Notes from the Future: Felonious Monk, Part II

Fuck. It's cold. I'm outside, in the dark. It's smoky, and turning to my left I can see Mt. Diablo, still erupting. I am still in this hospital gown, my right leg in a cast. The journal, the pen and the utility knife were left behind. How come the gown and the cast come with me?  I should have taken some painkillers. I'm behind a building. I'm ... 

Jesus, I'm back in the Compound. Am I here for Chauncey? Must be. Could this be any more difficult? I'd be only slightly more visible if I wore a neon sign and brought along a Mariachi band.

Okay, what did Future Me say about where Chauncey is? Stand of trees behind barn, I think. And this is the barn. Okay, looking behind me I see a stand of Oak or Bay downslope, and I think I can get there dragging myself. I'm already laying on my side, can't stand in this cast. It's cold, but at least it's not raining. It hurts, but at least I'm in a cast.

I start to drag myself past the back wall of the barn when I hear a voice. I freeze. It sounds familiar. I edge closer to the back wall of the barn and listen, then drag myself back the way I came. There is a slight sliver of light coming from a crack in a wooden plank of the wall. I press my eye to it: I can see the door at the far end of a room. There's a voice, whispering, murmuring; I press my ear to the crack and listen. It fades in and out of audibility, but I pick up:

" ... I'm speaking to you in your dreams. Dream of me, and stay asleep. I need to tell you about this guy, this Prophet. Remember his name: Torvald Mayberry, former Pastor of Three Square Christian Church and Missionary Bible School in Castro Valley ... "

Wow. That's me in there, whispering to Veronica. 

Footsteps crunching on gravel to my left, it sounds like someone is coming around the barn from that side. I throw myself to my right and grunt, dragging myself around the right side of the barn in hopes that I can avoid detection. Was the grunt too loud? I'm panting. It hurts. I need painkillers. That would make everything easier.

And right in front of me is a building that feels familiar, though I've never seen it before. It looks like a house. A large McMansion, with nice landscaping around it, but next to it there's what sounds and smells like a pigpen. 

"You there! Halt in the name of the Prophet!"

This voice comes from behind me to my right; choosing flight over fight, I duck, launching forward into the dry brown grass in front of me, dragging myself down to the right, downslope of the landscaping, toward the back of that house. Maybe I can hide in there. Footsteps running on gravel, and another voice:

"Evening, Ezekiel. Is there trouble?"

The running steps stop, but I keep crawling. Sticks and rocks scraping at my abdomen, my legs, my junk. Ouch. Dragging myself with my arms and left leg, I try to get on top of grass and slide along it; this almost works, but sticks and rocks still interfere with my plan. I can hear the voices behind me:

"Yes, Ezekiel. I spotted an interloper," this is the first voice. I'm glad they're not following me -- yet.

"Another interloper? What did this one look like?" the second voice is awfully familiar. I almost turn to look back, but Orpheus comes to mind. I keep crawling, looking instead at the landscaping above me and to my left. It meets with a small deck which seems to run the length of the back of the house. I keep crawling. The voices are fading behind me:

"She was wearing a white dress and one thick, white leg warmer. Otherwise, I think she was ... naked," says the first voice.

Good to know that in the dark I look like a woman.

"Really? Where is she now? I'd love a taste of this naked, dress-wearing interloper from 1982," the second voice is calm, relaxed, mocking. The second voice sounds so familiar that I almost think it's me for a second. Vision swimming, I realize that I'm probably confused because I'm getting close to myself, somewhere. I need to "click back in" at some point. That's what makes the other voice sound like me, maybe. 

Glancing up to check my progress again, I see a small set of stairs coming down from the deck. Three steps. I can do that. All I have to do is drag myself up the slope from where I am, then butt-crawl backwards up the steps. Then get into the building. Then search it for painkillers.

Altering my course, I feel something pull or jerk deep in my right leg and the pain juts up through me like a splintered pole and I vomit loudly in the grass, still somehow crawling forward. Then I'm done. I can't go any further. I lay here in my puke, feeling a cold sweat break out as heat seems to fill my face and arms, my whole body. I'm shaking. And very comfortable. I could sleep here.

I do.

My dream is odd. In my dream, I'm standing watching myself twitch in my own vomit. Lots of vomit since the earthquake. I can't touch me because of the seizures, so I whistle. And from a long, long way away comes a horse galloping.

The galloping horse arrives and it's very small, smaller than a pony but taller than a miniature horse. It's black. It licks my face, panting, and it's not a horse anymore. It's Max! Max, the Wonderdog! He's wearing a red cape and his golden tag glints with heroic canine goodness in the night. Standing me tells Max to drag pukey me up onto the deck.

Max sits between the two of us, looking confused. He looks from Standing to Pukey and back. Standing repeats the order. Max stands, moves toward Pukey, looks back. Standing repeats the order, a trifle exasperated. Yep, that's me alright. Max takes the upper right shoulder of the hospital gown in his teeth, looks at Standing for confirmation. Standing says, "Good boy," and sounds just like the voice that was behind me near that barn.

Max the Wonderdog begins to pull me up the slope toward the steps. It's only about 20 feet, Max is very strong and it's pretty quick going -- maybe too quick, because Standing Me steps forward to put a pad or some cardboard or something over a rock, but Max is a Wonderdog and very enthusiastic in his work. He drags me over a rock jutting from the ground and --

"Holy FUCK!" I shout, as my junk slams into a rock and someone lets go of my hospital gown and whimpers -- 

 -- Standing me has slipped trying to get to us in time and accidentally touched my left arm --

-- nuh-nuh-noh-noh-noh-hhh-hhh-hho-hho-hoh-hoh --

Everything goes black.

When I open my eyes, I'm on the deck, on my stomach. It's still dark. I feel like I have a fever, even turning my head hurts and creaks. Nobody is here. No Me. No Max. Nothing.

