr appears nervous. He is only 19 - five years younger than Áfastr - and has had a more sheltered upbringing. Already suffering from being a younger sibling, Afvaldr had to endure a mother's over-protectiveness after his father was killed. Áfastr is sublimely aware of his brother's unease and maintains his presence of calm primarily to support what little calm Afvaldr has left. One of the results of their mother's over-protection is that Afvaldr has never gotten into any serious trouble, and despite the fact that he is merely a witness, this incident would be recorded as Afvaldr's first altercation. Were it not for its seriousness, Áfastr would be attempting to help his brother to laugh it off, but until the Council arrives, Áfastr has no idea if they are even facing capital punishment.
Áfastr takes a moment to scan the villagers, taking in the budding hatred for the two brothers that was all but absent a few hours ago. He wonders, for a moment, if reporting what they saw had been a wise decision and concludes that it had been. Not doing so could potentially result in everyone present, as well as everyone not present, being killed. Even if Áfastr and his brother are executed for being "harbingers," the alternative would be the same, and Áfastr would rather die knowing that Kolfrosta would be alive without him, instead of being dead with him. As he has this thought, he spies Kolfrosta in the audience. There is an instant of sprouting fear as he theorizes that she, too, might hate him, but a recognizable interest in her eyes immediately suggests otherwise. Almost in reflex, he winks. He is too far to see, but the wink elicits a blush. He does see Kolfrosta quickly hide a return smile behind her hood.
A horn blows outside in the distance, signaling the remainder of the Council's arrival. Áfastr inhales deeply, clearing his thoughts and preparing his defense, and he pats his brother on the hand. Without realizing it, he tells his brother that they will be all right.
***
"And you're certain this is what you saw?" asks the old woman, Líknvé, as she holds up an artist's sketch of what the brothers had described.
Áfastr nods and the old woman glares at him. He returns the glare, noticing a strange emotion creeping into her eyes. Áfastr has, since almost infancy, had a reputation for being extremely empathic. Is she afraid? She turns her gaze to Afvaldr, prompting Áfastr to interrupt. "It's what he saw, as well."
The old woman hackles. "You would be better served to show proper respect, foreign-born. This is your hearing, not mine."
"I was born here, Líknvé. My great-great grandfather is reputed to be foreign-born. Not me."
She hackles again and writes something down on a scroll. She approaches the Village Elder, what some might refer to as a King, and hands him the scroll. "I am done here, Hólmlaugr. I should go."
Hólmlaugr nods and the woman leaves the stage. Áfastr finds it curious that the Elder essentially just allowed an old hag to give him an order, but given the stories surrounding Líknvé, Áfastr reasons that he shouldn't be surprised.
"What do we do with them?" Hólmlaugr yells towards the shadows that Líknvé disappeared into as he realizes that no decision regarding the brothers has been made.
"Let them go," comes the response from seemingly nowhere. "This is not their fault."
The villagers, who until now simply watched the proceedings in silence, suddenly erupt in despair and anger, upset that they have no one to blame. "Then whose fault is it?" someone asks above the din and growing chaos.
"The weather's," says a voice that sounds like Líknvé's as it fades into echoes.
Her answer causes Áfastr to flinch in confusion.
***
She is known as many things, Líknvé is. Seer, prophet, medicine woman, and even prostitute. The truth is that she has been all of these, but the one thing she has been for nearly her entire life is an animalist. Animals have always intrigued her. Their behaviors, their anatomies, what makes them tick and, in some cases, what makes them taste so good. As an educated woman - an extreme rarity in her culture - she is often viewed with suspicion and experience had informed her that maintaining the seedy reputation of the professions she is known for has its advantages. But, studying the animal kingdom is and always will be her primary love.
As she enters her hovel in the foothills northeast of the main village, she heads immediately to her library. Impressive by any measure - nearly 5,000 volumes of scientific lore - she has spent her lifetime traveling abroad and collecting anything in print. She has even traveled to the southlands, the Hellenic world, of which Áfastr and Afvaldr's family is purported to originally be from. It is for this reason that she is afraid, for she has seen the flying lizards with her own eyes and has witnesses their destructive capabilities. She has no idea if Áfastr and Afvaldr's family is from there, though she has noticed their resemblance to peoples of that area, but she does know that if their family did indeed migrate north and assimilate with the Northmen, it was precisely because of those flying creatures and the death that they wrought to their habitats.
Why she is afraid has nothing to do with prophecy - she, for one, thinks that prophecies are nothing more than the result of uneducated men trying to control other uneducated men - and has everything to do with physiology. Lizards, she knows, do not fare well in cold climates such as the one her people live in and, as a rule, avoid the tundra.
