Friday, February 14, 2014
Monday, October 14, 2013
NFTF: Conflagration II
For a time, there is only silence. The world is breathing, taking stock of its injuries.
A great rumbling is heard, then felt. Several of the soldiers, the two wounded monks, even the creatures being herded toward the barns and their pursuers are thrown to the ground.
The monks feel it the moment their hands touch earth.
East of them, beyond the raging inferno of Mt. Diablo, another fault has slipped. Reaching well into the delta via Marsh Creek, this fault has opened a gorge larger and deeper than the one which devoured 580. It extends from the delta along that fault into the far eastern end of Livermore and Trevarno (the town that time forgot, clearly sensed by the monks, a mystery within a Quincunx conundrum), right up toward Del Valle and along the canyon next to Mines Road where it curves up toward San Antonio Valley. Old gas mains under vineyards are ruptured. Entire neighborhoods are destroyed in seconds.
Water from the delta rushes into the gorge. It will begin to fill the valley from that end within hours.
An old man, his beard grown long in the time it has taken him to get back to this place and step into a house recently vacated by his younger self, sips his tea as the walls crack and just keeps writing. If I can only get to her in time, he writes. Can the rift hold?
A canny old witch in Trevarno sees all of this in her obsidian scrying ball. The monks see her see them. She winks. They've heard her radio show.
Hordes of beastling creatures swarm into the area between the barns, and battle is engaged. The monks stagger to their feet, dizzy and disorientated. All around them are vintage soldiers and nurses, the howling wolflings in various sizes, and two elephant-sized dogs, both favoring their back left legs.
The monks stumble to the dairy barn, pulling open the very door Veronica used to get in. A great deep bark sounds and the wall is blasted apart as Max the Wonderdog leaps through.
Veronica sits astride his shoulders, holding tight his gigantic red collar. A shiny brass dog tag jingles against two copper amulets covered in esoteric symbols. He howls. The other two Wonderdogs howl.
The sky bellows thunder of the gods, ripping open as a vast zeppelin noses through, wreathed in lightning and firing precise bolts of copper-colored energy from galvanized Tesla guns. Wolflings are incinerated by the hundreds.
A man's voice cries out from the firelit night in the field, "Dirigibles, now?! Really?!" This is followed by a woman's laugh.
The monks sink to their knees as the three giant dogs, under the command of the fierce crossbow-wielding woman astride one of them, join the forces from another time to lay waste to the creatures of nightmare.
From within the fire which has devoured most of the field now lumbers the impossibly tall, burning, screeching figure of the Oaken lady. Before the Wonderdog closest to her can smack her back into the fire, she launches herself at the zeppelin, her flaming, jagged branches tearing into the envelope near the aft propellers. The zeppelin bursts into flame, falling to the ground.
Lady Henrietta cries out to her forces to fall back.
The three Wonderdogs leap back toward the barns, one grabbing Petherbridge and Elfie, the other grabbing an old man. These are hunting dogs. Their soft mouths do not hurt the people in their care.
The man and the woman sprint after Max the Wonderdog as he picks up Talmadge, the flaming dirigible coming down above them as they run. They can hear its crackling Tesla guns, the shriek and whine of propellers tangled in broken branches. Wielding their machetes in a ballet of deadly grace, they slice through every evil creature they pass, taking off heads, arms, faces, engorged and thorny cocks. This pair are torn, ragged, bloody, bruised. But they run. They run and they do not stop, even as they hear the back end of the zeppelin crashing to the ground just behind them, even as they know that it must fall and crush them in the next few seconds.
The world is fire and ash and screaming metal. An old stile still stands next to a cattle fence and the couple throw themselves up it, leaping from the highest step and simultaneously beheading two full-grown wolfbeasts who rear up to attack from where they've been devouring vintage nurses.
The zeppelin, caught in the branches of Oaken Iron Rachel, misses crushing their skulls by milimeters. They land, rolling forward, coming to their feet in battle stance as the airship crashes to the earth behind them, dealing death to the majority of the nightmares still on the field. Just as it erupts in a final ball of fire, the front hatch explodes open in smoke and sparks, slamming to the ground a little tilted, its inner side a set of steps now leading to the burned and bloody earth beneath.
The woman astride the giant dog raises her crossbow.
The Rancher hefts the axe he's acquired since leaving the ridge.
The man and woman crouch, ready to attack.
Lady Henrietta inhales to give the order.
A man in a aviator cap, goggles and flight leathers steps with his back to them from within the control car, coughing and waving at the smoke with his white silk scarf. The control car is belching smoke. He turns, takes a step down, holding on to the railing of the hatch door.
Every weapon in the hands of every survivor is pointed at this man.
He laughs aloud, tossing his head.
"Now how's that for a Deus Ex Machina!?" he shouts. Something explodes behind him and he's thrown forward to the ground, shouting, "Motherfucker!"
The assembled survivors make a collective gasping whoa sound at the explosion. All but three of them. One of those three is hardly breathing, trying to keep her crossbow still.
The man climbs to his feet, shaking his head. Once he's steady, he lifts his goggles. There is at least one gasp from within the assembled crowd.
"Oh, come on," he says, grinning from within his singed goatee and moustache, his face clean around his eyes, blackened by soot and dirt where the goggles didn't cover. "Isn't anyone going to acknowledge the inherent awesomeness of me landing in a dirigible?"
"Tad?!" this from at least two voices.
"Hold your fire!" shouts Lady Henrietta.
The three giant Wonderdogs leap forward, knocking him to the ground and kissing him with many good dog kisses, pinning him down. Veronica is trying to dismount, but her steed is too full of canine exuberance.
"Good God, there's three of you!" he shouts. "Pfaaaawh, are you all determined to put your tongue in my -- khougggh -- I guess that's a yes."
The burning airship sends up another gout of flame. Veronica's mount carries the newcomer in his mouth toward the barns, away from the heat; the other dogs and the remaining survivors follow. Veronica throws herself to the ground and into the newcomer's arms as the warrior wife and her husband arrive behind her. Lady Henrietta stands a little behind them.
"Edward's trajectory has changed," she says. "New growth from the very old bark of this saga." One of the Wonderdogs turns, looking her in the eyes, and grins, drooling. Dogs are the only species who can drool and look intelligent at the same time, she thinks.
At long, long last, Edward and Veronica kiss. And though his facial hair is burned and their faces are smeared with blood and soot and dirt, their tears make it the sweetest and best kiss, the most true kiss either of them has ever known. Or ever will.
"I told you I would come back," he says, and she hugs him so hard his back pops like a stretchy straw. "Wow. Thanks, I needed that," he says, and sees the couple behind her. "Joshua," he says to the man. "I see you got here on time."
"We had a little trouble on the ridge," Josh says. "Your sister almost beheaded me twice."
"I told him to bring the fucking rock salt," says the woman.
Veronica has only had eyes for Edward. She turns at the sound of this voice and cries out, delighted, throwing her arms around the other woman. "Hillary!"
"Damn right," says Hillary. "Sorry it took us so fucking long. Oakland? Obstacles. That's all I'm sayin'."
They laugh, the burning airship sends up another gout of flame. Some of the crowd laugh too, and they all move back toward the barns, away from the heat. Quiet voices murmur amazement, too uncertain of their victory to speak loudly. Edward steps up onto an old wagon, limping a little. Veronica and Lady Henrietta each see this, exchanging a glance that says, It's really him. Veronica sees something in Lady Henrietta's eyes that makes her wonder exactly where Tad has been while he's been elsewhere. Then he holds his hand out to her and she takes it, stepping up onto the wagon next to him.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he calls out. The murmuring ceases. "We have limited time. By now, the Greenville / Marsh Creek Fault has broken open at the eastern end of the valley. The Livermore end of the valley will flood entirely within the next three days. If any of you are Rachels or Ezekiels who still have family or loved ones in the region, we need to send rescue parties to them immediately. This is, I'm sorry to tell you, only the beginning. The coming changes will alter this nation, and this world, forever."
One of the Rachels speaks. Veronica sees that it's Nice Rachel, the first one to help her back, what was that, a week ago? Before the world went insane, at any rate.
"How do you know all this?" Nice Rachel calls out. Edward turns to her, smiling, his left hand around Veronica's waist.
"Rachel, don't you know?" he asks, grinning and cocky as ever, his arm suddenly light on Veronica's hip. She turns to look at it, sees his hand growing translucent. She turns to look at his face as he says, "I'm a Time Traveler, and I don't even need a little blue box!"
Edward throws his head back, laughing.
Then he disappears. Not with a pop, like before. He simply winks out of existence.
*********
[The following is an excerpt from an audio journal of voice memos made some days after the quake. It was made while driving around to every known road out of Livermore, including those leading into Trevarno, to see which would be the best route. Though originally posted some time ago, it is included here because the transcriber has noted some slight alterations in the text. Any theories aimed at an explanation are welcome. Only the altered portion of the transcript is included.]
[Sound: We hear Veronica walk around to trunk of car. As she does, we hear the engine of a large pickup truck as it pulls up nearby.]
Voice in Truck: Now, are you folks okay?
Edward: We're ... fine. I just got a little dizzy, is all.
Voice: In trying times like these, faith ... can be its own reward.
Edward: Thank you.
I'm Edward. Edward --
Veronica: (interrupting) Water.
Who's this?
Voice: Mayberry. Torvald Mayberry. Doctor of Divinity.
Veronica: Like the candy?
Mayberry: Oh, sweeter. Surely. And the Lord's work may be done any day. No matter the weather.
[A silence. Ravens cry in the distance.]
Mayberry (cont.): The candy, I understand, requires low humidity.
Edward: Dr. Mayberry is correct, honey.
Veronica: We should be on our way.
Mayberry: Wouldn't want to keep you.
Edward: Do you ... do you know the best way West from here? We're trying to get to Hayward.
