He'd caught it at a strange angle, and the box had broken
open, much of its contents spilling over him. The word she'd shouted,
one word so colored in his mind by that Halloween, that he had allowed
himself to live a life devoid of it for the last fifty years.
"Salt," he says now. "Salt will kill 'em dead."
"Salt!" the wife shouts. "See? I fucking told you we should bring the rock salt!" Unleashing another arrow, she cores the largest creature's head and all those around it leap and devour before it's finished dying. Each creature that eats the largest one begins to grow larger than those around it. All of this in about three seconds, followed by more shots from both man and wife.
"As it happens," Talmadge begins, turning to head toward Beulah, but he never gets any farther in that sentence: a group of creatures is approaching the horses from behind a stand of trees to the East. He gives a shout and runs toward them and, as the woman and man behind him kill more of these things, he heads to his right and fires off a shot at the creatures closest to the horses. The first two creatures are down and the rest fall on them, devouring, giving the rancher enough time to reach Beulah.
In her saddlebags he keeps something special, in case he ever needs to run off an interloper or two. He grabs the sack and sprints back to the man and his wife, marveling for a moment at how the creaks and groans of his ramshackle old body could disappear in excitement. He decides to stick around these two as long as he can as he tosses the sack to the man. "See if this helps at all!" he shouts, then runs back to the horses, rounding them in time to see a creature launch itself at the fourth horse's left foreleg. The horse screams, trying to rear, snapping the dead branch it's tied to from the tree. The branch, wrapped in the horse's reins, swings wildly toward Talmadge just as he is ducking in toward the creature whose mouth is tearing flesh from the horse's leg. He sees it coming, raising the butt of his rifle to crush the skull of the little terror and hoping that his timing is just right.
The branch catches him in the side of the head, tearing into the left side of his face and his left eye. He feels the dry, jagged twigs jammed into his eye socket and pulling out with the force of the horse's panicked rearing. Clutching his left bicep up over his eye, he cries out as the last of the twigs tears through his eyelid and is trapped between his arm and the exposed, tender flesh. Lashing out in rage and pain, he swings the butt of his rifle toward where he last saw the creature, his grip on the rifle not so strong as it should be: it connects but doesn't kill the thing, and the rifle flies from his grasp, skidding across the earth to a spot about twenty feet behind the horses. As he lurches toward it, removing his left arm from its protective place over his bleeding eye socket, a creature lands on his back, digging its jagged claws into his right side and left chest as its teeth tear into the back of his neck. The pain is excruciating. He forgets about his eye, spins on the spot and falls heavily onto the little monster, thinking to crush it with his weight. Dimly, he hears the woman cry out and he is aware of a set of hooves galloping past his head too close for safety and just far enough away that he is still alive and can feel the creature struggling, still alive as well, beneath him.
Just as he realizes what it's doing -- "Are you humping me, you little bastard?!" -- three more creatures launch themselves at him: one on his right leg, one aiming for his soft belly, the third with jaws thrown wide and black tongue lolling as it dives in to eat his face. For a moment, everything slows down and he sees:
Husband and wife, back to back, surrounded by an increasing number of creatures whose size has risen to about five and a half feet tall; the pair are turning, firing, the woman having switched from arrows to a pair of Glocks, from the look of things. The man is firing his shotgun with calm precision. These two move like they're dancing, seeming to know when the other needs to reload, reaching behind to give what's needed, turning to shoot what's attacking. He sees this and he is filled with loneliness: this is the kind of woman he should have married, instead of a bitter school marm librarian; he is also filled with pride: he knows he is going to die, and he has died fighting with two actual warriors. He knows a kind of love in that moment, and he wonders for the fist time in years if his children miss him at all.
He sees also that three of the horses are gone; branches broken from the tree tell him there's a chance they escaped. But there's Beulah, rearing up, coming down to crush a creature near the wife, then kicking three of them behind her. Good old Beulah.
The last thing he sees before the creature's jaws close on his face is a sturdy chunk of broken branch. It's just out of reach and he finds himself stretching toward it in this long billionth of a second, stretching his right hand out as he brings his left elbow up toward the throat of the creature attacking his face.
If he can only reach it in time ...
Showing posts with label #Edward. Show all posts
Showing posts with label #Edward. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
Monday, October 7, 2013
NFTF: The Dairy, Part II
"My pleasure, Dr.
Reinblatt. Victoria? Come with us, and we'll get you all fixed up for
tonight's presentation. Ah, there's a smile. Just as the Lord foretold.
So saith the Doctor."
whispers
so saith the lord
wet slicing
laughter muffled screams
We move toward a door and a lady in too much polyester steps out of an office and I glance in: it's me standing there, in the office, unmoving, staring at something right in front of me. All I can see are ropes cutting into the flesh of ankles, legs pulled wide apart. I gasp and Dr. Mayberry says,
"It's not real, right, Victoria?"
"It's not real," I repeat, looking away. The door shuts and I hear something wet splatter against it
I am blinking hot wet out of my eyes, it stings
Dr. Mayberry stops at a door with a name plate on it: Dr. Torvald W. Mayberry. He is carrying two plates of strawberry Jell-O. He smiles at me, nodding at the door handle.
"Victoria, would you mind? My hands are full," he's very nice.
breathing in ragged gasping sobs, someone begs for them to stop stop stop stop
I hesitate to touch the door handle, fearing the scene beyond it, the barn, the blood and screaming.
"Okay, I'm sorry, lemme just put these down --" he begins, but I reach out and open the door -- I have to know what's beyond --
I gasp, stepping back: rough paneled walls, old framed photographs inside --
the sound of children crying, muffled
-- and a comfortable chair in front of a lovely old desk.
"Thank you, Victoria. Ladies first," he gestures with his Jell-O plates; I look at the Jell-O a second time, at its quivering. Was it always in individual molds? I thought it was in cubes when he arrived. I look at Dr. Mayberry.
"I made these special for you and I, Victoria," he is young and cute and kind. I still have problems looking at his eyes. "Do you want me to go first again, to show it's safe?"
"No, I --"
not safe not safe, slicing screams I know it's not safe
"I ... ladies first," I finish, stepping in to his office. He's even had barn rafters put in. I'm looking at them as he closes the door with his foot, then sets the Jell-O down on his desk. There is a fresh cup of coffee steaming on his side of the desk. Oh, how I crave a cup of coffee
with a grain of salt a spoon of salt a fucking salt lick to penetrate this obscurity
"I'm an old country boy at heart," he says, following my gaze. "Grew up on a ranch here in the valley. Went to school back East, in Massachusetts," he nods his head up to the right toward a wall covered in diplomas, plaques, credentials. "But my heart has always been here, right here, in San Ramon." He busies himself, arranging some papers, opening my file
file file file their fingernails down to be bone, fingernails melt better when powdered
and selecting a few pens. I focus on the wall of credentials. There's a large, beautiful window right behind him, I think I should ask him about it --
"Will you tell me about your window?" I blurt.
"Sure! Yes, I remember, you've asked about it before. It's from my grandparents' farmhouse. They had this one, beautiful window. Well, many, actually -- but this one was my favorite because I could see the sunrise every day over the East side of the valley. So I had it installed here, hoping to shed bright light into the darker corners of my patients' lives ..."
As he's been talking, I've nodded and let my eyes wander the room, focusing mostly on the ego wall. Something about it is off, disconnected. I squint, but I still can't see what it is. And, not wanting to arouse suspicion, I look up at the rafters. There's a stuffed owl up there. I say,
"Whoa," involuntarily.
"My Grandfather's owl. He raised it from the egg, found the nest when he was hiking after a wildfire. The eggs were protected in the tree, but nearby were the owl parents, they'd ... not survived. Anyway, he took the eggs and built an incubator and they hatched. He learned to feed them, he set them free, but this one just stuck around. Imprinted so strongly that he never left. Grampa called him Archie, from Archimedes, Merlin's owl ..."
