Scene II
We are on a high, rounded hilltop ringed with trees. From the now destroyed freeway and all surrounding areas, this hilltop is as bare as its neighbors. From the Compound, however, this hilltop is clearly ringed with trees. Large, old and powerful trees. Each tree has specific plants growing at its base, and each plant is as aware of its purpose in this place as it is aware of the trees and as the trees are aware of their purpose in this place on the hill, and the hill because of the trees is aware of its purpose in this place and how it is different from the other hills around it.
Across the valley from this hill a mountain spews and rages, lava pouring forth to destroy everything in its path. The air is full of smoke and ash: smoke from fires, from the mountain; ash from fires, not so much from the mountain -- but within the circle of trees all smoke and ash are lessened. Filtered.
Down the way from this hillside entire communities burn unchecked, without intervention or assistance. A solar powered radio left on in a house as yet untouched by fire but abandoned for weeks plays the last repeated pre-recorded emergency broadcast for the night before it fades to silence. If the house has not burned by sunrise, it will resume playing this message within moments of first light. The likelihood of this radio's survival beyond the next twenty-four hours is, as of this writing, slim.
RADIO: ... state of emergency has been declared for the state of California. Citizens are asked to avoid the Sacramento area and surrounding delta. Travel to the San Francisco Bay Area is inadvisable at this time. If you are trapped and need assistance, the number to call is on the FEMA website at www.fema.gov/ca. Call this number if you are experiencing the following conditions: lack of phone service; aftershocks; power outages; home invasion; fire; lava flow; bird flu; West Nile virus; gas main explosion; hallucinations; or if your house has burned down and you are trapped inside.
Oh ... God. This is pointless. Who the fuck wrote this copy?
I don't care! We should tell the the truth, Phil.
Oh, really?! You think we still have jobs?! Sacramento is UNDER WATER, asshole! The levees broke, haven't you heard anything ...?
Oh, what, NPR is conspiring to flood Sacramento, now?! Jesus, just because this is an AM broadcast doesn't mean we have to pretend the Central Valley is still dry.
Directive? What directive? We're supposed to help people!
Well that's just ridiculous, Phil. I am not a part of your Prophet's Circle.
What the fuck -- ? Is that a gun? Jesus, Phil!
No, I'm not letting you in here.
[muffled gunshot]
Californians, please, we hope and pray you're still alive, just get the hell out of there and stay safe.
[glass breaking]
God be with you.
[gunshot. static. beep.]
... Message repeating. A state of emergency has been declared for the state of California ...
This message has been playing since before the house was abandoned. Nobody is there to hear it. Even now, the one individual who can hear it lies asleep here in the Tor, snuggled into a cozy ball; the emergency broadcast from a house far down below the Compound has become part of the background noise he hears, just part of the fabric of sound to which he has grown accustomed in the night and the day and the twilight at either end. He waits. As he was told. His feet twitch. He dreams of chasing kitties. Muffled barking in his sleep as he corners the largest kitty in the world and tells it to play with him. If he wakes in the night, he will mark the trees. He senses the sigils, he does not see them. He keeps his vigil at the Northernmost edge of the circle of trees, with a clear view North and East. And though now he sleeps, still his mind is alert for the least variation in the soundscape of the night.
Presently, a thump-thumpthump is heard. His left ear raises, though he remains asleep.
Rustling in the brush outside the Tor.
Sleeping dog eyes crack open slightly.
Skip-rustle, skip-rustle, skip-rustle from the underbrush.
His eyes are open. He lays still, listening.
Skip-rustle, skip rustle.
He raises his head.
Skip rustle.
Max: You?
Silence.
Then with a final skip-rustle, a small figure emerges from the tall dry summer grass at the Western edge of the Tor.
Max: Mmm, smells tasty.
He stands, stretching and yawning, nostrils working as he zeroes in on the source of the tasty smell.
Max: Tasty?
Skip-hop.
Bucephalas: Would you again seek to eat your fate? Do you remember nothing?
Max: You smell so tasty.
Bucephalas: Even if you could catch me, do you think you could eat me? Did you give Chauncey my message?
Max: Chauncey? Chauncey?! So lonely! Do you know. Do you know.
Bucephalas: Do. Not. Lick. Me.
Max: I sit. I stay.
Bucephalas: Thank you. Did you give him my message?
Max: Yes I am Maxwell. I good boy yes. I good boy say.
Bucephalas: Did he say anything in return?
Max: ...
Bucephalas: Did he give you a message for me?
Max: Chauncey good boy also say.
Bucephalas: And?
Max: He good boy yes. He good bunny. He good boy go, good boy stay, good boy all the time.
Bucephalas relaxes, tucking his feet under him and breathing a little sigh.
Bucephalas: Finally. All we have worked for may come to pass. Are you ready, Maxwell?
Max: I am good! I sit stay!
Bucephalas: Yes. Good.
The ground shakes and fire rips into the night, an explosion so loud that both animals freeze for a moment, internally registering and evaluating fight-or-flight.
When it is clear that the explosion is some miles to the North and that they are in no direct danger, Bucephalas skip-hop, skip-hops to the Northern edge of the Tor. Max follows.
