“All is not lost, the unconquerable will, and study of revenge, immortal hate, and the courage never to submit or yield.” — John Milton, Paradise Lost
___________________________________________
The ship was already in dire straits by the time it floundered off the coast. Most of the crew had perished and the ship had taken a heavy pounding by the storms that seemed to follow one after another for months. There were only a handful of men left and these were quickly slaughtered in the surf by the savages that hid along the coast.
Only Cristobol survived the ordeal, and this was purely by luck. He had been left for dead among the other men by the natives and had swooned in and out of consciousness for three days. Finally, another rainstorm passed, and he was able to quench his thirst from lying on his back, his mouth open in a rictus of agony from the arrow wound in his side.
There were days when he thought the wound too infected to heal properly. He managed to satiate his hunger on the crabs and clams that frequented the tidal pools.
At one point, after his strength returned and his wound was nearly healed, he was able to make it to the careening wreck of the ship by floating upon a log. He managed to retrieve what little remaining supplies were not ruined and return to the beach.
Fortune smiled upon him again as the days passed and the savages failed to return to the beach, for if they had, he would have surely perished. But the day came when he felt strong enough to leave his lonely beach and explore inland.
Cristobol traveled through the wilderness for many weeks regaining his vigor and learning the land. He soon discovered a primitive tribe called the Nikaras inhabiting an expanse of open plains. The explorer possessed technological advantages over the tribe’s people such that his steel sword, firearm, armor, strange clothes, and flint made him seem a supernatural being to the people.
The tribal structure was presided over by a council of elders and warriors among whom was a man named Jaqard. He was the prominent member of the council even though there was no one leader among them. Jaqard was keen, perceptive, and always kept justice foremost in his mind.
Cristobol was also an intelligent man and very resourceful. He immediately sought to use the primitives’ awe to elevate his station in life. Cristobol made use of his technological tools to strike fear into the hearts of the natives and they soon began to glorify him as a god. So Cristobol played the part of God, making himself the new god-king of the Nikaras. He bade them to erect a great structure on which he sat atop it on a great stone throne. He bade them to hunt the beasts of the plains and feed him and to offer a portion as sacrifice to him in return for his favor. He bade them to offer jewels and gold in exchange for prosperity. He bade them to prostrate themselves before him in supplication. He bade them to sing his name in prayer and chants. He taught them that the blessings of their lives were due to his pleasure and that the sufferings of their lives were due to his displeasure. And only Jaqard among all the Nikaras questioned the authority of Cristobol.
During a great ritual of feasting, chanting, and prayers presided over by Cristobol atop his great stone throne, Jaqard confronted Cristobol. He stood at the base of the great stone stairs leading up to Cristobol’s throne and challenged Cristobol’s miraculous powers. The Nikaras were shocked and stricken with fear at Jaqard’s audacity and blasphemy. Many whispered that Jaqard was brash and merely wanted to become what Cristobol was – a god-king. But Cristobol would have none of this insolence. He stood up and bellowed his displeasure. Then he raised his musket rifle into the air and fired. The thundering crack struck fear in the Nikaras so that they prostrated themselves on the ground trembling in prayer. Not Jaqard, though. He held his defiant stance with fists clenched, jaw set, and eyes locked on Cristobol’s. Cristobol descended the stairs in great strides and leveled his musket pistol at Jaqard, firing another deafening shot.
The ball struck Jaqard in shoulder sending him reeling in pain. A great gasp erupted from the tribe and Jaqard was forced to flee across the plain and into the woods while behind him loud paeans of exultation for the mighty power of Cristobol were sung.
Jaqard was wounded and banished, but he survived alone in the wilderness.
One day Cristobol learned from his subjects that there was another tribe in the woods beyond the plains called the Hiknaar. These people were primitives like the Nikaras except, rather than hunting the beasts of the plain, they harvested fruits and vegetables from their great gardens and orchards in the wilderness. Cristobol was intrigued and decided he needed to extend his influence over these people as well.
So Cristobol appeared before the Hiknaar much as he did with the Nikaras and awed them with his technological powers. The Hiknaar soon fell under his influence and were commanded to worship Cristobol as their god-king. Cristobol required of them the bounty of their orchards and were commanded to give as offering much of the harvest of their fruits and vegetables. He told them that to break this commandment would be to cast great disfavor upon them and they would be evil forever in his eyes and punished by torture for the remainder of their lives. But Cristobol took great interest in the behavior of the Hiknaar. They were a curious tribe to him. And while he maintained his great stone throne on the plain amongst the Nikaras, he spent many days visiting and observing the Hiknaar.
It wasn’t long before Jaqard, now recovered from his wound, discovered Cristobol’s plans to ensnare yet another tribe under his control. So Jaqard decided to subvert Cristobol’s attempts. Jaqard visited the Hiknaar while Cristobol was not around and convinced them that Cristobol was a charlatan and merely a man like them. His words rung true with many of the Hiknaar and they began to doubt the authority of Cristobol.
Cristobol visited the Hiknaar and found them gorging on the fruit he had proclaimed to be his by divine right. Cristobol’s anger was stoked by their blasphemous acts, and he raged at them with fire and muskets. The Hiknaar were stunned with fear and the Nikaras were commanded to take the Hiknaar captive. Cristobol held true to his word and the torturing of the Hiknaar tribe began immediately. They were called wicked and condemned to pain and suffering.
Many confessed in their pain that it was Jaqard who had come to them and planted his words of discord in their minds. And so it was that many renounced Jaqard and renewed their worshipful allegiance to Cristobol. Cristobol saw fit to release these Hiknaar from their suffering. But many had seen through the façade of Cristobol’s charade, and they endured a lifetime of torture until the end of their days.
“Once upon a time, I, Zhuangzi, dreamt I was a butterfly, fluttering hither and thither, to all intents and purposes a butterfly. I was conscious only of my happiness as a butterfly, unaware that I was Zhuangzi. Soon I awakened, and there I was, veritably myself again. Now I do not know whether I was then a man dreaming I was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly, dreaming I am a man.”
~ Zhuangzi
“Every night, I, Morgan, dream I am a prisoner in an asylum, ambling hither and thither, to all intents and purposes a prisoner. I was conscious only of my misery as a prisoner, unaware that I was Morgan. Soon I awakened, and there I was, veritably myself again. Now I do not know whether I was then a man having a nightmare that I was a prisoner, or whether I am now a prisoner, having a nightmare that I am a mercenary of the Wasteland.”
~ Morgan the Escort
__________________________________________
Every afternoon Morgan played the same game as he crested the last hill that led down to the gates of Dolmrung. From atop the sandy hilltop the view of Dolmrung actually betrayed the squalor of the city. From this vantage point, the city looked almost majestic. From this far away the motley juxtaposition of scrap metal, wood, and various other flotsam and jetsam of a decayed society blended together to form an impressive walled city sheltered to the west by the looming cliffs of the Malaheim Desert. Beyond that, nothing thrived.
Morgan stopped and had a small celebration of another successful crossing of the Wasteland by wiping the sweat from his face and finishing the last of his water in one, large celebratory chug. Having thus been satiated, the game ensued.
The sun was blazing – as usual. The weather out in the Wasteland never varied. It was always a blistering hell. From atop the hill Morgan looked at the shadow cast by the large walls with an almost palpable hunger. Its shade was a welcome oasis. And then he said a number aloud to no one in particular: “Five hundred and three.”
And then he began to walk and count each step aloud that it would take to reach the wall’s shadow. It was a game that he had gotten pretty damn good at. Not good enough to hit the number exactly every time, but good enough to be within ten almost like clockwork. On the few occasions that he did hit it, the celebration was really no different than when he missed his mark, for Morgan was a loner in a broken world.
****
The guards at the gate knew Morgan by sight and, after so long, just let him pass without so much as a pause. Morgan returned their nods and passed into Dolmrung. He made his way straight to the Mumford Inn. Caspus, the proprietor, greeted him upon entry and proceeded to pour Morgan a cup of mead.
“How’s things out there today, Morgan?” Caspus said indicating the general direction of the Wasteland. It was the same routine every evening – more of a greeting than a genuine question.
“Not much happening out there today, Caspus,” Morgan returned. Morgan took a long draw off of the mug and then remembered something.
“Oh, I almost forgot. I did come across something you might be interested in.” Caspus wiped his hands on a bar towel and came closer. It wasn’t often that Morgan brought the old innkeeper treasures from his ranging. To most of the people who lived in Dolmrung, journeys outside the city were a novelty. Most people imagined a dangerous world out there, but with treasure to be found in all the nooks and crannies of the ruins. Of course, this was the romantic version of Morgan’s treacherous life. But still, occasionally, Morgan did come across artifacts from a bygone era.
Morgan reached into his bag and produced a wad of cloth. Carefully unwrapping the cloth soon revealed a shiny, golden Christmas tree star. It was dusty and the gold had flecked off in many places, but it still drew a gasp from Caspus. Several patrons close by also craned to see it.
“It’s gorgeous!” Caspus exclaimed. “What is it, though?”
“I have no idea besides a gold star. I mean, I don’t know what it was used for other than maybe decoration,” Morgan ventured. “It’s hollow inside. When I saw it I thought it would look great atop the bar.” Morgan pointed to a spot on the top shelf behind the bar. The shelf was decorated with other odd items: a toy car, a bowling trophy, a pie tin, a Monopoly board, and an egg beater. All things that these people assumed were meant for display but no one quite knew what their original purpose might be.
“Cool my hide and bless you, Morgan!” Caspus said as he took it gingerly in his hands to inspect closer. “It’ll go perfect on the shelf.”
****
As part of Morgan’s agreement with The Council he had a room at the Mumford Inn paid for so long as he was an escort in The Council’s service. This included an evening meal, too. Caspus threw in a couple of mugs of mead at no extra charge.
Most evenings, Morgan sat quietly and drank his mead until dinner was served. After dinner he headed over to the bath house to clean away the day’s grime from the Wasteland before heading up to his room. Today was no different.
The room was tiny but it was Morgan’s haven. Growing up he had lived amongst the children and young adults in the Skutter like rats. Each night was a scramble for the choicest nooks to sleep in and there was no place to remotely call a space of your own. Compared to that, his small room in the corner attic of the Mumford Inn was like a palace. Barely eight-by-ten, but those 80 square feet were his throne room. Morgan sat down on the bed cushion – for he had no bed frame – and pulled his backpack across over between his legs.
Rummaging through it, he pulled out another prize he had found in the Wasteland earlier that day. It was a book; a thick, hardbound book that was still in fair condition. Morgan ran his finger over the raised letters on the cover and then opened it to flip through page upon page of the magical symbols printed row upon row of each page.
Morgan couldn’t read. The Readers had died out hundreds of years ago and, as far as Morgan knew, those magicians were extinct. But still, he was fascinated by the old books and parchments that still existed. They were very rare and most people didn’t hold the same interest in them like Morgan did. Pointless was the main opinion expressed by most when the topic arose. A dead magic that had disappeared from the world.
Morgan held the book for several minutes as he flipped through it and studied the lettering. How did the magic work? What sort of knowledge was contained within those magic runes of old?
Having finished inspecting his knew treasure, he placed it beside the three other books on the small, make-shift shelf beside his bed. Of the four, this one was by far the best preserved. One book was barely a book any more, having been burned and mutilated, it now was only a quarter of its original girth. One was a paperback book that had deteriorated so bad that the letters were barely present any more. The third one was his favorite. It was a torn, thin book, but it had pictures on the few remaining pages. From these pictures Morgan was able to venture guesses as to the meaning of the runes. One picture showed a Pre-Cataclysm woman running. Morgan guessed that the knowledge conveyed through the runes were a magic spell for speed. In reality, it was a magazine ad for running shoes; but Morgan had no concept of any of this.
****
Morgan lay in bed and fought the exhaustion from the day as it washed over him. His nights were always a battle of will: physical exhaustion from the Wasteland fought against his mind’s will to escape the recurring nightmares. Inevitably, though, the body won. And then the nightmare came. It was always the same – or at least similar enough to be the same theme.
Mostly, Morgan dreamed he was a prisoner in an alien place. He was held in a room with cushioned walls on three sides and large mirror on the fourth wall. He knew, somehow, that there were Readers on the other side of the mirror watching him. If he pushed his face against the mirror he could see their shapes on the other side; not anything definite, just the vague shapes of them. He assumed they were the wizard Readers of the Pre-Cataclysm because he sensed it. There was no proof, just an impression of knowledge.
He was helpless to struggle or attempt to free himself because they had him bound in a strange coat whose sleeves buckled behind him. He was left with the only option to scream and cry and plead and wail. And that’s how most nightmares transpired.
Every so often, there were other versions. Versions that were not as horrible as this common one. Sometimes, his nightmare took him to a room in the same prison where he was tied to a bed. Sometimes the Readers walked into the room in their white robes and told him strange things that he didn’t understand. These things infuriated him. He didn’t know why but they did. These nightmares usually ended with him gnashing his teeth at them and cursing them as he struggled to free his bound arms and legs.
This particular night was different. In this nightmare he was tied to a chair in a room with several other prisoners. One of the wizards stood beside him silently while Morgan watched the other prisoners. For some reason he couldn’t speak or summon the strength to move. He tried desperately to speak to the other inmates, but it was useless. His mouth just wouldn’t cooperate. Every ounce of effort only yielded a slurred mumble.
