"Mother Henrietta? Is that really you?" I ask.
She opens her mouth to answer, and in that moment a figure leaps to the top of the embankment in front of us, shouting, "Die in the name of the Prophet!"
It's a woman, her silhouette looks familiar. And as fire ignites in the treetops all around us, more figures appear on the embankment near her and I realize who she is.
Iron Rachel has found us.
She wears glasses that turn dark in daylight, like her soul. But right now, in the growing light of the burning trees, I can see her eyes clearly and they are the eyes of a crazy lady. A feeling of doom settles over me, like a black fog. We are surrounded. We will never escape.
Then Mother (Her Ladyship?) Henrietta stands up and brings her wrists together above her head as she shouts something:
"!قد الظلام الخاص بك لا العبور إلى دائرة الضوء بلدي"
A rippling wall of blue-white light shoots out of her as she throws her wrists apart on the last word; Iron Rachel and her minions are blasted back off their feet by the light, which snuffs out the burning trees with a sound like an instant torrential downpour. The trees are rippling, rustling, sighing, and new growth is appearing, visible in the night as though shining with their own light. New growth, little puffy fronds and, as I watch, acorns and bay nuts appear in seconds and begin to drop from the trees. Where they fall, they take root and begin to grow. By the time the first of Iron Rachel's minions is trying to stand, we are surrounded by a small and actively growing forest of Oak and Bay. Maybe five seconds have passed.
I am staring at this woman whom I thought I knew, this younger version of Mother Henrietta, a woman that Second Lieutenant Petherbridge and Private Boggs refer to as Her Ladyship -- and I realize that I have no idea who she is or how she can do these things. Even as I watch, she is throwing small handsful of some powder among the roots of the rapidly growing trees, and she is chanting -- singing, even -- as she does so:
"تنمو وتمتد، تنفس تنفس الصعداء و؛
تصل الفروع الخاصة بك إلى السماء،
انظر ما يأتي من الحفر العميقة،
تنبيه من النوم في العطاء الشتلات،
عقد الخضراء الخاصة بك في الشتاء واسعة،
الغناء الخاص بك الصمت والأغاني القديمة؛
شرب الأمطار، أبدا النوم،
وفهم الشتاء لا يصمد كثيرا ..."
Even as these words leave her mouth, Petherbridge and Boggs are collecting the lantern, the tripod, the lamp and the chest -- but over the sound of their quick, efficient movement there comes a whispering, sighing, creaking. Almost a chorus. Her Ladyship turns to me.
"Veronica, give me your hand; I must cut it and add your blood to this work, to protect you and to put you in touch with the trees," she's reaching her hand to me, her eyes a little wild in the light of the single lantern still burning.
The trees, as they grow, seem to be flexing their roots. Flexing and lifting and shifting their roots. Even the trunks appear to have faces rippling within them as these little trees get larger and sprout branches like stretching toddlers.
"Why me? Why my blood?" It feels stupid and weak, but I have to know.
"It must be you, it must be your blood, because you are the only one who is from this place and time. In that way, you are the only one who is really here. We are merely visitors. Help me, quickly!"
I hold out my hand, and like lightning she whips a silver dagger across my palm; it's so sharp, I don't really feel the cut even as I watch it happen. Warm blood flows from my hand and she moves me over to the still-growing, stretching saplings, where she holds my wrist and moves my hand and arm in a series of gestures that feel significant, but hold no meaning for me. She moves with me, her body close to mine, and it's like a dance. At specific points, she flicks my hand out and I fling my fingers wide, throwing my blood among the roots of the trees. It may be my imagination, but it looks as though the trees are strengthened by my blood. Her body is warm against mine, and I realize that she and I may be around the same age, now. And she's totally a hottie. I catch her scent and breathe deeply as we move; cinnamon, rosemary ... and some other, more exotic scents I can't name. I am beginning to wonder where her tent might be when I hear something.
It arises from the sighs and creaks that began earlier, now coalescing into a chorus of voices. Their harmonies are deep, their voices -- though young -- feel older than time. All thoughts of Her Ladyship in a sleeping bag evaporate as the saplings sing:
"Grow and stretch, breathe and sigh;
Reach your branches to the sky,
See what comes of digging deep,
Wake from seedling's tender sleep,
Hold your green in sweeping Winter,
Sing your silent, ancient songs;
Drink the rains, never sleeping,
Winter's grasp won't hold for long ..."
My blood has spattered the roots of every tree, it seems. I am feeling a little faint. Her Hottieship presses a flask to my lips, whispering to me to drink, and I do. What meets my tongue is a liquid that feels like ice and flame but seems to have no water in it; flavors that move toward fruit then veer off into clove and ginger; a whirlwind of changing notes and my tongue feels like every individual tastebud is living a lifetime of unexpected vast horizons.
Holy shit, I can smell everything. My hand tingles, and I turn it over to see the wound knitting closed. For a moment, there is soft pink scarflesh, then that heals and the wound is gone completely.
I can taste the air.
