Showing posts with label #monks. Show all posts
Showing posts with label #monks. Show all posts
Monday, October 14, 2013
NFTF: Conflagration II
For a time, there is only silence. The world is breathing, taking stock of its injuries.
A great rumbling is heard, then felt. Several of the soldiers, the two wounded monks, even the creatures being herded toward the barns and their pursuers are thrown to the ground.
The monks feel it the moment their hands touch earth.
East of them, beyond the raging inferno of Mt. Diablo, another fault has slipped. Reaching well into the delta via Marsh Creek, this fault has opened a gorge larger and deeper than the one which devoured 580. It extends from the delta along that fault into the far eastern end of Livermore and Trevarno (the town that time forgot, clearly sensed by the monks, a mystery within a Quincunx conundrum), right up toward Del Valle and along the canyon next to Mines Road where it curves up toward San Antonio Valley. Old gas mains under vineyards are ruptured. Entire neighborhoods are destroyed in seconds.
Water from the delta rushes into the gorge. It will begin to fill the valley from that end within hours.
An old man, his beard grown long in the time it has taken him to get back to this place and step into a house recently vacated by his younger self, sips his tea as the walls crack and just keeps writing. If I can only get to her in time, he writes. Can the rift hold?
A canny old witch in Trevarno sees all of this in her obsidian scrying ball. The monks see her see them. She winks. They've heard her radio show.
Hordes of beastling creatures swarm into the area between the barns, and battle is engaged. The monks stagger to their feet, dizzy and disorientated. All around them are vintage soldiers and nurses, the howling wolflings in various sizes, and two elephant-sized dogs, both favoring their back left legs.
The monks stumble to the dairy barn, pulling open the very door Veronica used to get in. A great deep bark sounds and the wall is blasted apart as Max the Wonderdog leaps through.
Veronica sits astride his shoulders, holding tight his gigantic red collar. A shiny brass dog tag jingles against two copper amulets covered in esoteric symbols. He howls. The other two Wonderdogs howl.
The sky bellows thunder of the gods, ripping open as a vast zeppelin noses through, wreathed in lightning and firing precise bolts of copper-colored energy from galvanized Tesla guns. Wolflings are incinerated by the hundreds.
A man's voice cries out from the firelit night in the field, "Dirigibles, now?! Really?!" This is followed by a woman's laugh.
The monks sink to their knees as the three giant dogs, under the command of the fierce crossbow-wielding woman astride one of them, join the forces from another time to lay waste to the creatures of nightmare.
From within the fire which has devoured most of the field now lumbers the impossibly tall, burning, screeching figure of the Oaken lady. Before the Wonderdog closest to her can smack her back into the fire, she launches herself at the zeppelin, her flaming, jagged branches tearing into the envelope near the aft propellers. The zeppelin bursts into flame, falling to the ground.
Lady Henrietta cries out to her forces to fall back.
The three Wonderdogs leap back toward the barns, one grabbing Petherbridge and Elfie, the other grabbing an old man. These are hunting dogs. Their soft mouths do not hurt the people in their care.
The man and the woman sprint after Max the Wonderdog as he picks up Talmadge, the flaming dirigible coming down above them as they run. They can hear its crackling Tesla guns, the shriek and whine of propellers tangled in broken branches. Wielding their machetes in a ballet of deadly grace, they slice through every evil creature they pass, taking off heads, arms, faces, engorged and thorny cocks. This pair are torn, ragged, bloody, bruised. But they run. They run and they do not stop, even as they hear the back end of the zeppelin crashing to the ground just behind them, even as they know that it must fall and crush them in the next few seconds.
The world is fire and ash and screaming metal. An old stile still stands next to a cattle fence and the couple throw themselves up it, leaping from the highest step and simultaneously beheading two full-grown wolfbeasts who rear up to attack from where they've been devouring vintage nurses.
The zeppelin, caught in the branches of Oaken Iron Rachel, misses crushing their skulls by milimeters. They land, rolling forward, coming to their feet in battle stance as the airship crashes to the earth behind them, dealing death to the majority of the nightmares still on the field. Just as it erupts in a final ball of fire, the front hatch explodes open in smoke and sparks, slamming to the ground a little tilted, its inner side a set of steps now leading to the burned and bloody earth beneath.
The woman astride the giant dog raises her crossbow.
The Rancher hefts the axe he's acquired since leaving the ridge.
The man and woman crouch, ready to attack.
Lady Henrietta inhales to give the order.
A man in a aviator cap, goggles and flight leathers steps with his back to them from within the control car, coughing and waving at the smoke with his white silk scarf. The control car is belching smoke. He turns, takes a step down, holding on to the railing of the hatch door.
Every weapon in the hands of every survivor is pointed at this man.
He laughs aloud, tossing his head.
"Now how's that for a Deus Ex Machina!?" he shouts. Something explodes behind him and he's thrown forward to the ground, shouting, "Motherfucker!"
The assembled survivors make a collective gasping whoa sound at the explosion. All but three of them. One of those three is hardly breathing, trying to keep her crossbow still.
The man climbs to his feet, shaking his head. Once he's steady, he lifts his goggles. There is at least one gasp from within the assembled crowd.
"Oh, come on," he says, grinning from within his singed goatee and moustache, his face clean around his eyes, blackened by soot and dirt where the goggles didn't cover. "Isn't anyone going to acknowledge the inherent awesomeness of me landing in a dirigible?"
"Tad?!" this from at least two voices.
"Hold your fire!" shouts Lady Henrietta.
The three giant Wonderdogs leap forward, knocking him to the ground and kissing him with many good dog kisses, pinning him down. Veronica is trying to dismount, but her steed is too full of canine exuberance.
"Good God, there's three of you!" he shouts. "Pfaaaawh, are you all determined to put your tongue in my -- khougggh -- I guess that's a yes."
The burning airship sends up another gout of flame. Veronica's mount carries the newcomer in his mouth toward the barns, away from the heat; the other dogs and the remaining survivors follow. Veronica throws herself to the ground and into the newcomer's arms as the warrior wife and her husband arrive behind her. Lady Henrietta stands a little behind them.
"Edward's trajectory has changed," she says. "New growth from the very old bark of this saga." One of the Wonderdogs turns, looking her in the eyes, and grins, drooling. Dogs are the only species who can drool and look intelligent at the same time, she thinks.
At long, long last, Edward and Veronica kiss. And though his facial hair is burned and their faces are smeared with blood and soot and dirt, their tears make it the sweetest and best kiss, the most true kiss either of them has ever known. Or ever will.
"I told you I would come back," he says, and she hugs him so hard his back pops like a stretchy straw. "Wow. Thanks, I needed that," he says, and sees the couple behind her. "Joshua," he says to the man. "I see you got here on time."
"We had a little trouble on the ridge," Josh says. "Your sister almost beheaded me twice."
"I told him to bring the fucking rock salt," says the woman.
Veronica has only had eyes for Edward. She turns at the sound of this voice and cries out, delighted, throwing her arms around the other woman. "Hillary!"
"Damn right," says Hillary. "Sorry it took us so fucking long. Oakland? Obstacles. That's all I'm sayin'."
They laugh, the burning airship sends up another gout of flame. Some of the crowd laugh too, and they all move back toward the barns, away from the heat. Quiet voices murmur amazement, too uncertain of their victory to speak loudly. Edward steps up onto an old wagon, limping a little. Veronica and Lady Henrietta each see this, exchanging a glance that says, It's really him. Veronica sees something in Lady Henrietta's eyes that makes her wonder exactly where Tad has been while he's been elsewhere. Then he holds his hand out to her and she takes it, stepping up onto the wagon next to him.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he calls out. The murmuring ceases. "We have limited time. By now, the Greenville / Marsh Creek Fault has broken open at the eastern end of the valley. The Livermore end of the valley will flood entirely within the next three days. If any of you are Rachels or Ezekiels who still have family or loved ones in the region, we need to send rescue parties to them immediately. This is, I'm sorry to tell you, only the beginning. The coming changes will alter this nation, and this world, forever."
One of the Rachels speaks. Veronica sees that it's Nice Rachel, the first one to help her back, what was that, a week ago? Before the world went insane, at any rate.
"How do you know all this?" Nice Rachel calls out. Edward turns to her, smiling, his left hand around Veronica's waist.
"Rachel, don't you know?" he asks, grinning and cocky as ever, his arm suddenly light on Veronica's hip. She turns to look at it, sees his hand growing translucent. She turns to look at his face as he says, "I'm a Time Traveler, and I don't even need a little blue box!"
Edward throws his head back, laughing.
Then he disappears. Not with a pop, like before. He simply winks out of existence.
*********
[The following is an excerpt from an audio journal of voice memos made some days after the quake. It was made while driving around to every known road out of Livermore, including those leading into Trevarno, to see which would be the best route. Though originally posted some time ago, it is included here because the transcriber has noted some slight alterations in the text. Any theories aimed at an explanation are welcome. Only the altered portion of the transcript is included.]
[Sound: We hear Veronica walk around to trunk of car. As she does, we hear the engine of a large pickup truck as it pulls up nearby.]
Voice in Truck: Now, are you folks okay?
Edward: We're ... fine. I just got a little dizzy, is all.
Voice: In trying times like these, faith ... can be its own reward.
Edward: Thank you.
I'm Edward. Edward --
Veronica: (interrupting) Water.
Who's this?
Voice: Mayberry. Torvald Mayberry. Doctor of Divinity.
Veronica: Like the candy?
Mayberry: Oh, sweeter. Surely. And the Lord's work may be done any day. No matter the weather.
[A silence. Ravens cry in the distance.]
Mayberry (cont.): The candy, I understand, requires low humidity.
Edward: Dr. Mayberry is correct, honey.
Veronica: We should be on our way.
Mayberry: Wouldn't want to keep you.
Edward: Do you ... do you know the best way West from here? We're trying to get to Hayward.
Mayberry: I hear Bollinger is the safest way across 680. Head there directly, the sooner the better. I can't guarantee that it will be safe when you arrive, of course. We all have our trials to bear, don't we, Veronica?
Veronica: Yes ... of course.
Mayberry: And they do ... take their toll ...
Veronica: We should go.
Edward: Yes.
Mayberry: See you farther on down the road, then.
Edward: The way things are going since the quake, I'm not so sure.
Mayberry: Oh ... it's a date. I promise.
Veronica: Dr. Mayberry, are you okay?
Mayberry: I can honestly say that I haven't felt this good in a long, long time. Why do you ask?
Veronica: For a moment, you looked like you were in pain. Your face, it looked ...