Morgan woke suddenly and said to the darkness, “Why am I here?”
****
Morgan awoke at his usual time and made his way down to breakfast. The morning always began with him eating a light breakfast supplied by Caspus as well as stuffing enough supplies in his backpack for the day’s journey to Kishmurg and back to Dolmrung. These were only supplies of sustenance; The Council provided the supplies of weaponry. Morgan had a slender sword slung across his back and a bow. The Council strictly regulated the number of arrows that were given out to the citizens of the city. More importantly, The Council also regulated the grenades that Morgan was allowed to carry into the Wasteland. This was mainly because the ingredients were hard to come by and only the Alchemists held the knowledge of their manufacture.
On his way to the Council House, Morgan would stop by the Shadow Church if he had the time – and most every day he did. He liked to go receive a blessing from Brother Humphrey before going into the Wasteland.
Church wasn’t in service at this early hour, but Brother Humphrey was always up preparing the church for the day’s services.
“Good morning, Morgan!” Brother Humphrey called from the front as Morgan entered the sanctuary.
“Good Morning, Brother,” Morgan returned.
“Any ill’s for the day?”
“No, Brother. Just a blessing for the road, please.” By this time Morgan had made his way to the front. Brother Humphrey poured water into two glasses and handed one to Morgan.
“Very well, a toast to hydration and to shadow!” the priest said and they tapped their glasses together and drank. Having finished the drink, they both began to recite an old prayer that was only known these days through oral memory:
“And he gathered them all together and spake saying, ‘I say unto thee children of the shadows, behold the Sun. For the Sun doth scorch thine land, thine skin, and thine eyes. It is because of the Sun that this land is barren and bleached. It is because of the Sun that only the strangest of plants live in the desert. It is because of the Sun that only the sneakiest of animals live in the desert. It is because of the Sun that only the stupidest of people live in the desert. But I cometh to deliver thee from thine ignorance. Behold thine enemy the Sun!’ And the savior spread his arms and said, ‘Now make a wish!’ And then he blew out the Sun. Nightshade chapter 13, verse 7. Amen.”
“Thank you, Brother,” Morgan said handing the glass back.
“You’re welcome, Morgan. May the Prophet Nightshade bless your day’s journey and deliver the child unharmed,” he said smiling.
Morgan smiled politely back and left the church to head over to the Council House.
****
The Council House was the largest building in Dolmrung. It was a large concrete building that had been repaired multiple times over the years; but since the knowledge of concrete construction had fallen into the distant past, the building appeared a mottled hulk and was crumbling in places. The front of the building had many windows but the other three sides were devoid of such niceties. Morgan made his way to a side door and navigated his way to the room where he would retrieve the child.
When he walked into the room two men were in the process of pouring buckets of water on the naked child in the corner. The small boy was only 9 or 10 and he cowered in the corner spluttering as soap and water were liberally dumped upon him. The men then began to scrub him with two large scrub brushes.
Morgan took a seat in a chair and waited. Shortly thereafter, a woman entered the room. She was an older woman but still possessed an energy and attraction that marked her as a natural leader. “Good morning, Morgan”, she announced as she took a seat beside Morgan.
“Good morning, Maggie,” Morgan said.
“The boy’s name is Pegan. How are you on weapons?”
Morgan took a quick inventory of his arrows and grenades. “I’m good,” he said.
“How were things out there yesterday?” Maggie said turning from the cleansing to look at Morgan.
“Did you see any Peepskins or Derrydrugs?”
“No. And, frankly, it concerns me. It’s been a little too quiet out there of late.”
“Quiet is good, though. Maybe they have migrated to new territories. Or maybe a sickness has hit them. Who knows? But it’s better than their numbers growing,” Maggie offered.
“Yeah, maybe. Still, I like to know what they’re up to. When I know what they’re doing, I can avoid them. It’s the not knowing that puts me on edge. It’s like the calm before a sandstorm.”
“Morgan, this is why you are the best escort in the Wasteland. You are like a taut string ready to release. A complacent escort is as good as a dead escort, no?”
Morgan turned to look at Maggie and let a small smirk touch the corner of his mouth. “And this is why you make such a good politician. The words pour from you like sweet milk.”
Maggie feigned insult and said, “I am not a politician, Morgan. I am just a servant of The Council just like you.”
By this time the child had been cleaned and dried and the men were assisting him in dressing for the desert. Maggie rose and spoke to the child. “Pegan, this man is Morgan and he will be taking you to Kishmurg. You are to stick to him like a shadow and heed his every instruction if you want to survive the Wasteland; do you understand, child?”
The boy Pegan was in a state of shock. He had been plucked from the Skutter where he had likely never had a bath or descent clothes before. He was still marveling at the clothes. Maggie grabbed his jaw in her hand and wrenched his face to look at her. “Did you hear me, boy? If you don’t listen to this man today you may die!”
The boy’s eyes widened in fear and he shook his head in comprehension. Morgan stepped up and took the boy by the shoulder. “Come on, boy, we have a Wasteland to cross.”
****
It was just after 8 o’clock in the morning when Morgan and Pegan left the protection of the city walls and began trudging up the huge sand hill. The desert morning was already heating up.
The boy had never been beyond the wall and he looked around this new world as if in a daze. Morgan was used to this reaction. “Hurry up, kid!” Morgan called back to the boy. “Stay close to me or else we’ll never get there.”
The boy mumbled something that sounded like a “yes” and shuffled faster to catch up.
By 9 o’clock they had reached an area of red rock formations. Morgan chose a path that he knew like the back of his hand. The path led to the edge of a cliff that overlooked a canyon. As they approached the edge of the canyon Morgan halted and pulled the boy close.
“Alright, kid, listen up,” Morgan said in a low voice. “Down in that canyon are the ruins of a Pre-Cataclysmic city. Sometimes creatures roam the canyon and lurk in the old buildings. These creatures are very dangerous. They’ll kill you as soon look at you. You need to stay right beside me and not go off into the ruins no matter how curious they might look. You got me?”
The kid shook his head.
Morgan stood at the edge of the cliff and surveyed the canyon for several minutes. Nothing in the canyon stirred. “Let’s go, Pegan,” he said and the two headed down a trail that switched back and forth as it descended into the canyon.
By 10:30 the two had navigated through the canyon, the old city, and emerged back into open desert. Before they left the canyon, however, they stopped in the shadow of a rock to rest and rehydrate before tackling the vast expanse of sand dunes that would bring them to the city of Kishmurg.
It was a long, slow, hot walk in the burning sun. Morgan had to teach the boy how to wear his clothes properly to protect his skin. He also had to keep pushing the boy to walk faster as the sand harried his tired feet.
It was around 12 o’clock when the city finally appeared in the distance. Unlike Dolmrung, which was made of the detritus of a lost civilization thrown together against the rocks, Kishmurg was built of the stones of the desert out in the open. It looked more natural than Dolmrung and blended with the ocean of sand all about it.
Morgan and Pegan arrived at the large stone entryway to the city at half past 12 and were let in just as easily as Morgan was let into Dolmrung – the guards knew him by sight all too well.
Once inside the city they made their way underground. Most of the city of Kishmurg was subterranean. Morgan led the boy to a room where a swarthy looking, muscular man was waiting. He rose when the two entered and greeted Morgan. “Let’s have a look at today’s child,” he said eyeing the boy.
“His name is Pegan,” Morgan said. “Good luck, boy. And good day to you, Rorick, I must be on my way.”
“Of course, Morgan,” the man said, but he was busy looking the boy over as if he were inspecting a thoroughbred.
Morgan made faster speed on the return journey because he wasn’t slowed down by any child. Morgan knew many routes home and it was the return journey when he took time for exploring; but today yielded nothing.
His day ended as most of his days did.
****
That night Morgan dreamed of the prison again.
This time he was strapped to a bed and a Reader was standing over him talking to him.
“Mr. Bishop, we’re – ”
“I told you, my name is Morgan, not Mr. Bishop!”
“We’re going to take you down the hall,” the lady continued, ignoring his comment. “We’re going to be doing a procedure that we feel might help you.”
Morgan strained against the leather straps and continued to scream at the Reader. Two men came in and then they began to push the bed, which was on wheels, out into the hallway. Morgan continued to struggle but he still managed to notice that long lights adorned the ceiling and everything appeared so white and sterile.
At one point he turned and saw above a doorway letters that said RATHBONE ASYLUM. The realization that he actually saw and understood the meaning of the letters was overwhelming. He quit struggling and tried to understand the nature of the act of reading the letters and how it was that he was able to perform such magic.
As he lay pondering all this, the Readers attached things to his body and placed a thick, hard device into his teeth. Morgan took all of this without struggle because he was still wrestling with the notion of being able to read.
Suddenly, a sharp pain lanced through his head and made him arch his back and bite down on the thing in his mouth.
Morgan awoke with tears streaming down his face.
****
The next morning Morgan arrived at the Council House room before the child was brought in. He sat waiting for several minutes until the door swung open and Maggie, the two guards, and the child came through. The child was struggling and demanding that she be let go. It was the first time Morgan had ever seen a child put up such a resistance. It was nothing new that she was a girl – those came in fairly equal measure with the boys; but, a girl with such spirit was unheard of coming out of the Skutter.
The two men ignored her demands and proceeded to strip her and douse her with soap and water. Maggie came over to Morgan and sat down.
“This feisty little kitten is named Aja. Good luck with her.”
Morgan watched the proceedings with curiosity and said, “What if she flees?”
“Then she’ll probably die,” came her curt response.
After the girl was bathed and dressed, she stood before Morgan and Maggie in a defiant pose. “Aja,” Maggie said. “This is Morgan and he will be escorting you across the Wasteland today.”
“The Wasteland?” she said haughtily. “I don’t want to go out there.”
“Well, you have no choice, child. And if you try and run, then Morgan won’t be able to protect you and you’ll most assuredly die out there. Do you understand?”
“But where are you taking me?”
“To the city of Kishmurg.”
“What is –“
“Aja! Quiet! The Council has decreed that you be taken to Kishmurg and that Morgan escort you there. No more questions and no more resistance. If you try and flee, you’re dead. Now, Morgan, take her out.” Maggie was halfway out of the door by the time she finished and the two guards followed her leaving Morgan and Aja staring each other down.
Morgan, not so much as making a sound, grabbed the back of her arm and began to walk her to the exit.
****
As Morgan and Aja trudged up the great sand hill outside of the gates the girl began to chatter again.
“How long will it take to get to this town of Kishmurg?”
“Four hours,” Morgan said.
“What are you going to do with me there?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“A man named Rorick will take you and then I’ll leave, so I don’t know what you’re going to do.”
“You don’t know. Are you kidding me? You seriously don’t have any idea why you’re taking me just to hand me over to some guy?” she said incredulously. “What if he’s going to hurt me or feed me to some monster or something?”
Morgan glanced at the girl in annoyance and said, “Well, that’s none of my business.”
“None of your business?” she cried. “What kind of horrible, mindless stooge are you?”
At this Morgan stopped and turned to the girl. “Look, I have a job to do and it’s none of my concern what The Council does. As long as they are keeping me equipped, fed, and housed, I’m happy to escort you little brats across this stretch of rock and sand with no questions asked. So why don’t you just shut up and keep up with me?”
Aja looked into Morgan’s eyes and there was a tense moment of silence before she said, “You’re a bad man who has no honor.”
“What?” Morgan said perplexed.
“You are a coward, aren’t you?”
“I am not a coward, little girl,” Morgan retorted and began to walk again.
Aja hurried to catch up and continued to badger him with questions and comments while Morgan tried to ignore her with cold silence.
At the top of the great sand hill Morgan stopped and surveyed the sky. Aja was in the middle of rattling on about running away when Morgan said, “Sandstorm.”
“Huh?” Aja said thinking he was answering her comments.
“There’s a sandstorm coming. Hopefully, we’ll make the old city in the canyon before it hits.”
Aja turned her gaze to the distant sky and beheld the storm in the distance. A vast blob of darkness obscured the horizon. “Why don’t we just go back to Dolmrung?” she said gesturing back down the hill to the city.
“That’s not an option. Come on.” Morgan said grabbing her arm and starting to walk again.
“Why isn’t that an option? Because your master Council says so and you’re too much of a coward to disobey?”
Morgan tried his best to ignore the yipping girl, but she was relentless.
****
By the time they reached the canyon lip the wind had begun to intensify. Aja actually was quiet as the sand was beginning to become an irritation to their faces and she was forced to close her mouth and shield her face from the stinging wind.
Morgan led them down into the rocks and by the time they reached the first traces of the old buildings, the storm was beginning to roll over them. Morgan took out a coil of rope and tied one end around Aja’s waist and then fed the other end around his own waist.
By the time they reached a structure that was mostly intact, visibility was virtually gone. The wind was howling down the canyon and Aja clung to Morgan’s back using him as a shield.
They entered the building and were instantly relieved from the assault of the wind and sand. Morgan struck a torch and they looked about them surveying the old building.
“How long will the storm last?” Aja said.
“Several hours, probably,” Morgan replied.
A quarter of an hour later they sat in a basement room made of concrete and Morgan hauled scraps of wood and metal to barricade the door.
“Why are you doing that? It’s not like the storm can reach us here.” Aja observed.
Morgan continued to work and merely said, “There’s more out here than just sandstorms.”
“Like what?”
