In a way, it’s more stock than a lot of what I’ve written, particularly for fantasy. At the same time, there’s more of a horror dimension than a lot of my fantasy work.

It’s also distinctive because it’s one of the few stories to involve Fort Baxter, a fictional Maine town along the Canadian border, meant to be my home town of Fort Kent with serial numbers filed sort of off and a fresh coat of paint over it.

I think I probably wrote this while I was finishing up college. I was really into the idea of language critical theory/linguistic critical theory/the sign-significator-significated trichotomy for a while then. I’m a little surprised this isn’t more pretentious than it is as a result.

Apropos of nothing, the lead is named Karin MacDougal.  In 1997, a Karen McDougal became a somewhat more-famous-than-usual Playboy Playmate and then Playmate of the Year. From the tone of this piece, I believe it was written at least four and possibly more years before 1997, so despite the name, this is not an homage to a hot chick.

Also apropos of nothing, I used to make homemade hot cocoa like is described in here.

*** *** *** ***

I was fourteen the first time I heard Uncle Roger use language.

He’s not my uncle. He isn’t even technically my stepfather’s brother. But they grew up together. They spend a lot of time talking. Well, Uncle Roger talks. Dad listens.

We were in the kitchen. I was making Nestle Quik. He was making tea. I heard a noise — like a tapping. It was a chickadee in the feeder, cracking open sunflower seeds with its little beak. I laughed when I saw it. Chickadees look so silly sometimes.

I must have scared it. It darted out of the feeder, landing on its small roof and looking all around itself. It looked sort of like a cartoon character. I laughed again, but Uncle Roger looked at me crossly. Then he leaned close to the glass and spoke through it to the bird.

I didn’t know the words he used, or what language they were in, but the bird cocked it’s head as though it were listening, looking in the house with one amber eye. And then it dropped back down into the feeder and started eating again.

I watched Uncle Roger as he crouched down a little near the window. He was looking at the chickadee, and whispered something. “Arrebee,” I think. It was tender, sort of,

And then he stood up, and took a deep breath. When he turned around, he didn’t look like my harmless old uncle. His brown eyes were deeper, some how.

“How did you coax him back down?” I asked. “Chickadees are scared easily.”

“Birds aren’t toys, Karin,” he said. “You shouldn’t treat them like they are.” And that was all he said about it.

I was seventeen the next time I heard Uncle Roger use language. He didn’t talk to birds that time.

I had more or less forgotten about the bird. It was weird but not too weird. But I had taken to paying more attention to the way Uncle Roger acted, especially when he thought no one was watching. How he would stare at things for a long time. How he would pick things up and heft them in his hand, like he was measuring them. I remember when my mother gave him a ceramic coffee cup her father had made for her. He spent ten minutes just looking at it, running his fingers along the cracks and patterns. There were times he held it to his ear, and tapped his finger on the rim. It made a hollow ringing sound that he repeated until he could hum the same note, about two octaves down.

And I had noticed the way he talked. The cadences he would get in his voice when he told a story or explained some piece of trivia. The way he built a joke up with words, or wove a musical web when he sang. I noticed these things more closely.

And once or twice, I noticed him noticing me. Seeing my interest, and weighing it like the coffee cup.

But anyhow, I was seventeen. It was October, I think, and pretty chilly. Fort Baxter gets snow in November most years. We’re far enough north so that we get a nasty gulfstream. I was mad, because my boyfriend, Brad, was supposed to give me a ride home. He had forgotten he had an evening shift at Andy’s, so he begged off.

My parents’ house is on Farmer Street, right off of College Street. But I was taking the back way since Brad lived downtown, over Village Square Fashions. It was faster to take the back streets, and I was cold and it was raining, sort of. But the back streets weren’t very well lit.

I wasn’t scared. There was no reason to be. Fort Baxter, Maine has a violent crime rate so close to zero it isn’t funny. Even near BaxState it’s pretty quiet. I was just mad and cold and damp.

The wind came in gusts, blowing my hair in my eyes. I pushed it back for the third or fourth time… and I knew I wasn’t alone.

I just knew. I can’t explain how or why. I knew someone was watching me. That they were following me. Or maybe I was crazy, but I started to walk faster.

I could hear boots on macadam behind me. I began to run.

Something dull shoved me in the small of the back. It didn’t hurt, but I pitched forward, scraping my knees. I screamed, but no one lived very close. The man landed on me, grabbing my shoulders and yanking me up. He thrust me down hard, then slammed me down again. I started to cry.