Mayberry: I hear Bollinger is the safest way across 680. Head there directly, the sooner the better. I can't guarantee that it will be safe when you arrive, of course. We all have our trials to bear, don't we, Veronica?
Veronica: Yes ... of course.
Mayberry: And they do ... take their toll ...
Veronica: We should go.
Edward: Yes.
Mayberry: See you farther on down the road, then.
Edward: The way things are going since the quake, I'm not so sure.
Mayberry: Oh ... it's a date. I promise.
Veronica: Dr. Mayberry, are you okay?
Mayberry: I can honestly say that I haven't felt this good in a long, long time. Why do you ask?
Veronica: For a moment, you looked like you were in pain. Your face, it looked ...
Mayberry: I have this beast of a headache. Sometimes it feels like my skull's fit to crack open. I'm actually headed back to stop it right now, good people.
For Lo, he did see that the harlot was perceptive
And it did fill him with lustful dread.
So saith the Prophet ...
[Nobody speaks for a moment. Ravens cry in greater numbers, closer.]
Mayberry (cont.): So Saith The Lord. You would do well to remember that.
Veronica: Thanks. Drive carefully.
[Sound of car door opening.]
Mayberry: Bye, now, Tad.
[Sound: pickup truck revs, drives away.
We hear Edward and Veronica getting back into the Honda. Edward in driver's seat. Honda starts, pulls forward to stop sign, brakes, left turn signal clicking.]
Veronica:That guy was creepy.
Edward: Did you hear what he just said? He called me Tad.
Veronica: What? No.
Edward: He did. He called me Tad. How did you not hear that?
Veronica: Definitely a weirdo. But maybe you were hearing things.
Edward: People who are sane do not just "hear things."
Veronica: And you would be ...
Edward: Hey, I'm not the one advocating a trip to Hayward. Did we introduce you? I think he called you by name as well.
Veronica: Huh. Wow. I think you're right. Creeper of Divinty.
Edward: This makes me reconsider heading to Hayward.
Veronica: I thought we'd agreed.
Edward: When Reverend Creepy grins at me like he wants to tongue my soul, I question the validity of his directions.
Veronica: You have a point. Maybe we can cross 680 farther North?
Edward: Maybe.
Veronica: We'll discuss it. For now, let's go to Safeway, see if the lines for gas are too long. Then I think it's lunchtime.
[Sound: Honda accelerates, turning left, turn signal stops clicking.
Wind in open car windows.
Alison Krauss, 'I Will'. Veronica hums along.]
When the song is over, Veronica sighs.]
Edward: Why such a sigh?
Veronica: Because even when it feels like the world is ending, I am happy just to be here with you.
[Sound: a smooch on a cheek.
Driving.
Ravens via Doppler effect.
Recording cuts out.]
The End
Friday, October 11, 2013
NFTF: Conflagration
Brothers
Oswald and Johannes sit, pale and unmoving, breath shallow as each
clutches an open wound in the shadow of a big red barn in which Oak and
Bay saplings have begun to grow into full-fledged trees. They can feel
the roots pushing down into the earth around them, they can hear the
timbers protesting as the branches push out, seeking release. Each monk
knows it is only a matter of time.
Focused thus on time, they have each gone inward so that, following the roots of the new and powerful trees springing up around them, they may sense and understand that which is occurring everywhere else in this battle. Their hope is that, by leaving their mark upon the energy of the trees, others in their brotherhood will be able to see, and by seeing, know. Sensing change, sensing the approach of a powerful force, they push their awareness down into the network of roots and allow it to ripple out, like a stone of inquiry in the still pool of existence. What comes to them, in responding ripples, is a picture painted in grim, dark colors.
On a ridge above, behind and to their left, three people fight the same beasts which have torn holes in Oswald and Johannes. The beasts pour from the forest to the North of the ridge where a man and woman trip a lethal fandango of gunfire, a dance certain to end in moments. Behind them, on the ground, an old man struggles against his own tide.
The branch is just beyond Talmadge's reach. His elbow slips and he feels the beastling's teeth tear into his tricep. He cries out (Oswald and Johannes echo his sound, faintly, their blood soaking the ground and feeding the roots beneath them), his pain and fear spurring his reach and grasping, hefting and swinging of the branch, ignoring the pain in his arm and legs abdomen where they're biting into his muscle, bellowing one phrase as he sweeps the branch in a great clubbing arc; his words are not planned, they are his last desperate cry before his life ends, the final thought before he is overcome:
"I am the Steward of the R.M.S. Ruritania!" the sharp broken twigs of the branch slice and pierce the creatures as they are thrown back into the ranks of their advancing fellows. He struggles onto one knee, impaling the creature feasting on his left arm, seeing his own bloody flesh and the wool of his shirt in its mouth. "Long has it traveled! Lost in lagoons and wand'ring in waterways!" Talmadge swings the branch back against another onslaught, amazed at his sudden strength as the creatures are thrown like rag dolls. He has a moment of rest, an instant to breathe.
Bracing himself against the branch, in that instant Talmadge hears two things: the galloping crash of a much larger creature approaching from behind, and the telltale click of an empty firearm; he sees the husband switch the shotgun in his hands, crying out as his fingers burn on the hot metal, clubbing the beasts as they surround the couple. The wife has one handgun and a machete, now; a gash in her brow bleeds, obscuring her vision. All this in a glance as he stands, bracing the branch under his right arm, staggering forward and bellowing his rage to the night, ready to die with these words on his lips:
"Protected by passengers, I call on its Captain! Ruritania! Stands! Defiant!"
Johannes and Oswald, their blood nourishing the roots of the network into which they currently delve, sense two things; the first is that the Rancher's words have triggered a fissure, an opening -- not in the earth, as has been the case in so much of this region of late, but in the fabric of time and space. There is something, something large, beginning to nose its way through that fissure. As they sense this, they realize that there are other such fissures -- they are in fact surrounded by these cracks and holes: the 1913 soldiers and nurses, the creatures that have attacked them ... all of these things are here because of holes that have opened . From where, and how, and how to close the holes, they do not yet know. As they sense and understand these things, they also understand that they are not likely to live long enough to tell Father Michael directly.
In that moment they are distracted by the second thing: the whatever it is that approaches from behind the Rancher. Seeing it now through the perception of the trees from amongst which it launches itself at the Rancher's back, they are shocked. This thing is impossible. It cannot be. And even as it leaps toward the Rancher, even as he senses it and turns his head, their attention is drawn to
A lone soldier, Petherbridge, silhouetted against a wall of fire, wielding an old pitchfork with the skill of a Master of the Quarterstaff, whips it to the right, flinging a dead wolfling to land in the flames which tear their way into the field from the hillside behind him. This is the three-hundredth monster he's dispatched, and none of those burned can fuel the growth of their fellows. He dashes forward, forking and pitching three wolflings one after the other, flinging each into the fire as he spins -- or so he thinks. The first lands screaming in the fire, the other two are thrown wide of the mark, each impaled in the branches of the monstrous tree woman as she crouches over a screaming Nurse -- is that Elfie?! --, their blood and shit smearing her horrific branches.
The beastlings behind her, smelling and seeing their fleshly ambrosia, fling themselves into her branches, pulling her head up and back with the weight of the first ten of them. She screams, the sound of straining timbers and wanton cruelty frustrated, turning away from Nurse Elfie, who scrambles back and runs as the tree woman shakes her head, impaling those creatures who have leapt into her branches to feast.
Petherbridge darts to his right, noting but not heeding the sound of something massive approaching from the South, forking and pitching as many wolflings as he can into her branches. One lands in her deadly ladymouth. She tries to spit it out, her leathery, birdlike tongue tearing on her myriad splintry teeth. She screams, stomping toward him, crushing hundreds of the creatures who swarm around her in their craving to be the biggest. Petherbridge trips over a dead comrade, slipping in the other soldier's entrails, landing on his back amid shit and torn flesh, the pitchfork slipping from his grasp as the oak lady towers above him, her branches and face running red and black with blood and shit, spreading her legs to open her creaking, groaning, hissing sex which gleams with the sap dripping from its walls, a deep and malevolent green light pulsating within to light the struggles of still-living soldiers pierced and screaming by the barnacle-like spikes chewing into their faces, their genitals, their eye sockets.
Oswald and Johannes are startled nearly to waking by what approaches from the South. How can that be?, they want to ask aloud. In that same moment, in those billionths of seconds which have passed, their attention is drawn now to a place with no living trees inside of it, a place surrounded by saplings and soldiers from another time, a place which gleams in the perception of the trees with the hot, red, screaming light of cruelty, torture and despair.
A woman is trapped in a living mirror box in that place, as countless others are abused and assaulted in a ritual focused on raising a massive amount of negative energy, and Johannes and Oswald understand even as their minds' eyes are burned by the heat of the light of such pain. They understand and they cry out as the woman inside opens her mouth to a warm spoonful of brains, and the commander of the soldiers from another time who cannot get in to help the spellbound woman cries out, hearing a great beast now attacking from the South.
"Petherbridge! Where is Petherbridge?!" Lady Henrietta shouts. She sees the beast top the hill behind the dairy barn, this rickety old building she's been hacking at, screaming at, assaulting with every weapon and strength available to her at this time -- to no avail. Firelight reflects in its great dark eyes and it howls, the roots of the howl so deep in its chest that she feels her bones vibrate. They cannot fight this creature. She suspects that they are done -- she dies here, tonight, and all her history will end. No great journey, no escape to the New World, no secret compound in the golden hills of California. She accepts this, setting her stance and ready to attack.
Then a second howl, to the West. She turns in time to see, on the ridge above and to their right, a great black shape leaping firelit toward -- the back of an old man?