That the brothers and Kolfrosta - she picked up on the fact that Kolfrosta was present at the scene very quickly... something to do with the young woman's guilty eyes - had seen a dragon in the dead of winter, and here, means that something is wrong. The careful balance of the world is being tipped, but from what?
Líknvé pulls some biology books off of one of the library's bookshelves and wraps them in a blanket. There is a trip to be taken, for more information needs gathering. And Líknvé trusts no one save Líknvé to acquire and interpret that information. Evil is afoot, and as she did once a long time ago, she intends to chase it.
***
A day that was ending unusually had begun unusually, in retrospect. Áfastr had never been hunting with a woman, but for some reason - probably the knee-shaking nervousness that comes with courting someone for the first time - he invited Kolfrosta with him. The intention was to hunt for food, as his family's meat stores were getting low, but when Kolfrosta agreed to accompany him, Áfastr modified what was to have been a deer hunt into a hunt for wolves. What better way to show his masculinity to a hopeful bride than to hunt another of Nature's hunters, after all? There was an attempt at protest by his brother, Afvaldr, but as Áfastr is the elder sibling, the protest was a moot point.
Despite being the elder, Áfastr is still young, and his decision to include the pale-skinned, raven-haired beauty - for Kolfrosta certainly reflected her name - caused him to worry needlessly for the entire hunt. While some of that worry was responsibly directed at Kolfrosta and his brother's safety, much of it was concerned with embarrassing himself somehow. The last thing he wanted was to appear foolish in front of this object of desire, especially with a witness present. That the witness was related by blood ensured that any indiscretion would remain a topic of conversation for ages to come, should one have occurred.
As fate willed it, Áfastr's concerns proved themselves fruitless and, in a sort of twisted benevolence, practically guaranteed those concerns be forever forgotten. For the three would-be hunters had found no wolves. Nor had they found deer, for that matter. What they found instead, however, had a much larger implication regarding their immediate futures. Eating through winter, it seemed, suddenly became of less importance.
***
The rest of the villagers - the ones who could fit in the village's relatively small main hall - eye Áfastr and his brother with disdain. Not only is their tale practically unbelievable, there is the issue concerning their ancestry. Áfastr and Afvaldr were, as the stories go, not of a Northmen bloodline, but of a people once found far to the south. Legends referred to those people as Hellenes and many of the old stories are rife with encounters, friendly and otherwise, with them. Áfastr smiles a bit, finding it odd that the matter of his ancestry had never come up before, not even from Kolfrosta's father - who already knew of Áfastr's family history - when Áfastr had approached him for permission to court his daughter. But now that he and his brother were witnesses to what some villagers interpret as the prophetic harbinger, those same villagers look for reasons to blame Áfastr and Afvaldr for the harbinger's arrival. Áfastr cracks another smile, this time wondering what the villagers would be doing were they attempting to solve the problem, rather than lay the blame.
Afvaldr leans into his brother's ear and whispers, "But it was Kolfrosta who saw it first."
Turning to Afvaldr, Áfastr responds, "Mouth shut." Though the taint of love and lust is what is ultimately preventing Áfastr from publicly revealing this fact, he is also wise enough to know that Kolfrosta is from one of the oldest recorded bloodlines in the region and she would not be blamed regardless. She may have, were the brothers of a local heraldry, but they were not, and Áfastr rarely allows himself to engage in futile confrontations. His father had taught him that before he died.
Though both of the brothers are on display in front of the villagers, only Afvaldr appears nervous. He is only 19 - five years younger than Áfastr - and has had a more sheltered upbringing. Already suffering from being a younger sibling, Afvaldr had to endure a mother's over-protectiveness after his father was killed. Áfastr is sublimely aware of his brother's unease and maintains his presence of calm primarily to support what little calm Afvaldr has left. One of the results of their mother's over-protection is that Afvaldr has never gotten into any serious trouble, and despite the fact that he is merely a witness, this incident would be recorded as Afvaldr's first altercation. Were it not for its seriousness, Áfastr would be attempting to help his brother to laugh it off, but until the Council arrives, Áfastr has no idea if they are even facing capital punishment.
Áfastr takes a moment to scan the villagers, taking in the budding hatred for the two brothers that was all but absent a few hours ago. He wonders, for a moment, if reporting what they saw had been a wise decision and concludes that it had been. Not doing so could potentially result in everyone present, as well as everyone not present, being killed. Even if Áfastr and his brother are executed for being "harbingers," the alternative would be the same, and Áfastr would rather die knowing that Kolfrosta would be alive without him, instead of being dead with him. As he has this thought, he spies Kolfrosta in the audience. There is an instant of sprouting fear as he theorizes that she, too, might hate him, but a recognizable interest in her eyes immediately suggests otherwise. Almost in reflex, he winks. He is too far to see, but the wink elicits a blush. He does see Kolfrosta quickly hide a return smile behind her hood.