I've been trying to see his diplomas clearly, but it's like they're blurred out. I look for other details on the wall near them, and can clearly see knots in the wood, a crack that looks like a witch's hand
grasping screaming help me I am not a witch
and as I'm staring at that crack, I see the diploma next to it begin to resolve, swimming into focus. I shift my eyes and it's blurred. I look elsewhere again, not wanting him to know where I'm looking and see what I'm thinking.
"Tad loved -- loves -- I know, he ... he doesn't exist. I know. I'm sorry," I look at the floor, realizing I've said too much.
"Victoria," his voice is so kind. "I understand that it's hard to let go. Maybe if we talk about him, we can find what it is that anchors you to the idea that he was ever there at all. Okay?"
I nod, smiling a little. I'm not sure I can talk about Tad right now without crying. I'll try, though.
"Tell me where you two met," he says, leaning back in his chair a little. He's going to listen to me. I let my eyes wander as I speak. He sips his coffee.
"We met in a musical," I begin. "Reinblatt's Der Verdunkeln Meister --"
Coffee explodes from his mouth and nose in a fit of coughing. I had just let my eyes focus on the witch's hand crack in his ego wall. He hadn't even noticed. But now he's gasping, coughing, mopping the spray of coffee from my file and his desk. No computer monitor on his desk, it's very clean and very clear. Like a little like that poster of John Muir's desk -- no! Theodore Solomons! What was I thinking? Wow.
"I'm sorry," he's saying. "What was the name of that musical?"
I pause. I can't remember. It's just ... gone.
"I -- I think -- it's ... it must have been something else. I can't remember the name, but it was German. A very rare, dark comic operetta with a much more contemporary musical theatre sensibility to it than anything else written in the 1890's ... wow, how come I can't remember its name?"
He is staring at me, eyes narrowed a little. I realize I may have tripped myself up. How? How did I stumble? I've got to stay focused. I force myself to look directly into his eyes:
"Self-medication with marijuana has its drawbacks," I say, and he smiles. His eyes crinkle at the corners, their blue-with-brown-flecks all but disappearing. Even the silver at his temples is the same. I want to call out, to ask him why he's faking like this, why he's pretending, just say his name --
"Tad --" I freeze, I shouldn't have said his name.
"Yes? ... Victoria? Go ahead, talk about him," he smiles, encouraging. It's driving me insane to have Tad sitting there in his white doctor's coat, looking like he should be shooting an episode of ForScience!, only without the goggles.
" -- was always talking about musicals. Tad was. We met in a production of ... " I pause, panicked slightly. What should I say? Then out of nowhere, "The Best Little Whore -- house in Texas," I finish, but why did I emphasize 'whore'? Did his eyes widen when I did that? Why? I feel like a puppet.
"You talk a lot about theatre, Victoria, but always in reference to "Tad." Did you know that? Had you noticed this tendency?"
I hadn't, actually, not in any significant way. I mean, it's what he does -- did -- it's what I associate with him. Maybe I can get the doctor talking, get him to go on for a while. I say:
"I ... no. I didn't. What do you think that means, Dr. Mayberry? I mean, what do you think it really, really means -- at its core?"
He blinks. Sips his coffee.
"Well --" he begins. "It seems to me that you have a deep seated need to act out, to embody your fantasies so completely that they become real to you. Your commitment to these fictionalized accounts of your life is truly remarkable. I wonder sometimes what would happen if you were to focus that same dedication on actual professional theatre work, Victoria. You know, there's a story about Sigmund Freud and a production of Hamlet ..."
I let him talk, nodding every so often. My eyes are unfocused, aimed at that witch hand crack near his diplomas. I listen to his words, just letting the images settle in to focus. I can blink, I remind myself. I just can't shift my eyes to the right. Any attempt to look at them directly leads to the blurring. I can still hear his words, and I make the occasional validating, "Mm-hmm," or, "Oooh, yes," wherever appropriate.
"... but there is no reason why you shouldn't consider that a success, even if it's just a small one ..."
The crack that looks like a witch's hand seems to twitch. I blink, breathing, focusing on calm intent. The diploma is starting to swim into focus. I can see the first word. Ark ... ham. I glance a little to the left, resting my eyes slightly, making a, "Hm?" noise when Dr. Mayberry seems to be asking me a question.
"I said, are you going to eat any of your strawberry Jell-O, Victoria?" He is smiling, gesturing at the neatly molded red gelatin gleaming in the morning light that streams through his grandparents' window.
"Oh, yes! Of course --" I pick up the plate and the plastic spoon. I smile at him and feel some of the still-warm blood slosh off the plate onto my wrist, the pinkish-grey brain tipping slightly. I freeze. I force myself to smile, nodding, but looking at his face I can see a brain on this plate. I look down at it, deliberate and calm. When I do, it's a perfectly-molded red mound of Jell-O. There are chunks of strawberry suspended in it. It smells delicious, like strawberry. This was not scooped from the cranium of a still-living woman, a Rachel bolted to the wall through her clavicles, screaming as an old foot-pump bone saw's rusting edge snagged on her scalp and ripped half of it off to whirr around like an old wig caught in a food processor --
I force my eyes back to his. He's taking a bite of his Jell-O, smiling. "Mmm," he says, eyes lighting up. "I see why you love Strawberry Jell-O so much, Veronica."
screaming but not anymore, her brain is gone and she's leaning forward as a bolt is yanked from the wall and bloody saliva pours from her mouth
"What?" I ask, before I can control myself.
"What," he says. Then I see him realize he just called me by that other name. I have the distinct feeling I am on thin ice, and that the ice knows it.
"What, uhm ... what do you think I should do, I mean, what is the significance of my stories about Tad always being in musicals. Instead of, like, non-musicals? Or working at ... the pound, or something?" I'm grasping for something that doesn't make me sound like an idiot. I raise the spoon and dig in to the Jell-O -- should it be this firm? -- then wait, expectant, for his answer. His eyes are glued to the spoon.
A howl. Far away, but closer. We're looking directly at one another when we hear it. I see him hear it. I know who it is and before I can stop myself,
"Max!"
His expression flashes, for the briefest second, to rage. He catches it, smiles, shakes his head and says, "Who?"
I want to poke at him a little, I don't know why. I say, "Max The Wonderdog!"
Dr. Mayberry takes a breath, and I see another face beneath his face for a moment, a face broken and twisted as the soul inside. I think he's going to shout at me, launch himself over the desk. There are flashes of shaking, envenomed rage under that calm exterior. He masters it, though, and says:
"I remember now. "Max" is the serio-comic hero dog you invented, the noble companion to "Tad", his trusty sidekick -- a dog with unnatural, uncanny abilities and an apparent telepathic understanding of your needs, yes?" Dr. Mayberry is smiling, gentle, and oh so condescending at the same time. He's pitying me, or pretending to. "Pity," in quotes.
"Max isn't real either?" I ask. "Is he related to musicals at all? Like maybe Fiddler on the Roof or The Producers?" I know this guy knows nothing about musicals. Maybe I can fluster him.
"Well, the power of an imaginary dog in a musical could be very significant," he begins, and I let my eyes drift to the witch hand crack again. It's easier, now, a little faster: the words are swimming into focus.
"... there's a kind of noble strength in you that you haven't acknowledged, Victoria, and maybe that's why you invented "Max" ..."
The first word is clear: Arkham.
"... but I think it's significant that you depend on "Tad" and "Max" to save you, instead of saving yourself. Is this because you're female and therefore significantly weaker ..."
I can't let his bullshit distract me ... the second word is swimming into focus: Conservatory.
"Holy shit, you went to The Arkham Conservatory!" I shout, elated for no reason I can understand. But it throws him. It throws him! He sits back, actually throws himself back in his chair like I've slapped him and there is blood spattered across his chest. I pretend not to see it.