A third howl, overlapping with the first two, draws her attention to the burning field behind them to the East as
Brother Oswald and Brother Johannes see it all, perceiving the unfolding of this moment in simultaneous awareness through the network of roots connecting all trees, sensing its movement through the roots of the world, knowing now that all trees share all experience simultaneously with all other living, growing plant life.
Even the burning brown grasses of the field tell them of where a great black dog lands unsinged in the fire itself, its howl overlapping with the first two and echoing among the hills around them, its eyes reflecting the purifying flames, its body lithe and powerful as it raises up on its hind legs, towering above Petherbridge, its black claws gleaming in the light of this fire that does not burn it, ready to slam down and crush anything beneath. The monks sense this even as they sense
Leaves of Bay and Oak, falling from broken branches as another gigantic black dog leaps toward the back of the old Rancher fighting for his life, the Rancher's eyes widening as he turns -- and the black dog sails over his head to land, skidding, turning, deadly and precise, among the wolflings, facing the old man as
Saplings around the dairy barn and fully-grown trees on the hill above it shudder at the impact of each massive paw as this giant black dog throws itself down the hill, tongue lolling wild and pink from the left side of its foaming jaw. It will be upon the dairy barn in three great leaping strides. Roots beneath the dairy barn sense the blood spilled above, but unlike the blood of Brothers Johannes and Oswald which soaks down to nourish this network of awareness, the blood in the barn is held, it is separate and that which holds it from soaking into the earth is also that which is driving the women and girls in the barn to scream and scream and scream, inarticulate terror that stains the earth around it, causing the roots below to shrink back, the branches above to lean away. Even the dry brown grass around the barn in this moment loses its substance and puffs to dust as the women and girls trapped in that barn see something they should never have seen and the woman trapped in the living mirror box tilts the spoon up into her mouth, tears streaking her face to rinse just a little of the spattered blood away. The roots sense and absorb and transmit these images from the minds of the women in the barn just as their horror reaches a peak, exploding outward in a sudden and scalding supernova of pain, hatred, suffering, horror, terror and dread. It expands to encompass all the pain and fear and death in this little vale, from the dairy barn to the dead and dying creatures on the ridge above, to the soldiers and nurses in the field, to the creatures in the branches of the oak monster lady and the soldiers and nurses she's stuffed into her trunk through either hole.
The great black dog on the hill smells the figure it intends to attack and kill, aiming its final leap so that it can crash through the back wall of the dairy barn, ready to tear the throat from the figure in the spot to its left.
The massive black dog on the ridge attacks those nearest, tearing and throwing and snarling and breaking.
The immense black dog in the fire, red sparks swirling up around him like the blessing of an ancient lady in mountains two continents away, brings his front paws down to crush, and kill, the wolflings surrounding Lieutenant Petherbridge, who sees the terror in the eyes of the Oaken lady as the giant black dog lunges out of the fire, snatching her into his mouth and throwing her in the air like a bone, snapping her in half and tossing her into the inferno behind him, then bounding into the field to destroy every wolfling, every darkling spawn now fleeing in terror.
Petherbridge leaps to his feet, pitchfork in hand, shouting the only words he can think in that moment, "Good boy!" For he has heard the stories, the whispered words, the half-hoped-for tales of the trusty companion, the mythic savior, the noble and powerful beast who came to his Alpha's aid when all was thought lost.
His words are echoed by the Rancher on the ridge as the massive black dog tears into the wolflings, rending and scattering them before they can devour the dead, this giant powerful dog leaping up to bring his front paws down exactly like the Boxer of which he is half, piercing and crushing evil creatures by the score, barking his great deep barks to scatter them like cockroaches. The old man laughs and calls his praise as he, too strikes at the creatures, emboldening and empowering this astounding dog with these two ancient words, "Good boy!"
The woman and her husband see the scattering beastlings. They turn. They see the giant dog and the woman cries out, "Oh my God! What the fuck is that?! Wait, is that -- ? It is! It's Max! Good boy, Maxwell! Kill those little shitfucking evil motherfuckers! Kill! Kill! Kill them all!" Brandishing her machete, she sprints into their midst, followed by her laughing husband, his own machete drawn now, the couple joining the old man and the giant black dog as they chase the creatures to the North, into the trees and back down the hill toward the burning field, destroying as many as they can.
Brothers Johannes and Oswald gasp as the back wall of the dairy barn explodes open, the great black dog shattering the wall and the dark enchantments which have ensorceled the building against any other attack. He lands, skidding a little in the bloody straw, his jaws open even as he finds his footing, turning to his left. The monks see the interior more clearly, now: crazed women stand supporting six large, heavy, wood-framed mirrors, their bodies covered in cuts and gashes, bleeding freely. These women are whispering, screaming, laughing, lost in pain and madness, penetrated by the monstrous full-grown wolfbeasts that grind behind them, holding their hands in place on the mirrors or tearing into their flesh with razor-sharp claws and teeth already caked in blood and chunks. Beneath each wolfbeast and woman is a sizzling, smoking puddle of blood and other fluids. Distracted by the arrival of the gigantic black dog, the women and the wolfbeasts turn, even as the dog is turning and launching himself toward them, jaws wide, powerful muscles flexing.
In that instant, the supernova of pain and dread, expanding to just beyond the little vale in which all of this has come to pass, reaches its breaking point.
The man toward which the black dog leaps, the man whose cruelty and madness have shaped this pit of torment for these innocent women and girls, sees the leaping dog -- a dog many times larger than it was the last time it leapt at him -- and opens his shattered mouth to scream. Not a scream of fear or pain. No. A scream of triumph: the mirrors, the pain he's created in these whores and harlots, all of this serves his victorious purpose, and as he feels the great globe of torment collapsing back in on him, he is screaming in delight, in Holy Rapture, ecstatic that he'll kill the dog, too, as he stretches his left arm out, reaching for the woman he's trapped with him in this mirror box.
Oswald and Johannes understand, now: the mirrors are meant to reflect, magnify and multiply all that happens within them. It's an infinity box. They gasp, sitting up, eyes open, all pain faded as they realize what he's done. Leaping to their feet, the monks do their best to run to the dairy barn before Torvald Walter Mayberry, former pastor of Three Square Christian Church and Missionary Bible School in Castro Valley, can succeed in his dark task.
All of this is happening in the same instant that Max the Wonderdog is leaping to tear out Torvald Walter Mayberry's throat, and as Mayberry himself is reaching for Veronica's hand.
For what delight, Mayberry is thinking. What delight to take her with me, to tear her from this world as she tore me from my flock? To hold her down and treat with her as a whore should be dealt? The pain, the fear, the fluids, the whores, the brains, the mirrors --
His scream of triumph catches in his throat. The mirrors!
"Nerrrr! Terrrrhhnng!" he bellows.
The mirrors are all angled toward him. He looks for the whore.
The monks have taken three steps.
The commander of the forces outside has raised her sword.
The myth-imbued dog is mid-air.
The woman has thrown herself to the floor.
The mirrors reflect only Torvald Walter Mayberry.
The supernova of anguish snaps back --
-- collapsing --
-- to its center --
even as Mayberry tries to smudge a sigil off the closest mirror, the Mana he has tapped slams into him and every dark working he has crafted ignites with the power of the agony of his victims. The mirrors explode with crackling heat and red-black energy -- blasting into him as a swirling counter-clockwise vortex opens behind him.
Max the Wonderdog tries to change his trajectory in mid-leap, latching onto an old rope hanging from the rafters with his teeth.
The vortex expands to envelop the broken, bellowing, terrified man trying to escape it. His eyes fix on an object on the floor as the superheated shards of mirror glass slice through his flesh and into his soul: the plastic spoon, a scoop of brains still in it. The last thought in his head is, She never ate the brains! Then the vortex sucks him in, ripping him in half as the mirrors and the now mostly dead women and rutting wolfbeasts are pulled in after, all clogging the vortex for a moment like too much shit in a toilet. Max the Wonderdog struggles to maintain his hold on the rope, his jaws aching as the vortex pulls at him, pulls at the barn and all people and things in and around the barn. Even the hillsides begin to lean in toward the barn until, with a wet, splashing thud, the pile of dead flesh and the gigantic mandoline smash into the vortex and shove everything through.
Max the Wonderdog yelps as his back left dewclaw is torn from his leg, the last thing to hit the swirling maeslstrom of energy.
The vortex snaps shut.
Max the Wonderdog falls to the floor of the dairy barn.
Every beam of the barn, every tree, every speck of dirt and every living and unliving thing relaxes back, the pressure of the vortex released.
For a time, there is only silence. The world is breathing, taking stock of its injuries.
Focused thus on time, they have each gone inward so that, following the roots of the new and powerful trees springing up around them, they may sense and understand that which is occurring everywhere else in this battle. Their hope is that, by leaving their mark upon the energy of the trees, others in their brotherhood will be able to see, and by seeing, know. Sensing change, sensing the approach of a powerful force, they push their awareness down into the network of roots and allow it to ripple out, like a stone of inquiry in the still pool of existence. What comes to them, in responding ripples, is a picture painted in grim, dark colors.
On a ridge above, behind and to their left, three people fight the same beasts which have torn holes in Oswald and Johannes. The beasts pour from the forest to the North of the ridge where a man and woman trip a lethal fandango of gunfire, a dance certain to end in moments. Behind them, on the ground, an old man struggles against his own tide.
The branch is just beyond Talmadge's reach. His elbow slips and he feels the beastling's teeth tear into his tricep. He cries out (Oswald and Johannes echo his sound, faintly, their blood soaking the ground and feeding the roots beneath them), his pain and fear spurring his reach and grasping, hefting and swinging of the branch, ignoring the pain in his arm and legs abdomen where they're biting into his muscle, bellowing one phrase as he sweeps the branch in a great clubbing arc; his words are not planned, they are his last desperate cry before his life ends, the final thought before he is overcome:
"I am the Steward of the R.M.S. Ruritania!" the sharp broken twigs of the branch slice and pierce the creatures as they are thrown back into the ranks of their advancing fellows. He struggles onto one knee, impaling the creature feasting on his left arm, seeing his own bloody flesh and the wool of his shirt in its mouth. "Long has it traveled! Lost in lagoons and wand'ring in waterways!" Talmadge swings the branch back against another onslaught, amazed at his sudden strength as the creatures are thrown like rag dolls. He has a moment of rest, an instant to breathe.