Ooo, not just taste it -- I can practically feel the shapes of what I smell and taste; I know where they are, what they are, how they are. I know where the minions are and who is conscious. My ears are attuned to my sense of smell, now. I can feel who is injured. My bones are whole, my bones are like OAK! I can smell the fires in the houses down the hills and I know that they are close, too close, closer than they ever should have been. Every moment we are here is a risk, but it is a risk that must be taken. We will win. We are alive. I will lead us.
I am Alpha.
As that thought takes root in my mind and soul, I feel something -- a bell, a clarion call, a kind of inner, muted tone or note (anagrams! Suddenly fascinating!) that isn't really inner at all. It's outer. It's someone I know, he's nearby, he's alive, he's awake he's --
... You! You! You! You!
I am here! Do you need me?
I must stay her 'til you call!
I am here! Say you need me!
You, You Need me! Need me!
Call! ...
Before I can fully respond, I see Iron Rachel being helped to her feet by two of her minions. I take the amber lantern from Petherbridge and smash it among the roots of the Oak saplings which are strapping youths now and therefore straplings. Whatever that liquid is, the treelings drink it up as the metal of the lantern breaks into golden sparks and puffs like thistledown begin to blow among the trees. Now they lift their roots and part for me as I bound forward, leaping from the embankment to the near edge of the small clearing where Iron Rachel has landed. As I land, and even before I touch earth, I sense that every acorn and bay nut lying dormant in the soil sprouts and takes root around me, even as the strapling Oaks and Bays behind me have begun to move across the land in my wake, their roots like tentacles propelling them smoothly to surround me within seconds of my arrival.
Iron Rachel is brought up short by my landing, my appearance, my very me-ness. I know I have transformed, and I glory in it. The strapling trees, having absorbed the liquid of the amber lantern, now put off a glow even stronger than the lantern itself. Each tree is growing and glowing at the same time, and it is by their light that I see that Iron Rachel's glasses are cracked and askew.
"Like your soul," I say, pointing at them. Her left hand moves self-consciously to adjust them and I laugh but it seems to come out as one long, bright howl.
Like a ripple in a still pool, my howl spreads and I feel where it goes, my awareness spreading with it. Every animal terrified goes still (including Iron Rachel, erstwhile sexual cannibal of San Ramon), every animal akin to me perks up ... and one entity, one not-animal, one thing of dark and ancient origin perks up its ears and lifts its head in answer, transforming my howl to a challenge even as it mocks me in acceptance.
I know where he is.
"This way," I cry, and, leaping past Iron Rachel I bat her aside like the insignificant thing she is, satisfied to hear her last grunting breath as Boggs bayonets her in passing. The rest of her minions are dispatched quickly and I sense more than see that our side is joining me in this charge, they are coming from everywhere, this is what they've been waiting for. It's why they're here. I am why they're here. I lead an army of men and women from another time; I lead an army of indigenous species. Tad would be so proud of me.
I will do it, Tad, I think. I will do as you ask. I will do anything you ask. Come home, come home to me, we mate for life, you and I. Come home. I need you. Our boy needs you. Your pack needs you.
I can feel the question from the bright note in the night, he wants to be near me. I can tell that he wants to be near me, but it is not time. I am sprinting, leaping through the trees and dry brown grass (soon to burn, the fires are less than a mile away), smacking aside any resistance I meet, savoring the sounds of their deaths as I hear him calling to me, begging to join me and help me and be of good service to the pack. Not yet, I tell him in my mind. Not yet, sweet boy. Stay until I call you. Stay and sit and gather your strength, sweet Maxwell. Daddy is lost in time, but Mommy will need you by her side. Be a good boy, gather your strength, and listen well. For when I call you, my need will be great, the danger terrible. You are the best boy. You are the noblest beast. You are a smoochy stinkface, and I love you so.
I see the lights of a structure beyond the ranch house, beyond the barn, tucked back among three smaller hills. I know instantly that this is where the beast lurks.
I see the lights.
I hear the screams.
I sense his dark rapture at their pain, the tearing of their flesh, their eyes wild as they watch him eat them. I am crossing the field. We have taken the ranch house. The barn will be next. I am not stopping. It is almost time.
Almost.
Time.
Monday, November 12, 2012
Monday, November 5, 2012
Notes from the Future: Her Ladyship
One lantern hanging from a broken branch jammed into the left wall of the dugout lights a map spread out on a log, pored over by the figure kneeling next to it. Both men salute. Should I? Who is this?
"First Lieutenant Petherbridge and Private Boggs, Your Ladyship. We've brought her," he says.
She turns, standing, faces me.
I can't believe my eyes.
"At ease, Gentlemen," she says. Her accent is amazing, it's British but tinged with something more European ... is it French? Basque? Tad would know. Damn him.
She stands in front of me in a tailored man's uniform, her hair -- a dark brown bordering on black -- pinned up under an Officers' cap, her face unlined. She is so beautiful, she looks incredible in that uniform, I feel under-dressed and outclassed. But this can't be real. She can't be who she seems to be. It has to be a coincidence.
