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

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.

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."

NFTF: Rancher IV

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 ...

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.