"What -- what do you mean -- ?" he is staring, intense, his upper lip twitching.
"It's right there on the wall, silly," I say, like it's nothing. I stand and move to the wall, pushing forward, following this line of happiness because it leads to revelation, reading aloud: "On this day, this year, blah blah blah, The Arkham Conservatory bestows upon Torvald Walter Mayberry a Baccalaureate Degree in ... Divinity?" I glance at him, there's more spattered blood now and some of his hair is missing. "Wait, wait, wait," I take a breath. "You have a degree in candy? You make ... candy?"
"How can you see that?" he demands, his voice low and broken, rasping.
"It's right here, below this other one," I say, and the witch hand crack twitches again as I read: "The Arkham Conservatory ... Doctor of Divinity, as well! Holy shit, Torvald! You're a Doctor of White Fudge!"
"Cunt!" he bellows, raising a hand to backhand me, but someone else speaks from the corner behind me:
"Showing any shreds of past, he feels, would be ghastly, lastly." The tone is warning and I recognize Dr. Reinblatt's voice but I didn't know he came in with us. I pretend not to hear it or
no no no please no not my girl not my baby no please oh god oh god no
"Con--tinue. Continue, please, Victoria. Why is my first Alma Mater significant to you?"
I have moved back from the wall toward my chair. I don't remember doing this. I glance at the witch hand crack. It doesn't move. I sit, choosing to put him (them?) at ease by my apparent compliance.
"Tad went to Arkham, as well. He and Dexter Tremblay were classmates. Of course, you were there before their time, but no doubt you've heard of Dexter's work? He's a writer," I say, remembering that Mayberry probably doesn't get out much. But not knowing about Dexter Tremblay is like not knowing about Stephen King or J.K. Rowling. I continue, "He disappeared, remember? Leaving behind an incredible manuscript? ... And people keep reporting sightings of him in Nevada, Washington, Oregon?"
Am I making this shit up, or is it true? Hard to tell. Dr. Mayberry has sat back down. The blood appears to be fading from his clothes, his hair has grown back. If I really am hallucinating all of this, I'm amazing at hallucination.
"Victoria," he says, smiling, but with a brittle tone that makes me think he's struggling. "I think it really is time that you take ... a bite ... of your Strawberry Jell-O."
I realize I put the Jell-O on his desk when I stood. Looking at him, I can see where I shoved the spoon into the top of the brain. It's sticking up, out, slightly to the left, blood congealing underneath this brain on a thick paper plate. Looking at the Jell-O, it gleams in the morning light, the light that is shining into this room at the exact same angle as when we entered. That's odd.
no please please please please please not her, please
"Dr. Mayberry, I'm actually still full from breakfast --" I begin.
"Nonsense! It's delicious! Try some!" Dr. Mayberry is grinning and shoveling Strawberry Jell-O into his mouth; I glance away, but the brain on his plate becomes very clear, so I have to watch him, watch the chunks falling onto his tie, his white coat. I have to know that the squishing sound I hear as he eats is a human brain, and if I think about that too much, I will puke. So I turn my head to gaze at his diplomas.
He stands and moves into my line of sight, taking a huge bite of Jell-O. "Strawberry," he says. "It's your faaaaavorite!"
I look at my own plate and he moves to the corner of his desk to my left. "Let's take a bite at the same time," he says, so enthusiastic, and there's a hard, cold rage in his eyes that clashes with his smile. It's too hard, to see Tad this way. To see Mayberry wearing Tad's face and form like a mask. How does he do this? How am I trapped here like this? Am I, after all, suffering paranoid delusions as they say? That would explain everything.
Dr. Mayberry is still staring at me. The smile is fading from his face. I look at the plate again and he says, "Victoria. Do I have to make you eat your Jell-O? Again?"
Oh, God. Have I already eaten some of this before? I look at the spoon. I can't tell.
I pick up the plate. There's only the mark from the side where I took a scoop, but that scoop is sitting on the plate next to the rest of America's Favorite Dessert. I turn the plate around.
Most of the other side of the Jell-O is gone, great scoops missing, looking like someone just could not get enough of this taste sensation. I look at Dr. Mayberry.
"See?" he says, grinning, red stuff between his teeth. And pale chunks. "You like it! Take more, Veronica, take more and seal the pact."
He called me Veronica. I've had enough of this shit. I stand and throw the Brain-O at the window where the light doesn't move and it hits with a dull thwack-glop.
hands holding the large mirror falter
"Veronica! That is uncalled-for! Clean it up!" Dr. Mayberry sounds more like an angry father now.
"I kicked your ass once, Torvald Walter Mayberry, I can do it again!" I shout.
the brain slides down the surface
"I have no idea what you're talking about. We have made such progress. Do I have to call the orderlies?" Dr. Mayberry sounds reasonable, but there is blood on is coat again. Not Jell-O of any flavor.
I am reflected in the mirror, someone obscured behind me, whispering
The walls of the room look like they're moving slightly, like they're being held up by hands too weak to support them.
smell of burning hair, smell of blood, smell of shit
I need to break something. I grab his lamp and hurl it at the window -- he shouts, "No! The mirror -- !" and before he is finished with the sentence ("...must remain intact!") --
The window pivots neatly to the side, the cheap battery-powered LED lantern smashing against the barn wall beyond. The window pivots back and I see hands holding the sides of this large, heavy, ornate mirror spattered with fluid and brains and blood and, at the corners, what looks like shit with eyeballs and fingers sticking out of it.
"Well now, it looks like someone needs her medication to be extra-strong today," Mayberry says. I turn my head and see, in a gap between the walls of his office, a Rachel's head slide wetly to the blood-soaked straw beneath, half of her face cleanly sliced away on what looks like a very large mandoline. Mayberry steps into my field of vision.
Oh, God. He's completely nude under a blood-soaked doctor's coat, his man teats sagging but the jagged, sharpened, splintered wooden pole he's strapped on over his missing genitals is very erect, glistening wet and red with blood. He says, through a broken jaw and shattered teeth, "Der she wann her injercshn or, werr she eeah her Jerr-O?"
There is a face looking at me from behind the beam behind me, I can see in the mirror, as long as I don't look directly at the face: bright, crazed, laughing eyes, focused on mine. Whispering laughter.
whispers
so saith the lord
wet slicing
laughter muffled screams
We move toward a door and a lady in too much polyester steps out of an office and I glance in: it's me standing there, in the office, unmoving, staring at something right in front of me. All I can see are ropes cutting into the flesh of ankles, legs pulled wide apart. I gasp and Dr. Mayberry says,
"It's not real, right, Victoria?"
"It's not real," I repeat, looking away. The door shuts and I hear something wet splatter against it
I am blinking hot wet out of my eyes, it stings
Dr. Mayberry stops at a door with a name plate on it: Dr. Torvald W. Mayberry. He is carrying two plates of strawberry Jell-O. He smiles at me, nodding at the door handle.
"Victoria, would you mind? My hands are full," he's very nice.
breathing in ragged gasping sobs, someone begs for them to stop stop stop stop
I hesitate to touch the door handle, fearing the scene beyond it, the barn, the blood and screaming.
"Okay, I'm sorry, lemme just put these down --" he begins, but I reach out and open the door -- I have to know what's beyond --
I gasp, stepping back: rough paneled walls, old framed photographs inside --
the sound of children crying, muffled
-- and a comfortable chair in front of a lovely old desk.
"Thank you, Victoria. Ladies first," he gestures with his Jell-O plates; I look at the Jell-O a second time, at its quivering. Was it always in individual molds? I thought it was in cubes when he arrived. I look at Dr. Mayberry.
"I made these special for you and I, Victoria," he is young and cute and kind. I still have problems looking at his eyes. "Do you want me to go first again, to show it's safe?"