About two feet from where I'm lying is a door with a window in it. I try to pull myself toward it. Not good. Doesn't work. I close my eyes. Everything swings wildly.

I open my eyes. I am closer to the door. I must have pushed myself.

I put my fingers between the slats of the deck and pull myself a couple inches. A couple more. I reach one slat further. Pull. Closer. Another slat. Pull. 

I can touch the door. I push on it with my fingers. It's closed. Too much to hope. I carefully ease myself up onto my left elbow, trying to reach the doorknob with my right hand. It's too far. I move my left elbow right next to the door, pull myself closer, hearing my cast drag on the wood as I feel its vibration deep in my broken bones. A brief wave of nausea, then I'm breathing and it has passed.

I reach again and can close my fingers over the knob. I turn it.

Locked.

Footsteps on gravel, near stomping, close to the left.

"Halt!"

Notes from the Future: Felonious Monk

February 2, 2005

I've found this Mead Composition book, labeled JOURNAL, 2005, with a fresh Uniball Micro pen taped to the front. It's blank inside, so clearly I've left this for myself. I'm writing, this feels good. I have a deep need to record everything, to transcribe everything that has happened. Maybe to make sense of it.

Future Me just left. Popped out, as it were. I'm in a lot of pain, but I'm waiting to take any painkillers -- I want to see how bad the pain gets, so I can gauge my recovery; I also don't want to be dependent on painkillers. I'll take some in about an hour. Maybe six.

Future Me has set us up well in this tent. I have a lot of food, paper, pens, pencils, a scientific calculator, a laptop (not mine, as far as I know), painkillers of various sorts. These include Ibuprofen, Tylenol, Aspirin, Morphine, Marijuana, Opium and some other substances of whose painkilling efficacy I am uncertain: Salvia Divinorum, Sceletium Tortuosum and what appears to be a large bag of dried, vacuum-packed Psilocybin mushrooms. Future me has been quite the Felonious Monk these past ten years; were I to sell the contents of these bags, I believe I would net many thousands of dollars. Not knowing what the going rate is on any of these substances -- not the Ibuprofen and Aspirin and such, but the Weed, Opium, Shrooms -- I don't know if it would be wiser to simply hold onto them for a later day or if I'm supposed to sell them and invest the money ...

Now there's an interesting idea. It's 2005. The Market hasn't shitbombed, yet. In fact, I could use what I know about what's coming to make a killing. Is that what I did? Knowing me, I can't believe I didn't leave detailed instructions somewhere. If Veronica ever reads this journal, she will scoff at that. But in times of crisis, I am and have always been a detailed instruction sort of fellow. It's why I do well in theatre, as theatre is one crisis after another. So laugh, laugh, laugh, honey, and observe that I am certain I'll see you again. In spite of what appears to be overwhelming evidence to the contrary.

The best thing to do seems to be to make a detailed inventory of everything in here, from left to right. So:

One Gregory backpack, fairly new, suitable for long hauls.

One Primus campstove with ten large fuel canisters. That's a lot.

A flat of canned Hormel meats, the labels in Chinese and Spanish -- clearly I am still a fan of Grocery Outlet.

A stuff bag full of canned Sardines: plain, in mustard sauce, in Louisiana Hot Sauce, pickled Herrings. Those sound tasty.

Wow, an entire filebox of pre-made dried meals, clearly made and labeled by me:

     Ten Tasty Taco and Mashed Potato mixes.

     Ten Chicken Curry and Coconut Rice mixes

     Ten Hearty Beef Stew and Spanish Rice mixes. (Did I mix the Mashed Potato and Spanish Rice up?)

     Ten Spicy Chinese Noodle, Good For Your Heart, Live Long Time and Steamed Rice mixes.

     Ten Pudding Surprise mixes

     Ten Berry Cobbler mixes

     Ten Banana Cream Mash-up mixes

     Ten Butterscotch Dream mixes

And, behind that, three other boxes, all the same as this first one. I hope I get to eat elsewhere at some point. It all sounds delicious but I don't want to get bored.

Three flats of instant Oatmeal

Three flats of instant Malt-O-Meal

Three flats of Corned Beef Hash

Four gigantic family-sized boxes of powdered milk.

I've made kind of a mess going through all of these things, I'm going to put them back where I found them; he left it organized, so I should honor that. Clearly, something has changed. 

Done. Feels good to be organized.  Man, my ass is uncomfortable, is this sleeping bag on a rock?

Oh. It's on a bundle wrapped in plastic, marked TO EDWARD HIGHTOWER, FEBRUARY 2005, OPEN ME RIGHT AWAY

Okay. I've used a handy utility razor to cut through the plastic and packing tape on the outside, and there's a letter inside that begins, "Don't bother transcribing this letter. Just tape it into your journal. Tape is in this package. Do it now." So I'm doing it now. Here's the letter:

"Tad,

Don't bother transcribing this letter. Just tape it into your journal. Tape is in this package. Do it now. Good. So: you should have taken some Ibuprofen and changed your clothes. You'll be leaving, soon --"

POP

Notes from the Future: Henrietta's Tale, Part VII

"We've found them," the Rachel pants. "We know where he's taken them, and he has all the children there, too."

The room flies into action. Mother Henrietta is on her feet, shrugging off the lavender robey thing she's been wearing in favor of a black vest covered in pockets. She's wearing digitized cammo gear and hiking boots, I had no idea! She looks a bit like Judi Dench in a Bond film, now, only less glamorous and more para-military. Rachels and Ezekiels are moving with purpose, the same way they did when the "Prophet" was going crazy-pants in everyones' face. Within minutes the room is transformed, merely by the stance and clothing of the people in it: every man and woman there is in formation, fully equipped -- and fully armed -- for some kind of mission. 