"Veronica," she says. "Our time here is extremely short. How we have achieved this is too long a story to tell at this time. Why we have achieved it is simple: in order to alter the course of events and secure your safety in this place and time, we needed to intervene."
"My safety? What about ... everyone else?" I feel like I'm talking slowly. Emotional molasses stuck in a mental January.
"Their safety is your safety, but what you did not know was that there were those among ... the Rachels and Ezekiels -- who planned to assassinate --" Hesitating, her eyes shift to First Lieutenant Petherbridge. He gives a crisp little shake of the head, his eyes shifting down and away. There is a pause as she breathes, then: "I see. It is exactly as I was shown. We are too late for that, then. Well. We shall simply redouble our efforts here and accept no result other than total and complete victory."
"Wait, wait -- are you talking about what just happened? About how -- the shooting?" I'm stumbling on my words, lost and angry, and I sit down, right away, because that's my only option. She's kneeling in front of me and Petherbridge and Boggs are kneeling on either side of me.
"Veronica, look into my eyes," she says. I do, and she continues, "You know these eyes. You know my face."
I'm thinking, They look familiar, but this has to be a coincidence. It has to be.
She is still speaking, and I do my best to focus on her words: "What you do not know is where I come from and how I got here. But there is a message that I need to give you, a message that has taken quite a long time to reach you in the here and now. I need you to stay focused and to remember that we are your friends. The first shot that was fired, the first bullet ... came from behind. I know this as certainly as I know that Edward loves you still, that he loves you from countless centuries and miles away, and that he is -- even as we speak -- fighting to return to you."
Now, with the smell of smoke stronger and the sounds of gunfire somehow muted in this place, she turns and opens a very old and solid wooden trunk. It looks like the prototype pirate chest, only small and covered with strange symbols. As she opens it, there is a brief shimmer -- like light through water. She withdraws something that looks like an ancient glass lantern. It is filled with a thick, clear ambler liquid, in which there appear to be flakes of gold, floating in place.
Petherbridge draws a pennywhistle from within his jacket or whatever it would be called, and Boggs begins to hum. Her Ladyship withdraws an old oil lamp -- like the one Aladdin's Djinn lives in -- from within the trunk as well. Opening its lid, she breathes a word or two over the oil inside and a whisp of blue-white light swirls up out of the oil like condensation over a cup of hot coffee. I feel my eyes widen. She closes the lid and sets the lamp on the flat, level top of a log round in front of us. From within the trunk she draws a brass tripodal arrangement which she sets up over and around the lamp. She hangs the lantern from the tripod, directly over where the flame of the lamp would be.
Petherbridge begins to play something, a tuneless wail that seems to weave in and out of Boggs' humming. Like snakes intertwined. As that thought comes to me, the pennywhistle and the voice settle into a harmony that sounds very Eastern, very Arabic, I think.
Her Ladyship says a word:
"اللسان"
A tongue of blue-white flame leaps up from the mouth of the oil lamp, heating the bottom of the amber liquid lantern.
Almost immediately, the specks of gold look like they're glowing. Her Ladyship sings softly in that other language and the flame grows stronger and the golden flecks begin to move within the liquid. The light around us changes, no longer coming just from the flame lantern on the broken branch or the oil lamp beneath the amber liquid lantern, but from all around us. It starts as a light pinkish glow, like everything around us -- from the mud and dirt and leaves to the Oak and Bay trees, to the map and the log and maybe even we ourselves -- everything is putting out a general light. And there are no shadows. It looks like the light before a really big storm, when late afternoon sun is reflected off of the bay and from there off the underside of the clouds about to burst, and everything is soft and pretty for a few minutes.
I find that I can't take my eyes from the golden specks in the amber lantern. As the lantern grows warmer from the oil lamp beneath it, the specks start to move around one another. Even as they move from the heat, it seems that they are moving with the music of her voice. The sound of fighting is very far away, now, and the smell of the smoke has become sweet like incense. I am completely comfortable, at ease. It's like being stoned, but aware and awake at the same time. Like sleeping would be if walking and sleeping were possible without the sleeping part, and if the walking part were in a really nice park next to a beautiful palace like in Prince of Persia or Aladdin. With peacocks roaming the grounds. Yes.
Now the specks are moving so fast that they are making streaks of light. The more she sings, the faster they move. And as they move, a picture begins to form within the streaks of light, until they are zipping around so fast that the picture is as solid and as real as everything around us.
It is the picture of a gigantic eyeball. I lean back in disgust. It looks like the eyeball is inside the lantern. Like I could touch it. The pupil is dilating, focusing, almost as though it is focusing on us, on me. The eye itself is just slightly bloodshot, but the iris ... the iris is the prettiest shade of blue-green, almost the exact color of peacock feathers, only with little brown specks.
Little brown specks ... ?
I gasp and there is a hand on my shoulder, Her Ladyship calming me; I know without being told that to speak now would break whatever is going on.
