Such splendid purpose in his
eyes,
Who roll’d the psalm to wintry
skies,
Who built him fanes of fruitless
prayer,
Who trusted God was love indeed
And love Creation’s final law –
Tho’ Nature, red in tooth and
claw
With ravine, shriek’d against his
creed.
- In Memoriam A.H.H., Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Great fleas have little fleas
upon their backs to bite ‘em,
And little fleas have lesser
fleas, and so ad infinitum.
And the great fleas themselves,
in turn, have greater fleas to go on,
While these again have greater
still, and greater still, and so on.
- Budget of Paradoxes, Augustus De Morgan
That is not dead which can
eternal lie.
And with strange aeons even death
may die.
- The Nameless City, H.P. Lovecraft
Prologue:
Beginnings from Endings
May 21, 2012
Thomas Morgan slaps
his own face, dragging down his hand with exaggerated care. A hush falls over the crowd seated opposite
him, as if he had struck a gavel and called for order. Edward Cochran stands, alone, facing his
judge; Edward, alone, remains deliberately standoffish.
“You don’t get it,
Edward,” Thomas says at last. “We have
these rules for reasons, reasons which are borne out not only in long-standing
tradition, but also in our research literature.
Your callous disregard for our ways and your victim’s well-being has put
them both into jeopardy: now we must
deal with the legal ramifications of your actions to protect our way of life,
and we must figure out what to do with the young Miss Swain.”
“I don’t see why
she can’t join our society.”
“That is not the
issue, Edward. Of course Miss Swain will
be taken into our care – your foolhardiness has necessitated that already. But she is in for a difficult life.”
“Della knew the
risks,” Edward replied. “I explained
everything to her.”
“You told her what
she wanted to hear,” Thomas says in a deliberate monotone.
“Uh, yeah, because
it appealed to her in the first place.”
Thomas folds his arms at Edward’s flippant delivery. “She wanted it. You can ask her, even now.”
“This is not about
her desires, or yours. This is about our
statutes, and you have committed a statutory crime. You have even admitted your guilt before a –“
“I did no such
thing!” A gasp rustles through the
audience at Edward’s interruption. He
bows his head, raises his hands, and clarifies:
“I have admitted to taking certain actions, but I deny that what I did
is criminal.”
“She’s too
young. Miss Swain is simply not mature
enough to handle the experiences coming her way – experiences which you have set into motion.”
“Well, that’s
precisely where I disagree with you.
Sir.”
“Very well,
then. Present your case, Mister
Cochran. Why should I believe that Della
Swain is in fact emotionally developed enough to handle the changes brought
about by infection?”
“Because I laid
out the pros and cons for her, and she clearly and distinctly articulated her
concerns about the complications, but decided that the advantages outweighed
the costs. She made an informed and
rational choice.”
“Informed, my left
eye!” Thomas’ voice echoes in the
chamber, and he takes a moment to savor the wide-eyed fear that flashes across Edward’s
face. For once, it seemed that the whelp
had some sense of the gravity of his situation.
“You told her that our infection works, and I’m quoting here, ‘Just like
in the Dusky Heartthrobs stories,’ an
obvious falsehood.”
“No, she asked me if it was ‘Just like in the Dusky Heartthrobs stories,’ and I said,
‘Yeah, pretty much.’ There are
differences, of course, but they are subtle and not of significant pragmatic
consequence.”
“What?” Thomas made no effort to hide the incredulity
on his face. “First off, saying, ‘Yeah,
pretty much,’ will send the message that the reality of our infection is in
fact essentially similar to that Dusky
Heartthrobs foolishness, which it most definitely is not. Your semantic
distinction absolutely fails to impress me.
Second, these differences are far from ‘subtle and not of significant
pragmatic consequence.’ What on Earth
could make you say such a thing?”
“Look, Sir,”
Edward began by opening his hands and stance to Thomas, but the Elder’s
withering gaze put a stop to Edward’s showmanship. He drops his hands back to his sides and
continues plainly, “In Dusky Heartthrobs,
vampires can’t go out in the daytime because it would out them to the normal
humans. In reality, we can’t go out in
the daytime for prolonged periods because we are lethally sensitive to ultraviolet
light. Either way, you stay inside when
the Sun’s up, right?”
“You will have a
hard time convincing me, or anyone else, that there is an equivalence between
being too beauteous for mortal eyes and being unable to enjoy the Sun’s warmth
ever again.” Edward stammers for a
moment before responding.