Mayberry: I have this beast of a headache. Sometimes it feels like my skull's fit to crack open. I'm actually headed back to stop it right now, good people.
For Lo, he did see that the harlot was perceptive
And it did fill him with lustful dread.
So saith the Prophet ...
[Nobody speaks for a moment. Ravens cry in greater numbers, closer.]
Mayberry (cont.): So Saith The Lord. You would do well to remember that.
Veronica: Thanks. Drive carefully.
[Sound of car door opening.]
Mayberry: Bye, now, Tad.
[Sound: pickup truck revs, drives away.
We hear Edward and Veronica getting back into the Honda. Edward in driver's seat. Honda starts, pulls forward to stop sign, brakes, left turn signal clicking.]
Veronica:That guy was creepy.
Edward: Did you hear what he just said? He called me Tad.
Veronica: What? No.
Edward: He did. He called me Tad. How did you not hear that?
Veronica: Definitely a weirdo. But maybe you were hearing things.
Edward: People who are sane do not just "hear things."
Veronica: And you would be ...
Edward: Hey, I'm not the one advocating a trip to Hayward. Did we introduce you? I think he called you by name as well.
Veronica: Huh. Wow. I think you're right. Creeper of Divinty.
Edward: This makes me reconsider heading to Hayward.
Veronica: I thought we'd agreed.
Edward: When Reverend Creepy grins at me like he wants to tongue my soul, I question the validity of his directions.
Veronica: You have a point. Maybe we can cross 680 farther North?
Edward: Maybe.
Veronica: We'll discuss it. For now, let's go to Safeway, see if the lines for gas are too long. Then I think it's lunchtime.
[Sound: Honda accelerates, turning left, turn signal stops clicking.
Wind in open car windows.
Alison Krauss, 'I Will'. Veronica hums along.]
When the song is over, Veronica sighs.]
Edward: Why such a sigh?
Veronica: Because even when it feels like the world is ending, I am happy just to be here with you.
[Sound: a smooch on a cheek.
Driving.
Ravens via Doppler effect.
Recording cuts out.]
The End
Friday, October 11, 2013
NFTF: Conflagration
Brothers
Oswald and Johannes sit, pale and unmoving, breath shallow as each
clutches an open wound in the shadow of a big red barn in which Oak and
Bay saplings have begun to grow into full-fledged trees. They can feel
the roots pushing down into the earth around them, they can hear the
timbers protesting as the branches push out, seeking release. Each monk
knows it is only a matter of time.
Focused thus on time, they have each gone inward so that, following the roots of the new and powerful trees springing up around them, they may sense and understand that which is occurring everywhere else in this battle. Their hope is that, by leaving their mark upon the energy of the trees, others in their brotherhood will be able to see, and by seeing, know. Sensing change, sensing the approach of a powerful force, they push their awareness down into the network of roots and allow it to ripple out, like a stone of inquiry in the still pool of existence. What comes to them, in responding ripples, is a picture painted in grim, dark colors.
On a ridge above, behind and to their left, three people fight the same beasts which have torn holes in Oswald and Johannes. The beasts pour from the forest to the North of the ridge where a man and woman trip a lethal fandango of gunfire, a dance certain to end in moments. Behind them, on the ground, an old man struggles against his own tide.
The branch is just beyond Talmadge's reach. His elbow slips and he feels the beastling's teeth tear into his tricep. He cries out (Oswald and Johannes echo his sound, faintly, their blood soaking the ground and feeding the roots beneath them), his pain and fear spurring his reach and grasping, hefting and swinging of the branch, ignoring the pain in his arm and legs abdomen where they're biting into his muscle, bellowing one phrase as he sweeps the branch in a great clubbing arc; his words are not planned, they are his last desperate cry before his life ends, the final thought before he is overcome:
"I am the Steward of the R.M.S. Ruritania!" the sharp broken twigs of the branch slice and pierce the creatures as they are thrown back into the ranks of their advancing fellows. He struggles onto one knee, impaling the creature feasting on his left arm, seeing his own bloody flesh and the wool of his shirt in its mouth. "Long has it traveled! Lost in lagoons and wand'ring in waterways!" Talmadge swings the branch back against another onslaught, amazed at his sudden strength as the creatures are thrown like rag dolls. He has a moment of rest, an instant to breathe.
Bracing himself against the branch, in that instant Talmadge hears two things: the galloping crash of a much larger creature approaching from behind, and the telltale click of an empty firearm; he sees the husband switch the shotgun in his hands, crying out as his fingers burn on the hot metal, clubbing the beasts as they surround the couple. The wife has one handgun and a machete, now; a gash in her brow bleeds, obscuring her vision. All this in a glance as he stands, bracing the branch under his right arm, staggering forward and bellowing his rage to the night, ready to die with these words on his lips:
"Protected by passengers, I call on its Captain! Ruritania! Stands! Defiant!"
Johannes and Oswald, their blood nourishing the roots of the network into which they currently delve, sense two things; the first is that the Rancher's words have triggered a fissure, an opening -- not in the earth, as has been the case in so much of this region of late, but in the fabric of time and space. There is something, something large, beginning to nose its way through that fissure. As they sense this, they realize that there are other such fissures -- they are in fact surrounded by these cracks and holes: the 1913 soldiers and nurses, the creatures that have attacked them ... all of these things are here because of holes that have opened . From where, and how, and how to close the holes, they do not yet know. As they sense and understand these things, they also understand that they are not likely to live long enough to tell Father Michael directly.
In that moment they are distracted by the second thing: the whatever it is that approaches from behind the Rancher. Seeing it now through the perception of the trees from amongst which it launches itself at the Rancher's back, they are shocked. This thing is impossible. It cannot be. And even as it leaps toward the Rancher, even as he senses it and turns his head, their attention is drawn to
A lone soldier, Petherbridge, silhouetted against a wall of fire, wielding an old pitchfork with the skill of a Master of the Quarterstaff, whips it to the right, flinging a dead wolfling to land in the flames which tear their way into the field from the hillside behind him. This is the three-hundredth monster he's dispatched, and none of those burned can fuel the growth of their fellows. He dashes forward, forking and pitching three wolflings one after the other, flinging each into the fire as he spins -- or so he thinks. The first lands screaming in the fire, the other two are thrown wide of the mark, each impaled in the branches of the monstrous tree woman as she crouches over a screaming Nurse -- is that Elfie?! --, their blood and shit smearing her horrific branches.
The beastlings behind her, smelling and seeing their fleshly ambrosia, fling themselves into her branches, pulling her head up and back with the weight of the first ten of them. She screams, the sound of straining timbers and wanton cruelty frustrated, turning away from Nurse Elfie, who scrambles back and runs as the tree woman shakes her head, impaling those creatures who have leapt into her branches to feast.
Petherbridge darts to his right, noting but not heeding the sound of something massive approaching from the South, forking and pitching as many wolflings as he can into her branches. One lands in her deadly ladymouth. She tries to spit it out, her leathery, birdlike tongue tearing on her myriad splintry teeth. She screams, stomping toward him, crushing hundreds of the creatures who swarm around her in their craving to be the biggest. Petherbridge trips over a dead comrade, slipping in the other soldier's entrails, landing on his back amid shit and torn flesh, the pitchfork slipping from his grasp as the oak lady towers above him, her branches and face running red and black with blood and shit, spreading her legs to open her creaking, groaning, hissing sex which gleams with the sap dripping from its walls, a deep and malevolent green light pulsating within to light the struggles of still-living soldiers pierced and screaming by the barnacle-like spikes chewing into their faces, their genitals, their eye sockets.
Oswald and Johannes are startled nearly to waking by what approaches from the South. How can that be?, they want to ask aloud. In that same moment, in those billionths of seconds which have passed, their attention is drawn now to a place with no living trees inside of it, a place surrounded by saplings and soldiers from another time, a place which gleams in the perception of the trees with the hot, red, screaming light of cruelty, torture and despair.
A woman is trapped in a living mirror box in that place, as countless others are abused and assaulted in a ritual focused on raising a massive amount of negative energy, and Johannes and Oswald understand even as their minds' eyes are burned by the heat of the light of such pain. They understand and they cry out as the woman inside opens her mouth to a warm spoonful of brains, and the commander of the soldiers from another time who cannot get in to help the spellbound woman cries out, hearing a great beast now attacking from the South.
"Petherbridge! Where is Petherbridge?!" Lady Henrietta shouts. She sees the beast top the hill behind the dairy barn, this rickety old building she's been hacking at, screaming at, assaulting with every weapon and strength available to her at this time -- to no avail. Firelight reflects in its great dark eyes and it howls, the roots of the howl so deep in its chest that she feels her bones vibrate. They cannot fight this creature. She suspects that they are done -- she dies here, tonight, and all her history will end. No great journey, no escape to the New World, no secret compound in the golden hills of California. She accepts this, setting her stance and ready to attack.
Then a second howl, to the West. She turns in time to see, on the ridge above and to their right, a great black shape leaping firelit toward -- the back of an old man?
A third howl, overlapping with the first two, draws her attention to the burning field behind them to the East as
Brother Oswald and Brother Johannes see it all, perceiving the unfolding of this moment in simultaneous awareness through the network of roots connecting all trees, sensing its movement through the roots of the world, knowing now that all trees share all experience simultaneously with all other living, growing plant life.
Even the burning brown grasses of the field tell them of where a great black dog lands unsinged in the fire itself, its howl overlapping with the first two and echoing among the hills around them, its eyes reflecting the purifying flames, its body lithe and powerful as it raises up on its hind legs, towering above Petherbridge, its black claws gleaming in the light of this fire that does not burn it, ready to slam down and crush anything beneath. The monks sense this even as they sense
Leaves of Bay and Oak, falling from broken branches as another gigantic black dog leaps toward the back of the old Rancher fighting for his life, the Rancher's eyes widening as he turns -- and the black dog sails over his head to land, skidding, turning, deadly and precise, among the wolflings, facing the old man as
Saplings around the dairy barn and fully-grown trees on the hill above it shudder at the impact of each massive paw as this giant black dog throws itself down the hill, tongue lolling wild and pink from the left side of its foaming jaw. It will be upon the dairy barn in three great leaping strides. Roots beneath the dairy barn sense the blood spilled above, but unlike the blood of Brothers Johannes and Oswald which soaks down to nourish this network of awareness, the blood in the barn is held, it is separate and that which holds it from soaking into the earth is also that which is driving the women and girls in the barn to scream and scream and scream, inarticulate terror that stains the earth around it, causing the roots below to shrink back, the branches above to lean away. Even the dry brown grass around the barn in this moment loses its substance and puffs to dust as the women and girls trapped in that barn see something they should never have seen and the woman trapped in the living mirror box tilts the spoon up into her mouth, tears streaking her face to rinse just a little of the spattered blood away. The roots sense and absorb and transmit these images from the minds of the women in the barn just as their horror reaches a peak, exploding outward in a sudden and scalding supernova of pain, hatred, suffering, horror, terror and dread. It expands to encompass all the pain and fear and death in this little vale, from the dairy barn to the dead and dying creatures on the ridge above, to the soldiers and nurses in the field, to the creatures in the branches of the oak monster lady and the soldiers and nurses she's stuffed into her trunk through either hole.