The eye grows smaller and more of the face appears, like it's leaning back away from inspecting us. The image solidifies. And there he is. Looking directly at me, from inside a magic lantern brought here in a treasure chest from I don't know where, looking at me with his happy half-smile and eyes all crinkly, is ...
"Tad ..." I breathe. His eyes light up.
"Wow. I didn't expect to be able to hear you so well. This is wayyy better than Skype," I can tell he's expecting me to laugh, but I'm crying. Again. Damn it. Damn him.
"Damn you, Edward Hightower. Where the fuck are you? And when the fuck are you coming home? And where the hell is our boy? Where is Max?! This is not just some jaunt to the mountains, Tad, you disappeared. You literally disappeared right in front of me! Where are you?!"
His eyes are soft and his smile is sad. I wipe more tears from my cheeks.
"The question is not so much about where I am, honey. The question is, 'When?'" As he says this, I sense more than see Petherbridge and Boggs nodding. "And the answer to the question of when is something that can change at any time -- though truth be told, it hasn't changed all that much in the past year or so."
"Year?! YEAR?! You've been gone a few days, what are you talking about, 'the past year'?" I'm shouting now, and someone shushes me quietly, gently. I realize in that moment how risky this is. I glance up and around at the trees, lit only by these strange lamps and lanterns and whatever it is that is making everything around us glow.
"Veronica, I am lost in time. I have been trying to find my way back to you ever since I got here, but you have to understand that I can't just pop back and forth like I was doing before you broke the Prophet's hold over the compound. And I ... seem to have lost someone. Within time," his eyes flick to my right and I realize he's looking at her. Why? He continues, "And what I have to ask you, right now, is this: the next time you have a chance to kill Torvald Mayberry, do it. Please."
The golden flecks that have been whirling within the amber liquid have begun to fall, sand-like, in an hourglass pattern, which Tad seems to see at the same time I do.
"Crap. My time is running out. You're going to see him sooner than you think. Reload that pistol the instant this lantern stops. Shatter the lantern at the base of an Oak tree, do not leave it for anyone to find. The lamp and tripod may be kept, but the lantern is too dangerous to be risked. Promise me, Veronica, that you will immediately destroy this lantern. And that you will kill Torvald Mayberry the first chance you have."
My face is so wet with tears that I don't even bother wiping them away now. His image has been decaying fleck by golden fleck as he talks, and though now most of his face is gone, his eyes seem to be glowing brighter.
"Honey," I say, barely a whisper. "Can I touch your face through this?"
His eyes grow sad again as he says, "No. It would not even be a good idea to try. But just seeing you touches my soul. You are my star, my beacon, Veronica. I set my course by your light every time I travel. And travel is all I seem to do, these days."
"How can I get you back here? What can I do? I would walk from here to Nepal and back if that's what it takes," I'm sobbing a little. Keeping it under control. His eyes are smiling, as is what's left of his face. I realize the light in his eyes is the reflection of the lantern in tears.
"Do as I ask," he says. "Kill him the instant you have the opportunity. He is connected to too many other things, like a spider in a web of time. Eliminate the spider, and his hold over the web disappears. Now --" and I see his eyes glance around him, like he's checking the weather. "We are almost done. Petherbridge? Boggs?"
Both men snap to attention, saluting from where they are sitting. Curious.
"At ease. Keep an eye on these ladies. I'll get back to you all as soon as I can," his eyes are disappearing fleck by fleck. "Good night, Veronica. I love you."
I can't even speak, I'm holding my left hand over my mouth and I raise my right to wave goodbye. What's left of his eyes look very sad. They shift to my right.
"Take care of her, Henrietta," he says.
The last golden specks fall. The amber liquid lantern goes out. The light from within fades.
I turn to my right.
"Mother Henrietta? Is that really you?" I ask.
She opens her mouth to answer, and in that moment a figure leaps to the top of the embankment in front of us, shouting, "Die in the name of the Prophet!"
It's a woman, her silhouette looks familiar. And as fire ignites in the treetops all around us, more figures appear on the embankment near her and I realize who she is.
Iron Rachel has found us.
"First Lieutenant Petherbridge and Private Boggs, Your Ladyship. We've brought her," he says.
She turns, standing, faces me.
I can't believe my eyes.
"At ease, Gentlemen," she says. Her accent is amazing, it's British but tinged with something more European ... is it French? Basque? Tad would know. Damn him.
She stands in front of me in a tailored man's uniform, her hair -- a dark brown bordering on black -- pinned up under an Officers' cap, her face unlined. She is so beautiful, she looks incredible in that uniform, I feel under-dressed and outclassed. But this can't be real. She can't be who she seems to be. It has to be a coincidence.
"Veronica," she says. "Our time here is extremely short. How we have achieved this is too long a story to tell at this time. Why we have achieved it is simple: in order to alter the course of events and secure your safety in this place and time, we needed to intervene."
"My safety? What about ... everyone else?" I feel like I'm talking slowly. Emotional molasses stuck in a mental January.