Bracing himself against the branch, in that instant Talmadge hears two things: the galloping crash of a much larger creature approaching from behind, and the telltale click of an empty firearm; he sees the husband switch the shotgun in his hands, crying out as his fingers burn on the hot metal, clubbing the beasts as they surround the couple. The wife has one handgun and a machete, now; a gash in her brow bleeds, obscuring her vision. All this in a glance as he stands, bracing the branch under his right arm, staggering forward and bellowing his rage to the night, ready to die with these words on his lips:
"Protected by passengers, I call on its Captain! Ruritania! Stands! Defiant!"
Johannes and Oswald, their blood nourishing the roots of the network into which they currently delve, sense two things; the first is that the Rancher's words have triggered a fissure, an opening -- not in the earth, as has been the case in so much of this region of late, but in the fabric of time and space. There is something, something large, beginning to nose its way through that fissure. As they sense this, they realize that there are other such fissures -- they are in fact surrounded by these cracks and holes: the 1913 soldiers and nurses, the creatures that have attacked them ... all of these things are here because of holes that have opened . From where, and how, and how to close the holes, they do not yet know. As they sense and understand these things, they also understand that they are not likely to live long enough to tell Father Michael directly.
In that moment they are distracted by the second thing: the whatever it is that approaches from behind the Rancher. Seeing it now through the perception of the trees from amongst which it launches itself at the Rancher's back, they are shocked. This thing is impossible. It cannot be. And even as it leaps toward the Rancher, even as he senses it and turns his head, their attention is drawn to
A lone soldier, Petherbridge, silhouetted against a wall of fire, wielding an old pitchfork with the skill of a Master of the Quarterstaff, whips it to the right, flinging a dead wolfling to land in the flames which tear their way into the field from the hillside behind him. This is the three-hundredth monster he's dispatched, and none of those burned can fuel the growth of their fellows. He dashes forward, forking and pitching three wolflings one after the other, flinging each into the fire as he spins -- or so he thinks. The first lands screaming in the fire, the other two are thrown wide of the mark, each impaled in the branches of the monstrous tree woman as she crouches over a screaming Nurse -- is that Elfie?! --, their blood and shit smearing her horrific branches.
The beastlings behind her, smelling and seeing their fleshly ambrosia, fling themselves into her branches, pulling her head up and back with the weight of the first ten of them. She screams, the sound of straining timbers and wanton cruelty frustrated, turning away from Nurse Elfie, who scrambles back and runs as the tree woman shakes her head, impaling those creatures who have leapt into her branches to feast.
Petherbridge darts to his right, noting but not heeding the sound of something massive approaching from the South, forking and pitching as many wolflings as he can into her branches. One lands in her deadly ladymouth. She tries to spit it out, her leathery, birdlike tongue tearing on her myriad splintry teeth. She screams, stomping toward him, crushing hundreds of the creatures who swarm around her in their craving to be the biggest. Petherbridge trips over a dead comrade, slipping in the other soldier's entrails, landing on his back amid shit and torn flesh, the pitchfork slipping from his grasp as the oak lady towers above him, her branches and face running red and black with blood and shit, spreading her legs to open her creaking, groaning, hissing sex which gleams with the sap dripping from its walls, a deep and malevolent green light pulsating within to light the struggles of still-living soldiers pierced and screaming by the barnacle-like spikes chewing into their faces, their genitals, their eye sockets.
Oswald and Johannes are startled nearly to waking by what approaches from the South. How can that be?, they want to ask aloud. In that same moment, in those billionths of seconds which have passed, their attention is drawn now to a place with no living trees inside of it, a place surrounded by saplings and soldiers from another time, a place which gleams in the perception of the trees with the hot, red, screaming light of cruelty, torture and despair.
A woman is trapped in a living mirror box in that place, as countless others are abused and assaulted in a ritual focused on raising a massive amount of negative energy, and Johannes and Oswald understand even as their minds' eyes are burned by the heat of the light of such pain. They understand and they cry out as the woman inside opens her mouth to a warm spoonful of brains, and the commander of the soldiers from another time who cannot get in to help the spellbound woman cries out, hearing a great beast now attacking from the South.
"Petherbridge! Where is Petherbridge?!" Lady Henrietta shouts. She sees the beast top the hill behind the dairy barn, this rickety old building she's been hacking at, screaming at, assaulting with every weapon and strength available to her at this time -- to no avail. Firelight reflects in its great dark eyes and it howls, the roots of the howl so deep in its chest that she feels her bones vibrate. They cannot fight this creature. She suspects that they are done -- she dies here, tonight, and all her history will end. No great journey, no escape to the New World, no secret compound in the golden hills of California. She accepts this, setting her stance and ready to attack.
Then a second howl, to the West. She turns in time to see, on the ridge above and to their right, a great black shape leaping firelit toward -- the back of an old man?
A third howl, overlapping with the first two, draws her attention to the burning field behind them to the East as
Brother Oswald and Brother Johannes see it all, perceiving the unfolding of this moment in simultaneous awareness through the network of roots connecting all trees, sensing its movement through the roots of the world, knowing now that all trees share all experience simultaneously with all other living, growing plant life.
Even the burning brown grasses of the field tell them of where a great black dog lands unsinged in the fire itself, its howl overlapping with the first two and echoing among the hills around them, its eyes reflecting the purifying flames, its body lithe and powerful as it raises up on its hind legs, towering above Petherbridge, its black claws gleaming in the light of this fire that does not burn it, ready to slam down and crush anything beneath. The monks sense this even as they sense
Leaves of Bay and Oak, falling from broken branches as another gigantic black dog leaps toward the back of the old Rancher fighting for his life, the Rancher's eyes widening as he turns -- and the black dog sails over his head to land, skidding, turning, deadly and precise, among the wolflings, facing the old man as
Saplings around the dairy barn and fully-grown trees on the hill above it shudder at the impact of each massive paw as this giant black dog throws itself down the hill, tongue lolling wild and pink from the left side of its foaming jaw. It will be upon the dairy barn in three great leaping strides. Roots beneath the dairy barn sense the blood spilled above, but unlike the blood of Brothers Johannes and Oswald which soaks down to nourish this network of awareness, the blood in the barn is held, it is separate and that which holds it from soaking into the earth is also that which is driving the women and girls in the barn to scream and scream and scream, inarticulate terror that stains the earth around it, causing the roots below to shrink back, the branches above to lean away. Even the dry brown grass around the barn in this moment loses its substance and puffs to dust as the women and girls trapped in that barn see something they should never have seen and the woman trapped in the living mirror box tilts the spoon up into her mouth, tears streaking her face to rinse just a little of the spattered blood away. The roots sense and absorb and transmit these images from the minds of the women in the barn just as their horror reaches a peak, exploding outward in a sudden and scalding supernova of pain, hatred, suffering, horror, terror and dread. It expands to encompass all the pain and fear and death in this little vale, from the dairy barn to the dead and dying creatures on the ridge above, to the soldiers and nurses in the field, to the creatures in the branches of the oak monster lady and the soldiers and nurses she's stuffed into her trunk through either hole.
The great black dog on the hill smells the figure it intends to attack and kill, aiming its final leap so that it can crash through the back wall of the dairy barn, ready to tear the throat from the figure in the spot to its left.
The massive black dog on the ridge attacks those nearest, tearing and throwing and snarling and breaking.
The immense black dog in the fire, red sparks swirling up around him like the blessing of an ancient lady in mountains two continents away, brings his front paws down to crush, and kill, the wolflings surrounding Lieutenant Petherbridge, who sees the terror in the eyes of the Oaken lady as the giant black dog lunges out of the fire, snatching her into his mouth and throwing her in the air like a bone, snapping her in half and tossing her into the inferno behind him, then bounding into the field to destroy every wolfling, every darkling spawn now fleeing in terror.
Petherbridge leaps to his feet, pitchfork in hand, shouting the only words he can think in that moment, "Good boy!" For he has heard the stories, the whispered words, the half-hoped-for tales of the trusty companion, the mythic savior, the noble and powerful beast who came to his Alpha's aid when all was thought lost.
His words are echoed by the Rancher on the ridge as the massive black dog tears into the wolflings, rending and scattering them before they can devour the dead, this giant powerful dog leaping up to bring his front paws down exactly like the Boxer of which he is half, piercing and crushing evil creatures by the score, barking his great deep barks to scatter them like cockroaches. The old man laughs and calls his praise as he, too strikes at the creatures, emboldening and empowering this astounding dog with these two ancient words, "Good boy!"
The woman and her husband see the scattering beastlings. They turn. They see the giant dog and the woman cries out, "Oh my God! What the fuck is that?! Wait, is that -- ? It is! It's Max! Good boy, Maxwell! Kill those little shitfucking evil motherfuckers! Kill! Kill! Kill them all!" Brandishing her machete, she sprints into their midst, followed by her laughing husband, his own machete drawn now, the couple joining the old man and the giant black dog as they chase the creatures to the North, into the trees and back down the hill toward the burning field, destroying as many as they can.