And everything got very quiet. The wind died. Even the rain stopped. My sobs and incoherent words seemed louder then they were.

The man yanked me onto my back. He was older — forty, maybe — wearing a parka and bonnet. It was too dark to see what color they were — he looked like any of the local loggers. “Shut up,” he snapped at me, looking around like a startled cat. I didn’t stop crying, of course, so he slapped me and shouted it at me.

I shut up, but not because he hit me. Something — some kind of sound or pressure — was building around us.

“Who’s there!” he shouted. His words echoed around us.

The wind stirred again, blowing brown leaves up into a dust devil. The trees seemed to be whispering. I could smell ozone.

“Who the Hell’s there!” my attacker shouted.

There was a sound — like the hum of train tracks before you could hear the train itself coming. Or a string bass being played with a metal bow. I felt goosebumps ripple on my flesh.

There were telephone poles stretching wire along the road. The metal pins and cable guides began to glow green with Saint Elmo’s fire. The smell of Ozone was everywhere, with a mettalic tinge to it.

With a clap of thunder that sounded like an explosion, the storm broke all around us. The wind ripped at us both, causing the man to roll off of me and wrap his hands over his head in terror.

And then I saw my Uncle Roger. He was walking towards us, arms outstretched and he was shouting something I couldn’t understand. It reminded me of Latin or Italian, but I knew it wasn’t either. He looked huge — more a part of the storm than a man caught in it.

He stabbed his finger at my attacker, screaming a word. A lightning bolt split the sky, stabbing Uncle Roger’s finger and reflecting off of it like a living tendril of light. It grounded into my attacker, and the man twisted and shook, his muscles locking.

I screamed again, and forced myself to my feet running. I wasn’t running for home or for Brad’s house. I just ran from what I couldn’t understand. The thunder tore all around me and the rain drove through my windbreaker, but I just kept going until I reached the woods. There were paths but I didn’t take them. Instead I just kept going, branches and boughs snapping at my feet until finally I collapsed, exhausted, and sobbed at the base of an oak tree.

When I finally cried myself out, the rain had stopped. I got up and turned around.

Uncle Roger was standing there, watching me. He didn’t look ten feet tall any more. He looked like the Uncle who used to tell me stories about Odysseus and Heracles. Like my favorite babysitter.

“You have to be cold, Karin,” he said to me.

“Uh huh,” I sniffed.

“Come on. Let’s get you warmed up. Everything’s okay. I promise.” He held his arms out to me, like my stepfather did when I was little and scared of the dark.

Slowly I went to him, and he wrapped his coat around my shoulders and led me through the maze of trees.

“Is he dead?” I asked Uncle Roger.

“Who?”

“The man. The man who attacked me.”

“No,” he said to me. “He isn’t dead. But he won’t be able to hurt you.”

I never found out what happened to the man. Uncle Roger led me to his house, where he cleaned the cuts I got from branches in the woods and checked me for broken bones. He gave me Hot Chocolate he made from scratch and called my folks to tell them I was okay.

I tried to ask him what he had done. How he had bent lightning and shouted up a storm. But he evaded me, for once quiet. As I was leaving, I turned back to him.

“Will you ever tell me what happened tonight?” I asked.

“When you know what questions to ask, I’ll answer them,” he said, and shut his door.

The next time I heard Uncle Roger use language, I was twenty.

I had tried to bring up the subject a number of times, of course. But Uncle Roger either misdirected my question into a different subject or failed to hear me. I cornered my stepfather once and asked him, point blank.

“Why do you want to know?” he asked me. He looked — maybe scared, or nervous. But mostly like I was prying into something private. Something almost embarresing.

“I saw him hit a man with lightning,” I said. “He shouted something and a lightning bolt wrapped around his hand and went where he wanted it to go.”

“Did the man deserve it?”

“He had knocked me over and… and was going to hurt me, I guess.” I had never told my folks about what had happened.

Dad got a slightly angry look on his face. “Did — are you… were you all right?” he asked.

“Yeah. Before the guy could really hurt me, everything got all–”

“Don’t tell me,” Dad said. “I don’t need to know. Just… just remember this. If your Uncle Roger felt he had to attack that man to protect you, he had to. He never does anything he doesn’t have to.”

“But how did he do it?” I asked.

Dad got a far-away look on his face. “He went away for a while,” he said to me. “Somewhere on the West Coast, and then England.” He looked at me again. “After he came back… he could do strange things.”

“But–”

“If you want to know, you’ll have to ask him. I don’t know and I don’t want to. But I trust him.”