I realize now that I've stood here watching them the whole time, and that as they stand at attention I am the odd woman out, soft and civilian, no idea where they're going or why. All eyes are on Mother Henrietta, but she turns to look at me.

"Veronica," she begins. "You do not have to be a part of this. You could stay safely here, safely hidden, with no risk whatsoever, and we would all understand. Frankly, I know I would prefer that and I'm pretty certain I'm not the only one here who feels that way."

I glance around the room and see some discreet, flinty nods. 

"One of our better-kept secrets," continues Mother H. "Is that every single man and woman here has had extensive military experience. It is the best form of medical experience available, whether war-time or peace-time, and instills a discipline and understanding of chain-of-command not often found in civilian hospitals. We are not wanna-be military nutjobs. Every one of us is a Veteran. We know the risk we face tonight. And we think you should stay here. But we want you to understand where we are going and why, so sit briefly and listen." She turns to the ... troops, I guess. "At ease. Have a seat."

As one, they relax and sit. But somehow they are each as taut as a bowstring, even reclining on beanbags.

"Our numbers have been dwindling for quite a long time. Not just from the "accidents," but simply from individuals or small groups disappearing. We've been aware of it, but until recently we haven't been able to send people out searching, as Mayberry would call a Reckoning any time a larger group disappeared. We had to be very careful to keep our work as secret as we could. Even now -- you know, we've gotten so deep into our secrecy that I realize there's something you need to see. Come with me, Veronica. The rest of you be outside in seven minutes, ready to go."

She stands and I follow her to the right, deeper into the house, toward areas I've never been; the Rachels and Ezekiels move in the opposite direction, toward the balcony and the steps to the gravel below, to the last place I saw Tad. I'm lost in that thought for a moment before I realize we're going down a set of stairs I've never seen. Mother H. turns to me for a moment.

"There are a few reasons you've never been down here or seen what you're about to see," she says. Then she pushes on a book in a shelf and a panel opens in the wall -- right out of the sheet rock! -- exposing more stairs leading down. She walks through, saying, "The first reason is simply hygiene: we need to keep it clean." I follow her and she pushes a button on an electric wall sconce and the door closes behind us. Heading down these new, bare pine stairs, Mother H. continues: "The second reason is security. We have to control who comes in and goes out, who knows what and why. As Edward appears to be able to teleport or something along those lines, we have been eager to speak to you about his abilities. I want to stress that we would never force you to talk about anything. As you have not disappeared with him in the last few days, and as you have been incredibly, wonderfully helpful in our work, I have decided you should see more -- not all, but more -- of what we have, here."

The staircase has become a spiral one, now, and we're pretty deep underground. It hits a landing and continues to spiral down, but Mother H. opens a door to our left. Inside is an old, Victorian elevator cage. She slides open the gate and steps in, holding it for me. When it closes behind me, I notice symbols all over the metal. The kinds of symbols Tad is always talking about and writing in his journals.

"We call this elevator 'Jules,'" she says. "Push the Crescent-Full-Crescent button, please."

Looking at the button panel, I see no numbers, just symbols. Some I recognize: the alchemical symbol for the sun, which looks like a breast with a nipple right in the center, is familiar to me because of the number of times Tad has grabbed my boobs and said, "He's got the twin sun Solar System / In his hands! / He's got a whole lotta booby-tits / In his hands! / He likes to jiggle-jiggle-jiggle / In his hands! / He's got your titties in his hands!" This would be followed by a brief lecture on alchemical symbolism. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the man I love. Nucking futs, but cute and cuddly. And a Time Traveler, it would seem.

All of this goes through my head in a millisecond as I search for and find the button Mother Henrietta mentioned: two crescent moons flanking the full moon. I push it, and with a clank and a whirr, we are moving swiftly down into darkness broken only by the amber light overhead in the small elevator cage, with similar amber lights in the shaft at regular intervals. They look like mica lamps from Restoration Hardware. Only not sold at a mall. I'm betting they're original. The shaft is quite a bit larger than the elevator cage: the lights look to be fifteen to twenty feet away. Mother Henrietta Continues:

"We've been here a long, long time. We started excavating the moment we arrived. We had several goals, not least of which is secrecy."

The elevator stops, Mother Henrietta pushes the gate open and follows me out. As the gate slams shut, she pushes a series of buttons on a pad of symbols and I hear the clunk of a door unlocking. She turns a large steel handle on the door before us and it swings in. We step inside.

We are in the antechamber of an all-white cleanroom environment. Like something from a movie about epidemics. There are suits with hoses attached and I start to freak out a little, but Mother Henrietta points to scrubs and elastic footies. "Pull a large set on over what you're wearing, put on some footies. Nobody's got bird flu."

I follow her instructions and follow her lead, and in minutes we are standing before a high-tech door with another pad, but on the other side is a nurse Rachel. At a nod from Mother H., she pushes a button and the door slides open. We step through.

It is a gigantic hospital ward. And on every single bed is a wounded but healing Rachel or Clean Zeke. 

"Holy shit!" I blurt. "I totally forgot about them!"

Mother Henrietta smiles slightly. "It would be easy to do, in the wake of what has occurred. These are most -- not all -- of Torvald Mayberry's followers. These are the ones injured in the fight you witnessed. We are caring for them physically; once their wounds are healed, we will focus more on their mental and emotional state."

Looking closely, I see that each one is hand- or ankle-cuffed to her or his hospital bed. Mother H. watches me seeing these people bound in their care as we walk down the long, long room. She says, quietly, "Many of them are in a state of shock, denial and cognitive dissonance. The hold Mayberry had over them is still present, and very strong. We've had to intubate the ones who refused to eat, and there are others -- there, that one -- who have intentionally injured themselves in our care, prompting slightly more extreme measures."

The man in question is in a full-body cast and traction. He is still cuffed to his bed, but he couldn't get up and run now even if the cuffs were off.