The great black dog on the hill smells the figure it intends to attack and kill, aiming its final leap so that it can crash through the back wall of the dairy barn, ready to tear the throat from the figure in the spot to its left.
The massive black dog on the ridge attacks those nearest, tearing and throwing and snarling and breaking.
The immense black dog in the fire, red sparks swirling up around him like the blessing of an ancient lady in mountains two continents away, brings his front paws down to crush, and kill, the wolflings surrounding Lieutenant Petherbridge, who sees the terror in the eyes of the Oaken lady as the giant black dog lunges out of the fire, snatching her into his mouth and throwing her in the air like a bone, snapping her in half and tossing her into the inferno behind him, then bounding into the field to destroy every wolfling, every darkling spawn now fleeing in terror.
Petherbridge leaps to his feet, pitchfork in hand, shouting the only words he can think in that moment, "Good boy!" For he has heard the stories, the whispered words, the half-hoped-for tales of the trusty companion, the mythic savior, the noble and powerful beast who came to his Alpha's aid when all was thought lost.
His words are echoed by the Rancher on the ridge as the massive black dog tears into the wolflings, rending and scattering them before they can devour the dead, this giant powerful dog leaping up to bring his front paws down exactly like the Boxer of which he is half, piercing and crushing evil creatures by the score, barking his great deep barks to scatter them like cockroaches. The old man laughs and calls his praise as he, too strikes at the creatures, emboldening and empowering this astounding dog with these two ancient words, "Good boy!"
The woman and her husband see the scattering beastlings. They turn. They see the giant dog and the woman cries out, "Oh my God! What the fuck is that?! Wait, is that -- ? It is! It's Max! Good boy, Maxwell! Kill those little shitfucking evil motherfuckers! Kill! Kill! Kill them all!" Brandishing her machete, she sprints into their midst, followed by her laughing husband, his own machete drawn now, the couple joining the old man and the giant black dog as they chase the creatures to the North, into the trees and back down the hill toward the burning field, destroying as many as they can.
Brothers Johannes and Oswald gasp as the back wall of the dairy barn explodes open, the great black dog shattering the wall and the dark enchantments which have ensorceled the building against any other attack. He lands, skidding a little in the bloody straw, his jaws open even as he finds his footing, turning to his left. The monks see the interior more clearly, now: crazed women stand supporting six large, heavy, wood-framed mirrors, their bodies covered in cuts and gashes, bleeding freely. These women are whispering, screaming, laughing, lost in pain and madness, penetrated by the monstrous full-grown wolfbeasts that grind behind them, holding their hands in place on the mirrors or tearing into their flesh with razor-sharp claws and teeth already caked in blood and chunks. Beneath each wolfbeast and woman is a sizzling, smoking puddle of blood and other fluids. Distracted by the arrival of the gigantic black dog, the women and the wolfbeasts turn, even as the dog is turning and launching himself toward them, jaws wide, powerful muscles flexing.
In that instant, the supernova of pain and dread, expanding to just beyond the little vale in which all of this has come to pass, reaches its breaking point.
The man toward which the black dog leaps, the man whose cruelty and madness have shaped this pit of torment for these innocent women and girls, sees the leaping dog -- a dog many times larger than it was the last time it leapt at him -- and opens his shattered mouth to scream. Not a scream of fear or pain. No. A scream of triumph: the mirrors, the pain he's created in these whores and harlots, all of this serves his victorious purpose, and as he feels the great globe of torment collapsing back in on him, he is screaming in delight, in Holy Rapture, ecstatic that he'll kill the dog, too, as he stretches his left arm out, reaching for the woman he's trapped with him in this mirror box.
Oswald and Johannes understand, now: the mirrors are meant to reflect, magnify and multiply all that happens within them. It's an infinity box. They gasp, sitting up, eyes open, all pain faded as they realize what he's done. Leaping to their feet, the monks do their best to run to the dairy barn before Torvald Walter Mayberry, former pastor of Three Square Christian Church and Missionary Bible School in Castro Valley, can succeed in his dark task.
All of this is happening in the same instant that Max the Wonderdog is leaping to tear out Torvald Walter Mayberry's throat, and as Mayberry himself is reaching for Veronica's hand.
For what delight, Mayberry is thinking. What delight to take her with me, to tear her from this world as she tore me from my flock? To hold her down and treat with her as a whore should be dealt? The pain, the fear, the fluids, the whores, the brains, the mirrors --
His scream of triumph catches in his throat. The mirrors!
"Nerrrr! Terrrrhhnng!" he bellows.
The mirrors are all angled toward him. He looks for the whore.
The monks have taken three steps.
The commander of the forces outside has raised her sword.
The myth-imbued dog is mid-air.
The woman has thrown herself to the floor.
The mirrors reflect only Torvald Walter Mayberry.
The supernova of anguish snaps back --
-- collapsing --
-- to its center --
even as Mayberry tries to smudge a sigil off the closest mirror, the Mana he has tapped slams into him and every dark working he has crafted ignites with the power of the agony of his victims. The mirrors explode with crackling heat and red-black energy -- blasting into him as a swirling counter-clockwise vortex opens behind him.
Max the Wonderdog tries to change his trajectory in mid-leap, latching onto an old rope hanging from the rafters with his teeth.
The vortex expands to envelop the broken, bellowing, terrified man trying to escape it. His eyes fix on an object on the floor as the superheated shards of mirror glass slice through his flesh and into his soul: the plastic spoon, a scoop of brains still in it. The last thought in his head is, She never ate the brains! Then the vortex sucks him in, ripping him in half as the mirrors and the now mostly dead women and rutting wolfbeasts are pulled in after, all clogging the vortex for a moment like too much shit in a toilet. Max the Wonderdog struggles to maintain his hold on the rope, his jaws aching as the vortex pulls at him, pulls at the barn and all people and things in and around the barn. Even the hillsides begin to lean in toward the barn until, with a wet, splashing thud, the pile of dead flesh and the gigantic mandoline smash into the vortex and shove everything through.
Max the Wonderdog yelps as his back left dewclaw is torn from his leg, the last thing to hit the swirling maeslstrom of energy.
The vortex snaps shut.
Max the Wonderdog falls to the floor of the dairy barn.
Every beam of the barn, every tree, every speck of dirt and every living and unliving thing relaxes back, the pressure of the vortex released.
For a time, there is only silence. The world is breathing, taking stock of its injuries.
Focused thus on time, they have each gone inward so that, following the roots of the new and powerful trees springing up around them, they may sense and understand that which is occurring everywhere else in this battle. Their hope is that, by leaving their mark upon the energy of the trees, others in their brotherhood will be able to see, and by seeing, know. Sensing change, sensing the approach of a powerful force, they push their awareness down into the network of roots and allow it to ripple out, like a stone of inquiry in the still pool of existence. What comes to them, in responding ripples, is a picture painted in grim, dark colors.
On a ridge above, behind and to their left, three people fight the same beasts which have torn holes in Oswald and Johannes. The beasts pour from the forest to the North of the ridge where a man and woman trip a lethal fandango of gunfire, a dance certain to end in moments. Behind them, on the ground, an old man struggles against his own tide.
The branch is just beyond Talmadge's reach. His elbow slips and he feels the beastling's teeth tear into his tricep. He cries out (Oswald and Johannes echo his sound, faintly, their blood soaking the ground and feeding the roots beneath them), his pain and fear spurring his reach and grasping, hefting and swinging of the branch, ignoring the pain in his arm and legs abdomen where they're biting into his muscle, bellowing one phrase as he sweeps the branch in a great clubbing arc; his words are not planned, they are his last desperate cry before his life ends, the final thought before he is overcome:
"I am the Steward of the R.M.S. Ruritania!" the sharp broken twigs of the branch slice and pierce the creatures as they are thrown back into the ranks of their advancing fellows. He struggles onto one knee, impaling the creature feasting on his left arm, seeing his own bloody flesh and the wool of his shirt in its mouth. "Long has it traveled! Lost in lagoons and wand'ring in waterways!" Talmadge swings the branch back against another onslaught, amazed at his sudden strength as the creatures are thrown like rag dolls. He has a moment of rest, an instant to breathe.
Bracing himself against the branch, in that instant Talmadge hears two things: the galloping crash of a much larger creature approaching from behind, and the telltale click of an empty firearm; he sees the husband switch the shotgun in his hands, crying out as his fingers burn on the hot metal, clubbing the beasts as they surround the couple. The wife has one handgun and a machete, now; a gash in her brow bleeds, obscuring her vision. All this in a glance as he stands, bracing the branch under his right arm, staggering forward and bellowing his rage to the night, ready to die with these words on his lips:
"Protected by passengers, I call on its Captain! Ruritania! Stands! Defiant!"
Johannes and Oswald, their blood nourishing the roots of the network into which they currently delve, sense two things; the first is that the Rancher's words have triggered a fissure, an opening -- not in the earth, as has been the case in so much of this region of late, but in the fabric of time and space. There is something, something large, beginning to nose its way through that fissure. As they sense this, they realize that there are other such fissures -- they are in fact surrounded by these cracks and holes: the 1913 soldiers and nurses, the creatures that have attacked them ... all of these things are here because of holes that have opened . From where, and how, and how to close the holes, they do not yet know. As they sense and understand these things, they also understand that they are not likely to live long enough to tell Father Michael directly.