Morgan stopped exasperated and looked at the girl. “You’re a real piece of work, you know? All the children I’ve escorted for all these years and you’re the first I’ve ever known to ask so many damn questions. I’m surprised no one didn’t kill you in the Skutter a long time ago.”
“Maybe that’s because I didn’t come from the Skutter,” she retorted.
Morgan arched his eyebrows in surprise and said, “Then where did you come from?”
“Oh, so now who’s the curious one?”
Morgan huffed in amusement and turned back to his work of barricading the door.
“Was that a smirk? Why, curiosity and humor; there might just be a real human in there after all,” she said chiding him.
Morgan finished his job and came over to sit by the light. “We can’t leave the torch burning in this enclosed space; we’ll have to just wait out the storm in the dark. I’ll make a deal with you, jabbermouth, I’ll answer your questions if you answer mine. Deal?”
“You gotta deal,” she said triumphantly smiling.
****
And so they sat in the dark for a couple of hours talking while the sandstorm raged outside in the canyon. Aja told Morgan of how she was orphaned as an infant and was taken in by a kind couple in the town of Mandabrun. Morgan had never heard of such a town, though. But then the town was attacked by ruffians and wastelanders and her adoptive guardians were slaughtered. She had been enslaved to the raiders and sold in another town that she had forgotten the name of. Passed from one abuser to another thug over and over until she had lost track of them all. Eventually she escaped when one of the caged caravan wagons she was on was assaulted and overturned. She managed to slip out and hide in the rocks for days.
Those days in hiding in the desert took their toll on her and she finally collapsed from lack of water and food, famished and weak, she was sure she was as good as dead. But someone had found her and brought her to Dolmrung. She was nursed back to health by people in the Council House but she still had gaps in her memory.
Morgan told Aja about his childhood in the Skutter and how the children lived like vermin in filthy packs, scavenging whatever they could find to survive. It was a constant struggle of survival of the fittest and constant fighting and scraping to establish alliances and dominance over the various packs of marauding children. Finally, Morgan had positioned himself as a captain of a ruffian faction through his cunning, his age, and his fighting prowess. He had actually staged a bold raid into the higher city and this had caught the attention of The Council.
His faction was soundly put down by the more organized and better equipped soldiers of The Council, but his life was spared. They saw in him a purpose that made him stick out from the other children. He was brought to the Council House for re-education and given the offer to become an escort of the children.
“You really don’t care to know why The Council sends one child to Kishmurg every day?” Aja asked after Morgan had explained his daily duty to her.
“No. It’s not my business to care. Hell, I figure it can’t be any worse than the Skutter for them.”
“Yeah, but aren’t you just a little bit curious?” she pressed.
“Nope.”
“This is all you want out of life? The same thing day in and day out, over and over until you die? Don’t you have any dreams? Don’t you want to do what you want to do?”
“The only dream I have is the same nightmare I have every night,” Morgan retorted.
“Wait a minute. Are you serious? You have the exact same dream every night?”
Morgan hadn’t expected her to seize on his confession with any seriousness, but now that she had, he was caught off guard. He tried to steer the conversation in another direction but she was relentless. Finally, Morgan broke down and told her all about the dreams and his experience of being captive as a Mr. Bishop.
“Have you ever tried to just go with it?” she said.
“What?”
“Instead of resisting; why don’t you just accept your fate and go along with what they want you to do? You know, be Mr. Bishop.”
Morgan started to protest but stopped as he thought about it.
Aja continued saying, “After all, it is just a dream. What’s the harm of it?”
The storm no longer raged outside but their conversation was suddenly interrupted by the sound of grating metal.
“What the hell -” Aja started to say but Morgan cut her off.
“Hush,” Morgan barked. Then whispering he said, “Shut up and don’t move.”
****
They sat quietly in the dark listening to the scraping outside of the makeshift barrier that Morgan had erected. Morgan realized that there was no use trying to wait them out. Somehow, the creatures knew that Morgan and Aja were inside.
Morgan struck the flair and light stabbed their eyes causing Aja to cry out. She realized that it was just Morgan lighting the torch and not the creatures attacking.
“It’s okay,” Morgan said. “There’s no point in cowering in the dark; we’re going to have to make a break for it.”
“What the hell are they?” Aja said as she crawled closer to Morgan. The sounds of clicking and metal on metal were quite distressing.
“They’re Peepskins and Derrydrugs,” Morgan explained.
“And what does that mean?” she said now clinging to his back.
“Peepskins are like giant, metal sand spiders with long needles and Derrydrugs are their riders. After the Peepskins inject you with their venom, the Derrydrugs latch onto your face and fill your insides with poison.”
“Seriously! How in the name of Nightshade are we going to get past them?”
“We bomb the bastards and then we run like hell. They don’t like direct sunlight; they keep to shadow and darkness. If we can get back outside and if the storm has completely passed, then we should be able to get away.”
“Geez, Morgan! That’s way too many if’s for me to feel like this is going to work. Is that the best you got?”
Morgan pulled one of the grenades from his bag and handed the torch and the grenade to Aja. “Kid, that’s all I got. I’m going to pull the debris from the door and when I tell you to, you have to use the torch to light the fuse. Don’t let the flame light too much of the fuse, though. Just touch the tip to the flame and then you toss it through the hole I make. Make sure you get it out there and not in here. Got it?”
Aja nodded her head as she looked warily at the flame in one hand and the round bomb in the other.
Morgan took a deep breath and said, “After the bomb is dropped out there, get against the wall over there. The explosion is gonna be huge and you don’t want the debris hitting you. But right after the explosion, we’ve got to run like hell. You stay between me and the wall all the way up.”
Aja’s face was etched with fear. Morgan placed his hand behind her head and kissed her forehead. “Don’t worry, Aja, just keep the torch in your hand and they won’t attack you,” Morgan said. It was a lie but he needed her to believe that there was a fighting chance of getting out.
****
Morgan worked at freeing debris from a small section. It was nerve-wracking work as the Peepskins and Derrydrugs continued to scour the room beyond trying to find a way into the small room. Time was running short and Morgan feared they would breach the room before he could put his plan into play.
Finally, Morgan removed a slab of metal big enough to reveal a hole. Immediately a sharp, metallic claw filled the hole and Morgan barely withdrew his arm in time.
“Now, Aja! Now!”
Aja stepped up and placed the bomb’s fuse close to the flame. It took a tense moment but the fuse erupted into a hissing glow of sparks. Aja hesitated a moment not wanting to approach the hole with the claws frantically scraping for purchase through the opening. Morgan seized upon her hesitation and grabbed the bomb from her hand and violently shoved it through the hole forcing the claw back. He withdrew his hand and a stream of blood ran down his arm.
“Take cover!” he shouted jerking Aja by her shirt and forcing her under him against the wall. A moment later the blast rocked through the building. The debris obstructing the door was blown clear and slammed into the back wall of the room. The concussion assaulted Aja and Morgan’s senses leaving their ears ringing. Morgan was pulling Aja to her feet and yelling for her to run but she couldn’t hear him. It didn’t matter, though. Aja knew that she had to run.
As they burst from the room the chaos of the bomb’s destruction was everywhere. Aja caught glimpses of fire and wreckage all around. Here a mangled spider-like creature that she knew to be a Peepskin by Morgan’s description, there a charred, ape-like body of a Derrydrug. Even though the face was burned, there was still the sight of the proboscis where the mouth should be. Aja didn’t have to use too much imagination to know that it was what Morgan said would snake down its victim’s throat after they had been paralyzed by the Peepskin’s venom.
They ran like mad and Aja was relieved to see that none of the creatures seemed to be able to give chase. Apparently, they had all been just outside the room when the bomb went off. Up and up they clambered until they arrived on the main floor. Aja and Morgan navigated debris making for the entrance.
And then Morgan was falling. With a hard crash a Peepskin landed atop Morgan just several yards from the entrance. Aja turned back in horror to see the creature’s long tail tipped with a huge needle bearing down on Morgan. Morgan struggled to get free but it was no use. Aja ran to help Morgan but he screamed at her, “Don’t, Aja! Go and save yourself! Go!”
As he was yelling this Aja watched the long needle sink into Morgan’s chest.
“Noooooooo!” she cried.
Then the Derrydrug raised its head from somewhere atop the Peepskin’s back. It made a hideous cackle and began to climb down onto Morgan.
Tears were streaming down Aja’s face as she backed away from the melee. All she could manage to say through the sobs was, “Oh, Morgan. Oh, Morgan.” Over and over again.
The last thing she saw before running out into the wasteland was Morgan looking her in the eye’s, raising his arms, and saying, “I’m not Morgan; I’m Mr. Bishop. Now make a wish!”
Crows. That’s how the nightmares all began. Now they’re chronic. That’s how the nightmares have become – chronic. I say that because I believe the nightmares are an illness. Not an illness in me. An illness in the world. Or, even more accurate, an illness between the worlds. At first the nightmares were brief flashes no more than glimpses. Always of blackbirds. They were either fluttering, cawing, or worst of all, just looking at me. Those little ebony eyes were volumes of secrets of what was to come.
Then they grew longer in duration. That’s when I began to take notice of the land. Dark, desolate, and heavy with an ominous weight of oppression. It was always a path leading through sickly trees. No leaves. Just jagged, angulated limbs and branches writhing in the wind. A path, the trees and those damn crows.
The path led up a hill. Each time I arrived here it was a struggle in my soul. I knew there was something terrible lying over that hill. Something dangerous. Something horrible. Something monstrous. But I also knew that my only chance of overcoming this illness was through whatever was over there.
Each step was like wading through eternity. With each, sluggish step the crows grew more agitated. More anxious. And the tension ratcheted up in a crescendo of discordant shrills.
And then, one night, I made the summit. The crows flapped. They cawed. They tore at each other in chaotic anticipation. I strained. I screamed with my eyes squeezed shut as long as I possibly could with all my will. Then I felt his hands on my face prying my lids open. And I heard his voice through his mask whisper into my ear, “Behold.”
And I cried as I looked upon the Land of Nod.
****
It’s absent of any colors. That’s the first thing that strikes me about this world. Yet, somehow, this makes the gradations of gray to black seem more impressive. A shadowy and smoky dream world that seems to envelop me. One usually speaks of going into a dream but this dream comes to get me. It’s like a predator stalking its wounded prey. And my wounds aren’t the usual kind, either. Not physical – hell, not even mental; my wounds are spiritual wounds. Like an old parchment page whose edges are eroded all around, that’s how it seems to be. The bite has taken hold of the edges and they will slowly die away. It’s like a virus gnawing away ever so slowly.
I guess that’s why this place is ruled over by the Lord of Pestilence. He’s a hive of contradictions. But isn’t every virus? It devours its host. I mean, killing your host to live just hoping that you can jump to the next host lest you die too. Killing yourself to live. But I was talking about Old Crow. He calls himself by many names, but the one he’s the fondest of is the Plague Doctor. See the contradiction there? He fancies himself after those doctors of the Dark Ages who thought they could cure the plague, yet he fuels it.
Did you know they call a flock of crows a “murder”? No Lie. A murder of crows. Seems very fitting considering he loves those bleak birds. Always surrounds him like a nebulous, shifting cloud. And he’s like their great big old king. He calls them by their names too. Crow, Raven, Blackbird, Rook, Jackdaw, Magpie. Didn’t know the damn things had so many names. They’re his messengers. His eyes. His ears. His harbingers of doom. And they come to get me to show me Her plan. For, his is just a small part of her nightmarish machinations.
When they come to get me it’s always so damn dramatic. He’s dramatic, I should say. He appears to set the stage for the night’s entertainment. He reminds me of that serious fellow that used to introduce every episode of the Twilight Zone. You know the guy, in his 60’s black and white suit all intense and morose, surround by a swirl of cigarette smoke while he introduces the night’s dark morality play. Only what he introduces me to is always the same horror. The only things that ever change are his damned monologues. They’re always full of nihilism and bleak hopelessness. About how the world is pointless, meaningless and everything is headed down a path to nothingness. It bores into my brain, those things he says. Just like the virus eating away at the edges of my soul.
And then the real horror begins. I find myself in the middle of a ruined metropolis. The sky is dark and overcast. Roiling black clouds blot out any sun that might be somewhere out there rolling through the vast darkness of space. The buildings are all jagged husks of their former grandeur. Skyscrapers that look as if the tops had been ripped off by some great giant. The air is thick and sooty. I struggle to breathe as ash and debris float around me in this twisted, metallic wasteland.
Then his minions come. At first, I just hear their agonized groans and hear their shuffling feet. Then the horrid smell of decay and death fills the air. I know what’s coming next. The chase. Then the zombies are everywhere. Like ants streaming out of an anthill that has been disturbed, they come from every direction. Every building, every doorway, every alley, every dark nook and dirty cranny. And I run.
****
It used to be that there was a clear demarcation between reality and these forays into the Land of Nod, but things have become more . . . blurry. When I was a kid my dad had an old Ford pickup truck. It had the gear shift on the column – for some reason that grinding sound of him shifting gears sticks out in my mind. Anyway, he was driving that old Ford pickup and I was with him. I don’t remember where we were going or anything but we were heading down this country road when a dog darted out in front of us. It was a mutt. Just an old tan dog. It scared the crap out me but dad didn’t even try to swerve or brake. He just ran right over the dog’s back. The truck bucked and I heard the crack of the dog’s spine through my open window.