By the time I was a Junior at Bowdoin college, I had tried to find the right questions to ask Uncle Roger. I had studied folklore and mythology. Literature and anthropology. I had originally thought to major in communications, but consciously or unconsciously I had switched to English. A B to C student in High School, I was an A student in college. My parents were so proud of me. So was Uncle Roger, who himself taught English at Baxter State right in Fort Baxter. When I was home on breaks and during vacation, he would come over and talk about poetry with me. He spoke passionatly, making the subject come to life. And he showed me some of the poetry he had written and published, and asked to see mine. I don’t know how he knew I had been trying to write poetry, but he did.

When I was twenty I was in my senior year, home for Christmas break. I got in around eleven thirty at night and was met by the whole family. It had been a mild winter in Brunswick, where I went to college, so the thick blanket of snow that covered my home town was almost welcome. Winters should be full of snow and ice coating the trees. I stayed up half the night with my mother and stepfather before road fatigue drove me to bed. The next morning I woke up early, had a cup of coffee (I had taken it up at Bowdoin), and walked down Farmer Street to Uncle Roger’s house.

It was snowing. Big, white flakes that made the boundry between sky and ground suspect. I loved the snow. Growing up, snow meant sliding and snowball fights and skating and skiing. If it snowed hard enough, the school buses couldn’t get through and we had a snow day. Up in Northern Maine, the snow was your friend. So by the time I made it to Uncle Roger’s, I was in a really good mood.

There was a strange car in his driveway. A Lincoln Town Car, black. All Town Cars are black, I think. It had Massachusetts plates, so Uncle Roger had visitors. Relatives, maybe. They might have been over for Christmas.

I knocked and looked at the wreath on Uncle Roger’s door. The Jaycees sell them each year, and Uncle Roger paid for a good one. It was woven out of blue pine, with a cluster of broad pine cones in its center and a red ribbon tied in a bow beneath it. It was festive and homey all at once.

The door opened, and a strange blond man stared out at me.

I was almost shocked to see him. I didn’t recognize him, but somehow I felt… nervous. Frightened, almost. He wore a black suit with a white shirt and gold cufflinks. His hair was combed back and immaculate. His eyes were grey and they stared into mine like icicles.

“Yes?” he asked, his voice colder than the outside air.

“Is… um, is Professor Dalton here?”

“What is your business with Doctor Dalton?” he asked, almost mocking. As though he couldn’t believe I had business with ‘Doctor Dalton.’

“Edward,” my Uncle’s voice rang out sharply. “I don’t believe I made you my secretary, so please don’t screen my visitors.” He stepped into view, opening the door wide. “Karin!” he said warmly, opening his arms to me. I melted into them and hugged him, hard. “I had no idea you were back — you haven’t written to me in too long, young lady!”

“Hi Uncle Roger! I know, I know, but I’ve been awfully busy. Look, I can come back later if you’re busy–” I cast a cold look at ‘Edward.’ “–maybe when you’re alone.”

“Oh don’t mind Edward,” he said. “He’s an old friend of mine who’s unfortunate enough to be a lawyer in a large city. He sometimes forgets what human contact is like.”

“Yes,” Edward said crisply. “In my line of work, I get so little of it. Well, are you going to introduce me to your friend or should I go see what Porter is up to in the kitchen.” Edward’s voice was high — a tenor, maybe — and crisply British.

“Of course. Edward Chambers, this is my niece, Karin. Karin McDougal, this is an associate of mine late of Piccadilly, now of Boston.”

“Niece,” Edward asked with an upraised eyebrow. “I thought that – o-hooo… Frank McDougal’s daughter, of course.”

“Stepdaughter,” I said. It might have been unfair to a man who had served as my father since I was ten, but I couldn’t ever quite call him my real father. There were still days I missed my real father.

“Ah. Stepdaughter but not stepniece? Or have I misconstrued the relationship.” I felt a flash of annoyance and let go of my Uncle. I could tell I’d probably never like Edward Chambers late of Piccadilly.

“Probably,” my Uncle said lightly. “You misconstrue so much else in your day.” It sounded like Uncle Roger was joking, but Edward flinched like he were hit.

So there was tension between the two of them, too.

“Well, I’m off to get a paper,” Edward said. “I’ll let you two get reaquainted. I hope I won’t interrupt when I return. Porter!”

Porter was a large man in a black uniform. A chauffer, it looked like. The two of them left and I breathed a little easier.

“Sorry,” Uncle Roger said, walking towards the kitchen. “Edward’s rough around the edges. He grates on people, somewhat unintentionally. But he’s not a bad sort, really.”