"What was his injury in the battle?" I ask.

"A minor concussion. But he threw himself down the stairs coming in, breaking several ribs and one arm. Then he stole a scalpel and slashed his wrists and after that he tried to tip his bed over and crush his skull. He is under the impression that we mean to kill him, and he's going to beat us to it."

"I don't know why, Mother Henrietta --" I begin.

"Henrietta, please. For better or worse, you're not a Rachel -- yet." She smiles and I feel oddly flattered. "Go on, Veronica. You want to talk to him. I understand. Be careful. Eye contact, for some reason, can be troubling."

I approach his bed and he's watching me, no expression on his face. I pull up a small stool. 

"Hi there," I say.

"Fucking whore," he tries to spit at me. "Fucking Devil Whore!" He shouts this and several people look our way. For a second I am pissed off and I think about poking him in the eyes. Just as quickly, I'm calm and collected. I've endured worse that this shit-in-a-bowl asshole.

"How are you doing today?" I ask. "Are they treating you well?" I look and sound genuinely concerned. I can bring out the acting chops when I'm angry enough. He's clearly unsettled by my kindness, it's not what he expected. I go a little further: "What's your name?"

"So you can whisper it to Satan's ball sack?" he sneers at me.

Call me old-fashioned, but the picture of me whispering, "His name is Charlie," to the giant red scrotum of the Lord of Darkness is just too funny. I laugh out loud. And I kind of can't stop. For at least a few minutes, all I can do is laugh. And every time I see this guy with his eyebrows all screwed up, like he's constipated, staring at me so angry and confused, I only laugh harder. For a minute there I can't breathe. Now I know how Tad feels -- felt? -- when I would get mad at him and he would just laugh and laugh and laugh at me. Asshole. But even that is funny, now, and I let fly with another good, long bout of the laffy-laughs. I'm very aware that all other sound has stopped in this room.

When I can finally catch my breath, I wipe tears from my eyes, breathing deeply and still chuckling. "Charlie," I begin, but it's just too funny. I'm lost in laughing again. A couple times I gain control, but the minute I say that name, it's all over. I try to explain this to him. I can't, I just laugh, tears streaming down my face, though I do manage to get out the phrase, "Charlie ... ball sack ..."

"That is not my name!" He's indignant, now, and the idea that he thinks I think his name is Charlie Ballsack is, again, waaaaaaay too much for me to resist.

"You thinkIthink --" peals of laughter, gasp "You think --" more laughter, silent, bent over toward him, fanning my hand in front of my face trying to catch my breath. His face is beet red, then white, then red again. He's like a Ballsack Popsicle. Everyone's flavorite!

I'm not really sure how long I'm there laughing at the invalid in the body cast and traction. But it's a good long while. When I can finally get ahold of myself he tries to speak a couple times, but I wave him to silence. The last round of laughter was painful. Good, but painful. I need a break.

I stand. "Well, it's been lovely chatting with you," I say. 

"Sam," he says. "My name is Sam."

All the giddiness drains away in an instant. All this time, I've forgotten about our friend Sam. This is not the same Sam, but he makes me think of our Sam, who lives maybe five miles from where I am right now. Just below the ridge of hills that leads to 580.

"Sam," I say, looking him directly in the eyes. "Do you really think I'm Satan's Whore?"

His eyes seem to fog over for a second, then he shakes his head, blinking, and his eyes are clear. "No," he says. "That's the thing, Miss. I really never thought that. I know you're not. But ... it's like there's something ... inside me. And all it wants to do is get out. I dream that I'm sneaking into a village, like an old fashioned village in the Dark Ages or something. I'm sneaking in at night and I'm tying girls to rafters to cut them open and spill their insides on me." His eyes are terrified.

"Do you ... often have these thoughts, Sam?" I ask, quiet.

"No, never. I never had dreams like this until the earthquake. And even then, they were vague, unclear images. Now, since the Prophet has fallen, it's like I'm in a daydream. Everyone I see I have an impulse to cut, to maim, to slicey slice, cut cut cut!" These last few words are delivered with a giddy grin. The eyes looking out at me are no longer Sam's.  I back up, knocking over the little stool.

"I will slice you, I will cut you, I will I-don't-know-just-what you!" Sam screams and I hear something in his voice break, like he's snapped a vocal cord. 

Mother Henrietta is between us, I'm backing up, Nurse Rachels are converging with medical equipment, but also with books. I see a Quran, a Bible, other books that look old and sacred. The Nurse Rachels with books are reading from them, murmuring, watching Mother Henrietta, who stands over him speaking some language that sounds ... unfamiliar. Nothing like Spanish. She's gesturing, making shapes in the air with her hands, and the Nurse Rachels are doing what she does. One will spin in place partway through a gesture, then continue with the gesture when she stops, facing wherever she ends up. Another Nurse Rachel is dipping basil in some liquid and flicking it on Sam the Invalid.

Where the liquid lands, it boils off like water scattered on a cast iron stove.

Mother Henrietta gestures and an older Nurse Rachel steps in, taking her place. Mother H. leads me to the far end of the ward, through a door, up some stairs, through another door, into a gigantic old-fashioned library that would have Tad shitting himself in envy, then through a door that leads to a slightly larger-than-Jules old-fashioned elevator. This one is plated in brass. The keypad is old typewriter keys with strange symbols on them, unlike the symbols in the other elevator. These are totally foreign to me.

Mother H. pushes two keys and the elevator shoots upward, fast. My ears are popping. It slows and comes to a gentle stop, the gate opening automatically. We step out and there is a door that looks like a submarine door, nestled in a gigantic wall of sandstone, covered with strange carvings. Not quite hieroglyphics. She turns the wheel on the door, pushes it open, we go through, she closes it behind us. After a moment, there is a thump. She opens a second door and we step out.