Dad cussed as he finally decided to slam on the brakes. I looked back at the dog and it was writhing around yelping in the most horrible pain I had ever heard. We both got out and I just stood there staring at the poor dog while dad stood over it rubbing his chin. “Dumbass dog,” was all he said. I asked if he thought we could save it and he just said, “Nah, he’s a gonner. Might as well put him out of his misery.” Then he told me to get in the truck. Dad retrieved his shotgun from behind the seat. I couldn’t watch. I just closed my eyes and waited for the blast. Boom! And then the yelping stopped.
I see that dog in my nightmares. It’s different than the rest of the things around me too. It’s like it’s more concrete. More palpable. Whenever I see the writhing dog and its pleading eyes, hear its cries for salvation, I know that a part of my own self-defined reality has taken a foothold in Nod. But that’s not the most disconcerting thing because it goes both ways.
The other night I was driving through the city. It was late, so late that I guess you could really say it was early. When I can’t sleep or just plain don’t want to sleep, I drive where there are people. Even then, there’s still an isolation there. People think that individual souls haunt places, but I’ve come to realize that places have souls too. And certain places have passed away. You know, seen their heyday, or whatever. People may go right on living there and building stuff there, but the deceased soul of the place haunts it and makes it – not right. That’s how the city feels at night.
So, I was driving and the buildings were there; empty and dim. Some of the lights were on in the office buildings but it was a faint light and no one was working. Something in one of the offices caught my eye. It was a figure sitting at a desk. It was the Plague Doctor. He caught my eye and rose from his desk. That was the first time someone of his caliber came over.
****
Whenever I get ripped out of Nod there’s always a moment of hope. It’s probably the weirdest part of the trips. It’s so nebulous a thing to pinpoint. Maybe it’s because it’s certain knowledge that I have no account of where it came from or what it means. I just know that behind me lies the City on the Hill. I struggle so hard to turn my head just to catch a glimpse of it but it’s like I’m barreling away at such a great speed that my body won’t budge. But I know the City is there. And therein lies the hope. If I could just figure out the solutions to all the riddles I know I could get there. But there are so many symbols, people, places, figures, archetypes, and mythologies that I don’t know if I will ever unravel it all before they have made the boundaries disappear. But there is hope. And when all hope is gone, death isn’t far behind. So I have to believe that one day I will see the City.
****
How did I find out about her? The Plague Doctor mentioned her one time. They’re all scared of her. From what I gather, Nod is her realm. They’re just lesser rulers of each portion. That’s all I really know. I don’t know her name or what her role is, but she stinks of fear and power.
****
It’s hard to pinpoint the exact time that I began to converse with the Nodders – that’s what I call the denizens of the Land of Nod. The first ones were the birds: Crow, Raven, Jackdaw, Rook, and Magpie. One of them is always near at hand. That’s because they’re the Doctor’s sensory extensions. I knew this all along.
****
I heard a story one time about the cursed huntsman. I don’t remember the particulars of how he acquired the curse, but it had to do with vengeance. His hatred consumed him to the point that he was forced to hunt his victims using these five hounds. Each hound represented a different sensory organ. He could smell the scent, hear the chase, feel the earth, see the victim, and finally, taste the blood. It was a horrible, wretched ordeal. Each chase left him sick and disgusted, but the hatred would slowly grow in him to the point where he would lose control and send the hounds out again.
****
Now I find myself carrying on conversations with ghosts, skeletons, mummies, and all manner of creatures caught between worlds. Last night I cowered in a culvert while a golem told me about Frankenstein. He is the ruler of this particular area of Nod. Most people confuse the man with the monster. Frankenstein never named his monster because he detested what he had created. It’s weird to feel fear and sympathy all rolled together like that. But I felt like I could relate. I was made to be hated. Made to be reviled. Made to be a puppet that is paraded through a melancholic tragedy. I can’t decide if it’s the Yellow King in the City on the Hill who is the one to blame or if he has just allowed her to do this to me. Kind of like Job was given over for the Devil’s amusement. Either way, I can’t see how Job could absolve God of any wrongdoing. When I make it into the City, that will be the first order of business with the Yellow King.
****
Patterns. It’s all about recognizing the patterns. That’s the only way humans can say they are above the other animals. The problem is that we are so good at it that we do it even when there are no patterns. Nevertheless, I think I’ve connected enough patterns to figure out the nature of the Land of Nod. I had to visit several landscapes to do it, though.
****
The Plague Doctor rules the zombies. They are one type of undead. Count Orlok rules the vampires. They’re another type of undead. Dr. Frankenstein rules the golems. They’re yet another type. The Shadow Man rules the ghosts. And so on.
****
Nod is a land of undead. Those that fall between the worlds of life and death.
****
The first time I was hauled off to Santa Muerte’s realm I was sure that I had finally met Her. But Muerte isn’t the Big Beast who rules over Nod. I asked Muerte and she told me. She said that the skeletons are her subjects and that is all. I found Muerte to be quite beautiful in her white, frilly dress. Like a bride. She knew too. Knew that I was captivated by her dark beauty.
Then she told me that Life-in-Death was terrible. There was no beauty in her at all. She was mighty and horrible to behold. Just the sight of her would drive a man like me insane. And I knew it to be true.
And that’s how I learned that it is Life-in-Death that rules over the Land of Nod.
****
He’s the worst one so far. The night I encountered Nyarlathotep I cried. He was hatred incarnate. Wicked and evil to the core of his being. Throughout the tortures and the taunts he would pause long enough to recite from a large tome. In that litany of foul blasphemies that spouted from his mouth there was one refrain that I could understand. One refrain that I recognized from some ancient poem.
“Her lips were red, her looks were free, Her locks were yellow as gold: Her skin was as white as leprosy, The Nightmare Life-in-Death was she, Who thicks man’s blood with cold.”
And then I found myself in a vast underground labyrinth that I knew to be that fabled city of Iram. The Atlantis of the sands. The thoroughfare that I traversed had once been a grand road where the gigantic statues of beast-headed gods glared down at processions of slaves and citizens offering obscene obeisance to their megalomaniacal pharaoh – their god incarnate.
But now that great road was dark and cavernous. It was littered with the debris of once majestic structures. Slave-hewn blocks that dwarfed me and made me to feel the oppressive weight of the Egyptian eons.
As I trudged the sands of this ancient, buried empire I gazed in wonder at the immensity of the ruined architecture looming over me. And then the mummies came. Swirling funnels of sand that coalesced into the forms of withered, long forgotten priests. Here was one of Anubis. There one of Bastet. There one of Sobek. And here one of Thoth. Each one intent on dragging me down into the darkened crypts of the Sahara where dwells the foulest mysteries of ancient mankind.
****
All these dream chases take a toll on me. Even though they end before the actual attack, they are nevertheless full of struggle. Invariably, I am always snatched back to reality with a violent flight and the struggle to glimpse the City.
No matter how drenched in fear and running for my life, I still notice certain patterns. The patterns are always in my mind. Patterns hold the key to my salvation. There’s always an appearance by “Old Yelper”. That’s the name I’ve given to the dog with the broken back. There’s always the going down. A descent. A driving of me, the prey, into a lower place. No matter how hard I try to lead the chase to higher ground, the futility frustrates me. There’s always the symbol of the half-closed eye. I don’t know what it means, but it is always there – only during the chases. There’s the appearance of the clock with the same time on its face. And the sound of the insects chittering in their infernal language of madness.
If I could but piece these things together. Weave them into a coherent fabric from which to crack the code. I could begin to erect my path to the City on the Hill and present myself to the Yellow King.
****
Last night in Nod I was taken to the castle of Count Orlok. His vampires closed in on me but I knew this wasn’t the chase. There was no going down. No insects or other signs. It was more of an invitation. There was fog and an old forest clinging to craggy mountains. An occluded sky and the ancient castle looking as if it had always been a part of the mountain.
I found myself seated at a large table. Orlok entered and sat opposite me with his long, bird-like fingers laced together in front of him. He told me he just wanted to help me understand the nature of things. At first I found this to be just a ruse, but it did plant a seed that made me aware of more things back on the other side of Nod.
I’ve now begun to look at Dr. Redding in a new way. A more sinister and suspicious way. I’m beginning to see that Nod and the Waking World are not really so different. The Waking World is more complicated and yet in many ways less dramatic. The Waking World has its archetypal rulers of its realms too. And I believe that Dr. Redding is one of them. His minions are the staff. They don’t chase me – at least not physically. But they are still preying upon me.
The one thing that I am thankful for is that Dr. Redding doesn’t know about this dream journal. I’ve been reluctant to talk to anyone about Nod until I figured more of the patterns out. Now I see that it would be my undoing to tell them about Nod. I must now take great care to hide the journal lest it be discovered by them. And Redding must be undone. Count Orlok said that if he makes it to the Land of Nod, Dr. Redding will be too powerful. There is concern by the Nodders and I now see that I could use this knowledge to make a deal with Her!
****
I had a regular dream and found it quite funny. Even though it would be considered a nightmare to most, it was still funny. I was at Amelia’s funeral again and I was dreading the viewing. The line was long and people were wracked with grief. Many were crying. Some were wailing. Others were just forlorn and silent. But it was taking so long and I just kept dreading seeing her. The anxiety was suffocating and the tension was building. I finally was able to get close enough to see her. Amelia looked so peaceful. So pale and pretty. Then she opened her eyes and sat up. The people ahead of me in line opened the bottom part of the casket and helped her out. She looked at me then and took my hand. She smiled and gestured to the casket. She was leading me to get in. I resisted but the mourners crowded round and pushed me towards the coffin. They were chanting some morbid nursery rhyme about “lying in a grave” and then I woke up.
I sat there in the dark and thought back to the dream. There was no patterns, no archetypes, no power structure, and then it hit me. No fear. I wasn’t scared at all. It was just a flat effect. I began to chuckle thinking about Amelia in the dream. That turned into a real laugh. A loud, belly laugh. And I fell asleep humming the nursery rhyme and giggling.
****
I don’t think I’ve told you about the Shadow Man and his ghosts. They are a frustrating bunch. It’s impossible to talk to them. I mean, I talk but they never talk back. I guess it’s because they can’t. Shadow Man is a master of implications, though. What he refuses to or can’t say, he conveys through symbols.
His realm always brings me to the Cemetery on the Outskirts of Town. It’s never the same cemetery but it’s always the same pattern-wise. Thus the name of the Cemetery on the Outskirts of Town. You see? Anyway, one time I was in the cemetery and I was groping my way amongst the tombstones waiting for Shadow Man to appear when I came across a grave marker that had the name of “Samuel H. Redding, MD” on it. I gazed upon it and then Shadow Man rose over it.
He then led me to another grave where the tombstone had fallen over and I stood over it and looked down. On its surface was etched the face of a Ouija board. And I understood that he wanted me to ask.
Finding the planchette lying beside the stone, I asked, “What does Dr. Redding want?”
The wooden, heart-shaped planchette began to move: S – A – M – E – A – S – Y – O – U.
“Do you mean the City on the Hill?”
It moved to “Yes”.
“But what is there in the City? Is it the Yellow King?”
Again it moved to “Yes” but then it spelled: W – A – N – T – S – T – O – K – I – L – L – K – I – N – G.
“But why?”
But he didn’t answer. Instead a chill wind stirred the trees and Shadow Man fled. And that’s when I decided that Dr. Redding must die.
****
Dr. Frankenstein loves to sing the Dies Irae – or, I should say, he loves to sing the first line and then he just hums the rest. I guess he has forgotten the words after “Day of wrath and doom impending”. He loves to watch his golems torment me too. I usually get to hear an earful of his humming before the chase ensues.
The last time I interrupted his humming to ask him who was more powerful, Life-in-Death or the Yellow King. He stopped abruptly and studied me like he was studying one of his horrific science experiments back in his lab. Then he began to laugh maniacally and said, “Don’t you understand? That depends on you and how you handle the Redding situation.”
And so now I must act quickly or else the City and all of Nod will fall.
****
INTERLUDE – The Statement of Bo Smith
I was an orderly at Rathbone Asylum for six years. In all those years I saw many sad, warped, confused, and degenerate people. I also saw some pretty horrible things that these people did; but one of the most horrible things was when a patient named Jimmy Branner savagely attacked Dr. Sam Redding. Branner was never violent before that incident. When he first came in he was still traumatized from the death of his girlfriend Amelia. He would sit in a despondent state crying, wailing, and talking to her as if she were right there. He was very apologetic as if he were somehow the cause of her sudden death. After a couple of months he quit those episodes and became very withdrawn, barely acknowledging those who spoke to him. He was never disruptive or displayed any behaviors that would lead one to suspect that he was capable of any harm. Then, out of the blue, he snapped. Dr. Redding was on the ward; he was actually sitting with a different patient when that attack occurred. Branner appeared suddenly and went right after Dr. Redding. It was horrible. Branner literally tore out Dr. Reddings throat with his teeth. Like a wolf attacking its prey. I was one of three orderlies who responded to the attack. It was nearly impossible to get Branner off of Dr. Redding. It was like wrestling a panther. Branner was vicious. Bruce, one of the other orderlies was the one who took a chair to Branner’s skull. None of us were exactly gentle but I never resorted to force beyond what was necessary to subdue a patient. I’m not condoning what Bruce did in this instance but Branner was the fiercest patient I had ever encountered. I came away from the fight with numerous scrapes and lacerations from his hands and mouth. Still, I think Bruce overreacted. While it was maybe necessary to render Branner unconscious, Bruce continued to hit him until Leroy and I had to get between him and Branner to get him to stop. When all was said and done, Bruce lost his job. Dr. Redding survived although he was severely maimed and could never speak again. And Branner? Well, he survived although he was in a comma for over six months. When he did awaken he pretty much went right back to his former withdrawn state as if the attack and the coma never even happened.