In that moment they are distracted by the second thing: the whatever it is that approaches from behind the Rancher. Seeing it now through the perception of the trees from amongst which it launches itself at the Rancher's back, they are shocked. This thing is impossible. It cannot be. And even as it leaps toward the Rancher, even as he senses it and turns his head, their attention is drawn to
A lone soldier, Petherbridge, silhouetted against a wall of fire, wielding an old pitchfork with the skill of a Master of the Quarterstaff, whips it to the right, flinging a dead wolfling to land in the flames which tear their way into the field from the hillside behind him. This is the three-hundredth monster he's dispatched, and none of those burned can fuel the growth of their fellows. He dashes forward, forking and pitching three wolflings one after the other, flinging each into the fire as he spins -- or so he thinks. The first lands screaming in the fire, the other two are thrown wide of the mark, each impaled in the branches of the monstrous tree woman as she crouches over a screaming Nurse -- is that Elfie?! --, their blood and shit smearing her horrific branches.
The beastlings behind her, smelling and seeing their fleshly ambrosia, fling themselves into her branches, pulling her head up and back with the weight of the first ten of them. She screams, the sound of straining timbers and wanton cruelty frustrated, turning away from Nurse Elfie, who scrambles back and runs as the tree woman shakes her head, impaling those creatures who have leapt into her branches to feast.
Petherbridge darts to his right, noting but not heeding the sound of something massive approaching from the South, forking and pitching as many wolflings as he can into her branches. One lands in her deadly ladymouth. She tries to spit it out, her leathery, birdlike tongue tearing on her myriad splintry teeth. She screams, stomping toward him, crushing hundreds of the creatures who swarm around her in their craving to be the biggest. Petherbridge trips over a dead comrade, slipping in the other soldier's entrails, landing on his back amid shit and torn flesh, the pitchfork slipping from his grasp as the oak lady towers above him, her branches and face running red and black with blood and shit, spreading her legs to open her creaking, groaning, hissing sex which gleams with the sap dripping from its walls, a deep and malevolent green light pulsating within to light the struggles of still-living soldiers pierced and screaming by the barnacle-like spikes chewing into their faces, their genitals, their eye sockets.
Oswald and Johannes are startled nearly to waking by what approaches from the South. How can that be?, they want to ask aloud. In that same moment, in those billionths of seconds which have passed, their attention is drawn now to a place with no living trees inside of it, a place surrounded by saplings and soldiers from another time, a place which gleams in the perception of the trees with the hot, red, screaming light of cruelty, torture and despair.
A woman is trapped in a living mirror box in that place, as countless others are abused and assaulted in a ritual focused on raising a massive amount of negative energy, and Johannes and Oswald understand even as their minds' eyes are burned by the heat of the light of such pain. They understand and they cry out as the woman inside opens her mouth to a warm spoonful of brains, and the commander of the soldiers from another time who cannot get in to help the spellbound woman cries out, hearing a great beast now attacking from the South.
"Petherbridge! Where is Petherbridge?!" Lady Henrietta shouts. She sees the beast top the hill behind the dairy barn, this rickety old building she's been hacking at, screaming at, assaulting with every weapon and strength available to her at this time -- to no avail. Firelight reflects in its great dark eyes and it howls, the roots of the howl so deep in its chest that she feels her bones vibrate. They cannot fight this creature. She suspects that they are done -- she dies here, tonight, and all her history will end. No great journey, no escape to the New World, no secret compound in the golden hills of California. She accepts this, setting her stance and ready to attack.
Then a second howl, to the West. She turns in time to see, on the ridge above and to their right, a great black shape leaping firelit toward -- the back of an old man?
A third howl, overlapping with the first two, draws her attention to the burning field behind them to the East as
Brother Oswald and Brother Johannes see it all, perceiving the unfolding of this moment in simultaneous awareness through the network of roots connecting all trees, sensing its movement through the roots of the world, knowing now that all trees share all experience simultaneously with all other living, growing plant life.
Even the burning brown grasses of the field tell them of where a great black dog lands unsinged in the fire itself, its howl overlapping with the first two and echoing among the hills around them, its eyes reflecting the purifying flames, its body lithe and powerful as it raises up on its hind legs, towering above Petherbridge, its black claws gleaming in the light of this fire that does not burn it, ready to slam down and crush anything beneath. The monks sense this even as they sense
Leaves of Bay and Oak, falling from broken branches as another gigantic black dog leaps toward the back of the old Rancher fighting for his life, the Rancher's eyes widening as he turns -- and the black dog sails over his head to land, skidding, turning, deadly and precise, among the wolflings, facing the old man as
Saplings around the dairy barn and fully-grown trees on the hill above it shudder at the impact of each massive paw as this giant black dog throws itself down the hill, tongue lolling wild and pink from the left side of its foaming jaw. It will be upon the dairy barn in three great leaping strides. Roots beneath the dairy barn sense the blood spilled above, but unlike the blood of Brothers Johannes and Oswald which soaks down to nourish this network of awareness, the blood in the barn is held, it is separate and that which holds it from soaking into the earth is also that which is driving the women and girls in the barn to scream and scream and scream, inarticulate terror that stains the earth around it, causing the roots below to shrink back, the branches above to lean away. Even the dry brown grass around the barn in this moment loses its substance and puffs to dust as the women and girls trapped in that barn see something they should never have seen and the woman trapped in the living mirror box tilts the spoon up into her mouth, tears streaking her face to rinse just a little of the spattered blood away. The roots sense and absorb and transmit these images from the minds of the women in the barn just as their horror reaches a peak, exploding outward in a sudden and scalding supernova of pain, hatred, suffering, horror, terror and dread. It expands to encompass all the pain and fear and death in this little vale, from the dairy barn to the dead and dying creatures on the ridge above, to the soldiers and nurses in the field, to the creatures in the branches of the oak monster lady and the soldiers and nurses she's stuffed into her trunk through either hole.
The great black dog on the hill smells the figure it intends to attack and kill, aiming its final leap so that it can crash through the back wall of the dairy barn, ready to tear the throat from the figure in the spot to its left.
The massive black dog on the ridge attacks those nearest, tearing and throwing and snarling and breaking.
The immense black dog in the fire, red sparks swirling up around him like the blessing of an ancient lady in mountains two continents away, brings his front paws down to crush, and kill, the wolflings surrounding Lieutenant Petherbridge, who sees the terror in the eyes of the Oaken lady as the giant black dog lunges out of the fire, snatching her into his mouth and throwing her in the air like a bone, snapping her in half and tossing her into the inferno behind him, then bounding into the field to destroy every wolfling, every darkling spawn now fleeing in terror.
Petherbridge leaps to his feet, pitchfork in hand, shouting the only words he can think in that moment, "Good boy!" For he has heard the stories, the whispered words, the half-hoped-for tales of the trusty companion, the mythic savior, the noble and powerful beast who came to his Alpha's aid when all was thought lost.
His words are echoed by the Rancher on the ridge as the massive black dog tears into the wolflings, rending and scattering them before they can devour the dead, this giant powerful dog leaping up to bring his front paws down exactly like the Boxer of which he is half, piercing and crushing evil creatures by the score, barking his great deep barks to scatter them like cockroaches. The old man laughs and calls his praise as he, too strikes at the creatures, emboldening and empowering this astounding dog with these two ancient words, "Good boy!"
The woman and her husband see the scattering beastlings. They turn. They see the giant dog and the woman cries out, "Oh my God! What the fuck is that?! Wait, is that -- ? It is! It's Max! Good boy, Maxwell! Kill those little shitfucking evil motherfuckers! Kill! Kill! Kill them all!" Brandishing her machete, she sprints into their midst, followed by her laughing husband, his own machete drawn now, the couple joining the old man and the giant black dog as they chase the creatures to the North, into the trees and back down the hill toward the burning field, destroying as many as they can.
Brothers Johannes and Oswald gasp as the back wall of the dairy barn explodes open, the great black dog shattering the wall and the dark enchantments which have ensorceled the building against any other attack. He lands, skidding a little in the bloody straw, his jaws open even as he finds his footing, turning to his left. The monks see the interior more clearly, now: crazed women stand supporting six large, heavy, wood-framed mirrors, their bodies covered in cuts and gashes, bleeding freely. These women are whispering, screaming, laughing, lost in pain and madness, penetrated by the monstrous full-grown wolfbeasts that grind behind them, holding their hands in place on the mirrors or tearing into their flesh with razor-sharp claws and teeth already caked in blood and chunks. Beneath each wolfbeast and woman is a sizzling, smoking puddle of blood and other fluids. Distracted by the arrival of the gigantic black dog, the women and the wolfbeasts turn, even as the dog is turning and launching himself toward them, jaws wide, powerful muscles flexing.
In that instant, the supernova of pain and dread, expanding to just beyond the little vale in which all of this has come to pass, reaches its breaking point.
The man toward which the black dog leaps, the man whose cruelty and madness have shaped this pit of torment for these innocent women and girls, sees the leaping dog -- a dog many times larger than it was the last time it leapt at him -- and opens his shattered mouth to scream. Not a scream of fear or pain. No. A scream of triumph: the mirrors, the pain he's created in these whores and harlots, all of this serves his victorious purpose, and as he feels the great globe of torment collapsing back in on him, he is screaming in delight, in Holy Rapture, ecstatic that he'll kill the dog, too, as he stretches his left arm out, reaching for the woman he's trapped with him in this mirror box.
Oswald and Johannes understand, now: the mirrors are meant to reflect, magnify and multiply all that happens within them. It's an infinity box. They gasp, sitting up, eyes open, all pain faded as they realize what he's done. Leaping to their feet, the monks do their best to run to the dairy barn before Torvald Walter Mayberry, former pastor of Three Square Christian Church and Missionary Bible School in Castro Valley, can succeed in his dark task.
All of this is happening in the same instant that Max the Wonderdog is leaping to tear out Torvald Walter Mayberry's throat, and as Mayberry himself is reaching for Veronica's hand.
For what delight, Mayberry is thinking. What delight to take her with me, to tear her from this world as she tore me from my flock? To hold her down and treat with her as a whore should be dealt? The pain, the fear, the fluids, the whores, the brains, the mirrors --
His scream of triumph catches in his throat. The mirrors!
"Nerrrr! Terrrrhhnng!" he bellows.
The mirrors are all angled toward him. He looks for the whore.
The monks have taken three steps.
The commander of the forces outside has raised her sword.
The myth-imbued dog is mid-air.
The woman has thrown herself to the floor.
The mirrors reflect only Torvald Walter Mayberry.
The supernova of anguish snaps back --
-- collapsing --
-- to its center --
even as Mayberry tries to smudge a sigil off the closest mirror, the Mana he has tapped slams into him and every dark working he has crafted ignites with the power of the agony of his victims. The mirrors explode with crackling heat and red-black energy -- blasting into him as a swirling counter-clockwise vortex opens behind him.
Max the Wonderdog tries to change his trajectory in mid-leap, latching onto an old rope hanging from the rafters with his teeth.