A horn blows outside in the distance, signaling the remainder of the Council's arrival. Áfastr inhales deeply, clearing his thoughts and preparing his defense, and he pats his brother on the hand. Without realizing it, he tells his brother that they will be all right.
***
"And you're certain this is what you saw?" asks the old woman, Líknvé, as she holds up an artist's sketch of what the brothers had described.
Áfastr nods and the old woman glares at him. He returns the glare, noticing a strange emotion creeping into her eyes. Áfastr has, since almost infancy, had a reputation for being extremely empathic. Is she afraid? She turns her gaze to Afvaldr, prompting Áfastr to interrupt. "It's what he saw, as well."
The old woman hackles. "You would be better served to show proper respect, foreign-born. This is your hearing, not mine."
"I was born here, Líknvé. My great-great grandfather is reputed to be foreign-born. Not me."
She hackles again and writes something down on a scroll. She approaches the Village Elder, what some might refer to as a King, and hands him the scroll. "I am done here, Hólmlaugr. I should go."
Hólmlaugr nods and the woman leaves the stage. Áfastr finds it curious that the Elder essentially just allowed an old hag to give him an order, but given the stories surrounding Líknvé, Áfastr reasons that he shouldn't be surprised.
"What do we do with them?" Hólmlaugr yells towards the shadows that Líknvé disappeared into as he realizes that no decision regarding the brothers has been made.
"Let them go," comes the response from seemingly nowhere. "This is not their fault."
The villagers, who until now simply watched the proceedings in silence, suddenly erupt in despair and anger, upset that they have no one to blame. "Then whose fault is it?" someone asks above the din and growing chaos.
"The weather's," says a voice that sounds like Líknvé's as it fades into echoes.
Her answer causes Áfastr to flinch in confusion.
***
She is known as many things, Líknvé is. Seer, prophet, medicine woman, and even prostitute. The truth is that she has been all of these, but the one thing she has been for nearly her entire life is an animalist. Animals have always intrigued her. Their behaviors, their anatomies, what makes them tick and, in some cases, what makes them taste so good. As an educated woman - an extreme rarity in her culture - she is often viewed with suspicion and experience had informed her that maintaining the seedy reputation of the professions she is known for has its advantages. But, studying the animal kingdom is and always will be her primary love.
As she enters her hovel in the foothills northeast of the main village, she heads immediately to her library. Impressive by any measure - nearly 5,000 volumes of scientific lore - she has spent her lifetime traveling abroad and collecting anything in print. She has even traveled to the southlands, the Hellenic world, of which Áfastr and Afvaldr's family is purported to originally be from. It is for this reason that she is afraid, for she has seen the flying lizards with her own eyes and has witnesses their destructive capabilities. She has no idea if Áfastr and Afvaldr's family is from there, though she has noticed their resemblance to peoples of that area, but she does know that if their family did indeed migrate north and assimilate with the Northmen, it was precisely because of those flying creatures and the death that they wrought to their habitats.
Why she is afraid has nothing to do with prophecy - she, for one, thinks that prophecies are nothing more than the result of uneducated men trying to control other uneducated men - and has everything to do with physiology. Lizards, she knows, do not fare well in cold climates such as the one her people live in and, as a rule, avoid the tundra.
That the brothers and Kolfrosta - she picked up on the fact that Kolfrosta was present at the scene very quickly... something to do with the young woman's guilty eyes - had seen a dragon in the dead of winter, and here, means that something is wrong. The careful balance of the world is being tipped, but from what?
Líknvé pulls some biology books off of one of the library's bookshelves and wraps them in a blanket. There is a trip to be taken, for more information needs gathering. And Líknvé trusts no one save Líknvé to acquire and interpret that information. Evil is afoot, and as she did once a long time ago, she intends to chase it.
***
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Yellow Butterflies
She was old enough to know, but young enough to disappear within her imagination. Her kingdom of calla lilies had to be tended to, after all, regardless of what tragedies took place in the deceptively dull realm of the real world. Ruling alone was an awfully gigantic task, and there were no princes of worth nearby. Some were too ugly; some were too smelly; most were too stupid... and they all had cooties. She had a quest to begin soon, anyway. A journey her uncle told her that could take the rest of her life. There were no worries, however, for she didn't think she'd be away from her calla lilies for too long.
The quest was, perhaps, the kindest thing her uncle had ever given to her. The little girl refused to come to terms with her father's death. Car accidents and heart attacks didn't exist among the callaliliputians (a term her father had coined), so why should they exist for her father? An artist by trade, her uncle had recognized the girl's defense mechanism, and instead of following the suit of modern advice and making her confront the cold facts, he simply played along.
"But where did daddy go?" she asked, frowning, though she wasn't entirely convinced a frown was called for. She was simply imitating the expressions of the adults that were present.