"Their safety is your safety, but what you did not know was that there were those among ... the Rachels and Ezekiels -- who planned to assassinate --" Hesitating, her eyes shift to First Lieutenant Petherbridge. He gives a crisp little shake of the head, his eyes shifting down and away. There is a pause as she breathes, then: "I see. It is exactly as I was shown. We are too late for that, then. Well. We shall simply redouble our efforts here and accept no result other than total and complete victory."
"Wait, wait -- are you talking about what just happened? About how -- the shooting?" I'm stumbling on my words, lost and angry, and I sit down, right away, because that's my only option. She's kneeling in front of me and Petherbridge and Boggs are kneeling on either side of me.
"Veronica, look into my eyes," she says. I do, and she continues, "You know these eyes. You know my face."
I'm thinking, They look familiar, but this has to be a coincidence. It has to be.
She is still speaking, and I do my best to focus on her words: "What you do not know is where I come from and how I got here. But there is a message that I need to give you, a message that has taken quite a long time to reach you in the here and now. I need you to stay focused and to remember that we are your friends. The first shot that was fired, the first bullet ... came from behind. I know this as certainly as I know that Edward loves you still, that he loves you from countless centuries and miles away, and that he is -- even as we speak -- fighting to return to you."
Now, with the smell of smoke stronger and the sounds of gunfire somehow muted in this place, she turns and opens a very old and solid wooden trunk. It looks like the prototype pirate chest, only small and covered with strange symbols. As she opens it, there is a brief shimmer -- like light through water. She withdraws something that looks like an ancient glass lantern. It is filled with a thick, clear ambler liquid, in which there appear to be flakes of gold, floating in place.
Petherbridge draws a pennywhistle from within his jacket or whatever it would be called, and Boggs begins to hum. Her Ladyship withdraws an old oil lamp -- like the one Aladdin's Djinn lives in -- from within the trunk as well. Opening its lid, she breathes a word or two over the oil inside and a whisp of blue-white light swirls up out of the oil like condensation over a cup of hot coffee. I feel my eyes widen. She closes the lid and sets the lamp on the flat, level top of a log round in front of us. From within the trunk she draws a brass tripodal arrangement which she sets up over and around the lamp. She hangs the lantern from the tripod, directly over where the flame of the lamp would be.
Petherbridge begins to play something, a tuneless wail that seems to weave in and out of Boggs' humming. Like snakes intertwined. As that thought comes to me, the pennywhistle and the voice settle into a harmony that sounds very Eastern, very Arabic, I think.
Her Ladyship says a word:
"اللسان"
A tongue of blue-white flame leaps up from the mouth of the oil lamp, heating the bottom of the amber liquid lantern.
Almost immediately, the specks of gold look like they're glowing. Her Ladyship sings softly in that other language and the flame grows stronger and the golden flecks begin to move within the liquid. The light around us changes, no longer coming just from the flame lantern on the broken branch or the oil lamp beneath the amber liquid lantern, but from all around us. It starts as a light pinkish glow, like everything around us -- from the mud and dirt and leaves to the Oak and Bay trees, to the map and the log and maybe even we ourselves -- everything is putting out a general light. And there are no shadows. It looks like the light before a really big storm, when late afternoon sun is reflected off of the bay and from there off the underside of the clouds about to burst, and everything is soft and pretty for a few minutes.
I find that I can't take my eyes from the golden specks in the amber lantern. As the lantern grows warmer from the oil lamp beneath it, the specks start to move around one another. Even as they move from the heat, it seems that they are moving with the music of her voice. The sound of fighting is very far away, now, and the smell of the smoke has become sweet like incense. I am completely comfortable, at ease. It's like being stoned, but aware and awake at the same time. Like sleeping would be if walking and sleeping were possible without the sleeping part, and if the walking part were in a really nice park next to a beautiful palace like in Prince of Persia or Aladdin. With peacocks roaming the grounds. Yes.
Now the specks are moving so fast that they are making streaks of light. The more she sings, the faster they move. And as they move, a picture begins to form within the streaks of light, until they are zipping around so fast that the picture is as solid and as real as everything around us.
It is the picture of a gigantic eyeball. I lean back in disgust. It looks like the eyeball is inside the lantern. Like I could touch it. The pupil is dilating, focusing, almost as though it is focusing on us, on me. The eye itself is just slightly bloodshot, but the iris ... the iris is the prettiest shade of blue-green, almost the exact color of peacock feathers, only with little brown specks.
Little brown specks ... ?
I gasp and there is a hand on my shoulder, Her Ladyship calming me; I know without being told that to speak now would break whatever is going on.
The eye grows smaller and more of the face appears, like it's leaning back away from inspecting us. The image solidifies. And there he is. Looking directly at me, from inside a magic lantern brought here in a treasure chest from I don't know where, looking at me with his happy half-smile and eyes all crinkly, is ...
"Tad ..." I breathe. His eyes light up.
"Wow. I didn't expect to be able to hear you so well. This is wayyy better than Skype," I can tell he's expecting me to laugh, but I'm crying. Again. Damn it. Damn him.