Brothers Johannes and Oswald gasp as the back wall of the dairy barn explodes open, the great black dog shattering the wall and the dark enchantments which have ensorceled the building against any other attack. He lands, skidding a little in the bloody straw, his jaws open even as he finds his footing, turning to his left. The monks see the interior more clearly, now: crazed women stand supporting six large, heavy, wood-framed mirrors, their bodies covered in cuts and gashes, bleeding freely. These women are whispering, screaming, laughing, lost in pain and madness, penetrated by the monstrous full-grown wolfbeasts that grind behind them, holding their hands in place on the mirrors or tearing into their flesh with razor-sharp claws and teeth already caked in blood and chunks. Beneath each wolfbeast and woman is a sizzling, smoking puddle of blood and other fluids. Distracted by the arrival of the gigantic black dog, the women and the wolfbeasts turn, even as the dog is turning and launching himself toward them, jaws wide, powerful muscles flexing.
In that instant, the supernova of pain and dread, expanding to just beyond the little vale in which all of this has come to pass, reaches its breaking point.
The man toward which the black dog leaps, the man whose cruelty and madness have shaped this pit of torment for these innocent women and girls, sees the leaping dog -- a dog many times larger than it was the last time it leapt at him -- and opens his shattered mouth to scream. Not a scream of fear or pain. No. A scream of triumph: the mirrors, the pain he's created in these whores and harlots, all of this serves his victorious purpose, and as he feels the great globe of torment collapsing back in on him, he is screaming in delight, in Holy Rapture, ecstatic that he'll kill the dog, too, as he stretches his left arm out, reaching for the woman he's trapped with him in this mirror box.
Oswald and Johannes understand, now: the mirrors are meant to reflect, magnify and multiply all that happens within them. It's an infinity box. They gasp, sitting up, eyes open, all pain faded as they realize what he's done. Leaping to their feet, the monks do their best to run to the dairy barn before Torvald Walter Mayberry, former pastor of Three Square Christian Church and Missionary Bible School in Castro Valley, can succeed in his dark task.
All of this is happening in the same instant that Max the Wonderdog is leaping to tear out Torvald Walter Mayberry's throat, and as Mayberry himself is reaching for Veronica's hand.
For what delight, Mayberry is thinking. What delight to take her with me, to tear her from this world as she tore me from my flock? To hold her down and treat with her as a whore should be dealt? The pain, the fear, the fluids, the whores, the brains, the mirrors --
His scream of triumph catches in his throat. The mirrors!
"Nerrrr! Terrrrhhnng!" he bellows.
The mirrors are all angled toward him. He looks for the whore.
The monks have taken three steps.
The commander of the forces outside has raised her sword.
The myth-imbued dog is mid-air.
The woman has thrown herself to the floor.
The mirrors reflect only Torvald Walter Mayberry.
The supernova of anguish snaps back --
-- collapsing --
-- to its center --
even as Mayberry tries to smudge a sigil off the closest mirror, the Mana he has tapped slams into him and every dark working he has crafted ignites with the power of the agony of his victims. The mirrors explode with crackling heat and red-black energy -- blasting into him as a swirling counter-clockwise vortex opens behind him.
Max the Wonderdog tries to change his trajectory in mid-leap, latching onto an old rope hanging from the rafters with his teeth.
The vortex expands to envelop the broken, bellowing, terrified man trying to escape it. His eyes fix on an object on the floor as the superheated shards of mirror glass slice through his flesh and into his soul: the plastic spoon, a scoop of brains still in it. The last thought in his head is, She never ate the brains! Then the vortex sucks him in, ripping him in half as the mirrors and the now mostly dead women and rutting wolfbeasts are pulled in after, all clogging the vortex for a moment like too much shit in a toilet. Max the Wonderdog struggles to maintain his hold on the rope, his jaws aching as the vortex pulls at him, pulls at the barn and all people and things in and around the barn. Even the hillsides begin to lean in toward the barn until, with a wet, splashing thud, the pile of dead flesh and the gigantic mandoline smash into the vortex and shove everything through.
Max the Wonderdog yelps as his back left dewclaw is torn from his leg, the last thing to hit the swirling maeslstrom of energy.
The vortex snaps shut.
Max the Wonderdog falls to the floor of the dairy barn.
Every beam of the barn, every tree, every speck of dirt and every living and unliving thing relaxes back, the pressure of the vortex released.
For a time, there is only silence. The world is breathing, taking stock of its injuries.
Thursday, October 10, 2013
NFTF: Max and the Rabbit, a short play -- Scene III
Max and the Rabbit
Scene III
Bucephalas, Ghost of Rabbits, dashes and darts through underbrush and dry brown California grass in a night choked with smoke and ash, chased by Max The Wonderdog. Max, protected by Malop, blessed of Fenrir, transformed by Kerberos, has only stumbled once on this run. In the midst of that stumble, he planted his face in a pile of cow manure; shaking it off, he retains no speck of the shit -- but he did ingest something small, something not tasty, something powerful. Another dog, not so protected, would be in grave danger. Max is the Wonderdog, and as he runs he begins to see things, he begins to see patterns he's never noticed before. He begins to understand and perceive things he has never even realized were there. But most of all, he sees that there are three rabbits, now.
One of the rabbits runs straight and true. He follows it.
The second rabbit runs to the left, bounding off of logs and trees as it goes. Max follows this rabbit, as well.
The third rabbit veers to the right, curving in its path and always seeking higher ground. This rabbit, too, is followed by Max The Wonderdog.
He is aware of all three rabbits, all three Wonderdogs, simultaneously. He, all three of him, thinks aloud:
Max: I will tell Mommy about this when I see her.
He pushes himself, bounding ever faster after this triple-headed rabbit, aware that the second rabbit, running to the left, has shot up a curving, winding mountain road; Max The Wonderdog follows, even as the rabbit leaps into the back of a small blue car which is slowing to a stop just before a curve in the road. Max lands in the back of the car as the driver is setting the emergency brake. The car shakes physically with his landing, as the driver opens the door and stands, looking at the road ahead.
Veronica: Whoa, Max! Are you okay? What was that, were you dreaming?
Max gives Mommy a kiss.
Veronica (cont.): Oh, thank you for those kisses.
Max: I love you.
Veronica: I love -- wait, what?!
Edward: Honey, you're right -- they're children.
Veronica: Did you hear that?! Max just said he loves me!
Edward: What?
Edward looks into the car. Max smiles, panting.
Veronica: He just spoke.
Edward looks at Max.
Edward: Max? What do you see up the road? Tell me and I will give you a biscuit.
Max licks his chops, looking from Edward to the road ahead and back. He smiles.
Veronica: I swear, he spoke.
Edward straightens, looking ahead. Rocks can be heard falling behind them and to the right. The ground shakes, a tremor. Pebbles and dust run down the embankment on the left.
Edward: That doesn't change the fact that there are two children on the road ahead.
Veronica gets out of the car, stands with the door open.
Veronica: What are they doing?
Edward: I hope they're sleeping.
Veronica: Are they wearing monster masks? They look weird.
Edward: I don't know. Grab Max, make sure his lead is on; we'll take him with us.
As Veronica does this and Max The Wonderdog goes with her, so Max The Wonderdog also chases the first rabbit North and North and ever North, smelling creatures he longs to kill, creatures intent on hurting his pack. He understands, now, that these creatures are part ancient wolf. He knows that their scent is that of a wolf corrupted. He senses Mommy -- Veronica ? -- in greater danger than when she howled -- how did she howl like that ? -- earlier. He sees the rabbit leap over a ravine and he leaps and they are both in the air for longer than he expected. He sees himself near the blue car on the left, approaching strange shapes on the side of a bend in the road ahead as the earth shakes again; he sees himself on the right, curving upward and he is aware that that place is another place and Max The Wonderdog
follows as the rabbit shoots up a hill to the right, curving onto a street and then down another street with Max on his heels. Bucephalas, Max realizes. Bucephalas, named for the horse of two famous men -- but then they are nearing the end of the street and the familiar smells tell him where they are even as the rabbit leaps into the back of a small blue car and Max follows in time to leap into the car as he is stepping out of it, lead by Mommy Veronica in his nice vest on the lead because Alpha is limping, broken in the leg and the door of the house opens and there is the silver-furred Grammie and the silver-furred Doc and their arms are open and the house is full of good smells and music and there, behind them, come the rest of the pack: the tall one with no fur on the top of his head but white fur on his jaw, and his bitch and their pack: the young humans and Mojo who watches him so closely. There, also, are Alpha's litter-mates: the sister with the light hair and the sister with the dark hair, as well as the sister's man in his boots with the markings on his arms. All of the pack are so happy, so worried about Alpha's leg, everyone is giving Max the Wonderdog so many good dog loves, and Mommy is telling about how brave he was, and Mojo is sniffing his ass and inside the house dinner is waiting before they all begin their journey. Max the Wonderdog understands that this is where they've been headed all along. He understands that this is the goal with which they left the den, and that something, somewhere, took them down the wrong path. Not all of the pack is here, Vermommyca is crying a little as she says, no, she hasn't heard from her Dad (I remember him, he was loud and angry, Max thinks), and
Mojo: You. You.
Max: Hello, Mojo. Your ass smells nice today.
Mojo: You. Take my mommy? Take my mommy?! NO. YOU CANNOT HAVE MY MOMMY!
Max: Calm down, I have my own.
Mojo: You will never have my mommy.
Max: I can't believe I used to hump you.
Mojo: You! You!
Max: Is that a kitty over there?
Mojo: Where?!
Mojo's mommy has to grab his collar to hold him back from chasing the kitty, and everyone heads inside to eat and then load the cars,
Grammie: And then let's get the hell out of Dodge, okay?!
The Pack cheers.
Max: Yay! What's Dodge?
The Pack stops cheering.
Veronica: Oh. My. God. I think Max just spoke.
Edward: Honey, I'm the one on morphine ...
Bald Littermate: I think I heard something, too. Tad? Is this one of your clever plans?
Edward: I don't work at Pixar. I don't have the technology to make dogs talk.
Boots and Tattoos: What do you people think we do in there other than draw pictures all day?
The Pack laughs.