The vortex expands to envelop the broken, bellowing, terrified man trying to escape it. His eyes fix on an object on the floor as the superheated shards of mirror glass slice through his flesh and into his soul: the plastic spoon, a scoop of brains still in it. The last thought in his head is, She never ate the brains! Then the vortex sucks him in, ripping him in half as the mirrors and the now mostly dead women and rutting wolfbeasts are pulled in after, all clogging the vortex for a moment like too much shit in a toilet. Max the Wonderdog struggles to maintain his hold on the rope, his jaws aching as the vortex pulls at him, pulls at the barn and all people and things in and around the barn. Even the hillsides begin to lean in toward the barn until, with a wet, splashing thud, the pile of dead flesh and the gigantic mandoline smash into the vortex and shove everything through.
Max the Wonderdog yelps as his back left dewclaw is torn from his leg, the last thing to hit the swirling maeslstrom of energy.
The vortex snaps shut.
Max the Wonderdog falls to the floor of the dairy barn.
Every beam of the barn, every tree, every speck of dirt and every living and unliving thing relaxes back, the pressure of the vortex released.
For a time, there is only silence. The world is breathing, taking stock of its injuries.
Friday, February 1, 2013
NFTF: Journal of Brother Ambrose, Day 2, Part II
9:57 pm
My head feels like a hornets' nest, swarming with thoughts. I sit outside Father Michael's office, having been escorted here by Brother Paul and Domenico. They would not say why I've been summoned -- I suspect that Paul did not know, but Domenico had a certain tension around his eyes and would not meet my gaze for long.
Is it possible that Father Michael knows what I've been doing? Can I have somehow tipped my hand? On the way here I tried to gauge the nature of my summons, asking several questions. I tried to keep them light, but I have been described as dour and I know that levity would have left them more suspicious than they arrived. (Truly, I do not believe I am dour. I believe I am focused. If my neutral focused face appears dour to those unwilling to inquire, perhaps they should attempt a level of focus beyond snoozing in the chapel.)
That was uncharitable. I feel out of balance. Perhaps it is good that Father Michael is calling me before him, I could confess my recent ... sins? Do I believe them to be sins? Not really. Then what are they? I have no idea. But even now as I write this I hear Scarborough Faire in my mind's ear, clear as day. Or is someone playing it in the music room? Leaning in that direction doesn't change the sound ... and neither does getting up and peeking around that corner. Who would be playing Scarborough Faire here, anyway? At this hour? In this place? I suppose, technically, it's folk music. Simon and Garfunkel merely spread it about. They didn't write the damned song. Why do I hear it?! Who is playing it? Haunting, lovely, sad, bittersweet, longing ... how well I remember the first time I heard it. Before the dark days.
I hear him coming --
11:48 pm
The world is turned on its head and shaken. What falls out? Everything I had sought to leave behind. I have just spoken at length with Father Michael. Thus:
"Good evening, Brother Ambrose," the handshake and Fatherly hand clapping my right shoulder lightly, just enough to imply camaraderie without overstepping any boundaries. Clearly-defined roles.
"Father Michael," I begin, preemptive as ever when threatened; as he closes his office door behind us, locking it, he speaks over me:
"We've had word from Johannes and Oswald," he says, gesturing to the chairs in front of his desk. I sit automatically, shocked; he is sitting in his chair behind the desk as I blurt:
"How -- where?"
"Before we go any further, Ambrose, I want you to know that I respect your reasons for wanting to leave your past behind you; I have made a point of leaving you to your business and keeping you out of certain activities in which I have asked a few of your Brothers to assist. I would never ask this of you, were it not a dire situation."
"Father, I will do anything you ask if it means getting them back here, whole. Johannes and Oswald --" I'm stumbling over my words.
"As to that," he says, holding up a hand in, what, warning? Caution? "I do not know that we can bring them back whole, if at all."
"What happened? Where are they? Were they able to find why the fires are burning unchecked? Where is the National Guard? Where is the Red Cross? Why do we just sit here when people all around us need our help?! I have been waiting and praying --" I see his eyes widen, his eyebrows raise, and I'm aware that this is more than I've said in months, perhaps years. I start to speak again, then stop.
For a long moment, there is only silence.
"I knew when you joined us that you needed more than just retreat or retirement, Ambrose. I hesitate because I think I understand your pain, but because I do not -- can not -- know what it is like for you. If I show you what we've found, I want you to understand clearly that I am not asking you to do anything about it. I am asking you for your advice only. Anything beyond that is entirely voluntary. Am I clear?"
"Yes," I say, certainty settling into my bones like a comfortable old coat. I know what my answer will be before he turns his computer monitor around and clicks play.
At first I see only people -- the backs of men in plaid flannel shirts with heavy suspenders and tough denim pants, the women in what look like a mix of American pilgrim and Hollie Hobby garb, though every one of them seems to wear some kind of bonnet or ... nurse hat?
Then one of the men turns and looks at the camera. I can hear feet shuffling on gravel and wind and some birds chirping, plus another sound -- a kind of keening shriek; like a boar in agony. There are oak trees, clearly this is local, this is East Bay chaparral, but the man who turns and looks at the camera is Brother Oswald.
"What -- ?" I start, then fall silent as Brother Oswald shifts to the left and the camera moves forward a step to two -- Brother Johannes must be recording this -- picking up the scene beyond.
A filthy, half-naked homeless man is screeching at the crowd, flinging gestures at a man on a stationary hospital gurney, tubes trailing from under the bloodstained sheets; if I couldn't see his face, I would wonder if it were a pregnant woman: he has a large belly.
I recognize this.
Not the place and people. The situation. I sit upright, all my old training clicking back into place.
The rocking, the rolling of the eyes, the moaning from the crowd. This is a cult. A cult in the beginning throes of mob ecstasy. The filthy man must be the leader, people flinch at his shrieking. His words become clear:
"...Somewhere among you he may yet lurk! This man's twin in all things, even the broken leg! This man with stolen Godspeak come to deceive you with his dark magic! She questions my power because she thinks she can! Yet you all know I hold the power of Life and Death in my hands! See! Ezekiel, bring me the White Sheet! So saith the Prophet!"
"So saith the Lord," someone behind and to the left of the camera shouts; it's echoed by a few others..
A man dressed like the rest comes running up with a clean white sheet.
"Behold! I place the sheet and he will die at my command! So saith the Prophet!"
"So saith the Lord," more people repeat. They sound unhappy.
The filthy cult leader unfurls the sheet like a sideshow charlatan over the unconscious man on the gurney, grinning and leering at the crowd. I am always surprised at what people will put their faith in. The cult leader continues to shriek:
"Lo and behold, the Prophet did see that the man and woman were Of The Devil, and he did ask Almighty God for his thundrous hand to smite them down. And God did as the Prophet asked, so saith the Prophet?!"
Then a voice comes from somewhere, loud and clear but slightly muffled:
"So saith your Mom!"
A woman's voice cries out, "Tad!"
The cult leader is derailed, turning with a start to the gurney as the man I'd thought unconscious and possibly dying whips the fresh sheet down from his face, a big grin lighting his face. Like this is all a joke, or ... more like it's performance. An act.
The crowd, though -- all of them take a step back, some of them fall to the gravel beneath their feet. A few try to leap forward, rage burning in their faces, but are restrained by others behind them. I think I catch a glimpse of Brother Louis restraining a short, balding man, but I can't be sure.
Brother Louis, I had been told, was visiting family. I turn to Father Michael as the camera turns to Brother Oswald, who scowls and gestures back toward the gurney with a jerk of his head. I save my question for later as the camera turns back and the man on the gurney ("Tad"?) calls to the cult leader:
"Hey there, fucko!" At this the leader whirls to him, like a bad little boy caught setting something on fire. The man on the gurney smiles like a celebrity and calls out, all bonhomie, "Feeling rapey?"
The leader is pointing immediately, screeching,"Tell me now how you did it and I may allow your Whore to live! Tell me how you created your double!"
Still smiling, and including the crowd in his words, the gurney man doesn't miss a beat: "Well, I can't exactly tell you that, Torvald Walter Mayberry. But I can show you, you false prophet and fucker of corpses! Would you like that, Mr. Twistydick?"
Torvald Walter Mayberry?
I stop breathing, but feel like I need to gasp.
A woman has laughed and the gurney man turns to his left, waggling his eyebrows at her, I imagine; there are people in the way, we can't see clearly who is over there.
The leader looks like he's trying to flag down an airplane, waving his arms, pointing at the man on the gurney, then keeping one arm up and turning to him.
"Yes, yes, do show us all, Foul Deceiver! Show us your Hellbane and Hemlock!"
"No hellbane and hemlock here, Torvald," says the man on the gurney.
That name again. I breathe. Can't be coincidence.
"Just good, old-fashioned know-how," the man on the gurney continues, then looks at his right arm; blood has continued to soak the sheet. He turns to his left, speaking perhaps to the same person who laughed earlier; definitely someone specific. "Do I need a tourniquet for this?"
"Yes," two women, in unison. He seems to gasp a little, or laugh quickly. I see panic under that smile. But he's putting on a good show. Ah, I see: he's being brave. He loves one of those women. Both? Is this a polygamist cult?
"Done, ladies. Honey, I love you. Hold on to that amulet."
He throws her a kiss. At least three of the women near the camera sigh. Sounds like the crowd is swayed. This feels final. I sit forward.
He whips the sheet back up over his head, he's completely covered and there's a brief shifting under the sheet.
Gunshot. Mannlicher Carcano, from the sound of it, and a bullet tears through the sheet into the man on the gurney and the woman screams but someone steps in front of Brother Johannes just as I want a clearer look at that gurney.
"Move your ass," I mutter, and am shocked when Father Michael says, "Amen."
Brother Johannes wants to see the gurney as well. He steps around the woman in front of him just as the cult leader pulls the sheet from the gurney to reveal ...
A fat, healthy rabbit. Sitting on a pile of pillows.
The cult leader is shrieking as he falls to the gravel, "Aaauuyyuuughhhhh, no bunnies no bunnies no bunnies NO! BUNNIES!"
We hear Brother Johannes gasp and half-chuckle, but a woman's voice calls out:
"Bearded Ezekiels! Nurse Rachels! NOW!"
My head feels like a hornets' nest, swarming with thoughts. I sit outside Father Michael's office, having been escorted here by Brother Paul and Domenico. They would not say why I've been summoned -- I suspect that Paul did not know, but Domenico had a certain tension around his eyes and would not meet my gaze for long.