****
Bells. Deep, dark, full, earthy bells that reverberate from some distant place. Slowly the darkness gives way to a dim, twilight world of malformed shapes. Trees swaying. A chill wind and the smell of moist leaves. I struggle to shake away the confusion until a realization creeps into my mind. I’ve been away for too long. Far too long. Nod feels different somehow. I sit upon the ground and heave a long sigh of weariness. Did I succeed? I don’t even know if Redding is dead or alive. Did he survive and make it to the City on the Hill?
A certainty comes over me that I cannot shake away. I was banished from Nod but I’m back now. Does that mean that I failed or succeeded? If I succeeded, then why was I banished? If I failed, why am I back?
Confusion. Weariness. The bells tolling on and on.
****
Nyarlathotep was the one who explained things to me. He brought me to Nod and placed me in his great labyrinth underneath the sands. Deep inside some great structure that was the tomb of some long forgotten god-king. It was the first time I had seen him in his true form and I cried in fear for a long time telling him I was sorry for whatever transgressions I had made. I groveled. Tears streamed. He bade me to stand and listen. And so his deep, sonorous voice filled the dead spaces of the crypt and I learned the horrible truth of Silent Redding.
He told me how I had failed to kill Redding. But I had at least given Nod a reprieve. I lay in a coma unable to enter either world. While I floated in Limbo, Nod was left to carry on with neither me nor Redding coming nor going.
The Yellow King was flummoxed. Life-in-Death was perplexed. How would the fate of the Land of Nod ever be resolved?
And then I had awakened. Things were prepared for my return. Nyarlathotep, Dr. Frankenstein, Count Orlok, Santa Muerte, Shadow Man, and the Plague Doctor grew anxious. Their followers were stirring and restless. But then something happened.
A full moon appeared in the sky over Nod. It was a blood moon, full and foreboding. And then Silent Redding was seen in various parts of Nod. Fleeting, elusive, like a portent of doom.
****
Her name is Shelly and her allure is one of melancholy. I only know her name because I’ve overheard it. She reminds me of a gray dove amongst a murder of crows. We’ve never spoken. When we make eye contact she just makes a slight, sad grin that lets me know she’s aware of my struggle. She’s of the Waking World. I wonder how she would like Nod. Maybe she’s already been there.
****
I can’t help but stare at Santa Muerte’s face when I’m in her presence. It’s captivating. She led me into a church in the forest – it was a small, brick church with a quaint graveyard beside it. Once inside she told me that she wanted to show me something and that I would have a choice to make. Then she led me to a tall piece of furniture covered by a cloth that sat in front of the pulpit.
“You must decide if the chase will continue,” she said. My blood raced! Of course I wanted the horrible chase to end. There was no question about it. Then she continued, “You must understand that the chase serves the purpose of strengthening your soul so that when the time comes, you’ll persevere and overcome the push to the City. But if you choose to forego the chase, there is no guarantee that your soul will be ready.”
“Right now, your soul is afire with the chase. Look now into the mirror and see what happens when your soul is not ready.”
With this, she pulled the cloth from the piece of furniture and a tall, ornamented, full-length mirror was revealed. A wave of fear spread through me because I didn’t want to see. Santa Muerte took me by the shoulders and guided me in front of the mirror. I instinctively clenched my eyes shut. Then she gently, with her boney fingers, pried my eyes open and I beheld my face transformed into a gaunt, sad specter of my former self. But it was the eyes that horrified me. They were empty, deep pits that swallowed the world into an abyss of hopelessness. I stared for what seemed an eternity into their depths of depression and tears began to stream down my face. Finally, I wiped the tears and it was enough to break the spell. It was then that I noticed Santa Muerte’s reflection behind my shoulder. Her skeletal face was replaced by a face so hideous that I screamed and tore myself from her grasp as I threw my fists into the mirror. The glass shattered and Santa Muerte threw her head back in laughter at my antics.
“Continue the chase,” I managed to say through the panting and the sobs and the blood.
****
I found myself in the midst of one of the ruined cities where I knew the zombies were lurking. It was just a matter of time before their presence was announced. But, suddenly, the Plague Doctor appeared above me on a balcony, his retinue of crows fluttering about him. He laughed through his strange mask and said, “I heard you’ve made the hard choice.”
“What choice did I really have?” I retorted.
“True. True. Still, it was a choice you made and all. I need to tell you, though. Things will change as a result. You’ve grown a bit complacent through all this.”
“What do you mean? I haven’t even been here for so long.”
“That doesn’t matter. You have figured out too many patterns and that leads to expectations. I’m here to help you. I have the remedy. I’m here to treat you.”
He said the last as if he were relishing the task.
Later, as the zombies tore my flesh I thought back to my childhood. I used to dread the dentist. Most kids do. But this dentist was a sadistic bastard. His name was Dr. Zeigler. One time he didn’t give me enough Novocain when he numbed my mouth for a cavity to be filled. Of course, I began to flinch when he hit the nerve. I remember him growing irritated at my wiggling and wincing. I pushed his hand away and that just made him madder. One of the nurses made a comment about me needing more local anesthesia and he merely said, “I’m almost finished, just hold him down and I’ll only be a second.” I couldn’t even cry properly as they held me down and forced my mouth open. And, of course, it took Dr. Ziegler much longer than a second.
****
My journey through the Waking World is now an escorted journey. I am never without one of the ruffians who stopped me from my mission with Silent Redding. Because of this, it makes it difficult for me to talk to Shelly. But I did manage an exchange. It left me exhilarated and I’m sure she felt it too. I was walking by the table she was sitting at when she dropped her doll. It’s a little dark-haired double of her that I suspect is her messenger. I gathered this from the fact that she sent it into my path by the table as a message that she wants to make further contact. I picked it up and went to hand it back to her when the goon on my left intervened. But she took the doll and said, “Thank you.” It was spoken so soft and warm. I said, “You’re welcome.” And we stared at each other while the goon dragged me back to my room. Hopefully she can send her messenger to me again.
****
I’m always fascinated by Dr. Frankenstein’s work and the things in his laboratory. I was peering into one of the tall beakers filled with some amorphous, fleshy object submerged in a bubbling, yellowish liquid when it struck me that colors had ever so slowly crept into Nod. I never noticed it before and it saddened me for some reason. I suppose because I failed to notice something so momentous. Suddenly a question flashed into my mind and I blurted it out to the doctor.
“Why can’t I look upon the City on the Hill?”
“Ah, my young boy, you aren’t ready to yet. When your will is strong enough, you will. And when you do, the site of it will tear you down again. But don’t worry, the tearing down will be a release. A rebirth.”
I pondered this while I browsed his lab some more. Then I asked, “Who is the Yellow King?”
At this, Dr. Frankenstein stopped his work of sewing an appendage onto one of his flesh golems and looked at me. “He is the Savior. The one who will set things aright. The Repairer of Reputations. The one orchestrating everything behind the scenes. He walks freely between worlds and affects everything he touches with true sight. He is your salvation from Her. But you already knew this didn’t you, Mr. Branner?”
I just nodded my head.
****
I have to admit that the Shadow Man has taught me how to communicate without uttering a sound. I use that knowledge to “talk” to Shelly. She is very good at it too. But today we actually were able to have a real conversation and I now feel as giddy as a school girl experiencing her first crush. If all of this anguish and torment have been a prelude for our fates to intertwine, then it was all worth it. Every second of every torture, pain, and immolation.
****
The most amazing part is that she approached me. That just confirmed that my infatuation with her is equally reciprocated. Of course the ruffian who was escorting me intervened when she approached our table, but she asked him if she could speak to me and he agreed as long as we remained on opposite sides of the table. Then she sat down. “I just wanted to thank you for picking up Sarah,” she said indicating her doll.
“You’re quite welcome,” I said winking at her knowingly. “I know your name is Shelly. I’ve overheard them say it. My name is Jimmy and I find you simply captivating.”
She bent her head smiling but I knew she was just being coy. “Thank you. How long have been here?” she asked.
“I lost track of the time a long while ago. I remember my family was somehow terrible. I remember a funeral of a girl. But she’s not really important. I remember drives around the city. And then the city grew haunted so they brought me here. I know about many things that they hide from me. I also know about things many of them don’t know or can never know. I wish I could say more but . . . not right now, at least. How about you? Why are you here?”
“I would rather not talk about it. It’s very hard. I would rather talk about nice things.”
And so that’s what we did. We talked about all manner of frivolous things. But I know she really wanted to talk about things that we couldn’t mention in front of others. Still, it was wonderful. It was pure bliss.
****
It was freezing cold and sleeting when Count Orlok met me on a darkened road in the woods.
“Come, She wants to talk to you.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. I was finally going to meet Life-in-Death. I grew weak and Count Orlok had to assist my shaking body into the horse-drawn carriage waiting for us.
Her abode was majestic. It was a mass of contradictions of life and death. Great pillars of bone. Clinging vines upon gray, dead statuary. Giant bas reliefs etched into dull stones depicting scenes of struggle between the living and the dead. The most prominent symbol in all of this orgy of architecture was the large, looming half-closed eye.
We entered the great hall of the fortress and a tinkling as of small chimes played above me. Looking up I beheld a vast web of memento mori, each suspended by a thread from the darkness of the ceiling and ending in a casing of a silver frame.
And then She appeared. Walking from the far end of the hall, she greeted us. It was the strangest visage I had ever beheld. She had golden hair flowing out of her fleshless skull. Inside the sockets were bright blue eyes and cherry red lips adorned the mouth. But these seemed alien upon the ivory of the bone and somehow stood out in starker contrast than if they were on a normal face.
She wore a flowing, green gown that reminded me of lichen or moss and from this ornate dress her bony, delicate hands protruded. Each bony finger ending in a finely painted nail.
So many questions had been humming in my brain but they all vanished into silence in her presence. I was struck dumb before her elegance.
“We finally meet, James Branner. I am Life-in-Death, the Lady of the Land of Nod. You’ve overcome so much to get where you are but something has come to light of such importance that I felt you needed to hear it from me. Will you walk with me?”
I managed to produce a cracked “Yes”.
She dismissed the Count and then she led me out into a strange garden of bizarre vegetation juxtaposing gorgeous flowers with ruthless weeds.
“You well know that Silent Redding has been sowing discontent throughout this land. But he has not been idle in the Waking World either. By the way, I don’t blame you for not killing him. You did the best with the circumstances you were given. It’s just unfortunate, however, because now, you still must deal with his handiwork.”
“His handiwork?”
“Yes. And he is more devious than I had imagined. What I have to tell you, James, will surely come as a great shock, but you must overcome the denial and the anger to find the truth. For it is certainly true.”
“What is true? What must I do to reach the City on the Hill?”
“While you were away, Silent Redding was busy putting things in order for your failure. He knew, after you tore his throat out, that you had the drive, the desire, and the wherewithal to end his quest to replace the Yellow King. Did you really think he would just forget that?”
“No,” I whispered.
“Oh, No, he didn’t. So when I tell you that he meticulously contrived to plant his agent in your path, he did so with the utmost evil in mind. He has beguiled you with that vixen Shelly. She is his agent who is even now working her way towards your demise.”
“No!” I screamed. I clamped my hands over my ears and fell to the ground screaming at her to stop spouting her hated lies. I spit at her, cursed her, and tore my hair in anger. But she only shook her head in sorrow for me.
Eventually, my ranting turned to sobbing and wailing. Then, bending close to my ear she whispered, “You know what you must do, James.”
****
Conflicted in my emotions, I approached my interactions with Shelly with great caution. The greater part of me was drawn to her allure and refused to believe that she could be an interloper sent by the vile Silent Redding. But the small part that whispered in my mind to remain vigilant for any sign, any slip, or so much as a hint of her complicity in his twisted machinations would prevail.
It happened one day when she was trying to make small talk. The stooge was monitoring us, of course. Shelly said, “What are you writing in your little black book?” And that was it. My heart plummeted down a bottomless pit. I excused myself as waves of conflicting emotions slammed into me.
****
My last night in Nod was both immeasurably sad and breathtakingly exhilarating. It began on the path to the hill overlooking the ruined city. The Plague Doctor emerged like a proud bird from the shadow of the trees and greeted me.
“I heard the unfortunate news and I pity your plight, but I think that you are prepared. Your soul has been tempered in the crucible of this land. You know what you must do and all it will take is an unshakable will and the City on the Hill will welcome you.”
It was hard to hear these words. Tears welled in my eyes because I knew what he said to be true.
“I want to give you something before you go. My psychopomps Raven, Crow, Rook, Jackdaw, Blackbird, and Magpie shall see you off. Goodbye, Jimmy Branner.”
And then I felt the familiar tug as I began to be drawn away, but this time the crows pursued me like a flurry of black smoke. I sped up and the crows managed to keep pace. When I got to the point when I could sense that the City on the Hill was behind me I tried one last time to glimpse it just as I had struggled every time before. But this time the crows rushed towards my face and I despaired that I had been tricked by the Plague Doctor.