Into the barn. Right next to my blue Honda. Tad's blue Honda. Our Honda.

I stop, shocked, but Mother H. just marches ahead, out the barn door.

I follow her. 

Assembled outside are all of the Rachels and Ezekiels from earlier, but their numbers have grown, now. There are about three times as many.

"I don't remember asking this number to join us," says Mother Henrietta. "But under the circumstances, I think it may be best."

They all seem to be standing up a little taller after she said that. Which is hard to imagine. There are a lot of very erect people here tonight.

"I took Veronica down to level six to show her what we're dealing with. Somehow, and I'll save details for later, she provoked Samuel Brace into leaking his darkness," and here she turns to look at me with her unsettling, familiar gaze. "I think we need to take her with us. I didn't get to tell her exactly where we're going. Cody? Share while she gets suited up."

I am surrounded by grimly smiling Rachels with digitized cammo, boots and gear -- all in my sizes. Something tells me they knew or planned or wanted me to come along. I listen as I get undressed, then re-dressed in the circle they've formed around me.

"Our objective is four miles Northwest, in the far back acreage of a sizable ranch. It is easily reached by road, but all roads are being watched.  We'll be traveling on foot. Two miles from our objective, I propose that we split into four groups: one to make a direct assault on our objective, two to flank, and one to approach over the top of the hill as a surprise, effectively hitting them from behind and above after the main force has hit and the flanks engage. Ma'am?" Cody is the Ezekiel who came in bruised and cut up earlier; he's cleaned up a bit. And he's kind of cute with his full beard and his muscles. Like Tad, if Tad were fit.

I'm sad for a moment, then Mother Henrietta is talking.

"We hit them hard, we hit them fast.  Rachels, use the Neurovascular Dynamics at close range. Non-force, non lethal where possible. Firearms are a last resort. I repeat, firearms are a last resort. Now move out!"

Notes from the Future: Henrietta's Tale, Part VI

"The last thing Friar Rudel saw before running for his life was the first seeking tendril of shadowed inkness reaching up over the edge of the trail where they had just stood, searching, reaching.

"Softly calling his name:

"'Rudel, Rudel, ring that bell, call the sinners down to hell; watch them die, peel their flesh, cook their bones on iron mesh. No, Rudel, please don't go -- we whisper up from down below; our whispers carry slicey cuts to slice the slits of silly sluts. To hear them scream in tightened ropes, to snap their bones and crush their hopes beneath the bulk of ev'ry man if ev'ry man were bloated Popes. To slice and cut and tear and rip, to hold them struggling in our grip, to watch their eyes as lids are torn or choke their blood as tongues are shorn or dangle entrails north and south that we have pulled from out their mouth ...'

"Turning from this slithering whisper, up the trail they ran, up and up, turning and folding over on their path with every bend, folding and blending until Friar Rudel began to feel as though they were on some illusory track that tricked the mind into thinking that one was making progress, while in fact they only held in place no mater how quickly they ran. This, at least, was the thought in his head each time he turned around to look at the progress of the creeping inkness, which never seemed too far behind them -- perhaps three or four bends in the trail at most -- and, faltering at heart, he would lose a step or two. But then the Merry Guardian would put a hand at his elbow or lightly touch his shoulder, and Friar Rudel would find himself suddenly light of heart and energized, able to actually run up the trail. 

"For his part, the Merry Guardian was full of encouragement, never tiring and constantly aware of everything ahead of and behind them. He made a point of describing the precise fashion in which the beast of flame was destroying their sigils:

"'Oh my, Rudel, you should see how he does this thing with his penis, it's utterly awful. Shall I describe it to you?'

"'Why not, O Perverse Entity? As long as you keep me running up this rutting cunt of a mountainside, I can listen to your descriptions of any number of abominations. Come along, then! What kind of phallic absurdity does that creature visit upon our creativity?' Friar Rudel was laughing aloud as he ran, never tiring for breath now.

"'Well, each time he reaches one, he tries to tear it with his claws. But it burns him, more than the fire in which he is enmeshed. The burning seems to go deeper, deeper than his bones, to his very being. Which enrages him -- oh my, as you can no doubt hear -- and so then he, goodness he's doing it right now, he rakes the barb of his evil cock across the sigil and that, that shadow you mentioned? It gets darker. Then he tears at the flesh of his own hands with the barb and throws his blood into the air before the sigil and as it mists there for a moment, it covers the sigil. He uses that instant, before the sigil can absorb the blood and get stronger, to rip the tiniest hole with his claws. Then he shoves his beastly cock in there and -- Rudel, this fellow is simply not to be tolerated for very much longer -- he's raping your lovely sigils! The effrontery of it!'

"Terrifying as it was, the Merry Guardian's description of the beast's attack on their magicking had the mortal and the Guardian laughing aloud as they ran. And each sigil they passed grew brighter for their laughter, and in turn strengthened every other sigil they'd left behind them, so that the beast howled even louder at each sigil he touched, because rather than weakening, the entire line was getting stronger. Every time the beast would howl, the Merry Guardian would act out what he was doing to the sigil, with exaggerated expressions and humpings of the air. Friar Rudel's laughter was so loud and strong and clear in the snowbound moonless night that Hannibal the Talkative, Abelard the Donkey and Bluebell the Mule, far, far above them on the trail, were themselves renewed and refreshed and practically leaping up the steep and treacherous trail.

"The folding of the trail had begun to remind Friar Rudel of something, of dough being folded and re-folded, a pastry of some kind. It wasn't a clear thought in his mind, just something bubbling in the back, a notion that seemed to come closer to fruition the farther up the trail they ran. Sometimes golden light, sometimes a scent, sometimes a voice humming, but each time it came to mind he was able to allow it to settle back down to be considered, like pieces of a stained-glass window in some great cathedral being slowly assembled.