Her uncle sighed, tired from reluctant and public tears, but turned to her with a big smile. "He moved, princess. He went to a different kingdom to rule."
Her eyes widened as big as the muffins she had stolen the week before (but told no one about, not even her sister). "Does he have a castle?" She seemed excited.
"Oh, yes," her uncle replied, "but it's a castle in the sky."
The girl frowned again, but this time with purpose. "How do I get there to see him?"
Her uncle picked her up and propped him on her lap. "Well, it's a very, very hard journey. One such a little girl might not be able to make. It might even take forever."
She crossed her arms, keeping the frown intact. "I'm not that little. I can make it."
"All right, then. First, you have to go to the gardens of stone and find the one with your daddy's name on it. That's his street sign. Understand?"
She nodded.
"Second," he continued, "you have to follow the yellow butterflies. One will lead you to another, and then another. Sometimes the butterflies will disappear and you'll have to look around for a hidden clue."
"Like when the Easter Bunny hides her eggs?" she interrupted.
"Yes, exactly like that." A telephone rang from the next room and her uncle set her down. As he got up to answer, he reminded her, "Follow the yellow butterflies."
"To the castle in the sky!" she exclaimed with a giggle, her frowns now an unimportant memory.
***
It was the tenth anniversary of her father's death, and she was weary of visiting him. Her life was about to take her to the far reaches of the world, and a hint of regret threatened to stain her aspirations before they had a chance to shine.
Remembering a childhood emotion, she glanced around for something, struggling to hold back her tears.
"Please," she said aloud, to no one in particular, "let me know that it's okay to leave you."
Not really expecting an answer, she parked her car and began the short walk to her father's gravesite. It was a beautiful spring day and there was still some moisture in the soil from a gentle rain two days prior. The birds were calling and the sun was warm. Only her mood darkened the beautiful and peaceful landscape.
As she approached the headstone, her eyes grew as large as those muffins she once stole. She fell to her knees and began to cry. Upon her father's marker, basking in the sun and flapping its wings to a song that no one could hear... a yellow butterfly.
Wiping the tears from her cheeks she looked up to the sky, imagining a cloud in the shape of a castle.
The quest was, perhaps, the kindest thing her uncle had ever given to her. The little girl refused to come to terms with her father's death. Car accidents and heart attacks didn't exist among the callaliliputians (a term her father had coined), so why should they exist for her father? An artist by trade, her uncle had recognized the girl's defense mechanism, and instead of following the suit of modern advice and making her confront the cold facts, he simply played along.
"But where did daddy go?" she asked, frowning, though she wasn't entirely convinced a frown was called for. She was simply imitating the expressions of the adults that were present.
Her uncle sighed, tired from reluctant and public tears, but turned to her with a big smile. "He moved, princess. He went to a different kingdom to rule."
Her eyes widened as big as the muffins she had stolen the week before (but told no one about, not even her sister). "Does he have a castle?" She seemed excited.
"Oh, yes," her uncle replied, "but it's a castle in the sky."
The girl frowned again, but this time with purpose. "How do I get there to see him?"
Her uncle picked her up and propped him on her lap. "Well, it's a very, very hard journey. One such a little girl might not be able to make. It might even take forever."
She crossed her arms, keeping the frown intact. "I'm not that little. I can make it."
"All right, then. First, you have to go to the gardens of stone and find the one with your daddy's name on it. That's his street sign. Understand?"
She nodded.
"Second," he continued, "you have to follow the yellow butterflies. One will lead you to another, and then another. Sometimes the butterflies will disappear and you'll have to look around for a hidden clue."
"Like when the Easter Bunny hides her eggs?" she interrupted.
"Yes, exactly like that." A telephone rang from the next room and her uncle set her down. As he got up to answer, he reminded her, "Follow the yellow butterflies."
"To the castle in the sky!" she exclaimed with a giggle, her frowns now an unimportant memory.
***
It was the tenth anniversary of her father's death, and she was weary of visiting him. Her life was about to take her to the far reaches of the world, and a hint of regret threatened to stain her aspirations before they had a chance to shine.
Remembering a childhood emotion, she glanced around for something, struggling to hold back her tears.
"Please," she said aloud, to no one in particular, "let me know that it's okay to leave you."
Not really expecting an answer, she parked her car and began the short walk to her father's gravesite. It was a beautiful spring day and there was still some moisture in the soil from a gentle rain two days prior. The birds were calling and the sun was warm. Only her mood darkened the beautiful and peaceful landscape.
As she approached the headstone, her eyes grew as large as those muffins she once stole. She fell to her knees and began to cry. Upon her father's marker, basking in the sun and flapping its wings to a song that no one could hear... a yellow butterfly.
Wiping the tears from her cheeks she looked up to the sky, imagining a cloud in the shape of a castle.
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