The crows crowded upon the left side of my face and I then realized that they were not trying to occlude my vision, but trying to assist my efforts. I grit my teeth and strained and the crows flapped and fluttered, pushing me ever so much more than I could on my own accord. It was just enough for me to catch a glimpse before I entered the Waking World.
Words can’t describe that momentary vision. It was the most incredible sight I had ever beheld. I awoke drained both physically and emotionally. All that I could do was smile and cry tears of rapturous joy.
****
FINALE – The Statement of Lenny Hubbard
I was down the hall when the commotion broke out in the Activities Room. I heard people screaming and yelling and as I ran towards the sounds, people were already running away from the room. I reached the door and saw that Branner man with the knife. Now, I didn’t see the attack on Johnny, the orderly who was monitoring Branner, but apparently Branner had somehow gotten a hold of a big kitchen knife and used it to slice Johnny’s throat. Anyway, I reached the door and saw Johnny’s body lying on the floor. There was blood everywhere. Everyone had pretty much ran out of the room except for Old Charlie who was still sitting at one of the tables. He’s pretty much checked out and was oblivious to what was happening. Old Charlie and that girl Shelly. She was back against the window looking scared as a deer caught in headlights. Branner was advancing on the girl with the knife in his hands and I saw that there was no way for me to stop him before he reached her. I tried anyway, though. I sprinted across the room dodging tables and chairs and just before I reached him I saw him take her hands, wrap them around the knife’s handle and then he grabbed her hands and stabbed himself right in the heart. It was the craziest thing I’ve ever seen. As he did he said something to her that I couldn’t hear and then he just fell down and died. That poor girl was beside herself with shock. I reached her and pulled her away trying to shield her from the sight of Branner lying there with the knife sticking out of his chest. And just as we got about halfway across the room, I heard this loud noise at the window. I looked back and there was all these crows flying right into the window. Then, all of the sudden, the window pane cracked and shattered inward. All of them crows flew into the room and landed right there by Branner – like they were inspecting the body or something. It was damn crazy. And then they just took off back out of the window.
Once upon a dreary time, there was a little Voodoo doll named Popinjay. Poor little Popinjay was sad because the naughty old woman who owned her always poked and jabbed her with needles. It was no fun being the old hag’s pin cushion, so Popinjay decided to run away.
One night she snuck out of the old woman’s house and ran as fast as she could. She was scared and was convinced that the old woman was chasing her so she jumped right into a well. Down, down she fell. Deeper and deeper into the well. She was certain that she would either land in water, or worse, land on the dark, damp stones at the bottom. But, to her surprise, she landed right on the ground.
It was dark but she could see that she was in a forest sitting right on a path meandering through the trees. She was frightened and confused but she got up, dusted off her dress, and looked around. “Should I go the direction I’m facing or turn around and go the other way?” she pondered. “Well, since I’m facing this way, apparently it appears I’m headed this way. If I turn around it will surely appear that I’m going back the way I came and that’s not a very confident thing to do.” So she started walking.
She had never been a world traveler, but even she noticed that the trees in this forest were strange. The plants were creepy, the rocks were craggy, and the shadows seemed to move. She couldn’t see the sky very well for all the trees, but when she did catch a glimpse, it was dim and had a reddish glow to it. Apparently, she was in another world altogether.
Odd noises drifted through the woods and the trees made creaky noises. Popinjay was very scared but she kept on walking. Before long, she came to a crossroads with many paths leading off in all directions. And right in the middle of the crossroads was a tall pole with signs all up and down it. The signs were shaped like big arrows and had names like “Gehenna”, “Endor”, “Sheol”, “Purgatory”, and “Tartarus”.
Popinjay said, “I’m not the best reader, but I know enough to know that I don’t like the sounds of any of those places. I don’t want to go to any of them.”
Then a voice from behind her said, “Then where do you want to go?”
She was startled and whirled around to see a black cat sitting on the path. “Who said that?
The cat replied, “Why, I did.”
“Cat’s don’t talk,” she stated.
“Well, I do,” he said. “And besides, dolls aren’t supposed to talk either.”
“You have a point there, Kitty. So I suppose it’s alright. My name is Popinjay and I don’t know where I am. I think I should first like to know where I am before I decide where I should go – just so I don’t wind up back at where I don’t know where I am.”
The cat came closer and sat beside her and looked around. “Well, it’s quite obvious. You’re right here at a crossroads – and they’re not a good place to hang out.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure. But I don’t think it’s very good to be indecisive and sitting for long periods of time at a crossroads is a sure sign of indecisiveness.”
“Now I’m thoroughly confused, Kitty –“
“The name’s Nightshade,” The Kitty interjected.
“Oh. My apologies. Now I’m thoroughly confused, Nightshade, because I know that I’m here at a crossroads. But I still don’t know where exactly I am. And it’s just non-sense to know where you are when you don’t know where you are. Do you understand?”
“I do understand. It makes perfect non-sense.”
Then Popinjay proceeded to tell Nightshade all about the mean old lady who poked her with pins and about running away and jumping in the well. Nightshade listened and then said, “I’m sorry I can’t help tell you where you are because I too ran away from a mean old woman. In my case she was a mean old witch who owned me. She made me do her bidding and treated me horribly, so I ran away just like you. Except I didn’t jump down a well. I ran right up the chimney and popped out here.”
“Well it seems we’re the same thing except different. Do you want to help me figure out which way to go and then we can go together?”
“Now that makes perfect sense.”
***
Meanwhile, the mean old woman who liked to stick pins in Popinjay – whose name was Tituba, by the way – was furious. She had discovered that Popinjay had run away and was in the middle of casting a spell, for she was a sort of witch too. She was a voodoo priestess who practiced dark magic. Her plan was to send a sprit called a loa to catch Popinjay and bring her home.
In order to do this, she needed to make contact with Baron Samedi. The Baron was a mean loa with great power. So Tituba began to chant her spells in a sinister, unknown language while she mixed all manner of bizarre things together, like hair, bones, weeds, insect parts, and foul smelling liquids. She cackled as smoke and eerie lights began to issue from the large cauldron suspended over her fire. Then, suddenly, the smoke shifted and took on the form of a tall man wearing a top hat and sporting a long cane. His limbs were thin and his face looked just like a skull. It was Baron Samedi laughing a deep, horribly evil laugh.
They greeted each other, for this wasn’t the first time these two sinister characters had ever met. Oh, no, they had been dealing with each other for many a rotten year. The Baron listened to Tituba’s story about Popinjay’s escape and agreed to see what he could do to help Tituba retrieve her errant little doll. He would send his hellhounds after her.
***
Just then, Popinjay and Nightshade heard a disturbing sound echo through the forest. It was the sound of hounds, but these weren’t the sounds of normal, Earthly hounds – they sounded far too horrible. Nightshade, being a feline and acutely attuned to canine sounds, recognized the source first and said, “A pack of hellhounds! No time to discuss paths, we need to run and hide!”
So Popinjay and Nightshade chose the path labeled “Tartarus” because it seemed to lead into darkness – which seemed, at the time, to offer the best hiding places. Just before they rounded a bend in the path Popinjay chanced a glance behind her and saw the pack of beasts pursuing them. There were six or seven large hounds. Their bodies were just like a dog’s body other than being very large. The real difference that struck a chord of fear in anyone who beheld them was that their heads were devoid of any flesh – just large, menacing canine skulls with hollow eyes and large, sharp teeth. Popinjay shrieked and ran faster trying to keep up with Nightshade’s agile running.
Nightshade knew that Popinjay was slower and he kept slowing down to ensure she was keeping up, but the hounds were getting louder and it was just a matter of time before they overtook the two. And even though this part of the forest had grown murkier, it didn’t seem to slow down the hounds one bit. So Nightshade yelled, “Into the woods!” and broke right. Popinjay was in no position to question the action and she followed still running as fast as her little doll legs would allow.
They ducked and darted through the trees but the hounds stayed on their trail. Finally, they came upon a very robust tree that afforded a hiding spot within its knotty bole. It was a feeble attempt at preservation but the only one worth trying being that the hounds would surely overtake them soon. The two scampered inside the dark hole and clung to each other in a desperate hug.
Suddenly, something inside the tree started moving and the two wondered if they had just gone out of the frying pan and right into the fire. The movement was followed by a gruff moan and then a burly voice said in the darkness, “Who disturbs my slumber?” But before any response could be made, the hellhounds rushed into the grove of trees and one of them proceeded to poke its huge maw into the hole of the tree. It growled and yapped while the huge teeth snapped opened and closed searching for something to sink into. Instead, what the hound got in the snout was smart rap from a huge tree limb. The beast yelped and went tumbling across the ground only to recover and come again towards the tree.
Popinjay and Nightshade were thoroughly confused but their bewilderment dissipated as they beheld a large troll emerge right out of the tree into the forest. The two cowered within the bole watching the troll rise to an enormous height and survey the situation.
If the hounds were aware of the troll’s presence, they didn’t show it in the least. Instead, the six hounds – for there were six that Popinjay could now count – attempted to circumvent the troll to get to the hidey hole in the tree. But the troll, angered by the racket of their barking, had something different to say about that. He hefted an enormous club and began to wield it with amazing dexterity whacking the hounds at every turn.
The hounds surrounded him and darted in one by one searching for an opening but their attempts were met with thwacks and clunks from the troll’s club each and every time. Soon the troll began to chortle as if he were enjoying the sport of the battle while one by one the hounds were knocked senseless. Thuds were answered with yelps and finally, the hounds were forced to give up their prey and turned tail and ran off into the gloom of the forest.
After the hounds retreated, the troll turned his attention back to the tree where Popinjay and Nightshade still hid. “Comety outalee out, wee little dittle ones,” he bellowed. “The doggies are all skittered awaylayay.”
Popinjay and Nightshade peered curiously from the trees shadows trying to determine if the troll was actually speaking in a language they could understand. Popinjay whispered to Nightshade, “I don’t recognize that musical language, but I understood it, so maybe I do speak it and just don’t know it.”
“Me neither, but I do too,” answer Nightshade. “I think it’s safe to go out, though.”
So the two cautiously stepped from within the protection of the tree and greeted the troll. “My name’s Popinjay and this is Nightshade,” Popinjay explained. “I’m a doll and he’s a cat and we’re very thankful to you for spanking those mean old hounds.”
The troll laughed heartily. He was at least ten-feet tall and had long, thin limbs and knotty joints. His nose was massive and his hair was the longest hair Popinjay had ever seen. The hair on his head merged into his long, flowing beard and continued on right down to his knees. “My namedy roo is Ganga Bwa and I’m a woodsily troll-ee-o.”
Popinjay was a little unsure what that meant but Nightshade clarified by purring, “Oooh, a wood troll.”
Ganga Bwa proceeded to squat down on the ground and listen to the stories of Popinjay and Nightshade. Once they were through telling their tales, Ganga Bwa told them, “Well, well, little friendily friends, this land is the landeroo of Nod and this here forestiferoo is me domaindy home. I protectily tect it and can never no never forsakety it.”
“You mean you can never leave the forest?” Popinjay asked.
“Yes,” Ganga Bwa said. “I cannotily not ever never leave it.”
“Oooo, that’s dreadful”
“Oh, no,” he corrected. “I would not want to everly never leave the woodsoopily oos. It’s the perfect home.”
“Well, in that case, it sounds delightful.”
They listened dreamily to Ganga Bwa as he waxed in his musical voice about being a guardian of the forest and all the creatures who thrived within its boundaries. Creatures large and small, mischievous and benevolent, dark and light, nocturnal and diurnal and plant and animal. He had been here since time out of mind and would be here till eternity it seemed. Finally, Popinjay asked what lay beyond the forest and Ganga Bwa simply shrugged and said, “I don’t knowdily oh.”
“Well,” Popinjay said, “We can’t very well go back where we came and we can’t stay here forever, but it sure would be nice if you could help get us where we need to go. The only problem is that we don’t have any idea where we need to go. But we know we need to get there.”
Ganga Bwa thought a moment as he scratched his massive beard then said, “I cannotilly tell you wheretilo to go but I can showdy show you the way. But firstily you must joiny oin me for a song!”
At this, Ganga Bwa ushered them into a clearing and invited them to sit. He too sat down beside them and then he clapped his large, gnarled hands. At first nothing happened and Popinjay began to wonder what this was all about, then a shimmering, small fairy fluttered out of the trees and alighted in front of them. Ganga Bwa laughed heartily as he introduced the fairy as Honeydrop. She then curtseyed and said, “This song is called ‘The Will-O’-The-Wisp’” whereupon she broke into a haunting song that went:
Then it howled by my head like a frumious[9] freke[10]
The will-o’-the-wisp wailed while the banshees brayed
And my lifeforce leached into the lonely loam lake
At the end she bowed low and everyone clapped while Ganga Bwa added an extra Hurrah that rumbled in his chest. “And now I’ll showdily oh show you to the edge of the woodsy woods, my new friendsies.”
And so Popinjay and Nightshade ran along trying desperately to keep up with Ganga Bwa as he strode along with his giant steps. Before long they came to the edge of the forest and beheld a limitless prairie of grass rolling away before them.