“The rationale is
different, but the behavior is the same.”
“Nonsense! One is a half-baked excuse for being Sun-shy;
the other is a debilitating affliction, a veritable curse! If this were Dusky Heartthrobs, I could enjoy a sunset on the beach so long as I
was safely away from prying eyes. But as
it stands, I can only see a sunset in pictures and videos – for the rest of my life! These are radically different behavioral
prescriptions, Mister Cochran. Your
excuses are failing you.”
“Well, ask Della
how she feels about it. I still don’t
think I’ve done anything wrong, as long as she’s happy.”
“Hmph.” Thomas leans back in his chair. Everyone, Edward included, knew that he was
about to deliver his final verdict.
“Well, then our course is clear.
Her happiness, as you well know, shall diminish along with all her other
sophisticated emotions as her infection progresses. We cannot use her future testimony now, since
we do not yet have it; you are legally entitled to a speedy trial, so we cannot
wait for it; and you shall not be tried twice for the same offense, so we
cannot re-open the case at that point.
Nevertheless, I do not need to convince you of your own guilt to deliver
my verdict, and I am in fact explicitly empowered to rely on my experience in
these situations. In light of your
recalcitrance during this trial, continuing to display the disrespect for law and
custom which led to your initial transgression – laws and customs, I might add,
which make your lifestyle possible in the first place – I hereby sentence you
to death by exsanguination. Do you have
any final words, Edward Cochran?”
Edward’s eyes flit
back and forth. He cannot meet his Elder’s
gaze, cannot focus his mind. Thoughts of
his impending demise trigger his most basic fight-or-flight instincts, and it is
all he can do to shut out the overpowering dread from his lizard brain and try
to formulate a plan. At last, he says,
“I see this whole situation as an invented problem, internal to our
society. No mortal court in the land
would convict me of a crime, so I don’t see why I should be punished when I’ve
caused no problem in society at large.
Since that is what our own laws and customs are designed to prevent –
problems in society at large – then I feel that I have obeyed the spirit of our
law, even though I have violated the letter.”
Thomas gave the
condemned man due consideration. “A deft
rationalization,” he said with a sigh, “But sadly exemplary of the very reasons
I cited for your sentence. It is not
enough that you could not be convicted, you must act so that our very existence
is concealed from humanity at large. The
purpose of our laws is not to find balance, the purpose is to conceal ourselves
from mortals and support whatever equilibrium emerges from that higher standard
of behavior. Your argumentative skills
do not reflect the deeper understanding that I would expect of someone your
age. Instead, you abuse your rhetorical
acumen to justify hanging around high school girls when you’ve got more than a
full century of living behind you.
You’re a pedophile, Edward, and I believe our society is improved by
ridding itself of you.” Thomas
interrupted his monologue to glance briefly in the direction of Della
Swain. “Unfortunately, your stain lives
on in the young Miss Swain. It remains
to be seen if she shall recover from the grievous harm you have done to
her. Herman, please gather your men and
carry out Mister Cochran’s sentence.”
Herman nods and
turns to leave the room.
Tajo sits in the
middle of the candlelit basement, a great stillness upon him. It might be said that he was sitting still,
but his companions could see the slow rhythm of his diaphragm, the flaring of
his nostrils, the slight change in posture from deep and even breathing. But though Tajo was in motion, a deep
tranquility permeated every aspect of his being, and so it would be fairer to
say that a great stillness was upon him than to say that he was merely sitting
still.
Carter, Uma, and
Willy wait in silence as Tajo performs his ritual meditation, each according to
his or her demeanor. Carter’s attention
is divided among the group, though his gaze lingers longer upon the shaman than
the others; Uma, Tajo’s protégé, stares intently at Tajo and tries to divine
his thoughts; Willy paces around the room, watchful and restless.
The last of the
incense burns out. At last, Tajo opens
his eyes.
“I have returned,”
the shaman says. The others are silent
as their spiritual leader collects his thoughts. “Rufio is not long for this world. His next moon shall be his last, barring some
unforeseen intervention. We must
finalize our plans for his departure and replacement.”
“All right,”
Carter says. “Since time’s short, I
think Elias, the trail guide, is our best bet.
He sets his own schedule, his job makes for a good fit with our ways,
and he already has a wealth of knowledge about the area. I’m willing to entertain other ideas, but
Elias is my favored choice.”