"No, I --"
not safe not safe, slicing screams I know it's not safe
"I ... ladies first," I finish, stepping in to his office. He's even had barn rafters put in. I'm looking at them as he closes the door with his foot, then sets the Jell-O down on his desk. There is a fresh cup of coffee steaming on his side of the desk. Oh, how I crave a cup of coffee
with a grain of salt a spoon of salt a fucking salt lick to penetrate this obscurity
"I'm an old country boy at heart," he says, following my gaze. "Grew up on a ranch here in the valley. Went to school back East, in Massachusetts," he nods his head up to the right toward a wall covered in diplomas, plaques, credentials. "But my heart has always been here, right here, in San Ramon." He busies himself, arranging some papers, opening my file
file file file their fingernails down to be bone, fingernails melt better when powdered
and selecting a few pens. I focus on the wall of credentials. There's a large, beautiful window right behind him, I think I should ask him about it --
"Will you tell me about your window?" I blurt.
"Sure! Yes, I remember, you've asked about it before. It's from my grandparents' farmhouse. They had this one, beautiful window. Well, many, actually -- but this one was my favorite because I could see the sunrise every day over the East side of the valley. So I had it installed here, hoping to shed bright light into the darker corners of my patients' lives ..."
As he's been talking, I've nodded and let my eyes wander the room, focusing mostly on the ego wall. Something about it is off, disconnected. I squint, but I still can't see what it is. And, not wanting to arouse suspicion, I look up at the rafters. There's a stuffed owl up there. I say,
"Whoa," involuntarily.
"My Grandfather's owl. He raised it from the egg, found the nest when he was hiking after a wildfire. The eggs were protected in the tree, but nearby were the owl parents, they'd ... not survived. Anyway, he took the eggs and built an incubator and they hatched. He learned to feed them, he set them free, but this one just stuck around. Imprinted so strongly that he never left. Grampa called him Archie, from Archimedes, Merlin's owl ..."
I've been trying to see his diplomas clearly, but it's like they're blurred out. I look for other details on the wall near them, and can clearly see knots in the wood, a crack that looks like a witch's hand
grasping screaming help me I am not a witch
and as I'm staring at that crack, I see the diploma next to it begin to resolve, swimming into focus. I shift my eyes and it's blurred. I look elsewhere again, not wanting him to know where I'm looking and see what I'm thinking.
"Tad loved -- loves -- I know, he ... he doesn't exist. I know. I'm sorry," I look at the floor, realizing I've said too much.
"Victoria," his voice is so kind. "I understand that it's hard to let go. Maybe if we talk about him, we can find what it is that anchors you to the idea that he was ever there at all. Okay?"
I nod, smiling a little. I'm not sure I can talk about Tad right now without crying. I'll try, though.
"Tell me where you two met," he says, leaning back in his chair a little. He's going to listen to me. I let my eyes wander as I speak. He sips his coffee.
"We met in a musical," I begin. "Reinblatt's Der Verdunkeln Meister --"
Coffee explodes from his mouth and nose in a fit of coughing. I had just let my eyes focus on the witch's hand crack in his ego wall. He hadn't even noticed. But now he's gasping, coughing, mopping the spray of coffee from my file and his desk. No computer monitor on his desk, it's very clean and very clear. Like a little like that poster of John Muir's desk -- no! Theodore Solomons! What was I thinking? Wow.
"I'm sorry," he's saying. "What was the name of that musical?"
I pause. I can't remember. It's just ... gone.
"I -- I think -- it's ... it must have been something else. I can't remember the name, but it was German. A very rare, dark comic operetta with a much more contemporary musical theatre sensibility to it than anything else written in the 1890's ... wow, how come I can't remember its name?"
He is staring at me, eyes narrowed a little. I realize I may have tripped myself up. How? How did I stumble? I've got to stay focused. I force myself to look directly into his eyes:
"Self-medication with marijuana has its drawbacks," I say, and he smiles. His eyes crinkle at the corners, their blue-with-brown-flecks all but disappearing. Even the silver at his temples is the same. I want to call out, to ask him why he's faking like this, why he's pretending, just say his name --
"Tad --" I freeze, I shouldn't have said his name.
"Yes? ... Victoria? Go ahead, talk about him," he smiles, encouraging. It's driving me insane to have Tad sitting there in his white doctor's coat, looking like he should be shooting an episode of ForScience!, only without the goggles.
" -- was always talking about musicals. Tad was. We met in a production of ... " I pause, panicked slightly. What should I say? Then out of nowhere, "The Best Little Whore -- house in Texas," I finish, but why did I emphasize 'whore'? Did his eyes widen when I did that? Why? I feel like a puppet.
"You talk a lot about theatre, Victoria, but always in reference to "Tad." Did you know that? Had you noticed this tendency?"
I hadn't, actually, not in any significant way. I mean, it's what he does -- did -- it's what I associate with him. Maybe I can get the doctor talking, get him to go on for a while. I say:
"I ... no. I didn't. What do you think that means, Dr. Mayberry? I mean, what do you think it really, really means -- at its core?"
He blinks. Sips his coffee.
"Well --" he begins. "It seems to me that you have a deep seated need to act out, to embody your fantasies so completely that they become real to you. Your commitment to these fictionalized accounts of your life is truly remarkable. I wonder sometimes what would happen if you were to focus that same dedication on actual professional theatre work, Victoria. You know, there's a story about Sigmund Freud and a production of Hamlet ..."
I let him talk, nodding every so often. My eyes are unfocused, aimed at that witch hand crack near his diplomas. I listen to his words, just letting the images settle in to focus. I can blink, I remind myself. I just can't shift my eyes to the right. Any attempt to look at them directly leads to the blurring. I can still hear his words, and I make the occasional validating, "Mm-hmm," or, "Oooh, yes," wherever appropriate.
"... but there is no reason why you shouldn't consider that a success, even if it's just a small one ..."
The crack that looks like a witch's hand seems to twitch. I blink, breathing, focusing on calm intent. The diploma is starting to swim into focus. I can see the first word. Ark ... ham. I glance a little to the left, resting my eyes slightly, making a, "Hm?" noise when Dr. Mayberry seems to be asking me a question.
"I said, are you going to eat any of your strawberry Jell-O, Victoria?" He is smiling, gesturing at the neatly molded red gelatin gleaming in the morning light that streams through his grandparents' window.
"Oh, yes! Of course --" I pick up the plate and the plastic spoon. I smile at him and feel some of the still-warm blood slosh off the plate onto my wrist, the pinkish-grey brain tipping slightly. I freeze. I force myself to smile, nodding, but looking at his face I can see a brain on this plate. I look down at it, deliberate and calm. When I do, it's a perfectly-molded red mound of Jell-O. There are chunks of strawberry suspended in it. It smells delicious, like strawberry. This was not scooped from the cranium of a still-living woman, a Rachel bolted to the wall through her clavicles, screaming as an old foot-pump bone saw's rusting edge snagged on her scalp and ripped half of it off to whirr around like an old wig caught in a food processor --
I force my eyes back to his. He's taking a bite of his Jell-O, smiling. "Mmm," he says, eyes lighting up. "I see why you love Strawberry Jell-O so much, Veronica."
screaming but not anymore, her brain is gone and she's leaning forward as a bolt is yanked from the wall and bloody saliva pours from her mouth
"What?" I ask, before I can control myself.
"What," he says. Then I see him realize he just called me by that other name. I have the distinct feeling I am on thin ice, and that the ice knows it.
"What, uhm ... what do you think I should do, I mean, what is the significance of my stories about Tad always being in musicals. Instead of, like, non-musicals? Or working at ... the pound, or something?" I'm grasping for something that doesn't make me sound like an idiot. I raise the spoon and dig in to the Jell-O -- should it be this firm? -- then wait, expectant, for his answer. His eyes are glued to the spoon.