Veronica: Maxwell. Did you talk? Can you talk?
Max the Wonderdog is smiling. He licks his chops.
Grammie: He's hungry. We're hungry. If he can talk, maybe he'll read some Walt Whitman to us while we eat. Inside, everyone!
Max the Wonderdog sees them all head into the house and he goes with them as he lands behind Bucephalas, still bounding after the rabbit as they crest a ridge and leap down toward the floor of another valley, closer and closer with every step to Vermommyca. Bucephalas calls to him as they run, and Max the Wonderdog, never tiring, answers.
Bucephalas: You will have to choose, soon, Maxwell.
Max: What must I choose?
Bucehpalas: Which path to take. Which rabbit to follow.
Max: Those other two rabbits follow paths unreachable. They connect to our path, but too far back to find now. I can only go forward. I chase you, Bucephalas.
Bucephalas: But where do you chase me? Should we attack the creatures and the evil tree lady?
Max sees them clear in his mind: surrounded by hungry little corrupted wolf-like creatures, the tree lady has giant splintery teeth in her evil puppymaker, and the oak in her cries out in anguish as she leaps after a fleeing soldier who does not smell of this time, pinning him to the ground and ripping into his belly and his testicles and tearing off his male parts to eat and eat and eat as she laughs and bites his tongue from his mouth and the little creatures pull down a fleeing nurse to bite her parts and she is screaming help me please help me someone oh god oh god no
Bucephalas: Or shall we help the travelers on the ridge?
Max sees an old man who smells of horses on the ground, reaching for a branch as three of the same wolflike creatures tear into his flesh and a woman and a man -- very familiar -- stand back to back, slaying creatures by the dozen but never slowing the onslaught
Bucephalas: Or shall we go right to Mommy?
Max sees a barn full of blood and wire and torn flesh, not the kind for eating, as Mommy is surrounded by mirrors and there is that bad man Max knocked down, but behind Mommy is a darker man, obscured in shadow behind a post, whispering, whispering, and the human bitches and bitch pups -- girls? girls -- still living watch as another is sliced thin to add to a growing pile of wet, stinking flesh that radiates hot as the sun like a ball of pain and fear, focused on by those watching their friend / sister / aunt / daughter get sliced, screaming and alive, even as the obscured whisperer makes Mommy think she is in a different place but the pain and fear are growing stronger, stronger, burning white-hot
Bucephalas: Choose, Maxwell. Your road forks here.
Two rabbits split off again from Bucephalas, one bounding up toward a ridge, high on the left, toward the three warriors surrounded by creatures; the second rabbit bounds down to the right toward a trail leading into an open, firebound field (trees growing rapidly turn this to forest if they can survive the fire, he senses) toward the oaken monstrosity and her trail of wounded, dying, unmanned men, and toward the lone soldier fighting toward her, the flames at his back; the third rabbit is Bucephalas himself, springing up the slope of the hill ahead of them toward the dairy barn on the other side where Mommy (stronger than she knows) is trapped and crying, unable to break free of the web in which she is caught, a warm bite of brains halfway to her mouth.
Max: I choose the best choice. The only choice. And the wisest choice. I choose --
Scene III
Bucephalas, Ghost of Rabbits, dashes and darts through underbrush and dry brown California grass in a night choked with smoke and ash, chased by Max The Wonderdog. Max, protected by Malop, blessed of Fenrir, transformed by Kerberos, has only stumbled once on this run. In the midst of that stumble, he planted his face in a pile of cow manure; shaking it off, he retains no speck of the shit -- but he did ingest something small, something not tasty, something powerful. Another dog, not so protected, would be in grave danger. Max is the Wonderdog, and as he runs he begins to see things, he begins to see patterns he's never noticed before. He begins to understand and perceive things he has never even realized were there. But most of all, he sees that there are three rabbits, now.
One of the rabbits runs straight and true. He follows it.
The second rabbit runs to the left, bounding off of logs and trees as it goes. Max follows this rabbit, as well.
The third rabbit veers to the right, curving in its path and always seeking higher ground. This rabbit, too, is followed by Max The Wonderdog.
He is aware of all three rabbits, all three Wonderdogs, simultaneously. He, all three of him, thinks aloud:
Max: I will tell Mommy about this when I see her.
He pushes himself, bounding ever faster after this triple-headed rabbit, aware that the second rabbit, running to the left, has shot up a curving, winding mountain road; Max The Wonderdog follows, even as the rabbit leaps into the back of a small blue car which is slowing to a stop just before a curve in the road. Max lands in the back of the car as the driver is setting the emergency brake. The car shakes physically with his landing, as the driver opens the door and stands, looking at the road ahead.
Veronica: Whoa, Max! Are you okay? What was that, were you dreaming?
Max gives Mommy a kiss.
Veronica (cont.): Oh, thank you for those kisses.
Max: I love you.
Veronica: I love -- wait, what?!
Edward: Honey, you're right -- they're children.
Veronica: Did you hear that?! Max just said he loves me!
Edward: What?
Edward looks into the car. Max smiles, panting.
Veronica: He just spoke.
Edward looks at Max.
Edward: Max? What do you see up the road? Tell me and I will give you a biscuit.
Max licks his chops, looking from Edward to the road ahead and back. He smiles.
Veronica: I swear, he spoke.
Edward straightens, looking ahead. Rocks can be heard falling behind them and to the right. The ground shakes, a tremor. Pebbles and dust run down the embankment on the left.
Edward: That doesn't change the fact that there are two children on the road ahead.
Veronica gets out of the car, stands with the door open.
Veronica: What are they doing?
Edward: I hope they're sleeping.
Veronica: Are they wearing monster masks? They look weird.
Edward: I don't know. Grab Max, make sure his lead is on; we'll take him with us.
As Veronica does this and Max The Wonderdog goes with her, so Max The Wonderdog also chases the first rabbit North and North and ever North, smelling creatures he longs to kill, creatures intent on hurting his pack. He understands, now, that these creatures are part ancient wolf. He knows that their scent is that of a wolf corrupted. He senses Mommy -- Veronica ? -- in greater danger than when she howled -- how did she howl like that ? -- earlier. He sees the rabbit leap over a ravine and he leaps and they are both in the air for longer than he expected. He sees himself near the blue car on the left, approaching strange shapes on the side of a bend in the road ahead as the earth shakes again; he sees himself on the right, curving upward and he is aware that that place is another place and Max The Wonderdog
follows as the rabbit shoots up a hill to the right, curving onto a street and then down another street with Max on his heels. Bucephalas, Max realizes. Bucephalas, named for the horse of two famous men -- but then they are nearing the end of the street and the familiar smells tell him where they are even as the rabbit leaps into the back of a small blue car and Max follows in time to leap into the car as he is stepping out of it, lead by Mommy Veronica in his nice vest on the lead because Alpha is limping, broken in the leg and the door of the house opens and there is the silver-furred Grammie and the silver-furred Doc and their arms are open and the house is full of good smells and music and there, behind them, come the rest of the pack: the tall one with no fur on the top of his head but white fur on his jaw, and his bitch and their pack: the young humans and Mojo who watches him so closely. There, also, are Alpha's litter-mates: the sister with the light hair and the sister with the dark hair, as well as the sister's man in his boots with the markings on his arms. All of the pack are so happy, so worried about Alpha's leg, everyone is giving Max the Wonderdog so many good dog loves, and Mommy is telling about how brave he was, and Mojo is sniffing his ass and inside the house dinner is waiting before they all begin their journey. Max the Wonderdog understands that this is where they've been headed all along. He understands that this is the goal with which they left the den, and that something, somewhere, took them down the wrong path. Not all of the pack is here, Vermommyca is crying a little as she says, no, she hasn't heard from her Dad (I remember him, he was loud and angry, Max thinks), and
Mojo: You. You.
Max: Hello, Mojo. Your ass smells nice today.
Mojo: You. Take my mommy? Take my mommy?! NO. YOU CANNOT HAVE MY MOMMY!
Max: Calm down, I have my own.
Mojo: You will never have my mommy.
Max: I can't believe I used to hump you.
Mojo: You! You!
Max: Is that a kitty over there?
Mojo: Where?!
Mojo's mommy has to grab his collar to hold him back from chasing the kitty, and everyone heads inside to eat and then load the cars,
Grammie: And then let's get the hell out of Dodge, okay?!
The Pack cheers.
Max: Yay! What's Dodge?
The Pack stops cheering.
Veronica: Oh. My. God. I think Max just spoke.
Edward: Honey, I'm the one on morphine ...
Bald Littermate: I think I heard something, too. Tad? Is this one of your clever plans?
Edward: I don't work at Pixar. I don't have the technology to make dogs talk.
Boots and Tattoos: What do you people think we do in there other than draw pictures all day?
The Pack laughs.
Veronica: Maxwell. Did you talk? Can you talk?
Max the Wonderdog is smiling. He licks his chops.
Grammie: He's hungry. We're hungry. If he can talk, maybe he'll read some Walt Whitman to us while we eat. Inside, everyone!
Max the Wonderdog sees them all head into the house and he goes with them as he lands behind Bucephalas, still bounding after the rabbit as they crest a ridge and leap down toward the floor of another valley, closer and closer with every step to Vermommyca. Bucephalas calls to him as they run, and Max the Wonderdog, never tiring, answers.
Bucephalas: You will have to choose, soon, Maxwell.
Max: What must I choose?
Bucehpalas: Which path to take. Which rabbit to follow.
Max: Those other two rabbits follow paths unreachable. They connect to our path, but too far back to find now. I can only go forward. I chase you, Bucephalas.
Bucephalas: But where do you chase me? Should we attack the creatures and the evil tree lady?
