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: 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.

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."

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<<