Is it possible that Father Michael knows what I've been doing? Can I have somehow tipped my hand? On the way here I tried to gauge the nature of my summons, asking several questions. I tried to keep them light, but I have been described as dour and I know that levity would have left them more suspicious than they arrived. (Truly, I do not believe I am dour. I believe I am focused. If my neutral focused face appears dour to those unwilling to inquire, perhaps they should attempt a level of focus beyond snoozing in the chapel.)
That was uncharitable. I feel out of balance. Perhaps it is good that Father Michael is calling me before him, I could confess my recent ... sins? Do I believe them to be sins? Not really. Then what are they? I have no idea. But even now as I write this I hear Scarborough Faire in my mind's ear, clear as day. Or is someone playing it in the music room? Leaning in that direction doesn't change the sound ... and neither does getting up and peeking around that corner. Who would be playing Scarborough Faire here, anyway? At this hour? In this place? I suppose, technically, it's folk music. Simon and Garfunkel merely spread it about. They didn't write the damned song. Why do I hear it?! Who is playing it? Haunting, lovely, sad, bittersweet, longing ... how well I remember the first time I heard it. Before the dark days.
I hear him coming --
11:48 pm
The world is turned on its head and shaken. What falls out? Everything I had sought to leave behind. I have just spoken at length with Father Michael. Thus:
"Good evening, Brother Ambrose," the handshake and Fatherly hand clapping my right shoulder lightly, just enough to imply camaraderie without overstepping any boundaries. Clearly-defined roles.
"Father Michael," I begin, preemptive as ever when threatened; as he closes his office door behind us, locking it, he speaks over me:
"We've had word from Johannes and Oswald," he says, gesturing to the chairs in front of his desk. I sit automatically, shocked; he is sitting in his chair behind the desk as I blurt:
"How -- where?"
"Before we go any further, Ambrose, I want you to know that I respect your reasons for wanting to leave your past behind you; I have made a point of leaving you to your business and keeping you out of certain activities in which I have asked a few of your Brothers to assist. I would never ask this of you, were it not a dire situation."
"Father, I will do anything you ask if it means getting them back here, whole. Johannes and Oswald --" I'm stumbling over my words.
"As to that," he says, holding up a hand in, what, warning? Caution? "I do not know that we can bring them back whole, if at all."
"What happened? Where are they? Were they able to find why the fires are burning unchecked? Where is the National Guard? Where is the Red Cross? Why do we just sit here when people all around us need our help?! I have been waiting and praying --" I see his eyes widen, his eyebrows raise, and I'm aware that this is more than I've said in months, perhaps years. I start to speak again, then stop.
For a long moment, there is only silence.
"I knew when you joined us that you needed more than just retreat or retirement, Ambrose. I hesitate because I think I understand your pain, but because I do not -- can not -- know what it is like for you. If I show you what we've found, I want you to understand clearly that I am not asking you to do anything about it. I am asking you for your advice only. Anything beyond that is entirely voluntary. Am I clear?"
"Yes," I say, certainty settling into my bones like a comfortable old coat. I know what my answer will be before he turns his computer monitor around and clicks play.
At first I see only people -- the backs of men in plaid flannel shirts with heavy suspenders and tough denim pants, the women in what look like a mix of American pilgrim and Hollie Hobby garb, though every one of them seems to wear some kind of bonnet or ... nurse hat?
Then one of the men turns and looks at the camera. I can hear feet shuffling on gravel and wind and some birds chirping, plus another sound -- a kind of keening shriek; like a boar in agony. There are oak trees, clearly this is local, this is East Bay chaparral, but the man who turns and looks at the camera is Brother Oswald.
"What -- ?" I start, then fall silent as Brother Oswald shifts to the left and the camera moves forward a step to two -- Brother Johannes must be recording this -- picking up the scene beyond.
A filthy, half-naked homeless man is screeching at the crowd, flinging gestures at a man on a stationary hospital gurney, tubes trailing from under the bloodstained sheets; if I couldn't see his face, I would wonder if it were a pregnant woman: he has a large belly.
I recognize this.
Not the place and people. The situation. I sit upright, all my old training clicking back into place.
The rocking, the rolling of the eyes, the moaning from the crowd. This is a cult. A cult in the beginning throes of mob ecstasy. The filthy man must be the leader, people flinch at his shrieking. His words become clear:
"...Somewhere among you he may yet lurk! This man's twin in all things, even the broken leg! This man with stolen Godspeak come to deceive you with his dark magic! She questions my power because she thinks she can! Yet you all know I hold the power of Life and Death in my hands! See! Ezekiel, bring me the White Sheet! So saith the Prophet!"
"So saith the Lord," someone behind and to the left of the camera shouts; it's echoed by a few others..
A man dressed like the rest comes running up with a clean white sheet.
"Behold! I place the sheet and he will die at my command! So saith the Prophet!"
"So saith the Lord," more people repeat. They sound unhappy.
The filthy cult leader unfurls the sheet like a sideshow charlatan over the unconscious man on the gurney, grinning and leering at the crowd. I am always surprised at what people will put their faith in. The cult leader continues to shriek:
"Lo and behold, the Prophet did see that the man and woman were Of The Devil, and he did ask Almighty God for his thundrous hand to smite them down. And God did as the Prophet asked, so saith the Prophet?!"
Then a voice comes from somewhere, loud and clear but slightly muffled:
"So saith your Mom!"
A woman's voice cries out, "Tad!"
The cult leader is derailed, turning with a start to the gurney as the man I'd thought unconscious and possibly dying whips the fresh sheet down from his face, a big grin lighting his face. Like this is all a joke, or ... more like it's performance. An act.
The crowd, though -- all of them take a step back, some of them fall to the gravel beneath their feet. A few try to leap forward, rage burning in their faces, but are restrained by others behind them. I think I catch a glimpse of Brother Louis restraining a short, balding man, but I can't be sure.
Brother Louis, I had been told, was visiting family. I turn to Father Michael as the camera turns to Brother Oswald, who scowls and gestures back toward the gurney with a jerk of his head. I save my question for later as the camera turns back and the man on the gurney ("Tad"?) calls to the cult leader:
"Hey there, fucko!" At this the leader whirls to him, like a bad little boy caught setting something on fire. The man on the gurney smiles like a celebrity and calls out, all bonhomie, "Feeling rapey?"
The leader is pointing immediately, screeching,"Tell me now how you did it and I may allow your Whore to live! Tell me how you created your double!"
Still smiling, and including the crowd in his words, the gurney man doesn't miss a beat: "Well, I can't exactly tell you that, Torvald Walter Mayberry. But I can show you, you false prophet and fucker of corpses! Would you like that, Mr. Twistydick?"
Torvald Walter Mayberry?
I stop breathing, but feel like I need to gasp.
A woman has laughed and the gurney man turns to his left, waggling his eyebrows at her, I imagine; there are people in the way, we can't see clearly who is over there.
"Yes, yes, do show us all, Foul Deceiver! Show us your Hellbane and Hemlock!"
"No hellbane and hemlock here, Torvald," says the man on the gurney.
That name again. I breathe. Can't be coincidence.
"Just good, old-fashioned know-how," the man on the gurney continues, then looks at his right arm; blood has continued to soak the sheet. He turns to his left, speaking perhaps to the same person who laughed earlier; definitely someone specific. "Do I need a tourniquet for this?"
"Yes," two women, in unison. He seems to gasp a little, or laugh quickly. I see panic under that smile. But he's putting on a good show. Ah, I see: he's being brave. He loves one of those women. Both? Is this a polygamist cult?
"Done, ladies. Honey, I love you. Hold on to that amulet."
He throws her a kiss. At least three of the women near the camera sigh. Sounds like the crowd is swayed. This feels final. I sit forward.
He whips the sheet back up over his head, he's completely covered and there's a brief shifting under the sheet.
Gunshot. Mannlicher Carcano, from the sound of it, and a bullet tears through the sheet into the man on the gurney and the woman screams but someone steps in front of Brother Johannes just as I want a clearer look at that gurney.
"Move your ass," I mutter, and am shocked when Father Michael says, "Amen."
Brother Johannes wants to see the gurney as well. He steps around the woman in front of him just as the cult leader pulls the sheet from the gurney to reveal ...
A fat, healthy rabbit. Sitting on a pile of pillows.
The cult leader is shrieking as he falls to the gravel, "Aaauuyyuuughhhhh, no bunnies no bunnies no bunnies NO! BUNNIES!"
We hear Brother Johannes gasp and half-chuckle, but a woman's voice calls out:
"Bearded Ezekiels! Nurse Rachels! NOW!"
Sudden jumbled action, fumbling of the camera (must be a smartphone).
The video ends.
I know immediately what I must do.
"Torvald Walter Mayberry," I say.
"Yes?" Father Michael is alert.
"I have his journal."
The video ends.
I know immediately what I must do.
"Torvald Walter Mayberry," I say.
"Yes?" Father Michael is alert.
"I have his journal."
Notes from the Future: Journal of Brother Ambrose, Day 2
I am entirely uncertain as to the correct course. I have not yet approached the master of our order and I feel deep shame at this deception. But I feel that there may be some wisdom in delay, as the next passages of my transcription carry an entirely different tone. I am getting ahead of myself. Here is what happened:
Yesterday morning I left my room, agitated and determined to speak with Father Michael. He was in a meeting. I went to the redwood chapel to pray and meditate, as I have always found the morning light among redwood trees to be more lovely and peaceful than even the most powerful and ornate rose windows of any of our European cathedrals. As I sat breathing clean air and listening to birds chirping over the now incessant roar of Mt. Diablo, I had the distinct sense that there was a kindness near me, a presence at my right shoulder. The sensation of a hand, possibly even warmth and pressure. The scent of Rosemary, anda breath on my ear no, that's not possible, but perhaps the impression of a breath as a word came into my mind: persevere.
Perseverance. Yes. My constant companion. In the darkest, most difficult times, I have learned much by simply shouldering my burdens and carrying on. The British seem to have the right idea. Keep Calm and Carry On. Not being one to dash about, though, I proceeded -- calm and collected -- to the library. Not usually in favor of divination, I nonetheless engaged in a little accidental bibliomancy. As I sat musing upon the strangeness of the scribblings within my books, I was idly flipping through a copy of the King James edition and muttering, 'What to do ... what to do ... ?' Which is when my finger fell right in between verses 15 and 16 of II Samuel, Chapter 13:
" ... And Am'non said unto her, Arise, be gone.
16 And she said unto him, There is no cause: this evil in sending me away is greater than the other that thou didst unto me. But he would not hearken unto her."