A howl. Far away, but closer. We're looking directly at one another when we hear it. I see him hear it. I know who it is and before I can stop myself,
"Max!"
His expression flashes, for the briefest second, to rage. He catches it, smiles, shakes his head and says, "Who?"
I want to poke at him a little, I don't know why. I say, "Max The Wonderdog!"
Dr. Mayberry takes a breath, and I see another face beneath his face for a moment, a face broken and twisted as the soul inside. I think he's going to shout at me, launch himself over the desk. There are flashes of shaking, envenomed rage under that calm exterior. He masters it, though, and says:
"I remember now. "Max" is the serio-comic hero dog you invented, the noble companion to "Tad", his trusty sidekick -- a dog with unnatural, uncanny abilities and an apparent telepathic understanding of your needs, yes?" Dr. Mayberry is smiling, gentle, and oh so condescending at the same time. He's pitying me, or pretending to. "Pity," in quotes.
"Max isn't real either?" I ask. "Is he related to musicals at all? Like maybe Fiddler on the Roof or The Producers?" I know this guy knows nothing about musicals. Maybe I can fluster him.
"Well, the power of an imaginary dog in a musical could be very significant," he begins, and I let my eyes drift to the witch hand crack again. It's easier, now, a little faster: the words are swimming into focus.
"... there's a kind of noble strength in you that you haven't acknowledged, Victoria, and maybe that's why you invented "Max" ..."
The first word is clear: Arkham.
"... but I think it's significant that you depend on "Tad" and "Max" to save you, instead of saving yourself. Is this because you're female and therefore significantly weaker ..."
I can't let his bullshit distract me ... the second word is swimming into focus: Conservatory.
"Holy shit, you went to The Arkham Conservatory!" I shout, elated for no reason I can understand. But it throws him. It throws him! He sits back, actually throws himself back in his chair like I've slapped him and there is blood spattered across his chest. I pretend not to see it.
"What -- what do you mean -- ?" he is staring, intense, his upper lip twitching.
"It's right there on the wall, silly," I say, like it's nothing. I stand and move to the wall, pushing forward, following this line of happiness because it leads to revelation, reading aloud: "On this day, this year, blah blah blah, The Arkham Conservatory bestows upon Torvald Walter Mayberry a Baccalaureate Degree in ... Divinity?" I glance at him, there's more spattered blood now and some of his hair is missing. "Wait, wait, wait," I take a breath. "You have a degree in candy? You make ... candy?"
"How can you see that?" he demands, his voice low and broken, rasping.
"It's right here, below this other one," I say, and the witch hand crack twitches again as I read: "The Arkham Conservatory ... Doctor of Divinity, as well! Holy shit, Torvald! You're a Doctor of White Fudge!"
"Cunt!" he bellows, raising a hand to backhand me, but someone else speaks from the corner behind me:
"Showing any shreds of past, he feels, would be ghastly, lastly." The tone is warning and I recognize Dr. Reinblatt's voice but I didn't know he came in with us. I pretend not to hear it or
no no no please no not my girl not my baby no please oh god oh god no
"Con--tinue. Continue, please, Victoria. Why is my first Alma Mater significant to you?"
I have moved back from the wall toward my chair. I don't remember doing this. I glance at the witch hand crack. It doesn't move. I sit, choosing to put him (them?) at ease by my apparent compliance.
"Tad went to Arkham, as well. He and Dexter Tremblay were classmates. Of course, you were there before their time, but no doubt you've heard of Dexter's work? He's a writer," I say, remembering that Mayberry probably doesn't get out much. But not knowing about Dexter Tremblay is like not knowing about Stephen King or J.K. Rowling. I continue, "He disappeared, remember? Leaving behind an incredible manuscript? ... And people keep reporting sightings of him in Nevada, Washington, Oregon?"
Am I making this shit up, or is it true? Hard to tell. Dr. Mayberry has sat back down. The blood appears to be fading from his clothes, his hair has grown back. If I really am hallucinating all of this, I'm amazing at hallucination.
"Victoria," he says, smiling, but with a brittle tone that makes me think he's struggling. "I think it really is time that you take ... a bite ... of your Strawberry Jell-O."
I realize I put the Jell-O on his desk when I stood. Looking at him, I can see where I shoved the spoon into the top of the brain. It's sticking up, out, slightly to the left, blood congealing underneath this brain on a thick paper plate. Looking at the Jell-O, it gleams in the morning light, the light that is shining into this room at the exact same angle as when we entered. That's odd.
no please please please please please not her, please
"Dr. Mayberry, I'm actually still full from breakfast --" I begin.
"Nonsense! It's delicious! Try some!" Dr. Mayberry is grinning and shoveling Strawberry Jell-O into his mouth; I glance away, but the brain on his plate becomes very clear, so I have to watch him, watch the chunks falling onto his tie, his white coat. I have to know that the squishing sound I hear as he eats is a human brain, and if I think about that too much, I will puke. So I turn my head to gaze at his diplomas.
He stands and moves into my line of sight, taking a huge bite of Jell-O. "Strawberry," he says. "It's your faaaaavorite!"
I look at my own plate and he moves to the corner of his desk to my left. "Let's take a bite at the same time," he says, so enthusiastic, and there's a hard, cold rage in his eyes that clashes with his smile. It's too hard, to see Tad this way. To see Mayberry wearing Tad's face and form like a mask. How does he do this? How am I trapped here like this? Am I, after all, suffering paranoid delusions as they say? That would explain everything.
Dr. Mayberry is still staring at me. The smile is fading from his face. I look at the plate again and he says, "Victoria. Do I have to make you eat your Jell-O? Again?"
Oh, God. Have I already eaten some of this before? I look at the spoon. I can't tell.
I pick up the plate. There's only the mark from the side where I took a scoop, but that scoop is sitting on the plate next to the rest of America's Favorite Dessert. I turn the plate around.
Most of the other side of the Jell-O is gone, great scoops missing, looking like someone just could not get enough of this taste sensation. I look at Dr. Mayberry.
"See?" he says, grinning, red stuff between his teeth. And pale chunks. "You like it! Take more, Veronica, take more and seal the pact."
He called me Veronica. I've had enough of this shit. I stand and throw the Brain-O at the window where the light doesn't move and it hits with a dull thwack-glop.
hands holding the large mirror falter
"Veronica! That is uncalled-for! Clean it up!" Dr. Mayberry sounds more like an angry father now.
"I kicked your ass once, Torvald Walter Mayberry, I can do it again!" I shout.
the brain slides down the surface
"I have no idea what you're talking about. We have made such progress. Do I have to call the orderlies?" Dr. Mayberry sounds reasonable, but there is blood on is coat again. Not Jell-O of any flavor.
I am reflected in the mirror, someone obscured behind me, whispering
The walls of the room look like they're moving slightly, like they're being held up by hands too weak to support them.
smell of burning hair, smell of blood, smell of shit
I need to break something. I grab his lamp and hurl it at the window -- he shouts, "No! The mirror -- !" and before he is finished with the sentence ("...must remain intact!") --
The window pivots neatly to the side, the cheap battery-powered LED lantern smashing against the barn wall beyond. The window pivots back and I see hands holding the sides of this large, heavy, ornate mirror spattered with fluid and brains and blood and, at the corners, what looks like shit with eyeballs and fingers sticking out of it.
"Well now, it looks like someone needs her medication to be extra-strong today," Mayberry says. I turn my head and see, in a gap between the walls of his office, a Rachel's head slide wetly to the blood-soaked straw beneath, half of her face cleanly sliced away on what looks like a very large mandoline. Mayberry steps into my field of vision.
Oh, God. He's completely nude under a blood-soaked doctor's coat, his man teats sagging but the jagged, sharpened, splintered wooden pole he's strapped on over his missing genitals is very erect, glistening wet and red with blood. He says, through a broken jaw and shattered teeth, "Der she wann her injercshn or, werr she eeah her Jerr-O?"