“I still think
that park ranger, Stephen, is a good candidate,” Willy says. “He pulls down a good salary, lives well
below his means, and his job gives him certain advantages that could be quite
useful to us in a pinch.”
“Pack life would
be too much of a burden to his professional life,” Uma replies. “He can’t control his schedule enough to truly
immerse himself in our traditions, and taking enough time off won’t leave him
the flexibility for real emergencies.”
“Stephen is strong
of spirit,” Tajo adds, “And his instincts are sharp. But Elias has the marks of a good fit: his sense of balance is more central to his
being, and he has a heart for the natural law that is unclouded by obligation
to mortal law. Stephen is too much a
man. Elias has more of the Wild in him.”
“That’s better
than money and a government job,” Carter adds.
“Stephen’s assets are useful, no doubt, but Elias is a better fit for us,
and that’s what counts.”
“I defer to your
judgment,” Willy says, biting back disagreement. He drops his eyes, and scuffs his shoes on
the dirt floor.
“Then we’re
agreed,” Carter says. “Bring Elias by to
meet Rufio. We make plans for his
initiation rite soon as we can pin down his schedule. Willy, you need to cut ties with Stephen – I
know you still think he’s an asset, but if he’s not one of us, then he’s a
liability.”
“How the Hell do I
do that,” Willy asks. “I’ve been friends
with the guy for over a year, he’ll know something’s up if I just drop off the
face of the Earth.”
“Well, that makes you the expert on how to deal with him,
not me.” Carter smiles and claps his
hand on Willy’s shoulder. “So take
charge, man. I trust your
judgment.” Willy grumbles, but nods his
assent.
“Uma, you will
perform Elias’ initiation,” Tajo says.
“It is a simple thing, but crucial, and I do not know that I shall have
another chance to instruct you before my own time has come.” Uma nods silently, contemplating the eventual
passing of her teacher, and what it shall mean for her to be shaman. “We should speak to the Dragon about our
decision, and that will be enough for tonight.”
After snuffing out
the candles, the four of them walk wordlessly up the old steps and across the
creaking wooden floor. The dusty windows
filter out all but the brightest moonlight, and as tonight is the new moon –
Willy’s moon – the stars manage only to frost the panes with a dirty glow.
They step out into
the chill desert air. The night is clear
and still. The four turn South and break
into a jog, speaking not a word, footfalls sounding together as they pick up
speed in unison. They leave the ghost
town behind them at a dead run, a train whistle sounding in the distance.
Yesterday, there
had been a solar eclipse. Prominent
celestial events, with the overflow of psychic energy they bring, almost always
trigger some manner of mischief in the Spirit Wild – even your garden variety
human will notice when it spills over into the Waking World. The ancients knew this, giving us words like
“lunacy,” “lunatic,” even “loony,” describing the insanity that the Moon can bring. The revolution of a celestial body refers not
only its revolving, but also its revolting, and so every interesting alignment
in the sky above brings with it a time of upheaval below.
It therefore came
as no surprise when the desert spirits sought once again to drive out the
intruder from the sky, the dragon spirit who descended from the heavens eons
ago. Carter and his pack gathered to
defend their Father spirit from the aggressors (in the Wild, of course, since
the eclipse occurred in broad daylight, as solar eclipses are wont to do). The battle went decidedly in their favor, the
desert denizens being a motley and undisciplined lot; but Rufio gave chase,
over-eager to see their enemies destroyed outright. In their desperation, the fleeing spirits
shed their individual identities and joined together in a Fugue: a raging abomination that lives only for chaos
and destruction. Rufio turned back, but
too late – the Fugue was upon him, in the form of a great scorpion. By the time the others caught up to him, the
Fugue had skittered off into the Wild, leaving heart-stung Rufio writhing in
agony.
The venom was
strong and it ran deep, filled with the fear and rage of the Fugue itself. Tajo’s medicine could not cure it or draw it
out; Father Dragon could burn it off, but in doing so he would doubtless burn
Rufio away as well, leaving only the barest core of his being. He would live, but in a comatose state,
useless to the pack. Better for him to
die, an object lesson in the perils of carelessness, than to weaken the pack
with a lame member – especially with a Fugue on the loose.