Now, setting aside the nature of Am'non's incestuous rape of his sister Ta'mar, which assuredly does not apply to my case, I disobeyed a basic tenet and chose to take these words entirely out of context. If there is some penance I must later do as a result, so be it. But they struck me, these words of Samuel. Am I Am'non, the unlistening? I thought I had been sleeping, but I was in congress with some source of the writing. Though my congress was not carnal, am I somehow doing greater evil in attempting to send it away? What if the words in my books, however upsetting, come from a good source? Hasty action could lead to hasty conclusion, and in these troubled times after the earthquake, perhaps it would be wise to wait, to listen, to "hearken unto" whom- or whatever is speaking to me in my sleep.
Though this time of contemplation seemed to me to only take a few minutes, perhaps a quarter of an hour at most, it was nonetheless a surprise to glance at the clock and see that evening had come. I had passed the entire day in the library, though it felt like minutes, contemplating the words and feelings of a virgin raped by her brother. Is it rape that I have experienced? Is my mind penetrated against my will, or have I been coerced or seduced? I do not feel like a victim in this. And the word that came to me in the redwood chapel: persevere.
These thoughts were foremost in my mind as I joined my brothers for our evening meal: I am still upset by the words in the books. I am upset by what has happened. But I am not certain that this is a bad thing. So, whether I am Am'non or Ta'mar, I believe that I should listen. And in listening, perhaps it would be wise to continue to transcribe. And in listening and transcribing, I shall thus persevere. Who knows what bends await in my trail?
So it was that I returned to my room last night and, intent upon transcribing the continued obscenities and foulness of what had come before, was surprised to turn a page and discover something entirely new. It was so engrossing that I confess I took it to bed and curled up reading it with the avidity of the most secretive of voyeurs -- a chilling thought, in light of its uncertain source and its strange contents. Here, then, is what came next:
"August 29, 1955
Arkham, Massachusetts
9:36 am
Dear ... future me. Today is the first day of our time at The Arkham Conservatory, and I am very excited to be able to attend this truly unique school. We, the incoming Freshmen, Class of 1959, are all gathered in a Lecture / Performance hall on the eighth floor, I forget the name. It's full of lovely woodwork and some very strange carvings on the beams of the rafters.
I was worried, before this morning, that I would be seen as an outsider by the actors and dancers, and even though I knew I would be in the Divinity Department within the School of Theosophical Inquiry, I had convinced myself that I would be the only one. Not so! I am surrounded by friendly, kind, even titillating people majoring in everything from Parapsychology and Hypnotic Researches, to Musical Theatre. Everything here is laughter and light, in spite of the school's darker reputation. I have found nothing but acceptance, thus far, and though I know that there are bound to be rocky roads ahead (we will have ice cream after lunch, ho ho ho, knock wood), I feel as though I have finally left behind the shadows of my childhood. How odd to leave California and feel better in what will surely be a darker, colder climate for much of my time here?
President Prescott is heading to the podium, will write more later. Remember to ask about historian and mansard roof.
-- Torvald Walter Mayberry"
A knock at my door, oh please let it not be
Yesterday morning I left my room, agitated and determined to speak with Father Michael. He was in a meeting. I went to the redwood chapel to pray and meditate, as I have always found the morning light among redwood trees to be more lovely and peaceful than even the most powerful and ornate rose windows of any of our European cathedrals. As I sat breathing clean air and listening to birds chirping over the now incessant roar of Mt. Diablo, I had the distinct sense that there was a kindness near me, a presence at my right shoulder. The sensation of a hand, possibly even warmth and pressure. The scent of Rosemary, and
Perseverance. Yes. My constant companion. In the darkest, most difficult times, I have learned much by simply shouldering my burdens and carrying on. The British seem to have the right idea. Keep Calm and Carry On. Not being one to dash about, though, I proceeded -- calm and collected -- to the library. Not usually in favor of divination, I nonetheless engaged in a little accidental bibliomancy. As I sat musing upon the strangeness of the scribblings within my books, I was idly flipping through a copy of the King James edition and muttering, 'What to do ... what to do ... ?' Which is when my finger fell right in between verses 15 and 16 of II Samuel, Chapter 13:
" ... And Am'non said unto her, Arise, be gone.
16 And she said unto him, There is no cause: this evil in sending me away is greater than the other that thou didst unto me. But he would not hearken unto her."
Now, setting aside the nature of Am'non's incestuous rape of his sister Ta'mar, which assuredly does not apply to my case, I disobeyed a basic tenet and chose to take these words entirely out of context. If there is some penance I must later do as a result, so be it. But they struck me, these words of Samuel. Am I Am'non, the unlistening? I thought I had been sleeping, but I was in congress with some source of the writing. Though my congress was not carnal, am I somehow doing greater evil in attempting to send it away? What if the words in my books, however upsetting, come from a good source? Hasty action could lead to hasty conclusion, and in these troubled times after the earthquake, perhaps it would be wise to wait, to listen, to "hearken unto" whom- or whatever is speaking to me in my sleep.
Though this time of contemplation seemed to me to only take a few minutes, perhaps a quarter of an hour at most, it was nonetheless a surprise to glance at the clock and see that evening had come. I had passed the entire day in the library, though it felt like minutes, contemplating the words and feelings of a virgin raped by her brother. Is it rape that I have experienced? Is my mind penetrated against my will, or have I been coerced or seduced? I do not feel like a victim in this. And the word that came to me in the redwood chapel: persevere.
These thoughts were foremost in my mind as I joined my brothers for our evening meal: I am still upset by the words in the books. I am upset by what has happened. But I am not certain that this is a bad thing. So, whether I am Am'non or Ta'mar, I believe that I should listen. And in listening, perhaps it would be wise to continue to transcribe. And in listening and transcribing, I shall thus persevere. Who knows what bends await in my trail?
So it was that I returned to my room last night and, intent upon transcribing the continued obscenities and foulness of what had come before, was surprised to turn a page and discover something entirely new. It was so engrossing that I confess I took it to bed and curled up reading it with the avidity of the most secretive of voyeurs -- a chilling thought, in light of its uncertain source and its strange contents. Here, then, is what came next:
"August 29, 1955
Arkham, Massachusetts
9:36 am
Dear ... future me. Today is the first day of our time at The Arkham Conservatory, and I am very excited to be able to attend this truly unique school. We, the incoming Freshmen, Class of 1959, are all gathered in a Lecture / Performance hall on the eighth floor, I forget the name. It's full of lovely woodwork and some very strange carvings on the beams of the rafters.
I was worried, before this morning, that I would be seen as an outsider by the actors and dancers, and even though I knew I would be in the Divinity Department within the School of Theosophical Inquiry, I had convinced myself that I would be the only one. Not so! I am surrounded by friendly, kind, even titillating people majoring in everything from Parapsychology and Hypnotic Researches, to Musical Theatre. Everything here is laughter and light, in spite of the school's darker reputation. I have found nothing but acceptance, thus far, and though I know that there are bound to be rocky roads ahead (we will have ice cream after lunch, ho ho ho, knock wood), I feel as though I have finally left behind the shadows of my childhood. How odd to leave California and feel better in what will surely be a darker, colder climate for much of my time here?
President Prescott is heading to the podium, will write more later. Remember to ask about historian and mansard roof.
-- Torvald Walter Mayberry"
A knock at my door, oh please let it not be
Monday, November 19, 2012
Notes from the Future: Journal of Brother Ambrose
I awakened this morning to find my ink spilled across my desk, the candle burned down to nothing. I was sprawled across my bed, still in my robes. Scattered across my floor was the entire contents of my small library, every book opened and thrown aside. I thought my room had been searched as I slept, a startling thought after so many years away from that world. Now I realize that I have no memory of going to sleep last night. As I was putting the books away, I noticed writing on the formerly blank end pages. This is the phrase I saw that made me fall back and sit heavily on the floor before my bookcase:
"... they tell me this is the Mont Perdu Abbey."
Even now, I can hardly believe it. Looking through all the books, it appears I have filled every blank page and some gaps between chapters with this writing. For it is my handwriting -- if rushed, sloppier than I would allow.
What impetus has driven me to scrawl thus? Am I in my right mind? Or is there some fiend guiding my hand as I sleep? In all other ways I feel well, no worse the wear for having burnt a fresh twelve-hour candle down to the nub as I wrote through the night. In search of some clue, I herein transcribe my scrawl; my hope is that through earnest investigation I may detect the source and (if possible) truth of what has lead me in my sleep to write of the Forbidden Mountain.
Friar Rudel stared at the wizard (at once twin to Father Robert and yet not) in a thin white gown with thick, filthy bandages hardened around one leg. The man was pale, dirty, reeking of vomit and shit, a tear in his right arm still weeping some blood. This was the man at whose strange, clean bedside Rudel had found himself standing mere minutes ago. And seconds after his own reappearance here in the circle of flames, this man had appeared with a popping sound and a puff of wind to land face-down in the snow mere feet away from Rudel and Hannibal. They could communicate with one or two words, but other than that this sorcerer -- a word that became less accurate with every passing moment -- looked more like a frightened fool completely out of his element.
The burning wolf demon, having transformed almost entirely back to human form, had regenerated its legs and most of its body in a soup of its own foul fluids, blood mixed with semen and phlegm and their accompanying greasy black ichor. Wolf form breaking through its human face, the beast had once again asserted itself and once again stood before them in all its horrid strength. Blood, froth and seed dripped from the torn tip of its monstrous, barbed cock. Its three surviving offspring, jealous of Papa, tugged at their own barbed phalli as they grew to the height of their father's furred shoulders. As the burning wolf demon picked up the smallest of its horrid babies, it became clear to everyone within the safety of the circle of flames what was about to happen: Papa was going to throw baby over the wall of flames, into the circle where it could attack and eat anyone. Probably scare the animals. Ah. Yes. Scare them out of the circle, with the girl and Father Robert unconscious, possibly dying, on their backs. Then it would be the simplest thing in the world to just leap and feast. That would be then end of them all.
As the beast crouched, ready to throw, Rudel readied himself: no point in running. Better to stay and fight. Drawing his dagger, he felt a little naked. Reaching over to where Father Robert lay across the back of Abelard the donkey, Rudel took a dagger from Father Robert's belt. Looking at the blade, he noticed that there was a line of some lighter metal going up the center. It reflected the blood red light of the fire, making the center of the blade appear to glow with its own flames.