Max sees them clear in his mind: surrounded by hungry little corrupted wolf-like creatures, the tree lady has giant splintery teeth in her evil puppymaker, and the oak in her cries out in anguish as she leaps after a fleeing soldier who does not smell of this time, pinning him to the ground and ripping into his belly and his testicles and tearing off his male parts to eat and eat and eat as she laughs and bites his tongue from his mouth and the little creatures pull down a fleeing nurse to bite her parts and she is screaming help me please help me someone oh god oh god no
Bucephalas: Or shall we help the travelers on the ridge?
Max sees an old man who smells of horses on the ground, reaching for a branch as three of the same wolflike creatures tear into his flesh and a woman and a man -- very familiar -- stand back to back, slaying creatures by the dozen but never slowing the onslaught
Bucephalas: Or shall we go right to Mommy?
Max sees a barn full of blood and wire and torn flesh, not the kind for eating, as Mommy is surrounded by mirrors and there is that bad man Max knocked down, but behind Mommy is a darker man, obscured in shadow behind a post, whispering, whispering, and the human bitches and bitch pups -- girls? girls -- still living watch as another is sliced thin to add to a growing pile of wet, stinking flesh that radiates hot as the sun like a ball of pain and fear, focused on by those watching their friend / sister / aunt / daughter get sliced, screaming and alive, even as the obscured whisperer makes Mommy think she is in a different place but the pain and fear are growing stronger, stronger, burning white-hot
Bucephalas: Choose, Maxwell. Your road forks here.
Two rabbits split off again from Bucephalas, one bounding up toward a ridge, high on the left, toward the three warriors surrounded by creatures; the second rabbit bounds down to the right toward a trail leading into an open, firebound field (trees growing rapidly turn this to forest if they can survive the fire, he senses) toward the oaken monstrosity and her trail of wounded, dying, unmanned men, and toward the lone soldier fighting toward her, the flames at his back; the third rabbit is Bucephalas himself, springing up the slope of the hill ahead of them toward the dairy barn on the other side where Mommy (stronger than she knows) is trapped and crying, unable to break free of the web in which she is caught, a warm bite of brains halfway to her mouth.
Max: I choose the best choice. The only choice. And the wisest choice. I choose --
Wednesday, October 9, 2013
NFTF: Brother Ambrose in the Chapel of Meditation
Brother Ambrose sits in the Meditation Chapel, a blank sketchbook on the table before him, a stack of similar sketchbooks on a small table to his right. Smoke trails up from within three censers placed in a triangle, outside of which he sits: one with a blend of cinnamon, sage and rosemary; another with cloves, star anise and bay; the third with frankincense and myrrh. To his left, within view, Father Michael sits hunkered forward, watching. On the right, equidistant, sits Brother Domenico. The three of them and the three censers form a very distinct shape: it could be a Star of David, it could be the Square and Compass, it could be many things. Brother Ambrose is very aware of the specificity with which Father Michael and Brother Domenico arranged their seating, the censers, and the circles of herbs and minerals which surround them now.
This was the last thing he expected when confessing his recent nocturnal exploits to Father Michael. Admittedly, their monastic retirement home did seem to be more eclectic that he had initially expected, but Brother Ambrose had spent his time here focused on deeper, more important issues than what everyone else was doing or where they had been before they were here. Or why they were here at all. Now, as he begins to allow the random detritus of his unconscious to bubble up and distract him, accepting and examining every peculiar gift and setting it aside, he realizes for the first time that many of his brothers here are much younger than he. How he never noticed this before, he does not know. It's so surprising that he almost speaks aloud.
Instead, he controls himself. Accepting that he won't know the answer to this until later, he sets the question aside and waits for the next distraction. And the next. And the next. Allowing his mind to wander rather than forcing it down a prescribed path, he is thus able to let go.
The first nibble, like the tug of a tentative trout, pulls him to the labyrinth. Not a maze. No. A classical labyrinth. Its gateway ever changing, the labyrinth holds questions and answers in equal supply. A wave of exhaustion washes over him. He endures it, allowing his mind to throw up whatever complications it wishes. The pull of the labyrinth is always stronger. Sometimes the gate is hard to recognize, but it always draws him in when he needs it.
Once, it was a book.
Another time, it was a bell.
It has never been a candle.
Brother Ambrose follows the smoke from the censers up with his eyes, letting them unfocus, letting the smoke draw him in, letting pictures form in his mind, letting shapes array themselves from within the smoke. It forms into a Celtic braid, flowing up out of the top of the Meditation Chapel to blend with the other smoke, the smoke from the fires and from the burning mountain. A part of himself goes with the smoke.
A part of him remains.
The smoke spreads out in its braids, forming smoky ribbons in the air. Within those ribbons, letters form from ancient alphabets: Cyrillic mixed with Aramaic, Greek and Ogham flowing together with ancient Etruscan, Hebrew, and older, more primitive symbols with which he is unfamiliar. Ribbons of letters flowing now in two directions: horizontally from right to left, vertically from top to bottom, the ribbons have formed a globe in the air and he lets it sink into him, he lets the shapes and forms open new thoughts in his mind, letting his soul wander among the smoke-filled night as this antediluvian ticker-tape begins to flow more freely through his mind, some letters repeating now and again until, at last, he has one word in mind and it repeats and repeats and repeats until he feels it bubble up from within and he speaks it aloud:
"Mana," gasping, Brother Ambrose sets down the pen.
The nine candles that had been lit by Father Michael and Brother Domenico are still burning, but have burned down deep into themselves. It is late at night. Brother Ambrose is shocked to see Father Michael so pale; Brother Domenico is trembling.
"What is it?" he asks. His voice is deep, heavy, as though he has slept.
"See for yourself," Father Michael says, indicating the table before Brother Ambrose.
Looking down, he sees the table covered with the sketchbooks. Each and every one is open, scattered, intact but splayed as if thrown in haste. Brother Ambrose picks one up, opens it, and sees that every page is covered -- both sides -- with the handwriting he has come to associate with a specific voice in his recent nocturnal scribblings.
"It's him," he says. "It's Torvald Mayberry. I think I understand, now."
"Let's not jump to any conclusions. Pick the book you are drawn to, follow your first impulse. We will go with that," though his face is pale, Father Michael's voice is calm, his eyes clear. Brother Domenico says nothing.
Brother Ambrose lets his hand follow the pull he felt the moment he opened his eyes. Taking the sketchbook in hand, he opens it and reads aloud,
"October 9, 1956.
We had a guest lecturer today. Dr. Isaac Bonewits, the only person to have ever obtained a degree in Magic (Cal Berkeley, 1970 -- am I in the right school, a question for later). He made a lot of jokes about Sophomores. Kept telling us that there was a riddle right in front of us, laughed a lot when nobody understood. I still don't understand. Seemed like a pretty arrogant fellow.
Interesting concept, though: he spoke of a Mana Tap. If one can raise Mana, if one can tap into it, one can achieve just about anything. According to Bonewits, all it takes is the right knowledge, the correct preparation, and then tapping into a source of Mana powerful enough to affect the result one seeks. From my notes:
'Some might even say that with the right amount of Mana and the proper direction of the mind though sigils and whatever else is needed, one could achieve the impossible.
Q. from Louise: Like what?
Bonewits: At the risk of seeming rude, let me answer your question with a question. Is that alright with you?
L: Yes.
B: What do you think is impossible?
L: ... What do you mean?
B: Let me open it to the room, so you're not put on the spot. Anyone? Tell me what's impossible! Go on, shout it out!
Various answers [the ones I noted, along with some I remember]:
Flying!
Interplanetary travel!
Zombies!
Getting Ike out of the White House! ( ! )
Raising the dead!
Healing the blind!
Enchanting a broomstick!
Permanent penis enlargement!
[Everyone laughed at that last one, from D.
Prof. Bonewits was very amused. Then he spoke again.]
B: I am here to tell you that every single thing you have all just mentioned, and possibly more, is achievable -- given the right timing, the right mental or emotional conditioning -- sigils, runes, whatever is powerful to you -- and a deep enough, accessible well of Mana.
[Louise raised her hand.]
L: What is Mana, and how would one ... what was the word?
B: Tap. How would one tap it? Is that your question?
L: Yes. Thank you.
B: My pleasure, Louise.
[gasps from the class -- no introductions had been made; still mysterious, despite his reasonable explanation]
L: How did you --
B: Ah, the simple magic of verbal communication. Professor Hemphill described you all to me and I memorized what she said, then listened to you all chattering as you came in. You are Louise, that's Daniel, there's Torvald ... [he went around the room naming us all, completely correct] But that's not the interesting part. The interesting part is that, because I have your focus on this spot and you're amazed, I can do this:
[HE STEPPED INTO THE AIR, LIKE HE WAS STEPPING ONTO A STEP STOOL, ONLY AN INVISIBLE STEP STOOL! I have to get my head around this. It was all anyone could talk about at dinner. As everyone gasped and stood in amazement and the excitement level grew, Prof. B raised in the air, like an excitement -- or emotional, at any rate -- thermometer. The more amazed we became, the higher he rose, until his head was pressed sideways against the ceiling and he said,]
B: Okay, everyone! Stop looking at me! I need you all to sit down and stare at the floor where I was, or you're going to slam me through the ceiling! Thank you, Louise, that means you, too -- stare at the floor and breathe calmly, my Chiropractor is back in California and if you keep thinking I'm a demi-God, it won't help me to nap on my return flight. So ... ah ... yes ....
[He settled back to the floor, there was a flood of questions.]
My question for him: is this what Christ did?
His answer: Oh, indubitably. And according to what we're studying from Nag Hammadi, Christ said anyone can do this. The point that is most important is this: Mana can be raised from many sources, from positive excitement like you all just generated, to sexual -- oh, is that shocking, ladies? Well, it's true: sexual excitement and specifically orgasm is a major source of Mana -- but so is fear, so is pain, so is anguish and so is torment. All intense human experiences, be they positive or negative, generate Mana. All Mana can be used for acts of great good or darkest evil, o Students of Divinity, but the soil in which the root is planted will affect the nature of the fruit. Do you understand? And knowing what you know about the history of the Catholic Church, what do you think was feeding off of the anguish of those innocent women burned at the stake during all the witch trials and various Inquisitions? But yes, Torvald, anyone can do this. That was what Christ was trying to tell us.