There is a face looking at me from behind the beam behind me, I can see in the mirror, as long as I don't look directly at the face: bright, crazed, laughing eyes, focused on mine. Whispering laughter.
Monday, August 19, 2013
NFTF: Max and the Rabbit, a short play -- Scene II
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.
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.
Friday, August 16, 2013
NFTF: Rancher III
"Do we have any ammunition that may work better?" the wife asks, bow drawn taut again, the point of her razor-sharp arrow never wavering.
They are silent. There is nothing. Then it hits him, bubbling up from within the memory of that Halloween night, in 1946. The thing that had come in to their party, the thing that had come through.
"It's one of the reasons we're being looked for," she'd whispered. "Now tell me, Tal: what did he say?"
"Not ... not much. He -- I promised, Bet -- Leah," he had stammered.
"I will show you a more secret secret, Tal," she'd whispered and he'd known, in that moment, the first crackling arc of desire in his soul, utterly different from his craving for berry cobbler or root beer or near-burnt chocolate chip cookies. Who was this girl, and how could she do these things with her voice and with paper and symbols?
Before he could speak, she had moved another paper on top of the first, this one dominated by a large symbol, unfamiliar in the whole but comprised of a variety of geometric shapes he'd seen before. Their specific arrangement, and the shapes that twined around them, made his eyes swim, forcing him to shut them tight and shake his head.
"Shhh," Leah had whispered, putting her fingers on his forehead. "When I tell you to, unfocus your eyes. The way to do this is make a triangle with your thumbs and pointers put together in front of you, and focus on the point in the middle of that triangle. Do this and breathe deeply, Tal. Do it over the paper, and when you're ready, take your hands away. Let the symbol sink into your mind. Don't look at anything. Just let it sink in. Breathe and do nothing."
He had opened his eyes and done as she asked. It had been a struggle at first, he'd had to blink and re-start a few times. Then something had clicked in and, when he felt himself sink deep into this unfocused, relaxed state, he had put his hands at his side and allowed the symbol to sink in.
After a time, it began to change color. Lighting up a deep blue, at first, the color moving clockwise through the symbol from a point near the bottom. He had taken a breath to speak, but Leah's whispered, "Shhhh, focus now ..." had kept him in the moment.
The symbol in blue had floated, then, raising up off the paper and hovering in the air before him. The physical pain of his goosebumps had felt electric. The symbol had begun to light up a brighter, blue-white lightning color, in the same pattern that it had first changed color. Trying to follow it with his eyes, he had lost focus for a moment. Leah had leaned in close, her breath warm on his neck and ear, whispering, "Keep going, Tal. You've almost got it. Focus inward, let your eyes be soft."
Against all odds, this had galvanized him. The symbol had lightningn-ed and she had taught him to trace one specific part of it in the air, the wispy, trailing through-line, whispering specific words to him as the candle burned low and clouds gathered over their small town on that late Halloween afternoon.
Nine times they had traced it, until Talmadge had learned the words and the gesture and could trace it easily.
"This is a sigil," she had said, pleased with him. "It's bright today, tonight, because this is Halloween and the veil between worlds is so thin. Mama says this sigil is for revealing hidden things. It opens doors that have been shut with spirits' help, it --"
"Leah?" her mother's voice, from downstairs. "Are you two in the attic?"
"Tell me quick, Tal," she'd said, smiling. "What did your friend tell you before he ... disappeared?"
And he had told her, of course. He told her everything. The treasure, the journey -- the quest -- to get it where it was destined to go. How so many stories remained unfinished as a result of its loss, how a rightness could be restored to the world once it reached its destination. Little things, like individual lives -- either through inheritance or correspondence long-lost, and big things like bridges and skyscrapers and whole cities that hadn't thrived or had moved in the wrong direction, or were destined to destroy that which was best in their hearts and infrastructure, all in the name of greed. So many things could be re-shaped by its safe arrival, and Ben was the Steward, now. "One of the last," was how Tal had finished his telling, and then Leah's mother was at the bottom of the attic stairs, "Come down, my little Halloween spellweavers," she'd sung to them. "Your guests are beginning to arrive, dear."
Descending the ladder, Tal had begun to see things clearly for the first time: other symbols -- sigils -- etched in the glass of every window in Leah's home. Similar shapes over doorways, on newel posts. A very intricate sigil in the glass of the front door. Leah's mother smiled at him and he knew Leah would grow even more beautiful -- and powerful -- than her already mesmerizing mother. So many things had become clear that night.
Then, as they'd danced the Halloween dances Leah taught them, all of the other kids innocent and Tal himself only beginning to suspect the meaning, something had come through. Something large. Something dark. Something uninvited. He remembered the screams, the other children running, the parents so still, in shock, all of them.
All except for Leah's mother who had run to the kitchen and screamed one word as she threw a blue cardboard box from within the pantry directly at Tal's head. He'd caught it at a strange angle, and the box had broken open, much of its contents spilling over him. The word she'd shouted, one word so colored in his mind by that Halloween, that he had allowed himself to live a life devoid of it for the last fifty years.
"Salt," he says now. "Salt will kill 'em dead."
They are silent. There is nothing. Then it hits him, bubbling up from within the memory of that Halloween night, in 1946. The thing that had come in to their party, the thing that had come through.
"It's one of the reasons we're being looked for," she'd whispered. "Now tell me, Tal: what did he say?"
"Not ... not much. He -- I promised, Bet -- Leah," he had stammered.
"I will show you a more secret secret, Tal," she'd whispered and he'd known, in that moment, the first crackling arc of desire in his soul, utterly different from his craving for berry cobbler or root beer or near-burnt chocolate chip cookies. Who was this girl, and how could she do these things with her voice and with paper and symbols?
Before he could speak, she had moved another paper on top of the first, this one dominated by a large symbol, unfamiliar in the whole but comprised of a variety of geometric shapes he'd seen before. Their specific arrangement, and the shapes that twined around them, made his eyes swim, forcing him to shut them tight and shake his head.
"Shhh," Leah had whispered, putting her fingers on his forehead. "When I tell you to, unfocus your eyes. The way to do this is make a triangle with your thumbs and pointers put together in front of you, and focus on the point in the middle of that triangle. Do this and breathe deeply, Tal. Do it over the paper, and when you're ready, take your hands away. Let the symbol sink into your mind. Don't look at anything. Just let it sink in. Breathe and do nothing."
He had opened his eyes and done as she asked. It had been a struggle at first, he'd had to blink and re-start a few times. Then something had clicked in and, when he felt himself sink deep into this unfocused, relaxed state, he had put his hands at his side and allowed the symbol to sink in.
After a time, it began to change color. Lighting up a deep blue, at first, the color moving clockwise through the symbol from a point near the bottom. He had taken a breath to speak, but Leah's whispered, "Shhhh, focus now ..." had kept him in the moment.
The symbol in blue had floated, then, raising up off the paper and hovering in the air before him. The physical pain of his goosebumps had felt electric. The symbol had begun to light up a brighter, blue-white lightning color, in the same pattern that it had first changed color. Trying to follow it with his eyes, he had lost focus for a moment. Leah had leaned in close, her breath warm on his neck and ear, whispering, "Keep going, Tal. You've almost got it. Focus inward, let your eyes be soft."
Against all odds, this had galvanized him. The symbol had lightningn-ed and she had taught him to trace one specific part of it in the air, the wispy, trailing through-line, whispering specific words to him as the candle burned low and clouds gathered over their small town on that late Halloween afternoon.
Nine times they had traced it, until Talmadge had learned the words and the gesture and could trace it easily.