It was with these
thoughts that the pack came to the dry wash just west of the highway
interchange. Sliding down the rocky
slope, they cleared their heads of yesterday’s events and focused on the run
ahead. Some two hundred yards further,
they passed under the divided highway, then climbed back up to the high ground
and skirted around the ruins of Two Guns, Arizona before resuming their
reflections as they ran to the massive crater where their Father Dragon awaited
them.
Somewhere deep
underground, Dennis snaps out of his reverie.
She is coming back. If the whistling is any indication, then at
least she’s in a good mood. The tune is
difficult to make out, the echoes play with it until it is distorted beyond
recognition, but the lilting notes at least sound
happy. Closer now, some children’s song,
it’s on the tip of his tongue – or it would be, if he weren’t gagged.
The whistling
stops as she enters the chamber.
“Hello,
Dennis. How are you this evening?” Is it evening? He’s had no sense of time for the last… no
telling. He can’t even measure by meals,
as she feeds him irregularly, if decently.
“Fuh-fuh.”
“Better than
rotten, no?” He can practically hear her head tilting in the perfect
darkness. Shuffling sounds, patting
sounds, she’s fiddling with some gear in a bag.
A chuckle. “You are in for a
treat tonight, my friend.”
“Um mot yuh
fruhm.”
“Come, now. I found you passed out on the streets of
Harrisonburg, homeless and starving. I
carried you through the night – I could have dragged you to this godsforsaken
Hellhole by your heels, you know. I have
kept you fed, and watered, and cleaned.
I even kept you liquored up, to stop your incessant whining.” Well, that was all true, but it was hardly the whole story. She had also
chained him hand and foot when he tried to escape, and then fastened his chains
to the cave wall when he had tried to crawl out, and then gagged him with strips of his own dirty clothes when he
wouldn’t stop screaming.
Dennis sighs. The hamster bottle feeding in through his gag
bubbles up, forcing water down the tube as the air rushes in. He coughs on it, bringing forth more
droplets, more coughing. He thrashes his
head about, loosing the hamster bottle from its strap, allowing him to cough
without choking on water spray again.
“Done with your water,
then.” He hears plastic scrape stone
briefly as she snatches it up – how can she see? Whatever.
One of the many unanswerable questions he’s had about his captor. Like how she convinced him to follow her once
he’d woken up. Perhaps “convinced” was
too strong a word – he asked questions, she redirected them, and he no longer
felt curious until something jarred him back into wondering why he was
following some strange woman into the hills.
Then another question, another redirection, and he lost his train of
thought again.
Silence.
Dennis hears
himself breathing, feels his blood rushing through his veins, the resounding clink of chains as he shifts on the
stone beneath him. Did he fall
asleep? Had he dreamed her return? He quiets himself, holds his breath – utter
silence.
“Ah yuh fih veh?”
“Hush,” she says,
“I must concentrate.”
A few moments
more, and a flame erupts upon a golden torch, her open hands on either side of
it. The torch is attached to some
apparatus, he knows not what. She smiles,
kneeling before it, and opens her eyes.
“There we are,
Dennis. Olympic fire, stolen straight
from the torch-bearer. Does it not
captivate?” He stares at it, blinking,
eyes adjusting to the first light he has seen in days, if not weeks. But it looks like any other fire to him. “Ahh, if only you could see it with my
eyes. Perhaps you may, yet. One never knows what the future holds, true?” He shrugs, sighs through his nose. He never thought he’d be here. Hell, he never thought he’d be homeless. He never thought he’d be an alcoholic. He never thought he’d get fired. True every way he can think of it. She regards the flame for a moment more, then
turns to him and says, “Smile, my friend.
We are on candid camera.” Then
adds, after a beat, “Why, of course I can!”
Talking to the flame, evidently.
Because why the Hell not?
The woman then
turns to the items she brought tonight:
laid out neatly in a row upon a folded burlap sack, there is a knife
sheathed in ballistic cloth, a slightly battered rose, a fruit that looks like
a pale and lumpy lime, some kind of stylus, and his discarded water
bottle. She sings lazily as she works, to
the tune she was whistling before:
Alouette, gentille alouette
Alouette, je te plumerai
She draws the
knife and slices the fruit into quarters – it’s quite fragrant – then sings the
refrain once more as she pulls the petals from the rose in bunches, jamming
them into the fruit segments.
Alouette, gentille alouette
Alouette, je te plumerai
She picks up the
stylus and begins carving some symbols into the knife. As she sings the next part of the song,
Dennis remembers what it’s about. He
couldn’t remember before, because he hadn’t heard it in many years and was used
to hearing it much faster.