"Damn you, Edward Hightower. Where the fuck are you? And when the fuck are you coming home? And where the hell is our boy? Where is Max?! This is not just some jaunt to the mountains, Tad, you disappeared. You literally disappeared right in front of me! Where are you?!"
His eyes are soft and his smile is sad. I wipe more tears from my cheeks.
"The question is not so much about where I am, honey. The question is, 'When?'" As he says this, I sense more than see Petherbridge and Boggs nodding. "And the answer to the question of when is something that can change at any time -- though truth be told, it hasn't changed all that much in the past year or so."
"Year?! YEAR?! You've been gone a few days, what are you talking about, 'the past year'?" I'm shouting now, and someone shushes me quietly, gently. I realize in that moment how risky this is. I glance up and around at the trees, lit only by these strange lamps and lanterns and whatever it is that is making everything around us glow.
"Veronica, I am lost in time. I have been trying to find my way back to you ever since I got here, but you have to understand that I can't just pop back and forth like I was doing before you broke the Prophet's hold over the compound. And I ... seem to have lost someone. Within time," his eyes flick to my right and I realize he's looking at her. Why? He continues, "And what I have to ask you, right now, is this: the next time you have a chance to kill Torvald Mayberry, do it. Please."
The golden flecks that have been whirling within the amber liquid have begun to fall, sand-like, in an hourglass pattern, which Tad seems to see at the same time I do.
"Crap. My time is running out. You're going to see him sooner than you think. Reload that pistol the instant this lantern stops. Shatter the lantern at the base of an Oak tree, do not leave it for anyone to find. The lamp and tripod may be kept, but the lantern is too dangerous to be risked. Promise me, Veronica, that you will immediately destroy this lantern. And that you will kill Torvald Mayberry the first chance you have."
My face is so wet with tears that I don't even bother wiping them away now. His image has been decaying fleck by golden fleck as he talks, and though now most of his face is gone, his eyes seem to be glowing brighter.
"Honey," I say, barely a whisper. "Can I touch your face through this?"
His eyes grow sad again as he says, "No. It would not even be a good idea to try. But just seeing you touches my soul. You are my star, my beacon, Veronica. I set my course by your light every time I travel. And travel is all I seem to do, these days."
"How can I get you back here? What can I do? I would walk from here to Nepal and back if that's what it takes," I'm sobbing a little. Keeping it under control. His eyes are smiling, as is what's left of his face. I realize the light in his eyes is the reflection of the lantern in tears.
"Do as I ask," he says. "Kill him the instant you have the opportunity. He is connected to too many other things, like a spider in a web of time. Eliminate the spider, and his hold over the web disappears. Now --" and I see his eyes glance around him, like he's checking the weather. "We are almost done. Petherbridge? Boggs?"
Both men snap to attention, saluting from where they are sitting. Curious.
"At ease. Keep an eye on these ladies. I'll get back to you all as soon as I can," his eyes are disappearing fleck by fleck. "Good night, Veronica. I love you."
I can't even speak, I'm holding my left hand over my mouth and I raise my right to wave goodbye. What's left of his eyes look very sad. They shift to my right.
"Take care of her, Henrietta," he says.
The last golden specks fall. The amber liquid lantern goes out. The light from within fades.
I turn to my right.
"Mother Henrietta? Is that really you?" I ask.
She opens her mouth to answer, and in that moment a figure leaps to the top of the embankment in front of us, shouting, "Die in the name of the Prophet!"
It's a woman, her silhouette looks familiar. And as fire ignites in the treetops all around us, more figures appear on the embankment near her and I realize who she is.
Iron Rachel has found us.
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
Notes from the Future: Dead Letter Office II
[The
following is selected from within its own securely-locked drawer in the Long-Term section of the USPS
Dead Letter Office. "Long-Term" is a rather vague euphemism for files
which cannot be otherwise resolved. The container for this letter -- a sealed glass jar -- sits in the precise center of an otherwise empty third drawer down in a wooden file cabinet. Four Y-shaped sticks of Rowanwood wedged between the jar and the corners of the drawer hold it in place, and four copper crosses topped with silver dimes sitting on squares of menthol are fastened to the bottom of the drawer, long end pointing toward the jar, in each quarter formed by the Rowanwood sticks. A dried herb, tobacco from the smell of it, has been sprinkled over all. Peruse at your leisure, dear reader, and consider the consequences of time wasted elsewhere.]
***************************
Item: Letter
Lost: Date unknown
Found: Inside a hollow oak tree in Morgan's Territory, north of Livermore.
Date Found: October 21, 1867
Condition: Perfectly preserved in a sealed glass jar, wrapped in spider webs and surrounded by dead flies and other, strange and unfamiliar "insects" [?]. Envelope and letter both onionskin paper, unsealed; handwritten, rust-brown ink (possibly blood, though this is deemed a touch dramatic and therefore unlikely); handwriting shows elements of Cyrillic and unknown runic or glyphic influences. Suggest handling with gloves and burning gloves afterward; peculiar skin condition results from direct contact.