"This is a sigil," she had said, pleased with him. "It's bright today, tonight, because this is Halloween and the veil between worlds is so thin. Mama says this sigil is for revealing hidden things. It opens doors that have been shut with spirits' help, it --"
"Leah?" her mother's voice, from downstairs. "Are you two in the attic?"
"Tell me quick, Tal," she'd said, smiling. "What did your friend tell you before he ... disappeared?"
And he had told her, of course. He told her everything. The treasure, the journey -- the quest -- to get it where it was destined to go. How so many stories remained unfinished as a result of its loss, how a rightness could be restored to the world once it reached its destination. Little things, like individual lives -- either through inheritance or correspondence long-lost, and big things like bridges and skyscrapers and whole cities that hadn't thrived or had moved in the wrong direction, or were destined to destroy that which was best in their hearts and infrastructure, all in the name of greed. So many things could be re-shaped by its safe arrival, and Ben was the Steward, now. "One of the last," was how Tal had finished his telling, and then Leah's mother was at the bottom of the attic stairs, "Come down, my little Halloween spellweavers," she'd sung to them. "Your guests are beginning to arrive, dear."
Descending the ladder, Tal had begun to see things clearly for the first time: other symbols -- sigils -- etched in the glass of every window in Leah's home. Similar shapes over doorways, on newel posts. A very intricate sigil in the glass of the front door. Leah's mother smiled at him and he knew Leah would grow even more beautiful -- and powerful -- than her already mesmerizing mother. So many things had become clear that night.
Then, as they'd danced the Halloween dances Leah taught them, all of the other kids innocent and Tal himself only beginning to suspect the meaning, something had come through. Something large. Something dark. Something uninvited. He remembered the screams, the other children running, the parents so still, in shock, all of them.
All except for Leah's mother who had run to the kitchen and screamed one word as she threw a blue cardboard box from within the pantry directly at Tal's head. He'd caught it at a strange angle, and the box had broken open, much of its contents spilling over him. The word she'd shouted, one word so colored in his mind by that Halloween, that he had allowed himself to live a life devoid of it for the last fifty years.
"Salt," he says now. "Salt will kill 'em dead."
Thursday, August 15, 2013
NFTF: Max III
>>POP<<
"Maxwell."
YOU! YOU! YOUYOUYOUYOUYOUYOUYOU!
You smell strong! I LOVE YOU!
Leap in air. Turn in air.
You smell old! I LOVE YOU!
Land, leap again. Turn again.
Stop. Look.
Your fur: white.
Old like Raider.
I LOVE YOU!
Give kisses! Give kisses to YOU!
"Who is a good boy? Yes. Yes. You are such a good boy. Oh, kisses. Yes. Drool in my beard. Thanks so much. Some scratches? Yes? You love having Dog Loves? Yes. I love you so, Maxwell. I have been gone so long. Lifetimes within lifetimes. And my time is short. Now settle. Good, settle stay. Good."
Treat? Treat?
Lick dog chops.
Treat?
Hands mean treat.
I love you.
Eyes mean treat.
I love you.
So hungry.
I am Max.
I wait.
I am good.
I wait.
I love you.
So hungry.
"I see you licking your chops. I think I have something for you. Ah-ah-ah, stay. Good boy."
More than treat! I LOVE YOU!
"I said stay!"
I stay. Yes. I love you stay.
I good boy stay. Lick dog chops stay.
Drool. Can't help it. Drool.
Love.
Drool.
"I'm sorry this has taken so long, Mister Jizzjowls. I -- aaaugh, wow, I'm -- much older than the last time you saw me. Right? Hold on there, Mister, I need to unfold this bowl and pour the food. Have you ... where the hell did I put the food ... ah. Here. Okay. Now. Have you been a good boy? Listening for Mommy?"
MOMMY?!
Lick chops. Wag wag wag.
I LOVE MOMMY!
Drool. Wag wag.
IS MOMMY HERE?!
Shift feet. Wag.
MOMMY?!?!
Drool. Wag-wag-wag-wag-wag!
Lick chops.
"Sorry. No, she's not here. Not close by. But soon, Max. Soon. Keep listening. When she calls, you will know. And you must go to her, no matter what she says. Okay. I'm setting your food here, you stay. Aaaugh, my knees ... okay ..."
Eyes wide. Ears up. I watch you.
Now is proof: I good boy stay.
I love you.
I earn my food.
I stay. Yes.
Now is proof.
Yes.
Drool.
I good boy stay.
Yes. Love.
Drool.
Lick dog chops.
Drool.
Shift legs. Yes.
Drool.
I wait. I wait.
Long time.
Drool.
I wait.
Loooong tiiiiime.
Drool.
Wait.
Yes.
I am Max.
I love You.
Drool.
"Good boy, Max, get your dinner!"
Leap! To food!
Yum-so-crunchy!
Gomf gomf gomf crunchy!
Crunch crunch crunch yum yum.
Oh so tasty.
I love You.
I love food.
You bring food.
I LOOOOVE YOU!
Eat yum crunch gomf yum eating good yum ...
"Soon the fire will crest the hills to the East. Eruptions of gas mains in the last houses still standing in the hills of Danville and San Ramon. When the fireball lights the eastern sky, Max, that is when you must be ready. That is when Mommy will call."
Gomf gomf I love Mommy.
Gomf Gomf I good boy wait.
Food good. Almost gone.
Lick dog chops.
More food?
"That's all there is. You'd better eat it up, Mister Stinks-a-lot."
Gomf gomf gomf yum.
Lick bowl for morsels: one morsel. Good.
Two morsels! Yum!
Gomf. Gomf.
Lick bowl.
Crumbs.
Lick bowl. Yum.
Lick chops.
Thirsty.
"Here's water. Wait -- ah-ah -- let me ... there. Drink up. Good boy."
Water.
Oh.
Yes.
So delicious.
"Take your time. I have more water. Special things in water for Mister Maxwell. I just need to mark these trees. Clockwise."
Look at water.
Smell water.
Good smell. Plant smell.
You drink?
"Keep drinking, Mister. No, no need to follow me: you stay and drink. It's all for you. Something special, something from long ago and far away. See? I'm just circling the trees. Drink up. Good boy."
Water is good!
Lick dog chops.
Drool.
Sated.
"You sure you're done?"
I love You.
"Oh, kisses. Yes. Pffaw, wow, thanks for that -- Jesus --"
Fart.
"Okay. Go potty."
You go potty?
"Go ahead. I trust you. I'm just going to sit here. It's nice to just sit, these days."
Peeing. Trees. Peeing here. Long pee. Nice.
"Yes, feed the trees. They need it. They've been here a long time. Not visible from the freeway, Max. Not that that means much to you. But this Tor, these trees. Sigils. Blocking. This Redwood, that Ash: an entire Druidic alphabet, an unintentional Entmoot, and nobody knows."
Potty now.
Was peeing there.
Now squatting here.
Glance at you.
Ahhh ...
Good.
Ahhh ...
I good boy go potty.
Bury. Bury. Potty bury.
YAY! Time to run.
"What I wouldn't give for half your energy, Mister Stinks."
I run this way!
Play?
I run that way?
PLAY?!
I give you kisses.
"Okay. Yes."
I LOVE YOU.
"What a good smoochface."
I run this way.
PLAY?!
"Shhh, Max, no no, settle. Settle. Sit. Lie down. Settle. Good. Stay."
I run that way.
You play now.
I need play.
"I'm sorry I was gone so long, I didn't mean to just pop out like that, Max, STAY."
Yes. I stay.
I good boy stay.
"Listen to me."
Kisses.
"Listen to me: you must stay here. I have marked the trees. Do not pass that boundary. Trees are marked. Do not pass. Do not pass marked trees until I come for you, or until you hear Mommy call for you."
I love you.
Kisses.
"Now ... hold still ... [click, jingle] ... there. This will keep me tuned to you, like an anchor."