Anyone! That's incredible. Did he learn all of this at Cal? I haven't been this excited in a long time! Am I in the wrong major?!
I can't be the only one wondering about this. Heading down to the Grand Rumpus, Charlie is chairing tonight's debate, and it's almost Witching Hour (an idea I take more seriously, now, I realize).
Until then,
TWM
Arkham Conservatory
Class of 1959"
After he finishes reading, he looks up and sees Brother Domenico sitting with his face in his hands, Father Michael standing next to his chair, gripping the back of the chair so tightly his knuckles are white.
"What is it?" Brother Ambrose asks. Bonewits' riddle is nagging at him.
"I know what Mayberry is up to," whispers Father Michael. "Johannes and Oswald may be too late to stop him -- or to save any of those people."
"What is he doing?" Brother Ambrose doesn't want to know. Doesn't want to get involved. But he can't help himself.
Father Michael closes his eyes, silent for a moment before he speaks. When he does, it's barely audible, yet his words echo in the Meditation Chapel:
"Time travel. And I think I know where he's headed."
This was the last thing he expected when confessing his recent nocturnal exploits to Father Michael. Admittedly, their monastic retirement home did seem to be more eclectic that he had initially expected, but Brother Ambrose had spent his time here focused on deeper, more important issues than what everyone else was doing or where they had been before they were here. Or why they were here at all. Now, as he begins to allow the random detritus of his unconscious to bubble up and distract him, accepting and examining every peculiar gift and setting it aside, he realizes for the first time that many of his brothers here are much younger than he. How he never noticed this before, he does not know. It's so surprising that he almost speaks aloud.
Instead, he controls himself. Accepting that he won't know the answer to this until later, he sets the question aside and waits for the next distraction. And the next. And the next. Allowing his mind to wander rather than forcing it down a prescribed path, he is thus able to let go.
The first nibble, like the tug of a tentative trout, pulls him to the labyrinth. Not a maze. No. A classical labyrinth. Its gateway ever changing, the labyrinth holds questions and answers in equal supply. A wave of exhaustion washes over him. He endures it, allowing his mind to throw up whatever complications it wishes. The pull of the labyrinth is always stronger. Sometimes the gate is hard to recognize, but it always draws him in when he needs it.
Once, it was a book.
Another time, it was a bell.
It has never been a candle.
Brother Ambrose follows the smoke from the censers up with his eyes, letting them unfocus, letting the smoke draw him in, letting pictures form in his mind, letting shapes array themselves from within the smoke. It forms into a Celtic braid, flowing up out of the top of the Meditation Chapel to blend with the other smoke, the smoke from the fires and from the burning mountain. A part of himself goes with the smoke.
A part of him remains.
The smoke spreads out in its braids, forming smoky ribbons in the air. Within those ribbons, letters form from ancient alphabets: Cyrillic mixed with Aramaic, Greek and Ogham flowing together with ancient Etruscan, Hebrew, and older, more primitive symbols with which he is unfamiliar. Ribbons of letters flowing now in two directions: horizontally from right to left, vertically from top to bottom, the ribbons have formed a globe in the air and he lets it sink into him, he lets the shapes and forms open new thoughts in his mind, letting his soul wander among the smoke-filled night as this antediluvian ticker-tape begins to flow more freely through his mind, some letters repeating now and again until, at last, he has one word in mind and it repeats and repeats and repeats until he feels it bubble up from within and he speaks it aloud:
"Mana," gasping, Brother Ambrose sets down the pen.
The nine candles that had been lit by Father Michael and Brother Domenico are still burning, but have burned down deep into themselves. It is late at night. Brother Ambrose is shocked to see Father Michael so pale; Brother Domenico is trembling.
"What is it?" he asks. His voice is deep, heavy, as though he has slept.
"See for yourself," Father Michael says, indicating the table before Brother Ambrose.
Looking down, he sees the table covered with the sketchbooks. Each and every one is open, scattered, intact but splayed as if thrown in haste. Brother Ambrose picks one up, opens it, and sees that every page is covered -- both sides -- with the handwriting he has come to associate with a specific voice in his recent nocturnal scribblings.
"It's him," he says. "It's Torvald Mayberry. I think I understand, now."
"Let's not jump to any conclusions. Pick the book you are drawn to, follow your first impulse. We will go with that," though his face is pale, Father Michael's voice is calm, his eyes clear. Brother Domenico says nothing.
Brother Ambrose lets his hand follow the pull he felt the moment he opened his eyes. Taking the sketchbook in hand, he opens it and reads aloud,
"October 9, 1956.
We had a guest lecturer today. Dr. Isaac Bonewits, the only person to have ever obtained a degree in Magic (Cal Berkeley, 1970 -- am I in the right school, a question for later). He made a lot of jokes about Sophomores. Kept telling us that there was a riddle right in front of us, laughed a lot when nobody understood. I still don't understand. Seemed like a pretty arrogant fellow.
Interesting concept, though: he spoke of a Mana Tap. If one can raise Mana, if one can tap into it, one can achieve just about anything. According to Bonewits, all it takes is the right knowledge, the correct preparation, and then tapping into a source of Mana powerful enough to affect the result one seeks. From my notes:
'Some might even say that with the right amount of Mana and the proper direction of the mind though sigils and whatever else is needed, one could achieve the impossible.
Q. from Louise: Like what?
Bonewits: At the risk of seeming rude, let me answer your question with a question. Is that alright with you?
L: Yes.
B: What do you think is impossible?
L: ... What do you mean?
B: Let me open it to the room, so you're not put on the spot. Anyone? Tell me what's impossible! Go on, shout it out!
Various answers [the ones I noted, along with some I remember]:
Flying!
Interplanetary travel!
Zombies!
Getting Ike out of the White House! ( ! )
Raising the dead!
Healing the blind!
Enchanting a broomstick!
Permanent penis enlargement!
[Everyone laughed at that last one, from D.
Prof. Bonewits was very amused. Then he spoke again.]
B: I am here to tell you that every single thing you have all just mentioned, and possibly more, is achievable -- given the right timing, the right mental or emotional conditioning -- sigils, runes, whatever is powerful to you -- and a deep enough, accessible well of Mana.
[Louise raised her hand.]
L: What is Mana, and how would one ... what was the word?
B: Tap. How would one tap it? Is that your question?
L: Yes. Thank you.
B: My pleasure, Louise.
[gasps from the class -- no introductions had been made; still mysterious, despite his reasonable explanation]
L: How did you --
B: Ah, the simple magic of verbal communication. Professor Hemphill described you all to me and I memorized what she said, then listened to you all chattering as you came in. You are Louise, that's Daniel, there's Torvald ... [he went around the room naming us all, completely correct] But that's not the interesting part. The interesting part is that, because I have your focus on this spot and you're amazed, I can do this:
[HE STEPPED INTO THE AIR, LIKE HE WAS STEPPING ONTO A STEP STOOL, ONLY AN INVISIBLE STEP STOOL! I have to get my head around this. It was all anyone could talk about at dinner. As everyone gasped and stood in amazement and the excitement level grew, Prof. B raised in the air, like an excitement -- or emotional, at any rate -- thermometer. The more amazed we became, the higher he rose, until his head was pressed sideways against the ceiling and he said,]
B: Okay, everyone! Stop looking at me! I need you all to sit down and stare at the floor where I was, or you're going to slam me through the ceiling! Thank you, Louise, that means you, too -- stare at the floor and breathe calmly, my Chiropractor is back in California and if you keep thinking I'm a demi-God, it won't help me to nap on my return flight. So ... ah ... yes ....
[He settled back to the floor, there was a flood of questions.]
My question for him: is this what Christ did?
His answer: Oh, indubitably. And according to what we're studying from Nag Hammadi, Christ said anyone can do this. The point that is most important is this: Mana can be raised from many sources, from positive excitement like you all just generated, to sexual -- oh, is that shocking, ladies? Well, it's true: sexual excitement and specifically orgasm is a major source of Mana -- but so is fear, so is pain, so is anguish and so is torment. All intense human experiences, be they positive or negative, generate Mana. All Mana can be used for acts of great good or darkest evil, o Students of Divinity, but the soil in which the root is planted will affect the nature of the fruit. Do you understand? And knowing what you know about the history of the Catholic Church, what do you think was feeding off of the anguish of those innocent women burned at the stake during all the witch trials and various Inquisitions? But yes, Torvald, anyone can do this. That was what Christ was trying to tell us.
Anyone! That's incredible. Did he learn all of this at Cal? I haven't been this excited in a long time! Am I in the wrong major?!
I can't be the only one wondering about this. Heading down to the Grand Rumpus, Charlie is chairing tonight's debate, and it's almost Witching Hour (an idea I take more seriously, now, I realize).
Until then,
TWM
Arkham Conservatory
Class of 1959"
After he finishes reading, he looks up and sees Brother Domenico sitting with his face in his hands, Father Michael standing next to his chair, gripping the back of the chair so tightly his knuckles are white.
"What is it?" Brother Ambrose asks. Bonewits' riddle is nagging at him.
"I know what Mayberry is up to," whispers Father Michael. "Johannes and Oswald may be too late to stop him -- or to save any of those people."
"What is he doing?" Brother Ambrose doesn't want to know. Doesn't want to get involved. But he can't help himself.
Father Michael closes his eyes, silent for a moment before he speaks. When he does, it's barely audible, yet his words echo in the Meditation Chapel:
"Time travel. And I think I know where he's headed."
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