“This is the edgetsy of my domaindy lands, friends. From herety on outily out you’re on your ownsies.” Even though Popinjay hadn’t known Ganga Bwa for very long, she was sad to have to say goodbye to the kind old troll who had saved her and Nightshade from the mean old hounds. Ganga Bwa bid them “Farewellity well” and strode back into the forest. Popinjay and Nightshade waved goodbye and then they turned their attention to the grasslands. “Nightshade, I don’t know about you, but I hope there’s a Grass Troll out there because I’m scared again.”
“I’ve never heard of a Grass Troll, but I certainly hope so too.”
***
When Baron Samedi’s hounds returned with no doll, he was so angry that he threw his big, tall top hat on the ground and gritted his old skeleton teeth. He had a deal with Tituba and he intended to uphold his end of the bargain. So, after venting his frustration, he set about brewing a monstrously diabolical potion that would produce a creature so fearsome and gruesome that it would surely be able to defeat a troll and bring back the voodoo doll.
The Baron poured strange liquids, powders, shark teeth, bat wings, lion hair, frog legs, and pumpkin latte into the boiling cauldron. The entire time a scared little monkey in a cage hanging nearby squawked and screamed as it flipped and shook the cage in agitation. Baron Samedi just laughed a sinister laugh and chanted in a strange language.
***
Popinjay and Nightshade had no idea where they were headed. This wasn’t only due to the fact that they had no idea where they were going, but even if they did have an idea, the grass was so tall that they could be going in big circles and not know it. Popinjay trusted that Nightshade had a better sense of direction considering she had absolutely none.
They walked and walked with Popinjay singing an occasional song. Finally, Nightshade grew bored and began to chase field mice. The strange thing about these mice, however, were that every time Nightshade caught one, it would evaporate like smoke and then reappear whole again.
“I’ve caught a lot of field mice before,” Nightshade said, “and these mice are the most elusive I’ve ever hunted. Even when I catch one, it manages to escape.”
Popinjay stopped the song she was singing, which was some sad ballad about the hanging of a witch, and began to take notice of the mice. Popinjay was no mouse expert, but she knew that mice should have fur and run along the ground. These mice were shimmering white and seemed to float around.
“Nightshade,” she said, “I believe these mice are ghost mice. That’s why you can’t catch them.”
Nightshade paused in his hunt to regard the mice and he agreed that Popinjay had a point. Apparently this grass was haunted by the ghosts of dead mice.
The two decided to press onward through the grass in the direction the ghost mice were flitting towards. Not long after the grasslands ended and they found themselves standing before an old town. There was but one dirt road running through the middle of the town with old, dilapidated buildings lining either side of the road.
“It looks deserted,” said Popinjay. But then, they noticed movement in the town. It was a white figure floating across the street. This one was followed by several others drifting in various other directions.
Nightshade said, “Those aren’t mice ghosts, those are people ghosts.”
“Why, it’s a town full of ‘em too. It’s a ghost town, Nightshade. Maybe they can help us figure out where to go.”
Popinjay and Nightshade ran into the town to talk with the ghosts. At first the ghosts were startled to see that the two little creatures running into their town who weren’t the least bit scared of them. Then they tried their best to put on their eeriest faces and moaned as they swirled about the doll and cat. But their tactics had no effect. Popinjay was trying to talk to them. So the ghosts gradually slowed down until they hovered and stopped moaning to listen to what Popinjay was trying to say.
Popinjay explained her plight and how it was that she and Nightshade came to find themselves in Nod. The ghosts tried to talk to Popinjay, but she had trouble understanding what they were saying. To her, everything they said sounded blurry. For the most part, it just sounded like they were making a lot of creaking noises.
Suddenly, the ground began to shudder and the company of ghosts divided to direct their gaze to the end of the town road. The dirt began to churn and rumble and a figure rose from within the Earth. All the ghosts flew off to surround this mysterious figure.
Popinjay and Nightshade were scared. They certainly didn’t like the looks of such an ominous figure. “Do you think we should run, Nightshade?”
“I definitely think so,” he replied. “We could probably make it back to the tall grass and hide there.”
The two decided to make a run for it. Just as they began to run the figure began calling to them, “Wait! I’m not here to harm you! The ghosts called me to help you!”
But they didn’t stop running until they were safely hidden in the grass. Popinjay then called back, “Who are you that rises up out of the Earth?”
“My name is Crickety Creak, King of the Undead and Mayor of Ghost Town!” As he yelled this he ambled down the road with the throng of ghosts floating behind him. As he got closer, Popinjay and Nightshade peered out from the grass. He was truly a gruesome figure. He was a man, or least had been at one time. For, now his flesh was rotten and mottled. His teeth shown like a skeleton’s teeth and his hair was thin and stringy and protruded from his head in all manner of directions.
Popinjay new immediately what he was because she had seen them before when Tituba had used her dark magic to create them. She whispered to Nightshade, “He’s a zombie.”
“What’s a zombie?”
“A dead man who’s been brought back to life.”
“Well, that doesn’t sound so bad, but it sure does look so bad. We cats have nine lives so I guess we’re zombies in some respect too.”
“Should we trust him then?”
“I suppose we don’t have much choice if we’re ever going to find out where we’re going.”
Tentatively, the two emerged from the grass just as Crickety Creak ambled up. It was hard to tell if he was smiling or not because his teeth were always showing, but he made no move to harm them as he listened to them recount their story once again.
Crickety Creak adjusted his large bow tie and proclaimed, “Worry not, little guests, I know just the person who can help you figure out where to go.”
“Really?” Popinjay exclaimed clapping her hands. “That would be so wonderful! Who is it King Crickety Creak?”
“Queen Laveaux. She’s not my queen, but –“ He was cut short by the fact that his lower jaw dislodged from his face and plopped right on the ground. It was hard to say, but Popinjay thought he looked a little embarrassed as he knelt down to retrieve his lower jaw. He then stood back up and proceeded to pull a bag out of his shirt – it was tied to a cord around his neck. He placed two fingers inside the bag and pulled out a pinch of white dust. He then sprinkled the dust on his jaw and, to Popinjay and Nightshade’s amazement, the jaw floated back into place; there was an audible click and King Crickety Creak was fixed.
“Sorry about that,” he explained, “I have a tendency to lose my parts from time to time, but the magic Reconnection Powder fixes me right up. Now, as I was saying, Queen Laveaux is a nice witch who lives across the plains, over the mountains, and down in the swamps. She’ll give you protection from naughty needles and ornery brooms and let you live in peace, I’m sure of it. And maybe, just maybe, she knows the right spell to conjure up and give you both to make you free. You know what they say: two spells don’t break a curse but the stronger of the two makes the other one worse.”
“I’ve never heard that before,” Popinjay said confused.
“That’s because I just made it up,” King Crickety Creak retorted proudly.
“I don’t even understand it,” said Nightshade.
“That’s because it’s a new zombie saying and not an old cat saying.”
“Hey, I’m not old,” Nightshade said defensively.
“And I’m not new. Good, now that that’s settled, I have to return underground.”
“But, which way we do we go to find this Queen Laveaux?” Popinjay said.
“Like I said,” King Crickety Creak said pointing, “just head that way until you reach the edge of the prairie. You’ll cross the Ogre Bone Mountains and then you’ll enter the Dankmoss Swamp. Queen Laveaux lives in there.”
“It all sounds very ominous, those places; is it safe?”
“I doubt it. But nowhere is really safe here and you’ve managed to come this far, so I have faith that you’ll do just as good where you’re going.”
“That makes me feel better, I suppose,” Popinjay said, although not sounding very convinced.
“Oh, I know what’ll help!” exclaimed King Crickety Creak reaching into his pocket. “Take some Reconnection Powder.” He pulled out another bag tied to a cord just like the one around his neck and handed it to Popinjay. “It helps me when I start falling apart; maybe it’ll come in handy for you too.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever need to use it,” said Popinjay placing it around her neck,” although I’ll surely want to. And I can’t see that I’ll have reason to use it but I’ll always keep it ready to never use.”
“Perfect! And now give the King a bow and watch as I disappear back into the ground.”
And so they did.
***
Baron Samedi laughed diabolically as he hefted the strange potion in his hand. He sauntered over to the poor little monkey squawking in the cage, opened the door, and wrangled it out. The monkey fought like mad but the Baron’s grip was like iron. He forced the little monkey’s mouth open and poured the liquid in its mouth. Then, the Baron released the monkey. At first, the monkey scampered away searching for an escape route but then it halted abruptly. The potion took effect and the little monkey began to transform. It grew ten times its former size while it began to deform. Its legs grew long and muscular with webbed feet on the ends, great bat wings sprouted from its back, a huge main of hair sprouted around its face, and jagged teeth sprung out of its maw. When the transformation was complete, the great monkey monster sat growling and snorting awaiting its master’s instructions.
***
Popinjay and Nightshade walked for what felt like years. It was hard to measure the passage of time due to the fact that the sky never changed – just a constant, dim red glow. Eventually, the ghost mice became real mice and Nightshade was able to eat. They stopped periodically to rest, even though Popinjay didn’t really need to sleep. She did enjoy the rest, though. Eventually, the straight line of the horizon was replaced by mountains. This gave the two companions a sense of accomplishment, but it also filled them with a sense of foreboding. Something about the name of Ogre Bone Mountains made Popinjay shudder.
They walked and walked and the mountains loomed larger and larger before them. At one point, Nightshade pointed out an object that seemed out of place with the rest of the surrounding scenery. It was something large with red and white stripes. It was far ahead, lying just at the edge of the prairie.
“Should we go investigate it?” Nightshade asked Popinjay.
“Have you ever heard the saying: curiosity killed the cat?”
“That’s ridiculous! Curiosity is a desire to know or learn. A desire has no physical existence. Only things with physical existence can kill you; things like knives, hammers, logs, guns, and teeth. A desire wouldn’t even hurt you if I hit you with it. Have you ever been hit with a desire?”
“Well, I was hit with the desire to escape old Tituba and run away.”
“And did it hurt?”
“No. It was scary but very liberating too.”
“There you go.”
Popinjay thought about it a moment and couldn’t really find any way to argue with what Nightshade had said. “I’m curious as to what it might be too, Nightshade. I guess it wouldn’t hurt to take a little closer look.”
So the two of them began to walk in the direction of the big red and white striped object. As they got closer they realized that the object was in fact a giant circus tent. A large sign proclaimed: Flupplebuss’ Amazing Circus, the greatest show in Nod.
“Oooo, a circus, Nightshade!” Popinjay crooned. “Hopefully we’re in time for a show.”
Suddenly, a loud roar echoed above their heads and a huge shadow passed over them. Looking up, the two beheld Samedi’s monkey monster gliding above them. It wheeled around, turned and bore down on them. The two managed to evade the assault as they dove for cover among the tall grass. The monkey monster roared again and turned for another approach.
“Run for the tent!” Nightshade howled as he ran out to distract the monkey monster so Popinjay could make a run for it. Popinjay had no time to protest as Nightshade shot out of the grass. She took off running towards the circus tent, which was a good hundred yards away now.
As she ran Nightshade darted in and out of the grass, keeping just beyond the claws of the monster as it swooped and dove in an effort to capture its prey.
Popinjay’s attention was focused on the plight of Nightshade even as she ran for cover of the tent, but she did turn her head in the direction of the tent long enough to behold an unlikely spectacle. Emerging from the tent – likely attracted by the noise of the monkey monsters attack – was a gaggle of the most unlikely characters and creatures she had ever seen. There were jugglers, acrobats, a bearded woman, a giant muscle man, a two-headed woman, a man with the legs of a goat, elephants, zebras, winged camels, unicorns, a giant horse, and numerous animals that she couldn’t even identify. And right at the head of the whole entourage was a fat clown decked out in every outlandish color of the rainbow.
Popinjay came to a halt in front the clown and between breaths was able to explain that the flying monkey creature was attacking her best friend.
The clown listened as he monitored the fray between Nightshade and his adversary and then said, “What kind of creature did your say that was?”
“I don’t know what it is,” she panted, “but it has the head of a monkey, the legs of a frog, the wings of a bat, the hair of a lion, and large teeth and claws!”
“Well, well, well,” he bellowed, “I gotta have him for my circus!” And with this he began barking out orders to the throng behind him. A more motley army had never been fielded. Performers, animals, and strange creatures of various sorts proceeded to march with all manner of assorted gear out into the plain.
Popinjay stood dumbfounded as the coordinated efforts of the group baited, netted, bound and tied Baron Samedi’s fabulous monkey monster.
Later, after they had retired back to the tent, Nightshade and Popinjay thanked the clown profusely for saving their lives.
“Don’t thank me! It’s I who should be thanking you for delivering right to my doorstep this most wonderfully horrible creature to add to my circus!”
“So you’re Flupplebuss then?” Popinjay asked.
“Yes, indeedy I am! Flupplebuss the Clown. I am the proprietor, recruiter, trainer, entertainer, and ring announcer of this, the most spectacular circus you’ll ever see.”
“Wow!” Popinjay exclaimed. “I sure would love to see everyone perform, Mr. Flupplebuss.”
“And so you will! But first, tell me why that mean old flying thingawhatsit was trying to get a couple little ol’ creatures like you.”
So Nightshade and Popinjay once again replayed their tales, although they couldn’t really say why the creature attacked them. Popinjay had a pretty good idea that old Tituba was behind it somehow, though.