"The trail would seem to be evening out, reaching a summit -- then it would turn again and up they would go, each bend lit by floating, glowing sigils. The farther up the trail they moved, the brighter the sigils became. Some time later, he knew not how long, Friar Rudel was startled to discover that he could see them without the aid of the round stone. He stopped in his tracks.

"'Astounding, no?' The Merry Guardian was grinning, his eyes inches from the sigil closest to them, watching as it not only floated but as each of its smaller parts seemed to move in place or float within it, like an obscure magical dance on the village green, watched from a hillside high above. 'Rudel, have you ever seen anything like this?'

"'I have not, Merry Guardian,' Rudel admitted, joining his mysterious companion in perusal of the sigil. 'And I confess that the only thing that ever really interested me about the Church was the potential of learning some kind of holy magic. No such magic has been forthcoming, and I turned instead to meat and drink and flesh for comfort. Did Father Robert know these secrets all along? Could I have simply asked him to show me what he knew?' Friar Rudel seemed almost to be speaking to himself, and in the silence that followed they heard, far behind them, another percussive hiss and pop of a destroyed sigil.

"'Truly, Friar Rudel, I do not know. He seems to know far more than he is letting on, and as I have observed in the past, much of his knowledge is either hereditary or deeply intuitive -- either way, it can't be something he's shared with the Church. Maybe he didn't know of it himself, until he undertook this journey. Most people who come to me at the crossroads do so to make a deal with what they think is 'the Devil,' for sex or love or money or talent or fame. Trifling, petty concerns. It was a genuine delight -- and no small surprise -- to be released from my duties of trickery and be able to actually assist as I desire, for once. We must be careful, though, because there are one or two eventualities which could send me right back to the closest --' and here he paused, eyes focused inward. A slow intake of breath, and all color drained from the Merry Guardian's face.

"Far, far behind them came a great, torn howl: the beast laughing more clearly than before, and Friar Rudel realized it had been some time since they heard anything from it at all. He looked behind them, down the trail, and saw nothing amiss. A gasp from the Merry Guardian brought his attention back to his companion.

"'He's found your Anchor Stone, Rudel. He's going to destroy the entire line. Go, Rudel! Go now and never look back!' Sketching a fiery blue-green sigil in the air, the Merry Guardian plucked it deftly from where it floated and smacked it onto Rudel's chest, right over his heart. 

"The old Friar felt new life, new strength, new sap in him. His eyes alight, he clapped the Merry Guardian on the shoulder, then embraced him suddenly. 'If this is what it is to be a pagan, I would happily cast aside all the torment and boredom of the Church for the rest of my days!'

"'May those days be long yet, Friend Rudel. Robert of the Lost will need you, and sooner than you think. Leap up the trail, don't bother running. Treat each level like giant steps and you'll be to the top sooner than, well, otherwise. Now, go!'

"Swatting Friar Rudel on his great, aged backside, the Merry Guardian turned to the air around him and began sketching, with both hands, a series of sigils and wards and images that wove together around him like the vines of ancient ivy, glowing in the night and spreading out along the trail with an energy of their own.

"Friar Rudel, propelled upward with the swat on his rump, found that leaping up the trail was indeed just as easy as the Merry Guardian had said. And though he wanted more than anything to look back and see what his erstwhile companion was doing, he knew better: the darkness of the beast could seed despair in anyone who looked upon it. 

"So it was that in the span of about six hundred leaps, Friar Rudel came easily to rest on the trail just above where Hannibal the Talkative lead their pack animals and the injured girl and Father Robert. The animals did not seem terribly surprised to see the old Friar land above them, and in fact rushed up to him, braying happily.

"'Hannibal, these animals are almost as talkative as you. Let's be on our way, time is short --'

"As Friar Rudel turned to head up the trail, there came a whiffling, snapping noise from behind them; looking back down the trail, both men saw every sigil wink out in rapid succession. Even as they turned to run, the sigils nearest them puffed out of existence and on up the trail every single sigil was out before they'd taken three steps. The dark, snowbound night wrapped around them and they knew no light, no warmth, no clear route up the icy, treacherous mountainside.

"In that moment, Friar Rudel knew what it was that the trail had brought from within his memories; all the images, the folding dough and late afternoon light and humming voice coalesced into a face, a place, an event. The memory of his mother, as she truly was, became solid and clear in his heart the instant the sigils winked out of existence. He knew, then, that all the pain the inkness brought was a lie. He knew it as clearly as he knew his mother's voice. It was the clarity of that memory, of her face and her love, that prompted him to turn to the darkness of the night and cry out:

"'Mighty Mother! Blessed Feminine from which all Creation truly stems! If as above, so below is so, so all Life comes from the Female! Protect us now, Mighty Mother! Bless and protect us from this unnamed beast come to destroy us in our quest! Protect this girl who stepped through fire from another time and place! Protect Father Robert, or Robert of the Lost if you prefer, whose errand seems more and more to take him into the moonlit glades of your influence! And, please, protect we who follow and learn from him, that we may continue to thrive in his guidance, and that we may, on occasion, be able to assist him when he knows not which way to turn. Please, Mighty Mother, on bended knee we humbly beseech thee, offering ...' Friar Rudel rooted about in his pockets, and finding something suitable, opened it to spray on the trail around them. 'A delicious red wine, to the quality of which I can personally attest, at length!'

"In the silence that followed, only the wind and the whispering sound of falling snow could be heard. Then a howl, far down the mountain, echoing up and seeming to grow closer.

"Then silence, and the seeming certainty of death."