Jingle jingle I have new jingle!
"I will always, always, always come back for you, my boy."
You.
New jingle. Good.
I love You.
Good new jingle help good boy Maxwell.
I sit stay.
"I love you so. I do."
I good boy lie down stay.
You? You stay.
Head on lap.
SIGH.
You.
I love You.
"I'm sorry I have to go now, I'm so sorry I have to leave you and Mommy like this."
Eyes only: look right, look left.
SIGH.
Roll onto back.
Tummy, please. For scratching?
Ooohhh yes good I love You.
"But I promise, I will come back. I promise."
Good.
Scratching Loves.
You.
"Mommy has an anchor, you have an anchor, and I must set sail beyond the sunset and the baths of all the Western stars, until I ... until I can ... oh shit, here it goes -- so dizzy -- be good, Max."
SIGH.
Sleepy times.
"Be good for Mommy. Listen for her call and go to her if you hear her voice."
Mommy?
I love Mommy.
... I love You ...
Snore.
"Listen for Mommy and ask her to sing for you, she sings like an angel --"
>>POP<<
"Maxwell."
YOU! YOU! YOUYOUYOUYOUYOUYOUYOU!
You smell strong! I LOVE YOU!
Leap in air. Turn in air.
You smell old! I LOVE YOU!
Land, leap again. Turn again.
Stop. Look.
Your fur: white.
Old like Raider.
I LOVE YOU!
Give kisses! Give kisses to YOU!
"Who is a good boy? Yes. Yes. You are such a good boy. Oh, kisses. Yes. Drool in my beard. Thanks so much. Some scratches? Yes? You love having Dog Loves? Yes. I love you so, Maxwell. I have been gone so long. Lifetimes within lifetimes. And my time is short. Now settle. Good, settle stay. Good."
Treat? Treat?
Lick dog chops.
Treat?
Hands mean treat.
I love you.
Eyes mean treat.
I love you.
So hungry.
I am Max.
I wait.
I am good.
I wait.
I love you.
So hungry.
"I see you licking your chops. I think I have something for you. Ah-ah-ah, stay. Good boy."
More than treat! I LOVE YOU!
"I said stay!"
I stay. Yes. I love you stay.
I good boy stay. Lick dog chops stay.
Drool. Can't help it. Drool.
Love.
Drool.
"I'm sorry this has taken so long, Mister Jizzjowls. I -- aaaugh, wow, I'm -- much older than the last time you saw me. Right? Hold on there, Mister, I need to unfold this bowl and pour the food. Have you ... where the hell did I put the food ... ah. Here. Okay. Now. Have you been a good boy? Listening for Mommy?"
MOMMY?!
Lick chops. Wag wag wag.
I LOVE MOMMY!
Drool. Wag wag.
IS MOMMY HERE?!
Shift feet. Wag.
MOMMY?!?!
Drool. Wag-wag-wag-wag-wag!
Lick chops.
"Sorry. No, she's not here. Not close by. But soon, Max. Soon. Keep listening. When she calls, you will know. And you must go to her, no matter what she says. Okay. I'm setting your food here, you stay. Aaaugh, my knees ... okay ..."
Eyes wide. Ears up. I watch you.
Now is proof: I good boy stay.
I love you.
I earn my food.
I stay. Yes.
Now is proof.
Yes.
Drool.
I good boy stay.
Yes. Love.
Drool.
Lick dog chops.
Drool.
Shift legs. Yes.
Drool.
I wait. I wait.
Long time.
Drool.
I wait.
Loooong tiiiiime.
Drool.
Wait.
Yes.
I am Max.
I love You.
Drool.
"Good boy, Max, get your dinner!"
Leap! To food!
Yum-so-crunchy!
Gomf gomf gomf crunchy!
Crunch crunch crunch yum yum.
Oh so tasty.
I love You.
I love food.
You bring food.
I LOOOOVE YOU!
Eat yum crunch gomf yum eating good yum ...
"Soon the fire will crest the hills to the East. Eruptions of gas mains in the last houses still standing in the hills of Danville and San Ramon. When the fireball lights the eastern sky, Max, that is when you must be ready. That is when Mommy will call."
Gomf gomf I love Mommy.
Gomf Gomf I good boy wait.
Food good. Almost gone.
Lick dog chops.
More food?
"That's all there is. You'd better eat it up, Mister Stinks-a-lot."
Gomf gomf gomf yum.
Lick bowl for morsels: one morsel. Good.
Two morsels! Yum!
Gomf. Gomf.
Lick bowl.
Crumbs.
Lick bowl. Yum.
Lick chops.
Thirsty.
"Here's water. Wait -- ah-ah -- let me ... there. Drink up. Good boy."
Water.
Oh.
Yes.
So delicious.
"Take your time. I have more water. Special things in water for Mister Maxwell. I just need to mark these trees. Clockwise."
Look at water.
Smell water.
Good smell. Plant smell.
You drink?
"Keep drinking, Mister. No, no need to follow me: you stay and drink. It's all for you. Something special, something from long ago and far away. See? I'm just circling the trees. Drink up. Good boy."
Water is good!
Lick dog chops.
Drool.
Sated.
"You sure you're done?"
I love You.
"Oh, kisses. Yes. Pffaw, wow, thanks for that -- Jesus --"
Fart.
"Okay. Go potty."
You go potty?
"Go ahead. I trust you. I'm just going to sit here. It's nice to just sit, these days."
Peeing. Trees. Peeing here. Long pee. Nice.
"Yes, feed the trees. They need it. They've been here a long time. Not visible from the freeway, Max. Not that that means much to you. But this Tor, these trees. Sigils. Blocking. This Redwood, that Ash: an entire Druidic alphabet, an unintentional Entmoot, and nobody knows."
Potty now.
Was peeing there.
Now squatting here.
Glance at you.
Ahhh ...
Good.
Ahhh ...
I good boy go potty.
Bury. Bury. Potty bury.
YAY! Time to run.
"What I wouldn't give for half your energy, Mister Stinks."
I run this way!
Play?
I run that way?
PLAY?!
I give you kisses.
"Okay. Yes."
I LOVE YOU.
"What a good smoochface."
I run this way.
PLAY?!
"Shhh, Max, no no, settle. Settle. Sit. Lie down. Settle. Good. Stay."
I run that way.
You play now.
I need play.
"I'm sorry I was gone so long, I didn't mean to just pop out like that, Max, STAY."
Yes. I stay.
I good boy stay.
"Listen to me."
Kisses.
"Listen to me: you must stay here. I have marked the trees. Do not pass that boundary. Trees are marked. Do not pass. Do not pass marked trees until I come for you, or until you hear Mommy call for you."
I love you.
Kisses.
"Now ... hold still ... [click, jingle] ... there. This will keep me tuned to you, like an anchor."
Jingle jingle I have new jingle!
"I will always, always, always come back for you, my boy."
You.
New jingle. Good.
I love You.
Good new jingle help good boy Maxwell.
I sit stay.
"I love you so. I do."
I good boy lie down stay.
You? You stay.
Head on lap.
SIGH.
You.
I love You.
"I'm sorry I have to go now, I'm so sorry I have to leave you and Mommy like this."
Eyes only: look right, look left.
SIGH.
Roll onto back.
Tummy, please. For scratching?
Ooohhh yes good I love You.
"But I promise, I will come back. I promise."
Good.
Scratching Loves.
You.
"Mommy has an anchor, you have an anchor, and I must set sail beyond the sunset and the baths of all the Western stars, until I ... until I can ... oh shit, here it goes -- so dizzy -- be good, Max."
SIGH.
Sleepy times.
"Be good for Mommy. Listen for her call and go to her if you hear her voice."
Mommy?
I love Mommy.
... I love You ...
Snore.
"Listen for Mommy and ask her to sing for you, she sings like an angel --"
>>POP<<
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