Je te plumerai les ailes, je te
plumerai les ailes
Et le dos, et le dos
Et le cou, et le cou
Et la tête, et la
tête
Alouette, alouette
Aaahhh…
She whistles the
refrain again. It’s a children’s song
for teaching body parts in French, like Head,
Shoulders, Knees and Toes. Except
it’s about a lark – a lark that you pluck, bit by bit – a lark that you are
going to eat.
A cold pit settles
into Dennis’ stomach. He swallows hard,
and begins to sweat despite the damp chill of the cave.
Her work done, the
woman shuffles on her knees over to Dennis and raises the knife to his
face. He backs away, struggling in his
bonds, shaking his head and trying to scream.
“What? Oh!”
She looks at the knife, suddenly self-conscious. “No, no, relax – ça ira, ça ira.” She places a cool, dry hand on his cheek, and
he can feel his heart slow within his chest.
The she pulls at the gag, and cuts it away with a flick of her
wrist. Easy-peasy. What was he ever worried about?
She turns back to
the sectioned fruit, jammed full of rose petals, and brings a slice back in
each hand. “Here, eat,” she says, and
lifts one to his mouth. He bites into
the dry pith, the moist petals – but it is bitter, and he spits it out. “I was afraid of that. Here, try again. Try harder.”
She places her hand on his cheek once more, he jumps at a light spark of
static, but when she puts the wedge in his mouth he manages to chew the tough pith
and swallow both it and the petals.
“Very good. And now,” she trails
off as she turns away once more. She
returns with the knife, closes her eyes and breathes deeply inward.
Can someone normally breathe in that much?
But before Dennis
can think too long about it, his captor opens her eyes and plunges the blade
into his gut. Shocked, he gasps – and
she presses her mouth over his, not in the manner of a kiss, but that of
administering CPR. Her breath enters him
–
– and suddenly
Dennis is no longer himself. He looks
around with eyes not his own, seeing as if from a far ways off. The pain in his gut is intense, but distant,
as though shrouded in sack-cloth. Is that… what exactly is sack-cloth?
“How good to see
you, Ferraille,” he says in a voice too even for his predicament. How do
I know her name? he wonders.
“Hush, we are
being watched.”
“Oh?” The world shimmers before his eyes, the flame
glows brighter, more lovely – That’s what
she was talking about – and there, behind it, are two women and a man
looking through what Dennis could only describe as a portal. “I see,” he says. With a twitch and a blink, the bluish oval
snaps shut like an eye. “There. Now we have our privacy. I shall teach you some wards to prevent such
intrusions in the future.”
“I train for you,
I wander for you, I steal for you, I battle for you.” Still upon her knees, she lowers her head
briefly to the cave floor before him.
“Indeed, my
faithful servant. The fire is
lovely. It will burn long enough?”
“Long enough. It is the simplest thing, and must be taken
now or very soon. The rest can wait.”
“But not too
long.”
“No, not too
long. This is only the first.”
“Good. Things are in motion, and soon all shall be
aligned. Then, all balanced, we will
only need a small push to tip them in our favor.” Dennis feels his lungs breathe deep, the
wound in his belly but a dull ache.
“So: that is fire. What of air, earth, water, life, and death?”
“Earth, I
know. Water, I have a plan. Air is tricky, I will need to draw it out
from a counterbalance – but how else do we make seven from six?” She shrugs.
“Life and death are easy enough.”
“Very good, very
good. And no one has noticed you here?”
“Not a one. Almost, when your vessel tried to escape, but
I was lucky and no one was near.” Vessel?
I’m not a “vessel!” I’m Dennis! But it is a final flare, a dying gasp; he is
fading.
“Hmm.” His brow furrows, he glances downward, then
meets her eye again. “Well, luck has a
way with this sort of thing. I doubt we
can be stopped in any case. Just the
same, I’ll see if the twins have some advice.”
“Good, good. And those wards you promised?”
“This vessel
fades. A veil, I think, you can handle
on your own. Make a few. But I shall send ravens to teach you a proper
ward, since I see you have set up camp here.
Until then, I shall use what precious power I have left to keep you safe
from scrying eyes.” He winks.
“Very well. Until next we meet.”
“Yes. Goodbye, Ferraille,” and Dennis slips away to
the Void. His last insipid thought is, Hey, that rhymes…
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