Just as the beast's shoulders flexed, the shivering, injured man shouted one word. Just one word. The beast paused, its eyes gleaming. Then it dropped its demonspawn onto its own cock and fucked it where the beastling was impaled, in the very spot where Our Lord was pierced in his side by the spear of Longinus. The little creature screamed and squealed and yet seemed to enjoy the pain, turning to look Rudel directly in the eye as it slid further down the shaft of the darkness that was its progenitor.
The beast stepped forward, gestured, and the newcomer fell to his knees where he stood between Rudel and Hannibal the Talkative (who, it should be noted, had said very little in the last few minutes). Its creature still bleeding to death and now fully penetrated, the beast lifted its left foot, putting first a toe into the red flames, a horror testing the waters of damnation.
Nothing happened. Stretching it foot with elaborate delicacy, the beast put the rest of its toes through the flames. Still nothing. Looking up at Friar Rudel and Hannibal the Talkative, the beast smiled and, smiling down at the newcomer whose pale face seemed drained of all desire to live, the beast stepped fully onto the circle of flames.
The flames shifted from brightest red to a smoky red edged with black. In the center of each flame was a soul in torment, Rudel knew this without looking. As the beast had remained whole, he knew something else as well.
"You fool! You've doomed us all! You've given yourself up to to the beast!" he shouted. His voice sounded small, old and weak.
The beast reached down and pushed its still-twitching beastling farther onto its cock until the tip ripped through the little demon's back near the opposite shoulder blade; then, with one gnarled, clawed hand, the beast broke the tip from the barb arching up from the head of its infected beastcock, and smiling, brought the sharp, barbed bit of bone to its own lips, murmuring a word or to and kissing the shard before placing it on its tongue. Tilting its head back, it put both hands on the shoulders of its screaming offspring and gave three gigantic thrusts until, on the last, the miniature horror was torn in two -- each half falling to the snow to stain it crimson-black -- and the beast spat the broken barb of bone from its mouth directly at the forehead of the newcomer, piercing the spot immediately above and between his eyes. A spurt of blood and a crunch of bone, and the barb was inside. The newcomer collapsed, twitching, great toadlike noises coming from within him -- though whether from belly or lungs it was hard to tell.
The beast chuckled in dark delight and stepped its right foot into the circle. For a moment, silence. The beast inhaled, its ribcage expanding beyond natural capacity as it prepared to howl victory to the unfeeling night.
With a great spasmodic jerking, the newcomer -- Edouard, Rudel remembered; Edouard the fool -- threw back his own head and arms and cried out in agony: a prolonged sound of pain and distress which echoed, keening, from the towering, jagged stone walls of this desolate valley. Within those echoes, another voice began to speak.
It was the voice of a woman.
"You have penetrated a holy, secret place! Your darkness cannot be allowed to thrive here and, like rancid oil, shall be mopped up and left to rot for worms and flies to feast!"
The flames of the torch burning from the top of Father Robert's staff had stayed deepest brightest bloodiest red, and now grew and sparked until a familiar figure appeared above them all: the nude woman of the fire, She whose threefold enchantment Father Robert himself had broken. No blue sparks now, only red, and the hair of her head and the hair between her legs and under her arms burned bright as the sun, hot enough that snow began to melt around them. Red flames spread out from the base of the staff, snuffing the black from each tongue of fire as they went.
The beast crouched, cowed, just inside the circle. Too late he tried to turn and run, singeing the tip of his evil phallus and dropping to his knees to cradle and kiss it, whimpering around his jagged, needle-sharp teeth.
This is too much. I must take a rest. I cannot fathom that these words came from my mind, my pen.
Are these, then, the final days? Could that madman in Oakland have been right all along? Or am I the voice of some new, dark prophecy? Have I perhaps lost my mind? Jesus help me if either of these is so.
Since the earthquake, everything has gone crazy. It could be that this is merely stress from the disappearance of Brother Johannes and Brother Oswald.
Whatever it may be, how will I find comfort or help without speaking of this to someone? It must be some form of madness, if not full possession. I shall submit myself and all of my writing to the master of our order and await his judgement.
"... they tell me this is the Mont Perdu Abbey."
Even now, I can hardly believe it. Looking through all the books, it appears I have filled every blank page and some gaps between chapters with this writing. For it is my handwriting -- if rushed, sloppier than I would allow.
What impetus has driven me to scrawl thus? Am I in my right mind? Or is there some fiend guiding my hand as I sleep? In all other ways I feel well, no worse the wear for having burnt a fresh twelve-hour candle down to the nub as I wrote through the night. In search of some clue, I herein transcribe my scrawl; my hope is that through earnest investigation I may detect the source and (if possible) truth of what has lead me in my sleep to write of the Forbidden Mountain.
Friar Rudel stared at the wizard (at once twin to Father Robert and yet not) in a thin white gown with thick, filthy bandages hardened around one leg. The man was pale, dirty, reeking of vomit and shit, a tear in his right arm still weeping some blood. This was the man at whose strange, clean bedside Rudel had found himself standing mere minutes ago. And seconds after his own reappearance here in the circle of flames, this man had appeared with a popping sound and a puff of wind to land face-down in the snow mere feet away from Rudel and Hannibal. They could communicate with one or two words, but other than that this sorcerer -- a word that became less accurate with every passing moment -- looked more like a frightened fool completely out of his element.
The burning wolf demon, having transformed almost entirely back to human form, had regenerated its legs and most of its body in a soup of its own foul fluids, blood mixed with semen and phlegm and their accompanying greasy black ichor. Wolf form breaking through its human face, the beast had once again asserted itself and once again stood before them in all its horrid strength. Blood, froth and seed dripped from the torn tip of its monstrous, barbed cock. Its three surviving offspring, jealous of Papa, tugged at their own barbed phalli as they grew to the height of their father's furred shoulders. As the burning wolf demon picked up the smallest of its horrid babies, it became clear to everyone within the safety of the circle of flames what was about to happen: Papa was going to throw baby over the wall of flames, into the circle where it could attack and eat anyone. Probably scare the animals. Ah. Yes. Scare them out of the circle, with the girl and Father Robert unconscious, possibly dying, on their backs. Then it would be the simplest thing in the world to just leap and feast. That would be then end of them all.
As the beast crouched, ready to throw, Rudel readied himself: no point in running. Better to stay and fight. Drawing his dagger, he felt a little naked. Reaching over to where Father Robert lay across the back of Abelard the donkey, Rudel took a dagger from Father Robert's belt. Looking at the blade, he noticed that there was a line of some lighter metal going up the center. It reflected the blood red light of the fire, making the center of the blade appear to glow with its own flames.
Just as the beast's shoulders flexed, the shivering, injured man shouted one word. Just one word. The beast paused, its eyes gleaming. Then it dropped its demonspawn onto its own cock and fucked it where the beastling was impaled, in the very spot where Our Lord was pierced in his side by the spear of Longinus. The little creature screamed and squealed and yet seemed to enjoy the pain, turning to look Rudel directly in the eye as it slid further down the shaft of the darkness that was its progenitor.
The beast stepped forward, gestured, and the newcomer fell to his knees where he stood between Rudel and Hannibal the Talkative (who, it should be noted, had said very little in the last few minutes). Its creature still bleeding to death and now fully penetrated, the beast lifted its left foot, putting first a toe into the red flames, a horror testing the waters of damnation.
Nothing happened. Stretching it foot with elaborate delicacy, the beast put the rest of its toes through the flames. Still nothing. Looking up at Friar Rudel and Hannibal the Talkative, the beast smiled and, smiling down at the newcomer whose pale face seemed drained of all desire to live, the beast stepped fully onto the circle of flames.
The flames shifted from brightest red to a smoky red edged with black. In the center of each flame was a soul in torment, Rudel knew this without looking. As the beast had remained whole, he knew something else as well.
"You fool! You've doomed us all! You've given yourself up to to the beast!" he shouted. His voice sounded small, old and weak.
The beast reached down and pushed its still-twitching beastling farther onto its cock until the tip ripped through the little demon's back near the opposite shoulder blade; then, with one gnarled, clawed hand, the beast broke the tip from the barb arching up from the head of its infected beastcock, and smiling, brought the sharp, barbed bit of bone to its own lips, murmuring a word or to and kissing the shard before placing it on its tongue. Tilting its head back, it put both hands on the shoulders of its screaming offspring and gave three gigantic thrusts until, on the last, the miniature horror was torn in two -- each half falling to the snow to stain it crimson-black -- and the beast spat the broken barb of bone from its mouth directly at the forehead of the newcomer, piercing the spot immediately above and between his eyes. A spurt of blood and a crunch of bone, and the barb was inside. The newcomer collapsed, twitching, great toadlike noises coming from within him -- though whether from belly or lungs it was hard to tell.
The beast chuckled in dark delight and stepped its right foot into the circle. For a moment, silence. The beast inhaled, its ribcage expanding beyond natural capacity as it prepared to howl victory to the unfeeling night.
With a great spasmodic jerking, the newcomer -- Edouard, Rudel remembered; Edouard the fool -- threw back his own head and arms and cried out in agony: a prolonged sound of pain and distress which echoed, keening, from the towering, jagged stone walls of this desolate valley. Within those echoes, another voice began to speak.
It was the voice of a woman.
"You have penetrated a holy, secret place! Your darkness cannot be allowed to thrive here and, like rancid oil, shall be mopped up and left to rot for worms and flies to feast!"
The flames of the torch burning from the top of Father Robert's staff had stayed deepest brightest bloodiest red, and now grew and sparked until a familiar figure appeared above them all: the nude woman of the fire, She whose threefold enchantment Father Robert himself had broken. No blue sparks now, only red, and the hair of her head and the hair between her legs and under her arms burned bright as the sun, hot enough that snow began to melt around them. Red flames spread out from the base of the staff, snuffing the black from each tongue of fire as they went.
The beast crouched, cowed, just inside the circle. Too late he tried to turn and run, singeing the tip of his evil phallus and dropping to his knees to cradle and kiss it, whimpering around his jagged, needle-sharp teeth.
This is too much. I must take a rest. I cannot fathom that these words came from my mind, my pen.
Are these, then, the final days? Could that madman in Oakland have been right all along? Or am I the voice of some new, dark prophecy? Have I perhaps lost my mind? Jesus help me if either of these is so.
Since the earthquake, everything has gone crazy. It could be that this is merely stress from the disappearance of Brother Johannes and Brother Oswald.
Whatever it may be, how will I find comfort or help without speaking of this to someone? It must be some form of madness, if not full possession. I shall submit myself and all of my writing to the master of our order and await his judgement.
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