Mother Henrietta pauses to pour more tea, and I'm shocked to realize where we are. I'd forgotten the cozy little nook and the tea and the Rachels and Ezekiels resting on their beanbags. Looking at them, I see several new or different faces from the group we started with tonight, and I understand: they work in shifts tending the wounded or dying. So weird that I'm pursuing a nursing degree and have ended up in a compound full of nurses, doctors, chiropractors, Reiki masters, ayurvedic practitioners ... each one, from what I understand, following the path to which they were called. I've never heard of a medical doctor willingly consulting a chiropractor before. But here it happens every day. And the rate of recovery among the patients is remarkable. Which makes me curious about something.

"Mother Henrietta," I begin -- then falter. How do I ask this? How will she take it? I look at her and she's regarding me with her calm, level, ice blue eyes. Swear to God she could be another of Tad's Aunts.

"You hesitate -- are you going to ask me how I've failed so to protect my flock?" Her eyes are gentle and she smiles slightly as she asks this.

"Yes," I say. "But I wasn't going to say you failed; I was going to ask how so many people, with such strong healing skills and deep intuition, could have come under the control of someone so cruel? I mean, I have seen and known some evil people in my life. I've had my share, maybe more than my share, of cruelty that I was powerless to stop -- but Torvald Mayberry --" I see her eyes flick to some point over my shoulder and I stop, turning.

One of the women, a nurse a little younger than me, is crying quietly.

"I'm sorry, should I not say his name?" I ask.

"No, you absolutely must say his name. We must all say his name. We must not merely 'never forget,' but rather we must all always remember," and Mother Henrietta's voice is shaking as she speaks. "I failed my flock, I failed people I've known all of my life, all of their lives, I failed my family, and I don't know how he had such power over me, over this place and over the wards and sigils we've renewed weekly since we arrived."

There is a commotion downstairs, where the front entrance is; amid raised voices, an Ezekiel and a Rachel burst up the stairs into the common area outside the nook, covered in dirt and stray leaves, their clothing torn and their faces and arms covered with cuts, scrapes, scratches and bruises.

"We've found them," the Rachel pants. "We know where he's taken them, and he has all the children there, too."

Notes from the Future: SMS

June 4, 2003 4:05 pm 129119+495846 Concatenated Message Retrieved: This message is from your future self. Pay heed, Journeyman. Nolle's predictions of seismic upheaval are too accurate to ignore. Start prepa -- MESSAGE END

Status: Deleted.

June 4, 2003 4:12 pm 125119+469531 Concatenated Message Retrieved: Deleting messages from me will not help you survive. Read and record everything I send. When the quake hits, you want to be East of Pleasant -- MESSAGE END

Status: Deleted

June 4, 2003 5:06 pm 123119+759469 Concatenated Message Retrieved: Edward. Seriously. Stop being a fuckwit and save this message. Save all of these messages and archive them somewhere. I am trying to save -- MESSAGE END

Status: Archived

***

June 4, 2003 5:29 PM

Dear Customer Service,

I hope you can help me. Of late I have been receiving the strangest series of text messages. They all begin the same way: "Concatenated Message Retrieved," and each of them contains a dire warning of some sort. I believe I am being pranked by some friends of mine and I would love to be able to mindfuck them right back. Can you help me figure out where these messages are coming from? I deeply appreciate any assistance you can offer.

Sincerely,

Edward Hightower

***

June 4, 2003 5:32 PM

Mr. Hightower,

Thank you so much for contacting our Customer Service Center. We aim to provide the very best in Cellular Customer Service, with call centers open twenty-four hours a day as well as live helpline chat and tech support.

We are currently looking into your support issue and someone from our Tech Support division will be getting back to you with an answer soon. In the meantime, please check out our FAQ option in the Help menu and see if your issue may be resolved with the help of the links provided.

Again, we deeply appreciate the opportunity to help you today, and look forward to hearing from you again soon.

April Johansen
Associate Customer Service / Tech Support Assistant Lead Assistance Team Associate Team Leader

***

June 5, 2003 9:08 AM

Dear Ms. Johansen,

Thank you so much for your timely response yesterday. It's nice to know that there's someone there willing to help out so quickly.

Per your suggestion, I have thoroughly investigated all of the questions and their associated links on your FAQ page, but none of them are related to my issue and I have found that avenue of inquiry to be a dead end.

Customer Service / Tech Support has yet to contact me with any answers. Can you offer me some kind of timeframe in which I can expect a response?  I am still receiving strange text messages; here's the most recent one:

"June 5, 2003 2:08 am 122119+497859 Concatenated Message Retrieved: This is not a phone malfunction or a prank. It is a dire warning from your future self. Customer Service cannot help you. Beware lest they -- MESSAGE END"

This makes me wonder if I am being hacked. Looking forward to your response, as paranoia is not what I like with my coffee in the morning.

Thanks ever so,

Edward Hightower

Charming Customer

***

June 5, 2003 9:12 AM

Mr. Hightower,

Thank you so much for contacting our Customer Service Center. We aim to provide the very best in Cellular Customer Service, with call centers open twenty-four hours a day as well as live helpline chat and tech support.

We are currently looking into your support issue and someone from our Tech Support division will be getting back to you with an answer soon. In the meantime, please check out our FAQ option in the Help menu and see if your issue may be resolved with the help of the links provided.

Again, we deeply appreciate the opportunity to help you today, and look forward to hearing from you again soon.

April Johansen
Associate Customer Service / Tech Support Assistant Lead Assistance Team Associate Team Leader

***

June 5, 2003 9:37 am 129119+495679 Concatenated Message Retrieved: April Johansen doesn't exist. Or, if she does, she no longer works there. Proof that I'm you: The Lovin' Spoonful is best soundtrack for 1970's Playboy -- MESSAGE END

***

June 5, 2003 12:52 PM

Dear April,

It's been a long time. I'm sorry to have to contact you via your work e-mail, but I've been trying to get ahold of you for so long, and you never return my phone calls.