“Why, I know old Queen Laveaux very well! And I know just exactly where she lives over yonder in the Dankmoss Swamp. In return for providing the newest member of our circus, I’ll see to it that you get there lickity split. But first, you gotta stick around and enjoy a most wonderful show.”
“That’d be swell!” Exclaimed Popinjay.
Nightshade, who was a bit more practical minded, was still confused about one important point. “Excuse me, Mr. Flupplebuss, but are your shows always so short of spectators?”
“Ha, ha, the cat is a keen observer. Most circuses travel around and go town to town in order to bring the circus to the people. Flupplebuss’ Amazing Circus doesn’t work like that. We don’t go to the people, the people come to us!”
And then he showed them a series of what at first glance appeared to be large oval mirrors. In fact, they were portals. And sure enough, as it got closer to show time that night, people began pouring through the portals until finally, the big tent was filled to capacity. Excitement was in the air as everyone anxiously awaited the show to commence. The lights suddenly went black and a large ring of light cut through the darkness to the center ring. Flupplebuss came tumbling across the ground rolling like a giant ball only to unfurl himself and greet the throng.
“Ladies and Gentlement, Creatures and Beasties, Goblins and Ghoulies of all ages, shapes and sizes! Welcome to the most fantacular, splendiferous, wonderzingly, glamtorious show of all time! It’s the one and only Flupplebuss’ Amazing Circus!”
The crowd erupted into cheers and Flupplebuss continued for some minutes to rile the crowd into a frenzy. Popinjay and Nightshade sat mesmerized as they watched the most amazing feats of daring mingled with shows of laughter, bravery, awe, thrills, dexterity, and chills. It was a show for the ages.
***
Things weren’t going quite so swimmingly for old Baron Samedi, though. Having magically watched the quick capture of his fearsome creature, he decided to go back to his spell books in order to find the perfectly wickedest concoction to create a most diabolical monstrosity. As he sat perusing his vast library of magic, Tituba paid him a visit. Samedi thought that she was ten times more fearsome than his monkey monster. She was madder than a hornet and fired up and giving him the what for.
“Baron Samedi! We had a deal and you’ve failed to uphold your end of the bargain, you crafty old huckster! I paid you to bring back my Voodoo Doll! Where is she?”
“Tituba, that cursed little pin cushion of yours is the slipperiest little snake I’ve ever –“
“Don’t give me that, you old skull and bones! You mean to tell me that the mighty Baron Samedi has been bested by a little stuffed doll? You ought to be ashamed of yourself, you old fool! Where is she?”
“She’s fled to Nod and has been rescued by that crazy clown Flupplebuss. Give me a moment to find the perfect spell and I’ll –“
“Our deal’s off! If you want something done right, you gotta do it yourself! You owe me, crooked man!” And with a bang and a billowing black cloud of smoke, Tituba disappeared.”
***
Back at Flupplebuss’ Amazing Circus the Twirling Tagotchi’s had just finished a trapeze performance that had the crowd standing in their seats. Flupplebuss came out riding a unicycle and was in the middle of entertaining the audience with his balloon act. He had a large orange feather that he plucked from his tiny blue clown hat. This feather was a magical feather that filled anything he tickled with it with hot air. Flupplebuss rode around the center ring tickling all manner of things with the feather and each time the object would immediately blow up with air and begin to float up in the air. There was an apple, a radio, a boot, a bowling ball, a frog, and all sorts of assorted objects drifting around through the air.
Suddenly, the lights went dim, the music lurched to a halt, and a pillar of smoke erupted right in front of Flupplebuss sending him toppling off of his unicycle and tumbling across the ring. Gasps emanated from the shocked crowd as a sinister cackle split the air. And when the smoke dissipated, there stood wicked old Tituba in the center ring with a nasty looking snake draped about her neck.
At first the crowd was confused at whether this was a part of the show or not, but Popinjay knew the moment she saw her that it was Tituba.
“Uh oh, Nightshade,” she whispered. “That’s her. That’s the mean old witch who likes to poke pins in me. We need to get out of here before she sees us.”
Popinjay and Nightshade slunk down real low and began to creep away. Somehow, Tituba sensed exactly where Popinjay was and hurled a spell right at her. The spell took the form of an arc of black smoke. Fortunately, the spell missed Popinjay but it was unfortunate for the poor creature beside her, the spell hit him and he locked up stiff as a board and fell over as if he were made of stone. At this, the crowd broke out into pandemonium. This was just the thing that Popinjay and Nightshade needed to help them hide, though.
Meanwhile, Flupplebuss was steaming mad because Tituba had ruined not only his performance, but his entire circus. In retaliation, he gave Tituba a swift kick in the rump with his overly large clown shoe. This sent Tituba tumbling head over heels as one of her spells went shooting off into the top of the tent.
The crowd was in complete chaos. People and creatures were running in every direction. The mayhem gave Flupplebuss just enough time to intercept Popinjay and Nightshade. “Come with me! Hurry!”
They followed him through the crowd and out of the tent. In no time they were disappearing into another, much smaller tent. Inside there were a few of the circus performers seeking refuge. There were also various animals and magical creatures. One of these creatures was a small black and red dragon. Flupplebuss went immediately to this creature and said to it, “Take the doll and the cat to Dankmoss Swamp as fast as you can! Take them to Queen Laveaux!” Then, turning to Popinjay and Nightshade he said, “This is Zaxxus! He can get you to Queen Laveaux faster than any creature here!”
Flupplebuss handed Popinjay his big orange feather while he lifted them into place on Zaxxus’ back. “Now be sure and hold on tight!” But before he could get his feather back from Popinjay, Tituba came bursting through the tent. She hurled a spell at Popinjay but Flupplebuss stepped in front of the jet of black smoke. Zaxxus was already in motion. The dragon slithered smoothly under the tent nearly knocking Popinjay off. Nightshade managed to grab her in time and the last thing that Popinjay saw before exiting the tent was Flupplebuss go ramrod straight and fall over like a tree. Then they were airborne, zipping off into the night sky like a rocket.
***
Flupplebuss didn’t lie when he said that Zaxxus was fast. Popinjay and Nightshade clung on desperately as they sped through the air, the mountains zooming past underneath them. And Popinjay couldn’t be sure, but she could swear that something trailed them out in the black of the night. She just hoped that Zaxxus could keep up the speed until they reached Queen Laveaux.
It still seemed like a long time even at the breakneck speed they were going but soon, the mountains gave way to scrub trees and the swamp was beneath them. And finally Zaxxus was darting downward and cruising to a halt in front of an old muddy hovel.
Popinjay and Nightshade scrambled down and the dragon shook his head, squawked and was off again, flapping back into the sky.
“Well, I guess this is Queen Laveaux’s. I sure do hope she can help us,” Popinjay said.
“I Just hope she’s home,” Nightshade retorted.
They didn’t have time to find out, though. Popinjay was right about there being something following them. Just then a jet of red smoke came shooting down from the sky and where it landed there erupted a pillar of flame and out stepped Tituba.
“You’re testing my patience, you little ball of rags!” she bellowed. “You will pay for your insolence!” Then Tituba unleashed a spell that sent a stream of stickpins hurling at Popinjay. There was no avoiding the barrage. Just then, the door to the hovel flew open and Queen Laveaux burst out casting her own counter-spell, but not before several of the pins had found their mark, three sticking in Popinjay and one hitting Nightshade. Nightshade howled in pain and Popinjay dove for cover behind Queen Laveaux. The counter-spell turned Tituba’s needles back on her and she warded them off with yet another spell.
Tituba turned her ire on Queen Laveaux now and the two witches commenced a most spectacular magical battle. The swamp erupted in lights, fire, booms and bangs as they hurled all manner of wicked spells at each other.
Meanwhile, Popinjay was pulling the needles out of her body and realized she was still holding onto Flupplebuss’ orange feather. As she was pulling out the last pin, she suddenly got an idea. She and Nightshade conferred and Nightshade sprang into action.
The witches were circling each other concentrating on their battle. Nightshade darted quickly around them and leapt towards the back of Tituba. The snake clinging to her neck rose up to meet his leap. Dodging the venomous fangs, Nightshade struck the snake’s head with his clawed paw and managed to pull a tuft of hair from Tituba’s head. At this, Tituba squealed in pain and grabbed Nightshade by the scruff of his neck and flung him through the air. Nightshade gyrated in the air trying to land on his feet. He landed with a thud on the ground.
Popinjay ran up to Nightshade to see if he was alright. He was dazed, but otherwise unharmed. She removed the bag on the cord that King Crickety Creak had given her from around her neck and gave it to Nightshade. She then took the tuft of Tituba’s hair and hoped that her plan would work.
Popinjay knew all too well how the magic of the Voodoo worked – she had been the magic tool of Tituba’s cruelty enough times. Whenever Tituba wanted to inflict pain on someone, she would gather an item – most often a lock of hair or piece of clothing – belonging to the victim and stick it to Popinjay. Then, whatever torture inflicted on Popinjay would be felt by the victim too. Now that Popinjay had Tituba’s hair, she hoped that the magic would work just the same way. She took Flupplebuss’ feather and proceeded tickle herself just as Flupplebuss had done on the objects in his circus. And sure enough, Popinjay began to blow up just like a balloon filling with air; but, to Tituba’s stark surprise, she too began to fill with hot air. By the time she realized what was happening, she was beyond help. Queen Laveaux and Nightshade stood there watching as both Tituba and Popinjay blew up and began to float ever upward.
Tituba struggled and kicked and tried to cast a spell but everything was out of proportion and her efforts were in vain. Popinjay, however, was prepared and once she saw that they were both sufficiently inflated, she took the last stickpin she had removed from her body and jammed it right into her own tummy. Immediately, both Popinjay and Tituba burst to pieces and came scattering down.
“Oh, My!” cried Queen Laveaux. “That dear little doll sacrificed herself just to stop that mean old hag. How noble!”
“Queen Laveaux,” Nightshade said, “that little doll’s name is Popinjay. Would you please help me gather all of her pieces?”
“Of course, kitty.”
They set about collecting the pieces of Popinjay and once all were gathered together in one, neat little pile, Nightshade removed the pouch that King Crickety Creak had given them. Using the Reconnection Powder, he sprinkled it over the pieces of Popinjay and the magic took hold. Nightshade and Queen Laveaux watched in awe as Popinjay reassembled. There was a tense moment when the little doll just lay there, but then, she twitched and started to move. And lo and behold, she stood up and said, “Did it work? Is she gone?”
Nightshade gave a full body kitty hug to her and said, “Yes, Popinjay, she sure is. That nasty old witch is gone.”
***
The next evening, Popinjay and Nightshade sat on an old log watching the fireflies flicker around the swamp. “I feel so much less dreary, Nightshade. How about you?” Popinjay said.
“I feel better, too. That Queen Laveaux is such a nice witch. I think I could stay here forever.”
“Me, too.”
Then Nightshade thought about a scary thought. “But what if the witch I ran away from comes looking for me?”
“Don’t worry, kitty buddy, as long as we stick together, we’ll be alright.”
THE END
[1] Loam – A rich, organic soil usually associated with abundant plant life and water.
I am super excited about one of my stories from The Other Side of Despair being featured on the latest podcast episode of Random Transmissions. This podcast is super cool and you should go and check out all the episodes!
Hi! If you’ve read any of my blog and my weird writings, please take the time to post a comment about your thoughts and impressions. I’d love to hear what you think!
Also, here is an interview that I just did that delves a little deeper into my artistic vision.
For those writers and bloggers who have steadfastly followed the last two stories I’ve posted, I would like to say thank you for reading them. After I published my collection of short stories in 2010 I decided to take some time away from writing and figure out a new direction. Finally, I decided to write a novella that was a Lovecraftian, Cthulhu Mythos story – The Scourge of Wetumpka. That took some time to write but turned out quite well. Coming off of that I began writing Psychological Horror short stories. When I use the term Psychological, I am using it in the true sense of the term as having to do with Psychology. I have a Master’s in Psychology and I really enjoy Psychological thrillers with horror or dark fantasy overtones. The first couple of stories were “Alone” and “Shockley House”. I was very pleased with “Shockley House” but wound up re-writing “Alone” in order to make it deliver the right effect. After those two stories, I began to get interested in the use of Symbolism and the techniques used in Impressionism. The last two stories, “The Land of Nod” and “The Murklor”, explore using those techniques in writing weird tales. What makes them really work on a blog is that each day (or every couple of days) a new glimpse or vignette is added to the overall impression of the piece. In “The Land of Nod” I tried to do that by adding more bits of symbolism to the canvass of the story. In “The Murklor”, I tried to do that by adding new vantage points – usually in the form of different writing techniques. Overall, I’m really liking this new direction of Impressionistic Weird Fiction. It’s fun and offers so much freedom.
BTW, I can’t take credit for inventing it. Here’s a really good interview about what I’m trying to achieve in my writing:
One final note – the ciphers in the story “The Murklor” are very much real. They aren’t just thrown together to make the story weirder than it already is. Each one was methodically designed and does have a real solution.
Thanks to Chad Fifer and Chris Lackey at The H.P. Lovecraft Literary Podcast for using music from Al Azif in Episode 114 – In The Walls of Eryx. As usual, they pulled off another entertaining episode. Sadly, they are coming to the end of Lovecraft’s body of weird tales with only two episodes left. They have mentioned that they will next be discussing weird tales that inspired Lovecraft, so I’m looking forward to that.
Visions of the Dark 