Text:
E[smudge]d Hig[smudge]
270 Livermore Road
Trevarno, CA 94554-9180
October 21, 1868
Dear Failure,
Not for you. Lost to finding. Wrangled off in Spider's Binding. She is wrapp'd and snuggled tight, lost in timeless darkling night. Thus your plans in disarray: winding out in brightest day, smuggled off at profane angles, angels weep to see such tangles. Thus your search must bear no fruit, perch your hope in Raven suit, crow your howl to waning moon that blinds the noontime sun balloon.
How I laugh. How I chuckle. How I force her now to suckle. Eggs beneath her skin hatch out, infesting deeper in, devout. Needful, greedy, digging deeper, eight-legg'd minions wrapping creeper, capping off her grave with stone, sounding human trumpet bone: come and find her if you can. Come and save her, be her man. Prove her fears are empty shell'd see her nightmares all dispell'd.
Jack-O-Lanterns cannot light you, candles snuff'd as batwings blight you. Black cats crossing ev'ry path, scorpions within your bath. Biting things and lurking dreadfuls, bread like ash and aching headfuls: thus your days stretch on in waste, your hasty exits stick like paste to scorch and burn the thoughts of those with whom you travel, stub their toes.
As this paper burns your fingers, so it spreads to taint your skin; thus corruption paints and lingers deeper than without, within. Faults that slip and shift break open, thus the Ancient Mother roars; weeping red to burn all hope and each and every fault is yours.
Vengeful Serpents Lay Eggs In Your Heart,
The One You Forgot
**************************
Analysis: As there is no extant local or regional record of any person whose name bears any resemblance to the smudged addressee, we recognize that this letter will in all probability never be claimed. It is preserved, nonetheless, for its peculiarity: as a folkloric curio, it may be of some anthropological value at a later time. The discrepancy in dates [it is dated a year to the day later than the day it was found] lends further uncertainty to this already unusual piece of mail. Let it also be noted that there is, as yet, no Livermore Road in the township of Trevarno, and that no plans currently exist to rename any existing thoroughfare or to create such a road.
-- Peter K. Slough, Postmaster, Altamont Station
October 30, 1867
***************************
Item: Letter
Lost: Date unknown
Found: Inside a hollow oak tree in Morgan's Territory, north of Livermore.
Date Found: October 21, 1867
Condition: Perfectly preserved in a sealed glass jar, wrapped in spider webs and surrounded by dead flies and other, strange and unfamiliar "insects" [?]. Envelope and letter both onionskin paper, unsealed; handwritten, rust-brown ink (possibly blood, though this is deemed a touch dramatic and therefore unlikely); handwriting shows elements of Cyrillic and unknown runic or glyphic influences. Suggest handling with gloves and burning gloves afterward; peculiar skin condition results from direct contact.
Text:
E[smudge]d Hig[smudge]
270 Livermore Road
Trevarno, CA 94554-9180
October 21, 1868
Dear Failure,
Not for you. Lost to finding. Wrangled off in Spider's Binding. She is wrapp'd and snuggled tight, lost in timeless darkling night. Thus your plans in disarray: winding out in brightest day, smuggled off at profane angles, angels weep to see such tangles. Thus your search must bear no fruit, perch your hope in Raven suit, crow your howl to waning moon that blinds the noontime sun balloon.
How I laugh. How I chuckle. How I force her now to suckle. Eggs beneath her skin hatch out, infesting deeper in, devout. Needful, greedy, digging deeper, eight-legg'd minions wrapping creeper, capping off her grave with stone, sounding human trumpet bone: come and find her if you can. Come and save her, be her man. Prove her fears are empty shell'd see her nightmares all dispell'd.
Jack-O-Lanterns cannot light you, candles snuff'd as batwings blight you. Black cats crossing ev'ry path, scorpions within your bath. Biting things and lurking dreadfuls, bread like ash and aching headfuls: thus your days stretch on in waste, your hasty exits stick like paste to scorch and burn the thoughts of those with whom you travel, stub their toes.
As this paper burns your fingers, so it spreads to taint your skin; thus corruption paints and lingers deeper than without, within. Faults that slip and shift break open, thus the Ancient Mother roars; weeping red to burn all hope and each and every fault is yours.
Vengeful Serpents Lay Eggs In Your Heart,
The One You Forgot
**************************
Analysis: As there is no extant local or regional record of any person whose name bears any resemblance to the smudged addressee, we recognize that this letter will in all probability never be claimed. It is preserved, nonetheless, for its peculiarity: as a folkloric curio, it may be of some anthropological value at a later time. The discrepancy in dates [it is dated a year to the day later than the day it was found] lends further uncertainty to this already unusual piece of mail. Let it also be noted that there is, as yet, no Livermore Road in the township of Trevarno, and that no plans currently exist to rename any existing thoroughfare or to create such a road.