April, I'm the father of your child. I know I am because of a vision from Jesus. I my vision, we were dancing on a yacht owned by Groucho Marx, and Carol Channing in a tight Admiral's uniform was looking for Jackie Gleason as Harry Nilsson strummed an acoustic guitar amid body-painting hippies. 

Surely Christ our Lord sent me this vision. Could Christ our Lord and Otto Preminger be the same person? In hopes that you will respond soon, I have washed down four Xanax with Bulleit Frontier Whiskey Bourbon. I have also written your name on my thigh with indelible marker.

Your name is now pale and hairy. 

Please come see it,

Edward Your Long Lost Love and his Network of Psychic Friendlies

***

June 5, 2003 12:56 PM

Mr. Hightower,

Thank you so much for contacting our Customer Service Center. We aim to provide the very best in Cellular Customer Service, with call centers open twenty-four hours a day as well as live helpline chat and tech support.

We are currently looking into your support issue and someone from our Tech Support division will be getting back to you with an answer soon. In the meantime, please check out our FAQ option in the Help menu and see if your issue may be resolved with the help of the links provided.

Again, we deeply appreciate the opportunity to help you today, and look forward to hearing from you again soon.

April Johansen
Associate Customer Service / Tech Support Assistant Lead Assistance Team Associate Team Leader

***

June 5, 2003 12:58 pm 126119+364957 Concatenated Message Retrieved: By now you maybe believe me. But your e-mails will be noticed within the week and the flaw I'm exploiting to contact you will be fixed. MESSAGE END

Status: Archived

June 5, 2003 1:04 pm 124119+753951 Concatenated Message Received: Pay close attention to any further messages from me. I will signal you with the word, "Hornet." Stop being so damned stupid. Marry Veronica now. MESSAGE END

Status: Archived

June 5, 2003 1:12 pm 127119+613795 Concatenated Message Received: Also, carry extra food on the Roosevelt/Solomons Trail when you backpack it in 2009. Stash that food near Dragon Lake or Bench Lake, in -- MESSAGE END

Status: Archived

***

June 11, 2003 10:06 AM

Dear Mr. Hightower,

Thank you for your persistent contact regarding your SMS failure. We have thoroughly investigated the message you quoted to us, as well as the records of your recently received messages. We cannot find any source for the messages you received, and the digits in the message do not match any of our error codes. 

The only conclusion we are able to draw is that your account has been hacked. For this we apologize; we have taken every measure imaginable in repairing the situation. In order to prevent any further contact from the hackers, we will have to wipe your phone clean. All of your text messages and contact information will be deleted in one hour. We apologize for any inconvenience.

Should you wish to keep any of your text messages, we suggest you forward them to a friend or loved one within the next forty-five minutes.

Again, Mr. Hightower, we thank you for your patience and your continued business.

Sincerely,

Tom Butler

Customer Service Lead

***

June 11, 2003 11:48 AM

Dear Tom,

Having just awakened after a late night of technical rehearsal, I am desperate to retrieve the messages you've wiped from my phone. Is there no way to get them back?

Why would you erase those messages in one hour? Why not 24 hours? I'll be honest, this seems a little freakily punitive. Why did you have to erase all the messages? Some of them were incredibly important. Some of them were from people I've lost. Why would you do this to a paying customer?

I know the "concatenated" messages were possibly erroneous, but I wanted to keep records of them. This is genuinely upsetting to me. 

I would like to be put in direct contact with your superiors, and with anyone who can help me resolve this situation. 

Edward Hightower

***

June 11, 2003 11:52 PM

Dear Mr. Hightower,

Thank you for contacting me. I am currently away from my desk. 

Should you need immediate assistance, please contact our Helpdesk at 1-800-555-1212.

Thanks, 

Tom Butler
Customer Service Lead

***

June 11, 2003 11:56 PM

Dear Tom,

I'll be honest: I'm enraged. You are on the verge of losing a customer permanently, and how you respond to this message will decide the matter.

I want all of my messages and contacts back, or a way better offer.

Please see to it that your superiors contact me immediately.

Sincerely,

Edward Hightower

***

June 11, 2003 11:52 PM

Dear Mr. Hightower,

Thank you for contacting me. I am currently away from my desk. 

Should you need immediate assistance, please contact our Helpdesk at 1-800-555-1212.

Thanks, 

Tom Butler
Customer Service Lead

***

June 12, 2003 12:06 am 1+271-196-1379 Message: Hey, it's me. I hope this works. You were right, they wiped my phone and I don't get mess -- MESSAGE END

June 12, 2003 12:07 am 1+271-196-1379 Message: ages from you any more. If this is a joke, call me gullible. Playboy and Lovin' Spoonful -- MESSAGE END

June 12, 2003 12:07 am 1+271-196-1379 Message: were exactly right. So, very good guess vs. you and I are the same person. Either way, I -- MESSAGE END

June 12, 2003 12:08 am 1+271-196-1379 Message: want to talk to you. Please let me know best way to reach you. Keeping eyes open for "Hornet." -- MESSAGE END

June 12, 2003 12:08 am 1+271-196-1379 Message: For now, thank you: wonder and hope for adventure restored, I feel renewed, reborn. -- MESSAGE END

***

Text Messages from Future Self (dublin / pleasanton / livermore)

---

Date: 2003-06-12, 2:00PM PDT
Reply to: hmjk4-3194999844@comm.craigslist.org ^{[Errors when replying to ads?]}

---

I recently received several text messages from someone purporting to be my future self.

Each message seemed to revolve around dire warnings of an impending cataclysm.

I contacted customer service for my cell phone company and they erased all my texts and contact info.

Has anyone else received such messages, and can anyone make any suggestions as to how to find who sent the messages, or how to get back in contact with them?

If it really was my future self, I want to get more information. If it was a prank, I want to find the perps and have savory revenge.

Thanks in advance,

Hornet

• it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

PostingID: 3194999844