Bucephalas: Do you remember what I told you?
Max: Yes. I am Max. I good boy go.
Bucephalas: Not just yet. Be ready. The signal comes soon.
Max: Max good boy ready, Busfloss.
Bucephalas: Ah, you remembered. How nice.
Max and Bucephalas sit in companionable silence for a time, both animals' ears twitching at the sounds of fire and gunshots and screaming that come from closer to that giant of fire raging East of that hill far to the North. There are roaring sounds, keening screech sounds. Sounds that say, 'We will eat the people you love if you do not stop us! Only a Good Boy can save the people you love!' Max shifts, licks his chops. His legs twitch. He is itching to run.
Bucephalas tucks his feet under him and begins to speak:
Bucephalas: Do you remember Raider, Maxwell?
Max sighs.
Max: Raider good boy Gone. Sleep now forever.
Max lies down, crossing his paws, and rests his head on them. Bucephalas skip-hop, skip-hops closer, right next to him.
Bucephalas: Raider is always with you. Whenever you are a Good Boy, Raider is there. Did you know that?
Max sighs.
Max: I am Max. I love Raider. I love Alpha. I love Pack.
Max turns and touches his nose to that of Bucephalas.
Max: Where is Raider? Where is Pack?
Bucephalas: Your pack is scattered to the winds of time, Maxwell. You are possibly their only hope. But we must wait. For the moment, I suppose we can just wait together. Is that alright with you?
Max: I do my best. I good boy sit stay. I wait. I wait. I wait with Busfloss.
Bucephalas: Well, that's something, then.
Max: Busfloss good boy stay. I love Busfloss. Busfloss good boy. Busfloss Pack.
Bucephalas cocks his ears slightly.
Bucephalas: Yes, I -- ... Thank you.
Bucephalas stands on his hind legs, listening to the North. Max shifts, moving his left front leg.
Bucephalas: Don't put your paw on me. I want to live.
Max smiles, panting.
Max: Busfloss Pack.
Max knocks Bucephalas over.
Bucephalas: Damn you, Maxwell.
Max smiles, panting.
A howl sounds, now, far to the North, close to the fire giant.
Max sits up.
Max: I know that voice.
Bucephalas: That is the signal. It is time. Do you remember, when you were a puppy, how I promised to let you chase me?
Bucephalas stands to his full height, ears erect.
Max: I am Max. I remember. I love to chase.
Bucephalas: Tonight is the night, Maxwell. I shall lead you on the merriest of chases. I dare you to catch me, snap my legs; I dare you to kill me, snap my neck; I dare you to eat me: rend my flesh!
Max howls. Both animals feel that howl fly North. They feel it affect other small animals in the brush. They sense its movement over hills and dales and trees, toward the fire. They feel it land among creatures to whom it gives pause. They sense friends to the West of the fire. Friends in danger. Max senses other friends who cannot find the people they seek. 'I will help them,' he thinks.
The howl from the North is repeated.
Max: Mommy.
Bucephalas: Fly, Maxwell! Now is the hour! Fly in the shadow and form of Malop-Fenrir-Kerberos! Catch me if you can!
Bucephalas shoots off down the hillside as only a ghost rabbit can, and Max leaps from within the circle of trees, bounding after Bucephalas and howling a second and greater howl -- a howl that stills the heart of flame for a moment, calling it to crackle, tame, in the hearth; a howl that draws the attention of three travelers above an abandoned dairy farm as they are surrounded by creatures intent on devouring them; a howl that causes those same creatures to wonder, however briefly, if they will not get their dinner after all.
And even as those are some of the effects of the howl on most who hear it, the words of his howl are so simple, so clear, that they pierce right to the heart of the one for whom it is intended:
Max: I hear You! I'm coming! You good stay! You good stay! I am Max! I come when you call!
So it is that the hill itself sees, as Bucephalas launches from the Northern edge of the hidden Tor, that Maximilian Schnell bounds through the night, swift as a shadow, Malop imbuing every paw with certainty and grace.
To chase the ghost rabbit.
So it is that the hill senses, as Talmadge and his two citified companions are surrounded by beastling creatures, that Max VonSitDown, blessed of Fenrir, has the scent of certainty and follows it as sure as night follows day.
To catch the ghost rabbit.
So it is that the hill hears, as another -- and yet another -- gas main unleash giant fireballs into the night on the hills just East of the northern field in which an oaken madwoman devours every living thing with her second and splintery mouth, Kerberos unleashes his own triple-headed canine harmony, straight up through the earth and into this bounding, blessed dog. Every strength, every power, every heroic quality of every hero ever devoured by Kerberos as he guards the gates to Hades is woven into that harmony, filling, igniting and transforming this humble Labrador / Boxer mix.
To eat the ghost rabbit.
So it is that Max The Wonderdog is born.
And Bucephalas, dashing ahead of Max in a chase he has waited lifetimes to lead, utters the words which seal, set and bind them to their task:
Bucephalas: So Mote It Be.
Grinning from ear to ear! Go, Max, Go!
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