-- Peter K. Slough, Postmaster, Altamont Station
October 30, 1867
Saturday, October 27, 2012
Notes from the Future: Dead Letter Office
[The following is selected from within a number of very thick file folders which fill at least two drawers in the Long-Term section of the USPS Dead Letter Office. "Long-Term" is a rather vague euphemism for files which cannot be otherwise resolved. Read on and perhaps clarity will rest on your shoulder and whisper in your ear.]
***************************
Item: Letter
Lost: Date unknown
Found: Under a concrete paving stone near entrance to Bradford Station, 822 C Street, Hayward CA
Date Found: October 4, 1917
Condition: Stained, smeared. Envelope torn. Letter falling out. Typewritten. One fingerprint visible in lower right-hand corner, apparently blood.
Text:
Edward Hightower
2770 Pleasant Knoll Court
Hayward, CA 94541
October 3, 1901
Dear Tad,
My name is Veronica Torres. You are very young now, and will not meet me for a very long time. But I have to tell you some things that are really, really important. So you have to listen to me, you have to pay attention to this letter. It may seem crazy, it may seem impossible. But it is real and true, and if you pay attention then you will be far better off in the future.
You have an ability, Tad. It's a very special ability. Your obsession with numbers will help you in this ability, and your skill at finding patterns in numbers -- even when you don't understand the arithmetic -- will help you with this. Know that you don't need to be a mathematician to use numbers in your ability: it's intuitive and you need to follow your gut.
You need to train your ability, and you need to start today. Begin with the multiplication tables. Don't try to learn them at all, just play with them. Draw pictures around them. Doodle and sketch, draw whatever comes to mind. It's not a test, it's a way of connecting. When you notice patterns, see if you can find any spirals. There is no right answer. Only shapes and patterns. If you get tired or frustrated, just take a nap. You love naps.
If this letter has reached you, you can verify the following: you were born in South Lake Tahoe. Your older bothers have both backpacked the Roosevelt/Solomons Trail, though you may know this trail by another name and you will backpack it yourself someday. Hindenburg Airlines Flight 707 over Lockerbie, Scotland is what slowed the progress of the passenger jet, which is why you have a dirigible hanging above your desk. Move it before October 17, 1989 at 5:04 pm, please.
And pay attention to the patterns in that date and time.
Because you can verify all of the above, you know this letter is genuine. Please, please, please take it seriously even if you don't believe a word of it, even if history is different.
Tad, you are a very smart boy.
By now you've noticed the date on this letter.
Love (because I always will),
Veronica
**************************
Analysis: Due to nonexistent address and unverifiable historical "data," this letter is deemed undeliverable and, therefore, dead -- until such time as the intended recipient appears providing proof that this communication is meant for him and him alone.
-- Charles A. French, Postmaster, Bradford Station
November 22, 1917
***************************
Item: Letter
Lost: Date unknown
Found: Under a concrete paving stone near entrance to Bradford Station, 822 C Street, Hayward CA
Date Found: October 4, 1917
Condition: Stained, smeared. Envelope torn. Letter falling out. Typewritten. One fingerprint visible in lower right-hand corner, apparently blood.
Text:
Edward Hightower
2770 Pleasant Knoll Court
Hayward, CA 94541
October 3, 1901
Dear Tad,
My name is Veronica Torres. You are very young now, and will not meet me for a very long time. But I have to tell you some things that are really, really important. So you have to listen to me, you have to pay attention to this letter. It may seem crazy, it may seem impossible. But it is real and true, and if you pay attention then you will be far better off in the future.
You have an ability, Tad. It's a very special ability. Your obsession with numbers will help you in this ability, and your skill at finding patterns in numbers -- even when you don't understand the arithmetic -- will help you with this. Know that you don't need to be a mathematician to use numbers in your ability: it's intuitive and you need to follow your gut.
You need to train your ability, and you need to start today. Begin with the multiplication tables. Don't try to learn them at all, just play with them. Draw pictures around them. Doodle and sketch, draw whatever comes to mind. It's not a test, it's a way of connecting. When you notice patterns, see if you can find any spirals. There is no right answer. Only shapes and patterns. If you get tired or frustrated, just take a nap. You love naps.
If this letter has reached you, you can verify the following: you were born in South Lake Tahoe. Your older bothers have both backpacked the Roosevelt/Solomons Trail, though you may know this trail by another name and you will backpack it yourself someday. Hindenburg Airlines Flight 707 over Lockerbie, Scotland is what slowed the progress of the passenger jet, which is why you have a dirigible hanging above your desk. Move it before October 17, 1989 at 5:04 pm, please.
And pay attention to the patterns in that date and time.
Because you can verify all of the above, you know this letter is genuine. Please, please, please take it seriously even if you don't believe a word of it, even if history is different.
Tad, you are a very smart boy.
By now you've noticed the date on this letter.
Love (because I always will),
Veronica
**************************
Analysis: Due to nonexistent address and unverifiable historical "data," this letter is deemed undeliverable and, therefore, dead -- until such time as the intended recipient appears providing proof that this communication is meant for him and him alone.
-- Charles A. French, Postmaster, Bradford Station
November 22, 1917
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)