“I can’t say I like him,” I said, sniffing. I had a minor cold — I got one every winter, and it was worse in Brunswick, near the coast. It didn’t get cold enough to throw the germs into remission.

“You don’t know him yet, Chickadee. When you know him, you can dislike him legitimately. Hot Cocoa?”

“Please! Thanks.” I grinned. Uncle Roger smiled and set about making it. He didn’t use Swiss Miss or Carnation. Instead, he got out baker’s chocolate and sugar and dry milk and blended them in the mug. The cocoa was thick and had money on top and was bittersweet instead of cloying. He asked about classes and we fell into a talk about William Blake, who I was studying in my Romantic and Victorian Poetry seminar.

Edward didn’t come back for quite a long time, and Uncle Roger didn’t seem to be giving him another thought, so I stayed for hours. Finally, around four thirty, I was staring into the fire (Uncle Roger had a Jørdül in his sitting room) while Uncle Roger made a phone call. I felt safe.

“Such a pretty little thing,” I heard whispered into my ear, and I jumped.

Edward Chambers smiled. “Sorry,” he said. “I couldn’t resist.”

“Whatever,” I said tensly. “I better be going.”

“Wait a moment,” Chambers said. “Let me look at you.”

“I’ll be late for dinner,” I said, rising.

“Selth,” he said, his left hand blurring into what looked like American Sign Language. I felt a chill run down my spine and into my bones, and suddenly I couldn’t move. It didn’t feel like paralysis. It was like I had no idea how to tell my arms to push me off the couch. Like I had no idea how to make my legs lift me up.

Edward Chambers circled in front of me, those eyes piercing me. “You are lovely,” he said. “So pretty and fresh. But that’s not it, is it.” He seemed to be scrutinizing me. Not leering — or not much. But probing. Memorizing. Trying to learn as much about me as Uncle Roger had learned about the coffee cup, years before. “No… there are any number of girls as pretty or prettier.

“So what are you? A protegé? An apprentice? Your eyes are quick. Your voice is sweet. The potential is there… but is he going to use it?”

“Perhaps he is, and perhaps he isn’t,” my Uncle said, stepping into the room. “Either way, it’s no business of yours, Edward.” His voice was icy cold.

Edward laughed. “Call it professional interest,” he said.

“Release her.”

“Just answer a question or two first. Is she yours? Are you grooming her? For what? I thought you didn’t play our games, Roger.”

The two locked eyes. Uncle Roger made a pass, his hands twisting in that same American Sign Language varient. Chambers snapped his hands up, twisted into their own odd symbols. He whispered as he did it, and Uncle Roger’s forehead beaded with sweat.

“Eldorr Edward Cinjin Chambers aresti!” Uncle Roger shouted, and Edward’s hands and voice froze. “Orbitse.”

Edward’s eyes held Uncle Roger’s for a long moment, then looked to the floor. “Pandeth.” he said, sounding disgruntled.

“Alke ne porth Karin.” Uncle Roger said. It sounded like he was just talking.

Edward looked at me. “Anti se porth Karin?”

“Banne.”

“Tuke.” Edward spelled a word with his fingers, and suddenly I could move.

But I didn’t. I was scared and angry, all at once.

“I think perhaps you should go back to your Hotel,” Uncle Roger said to Edward.

“Perhaps,” he said. He glanced back at me. “She really has no clue, does she?”

“That depends on the mystery we’re discussing.”

Edward chuckled. “I do love your little word games, Roger. Well, say hello to Franklyn for me.”

“Francis. Frank to you.”

“Of course.” I noticed Porter for the first time — he was standing by the door with Edward’s coat. Edward took it and the two walked into the snowy twilight.

Uncle Roger settled heavily onto the couch in front of the fire. He looked weary. “I really am getting too old for this sort of thing,” he said.

“You’re not old,” I said quietly.

“Really? That’s good to know. I feel old, though.” He looked at me. “I owe you an apology. Edward’s actions were unconscienceable.”

“You owe me more than an apology,” I said, leaning forward. “I think you owe me an explaination.”

“When–”

“When I know the questions to ask, you’ll answer them. I heard you. Uncle Roger, three years ago you controlled the weather to protect me. Three minutes ago you made Chambers back down — I don’t know how. And Chambers froze me in place and made weird allegations about me. So don’t give me chaff about knowing what to ask. I don’t have the vocabulary to ask you what I need to know. Just tell me something.”

Uncle Roger looked wistful and bemused all at once. “That’s what it’s all about, really. Your vocabulary. When you have the words to ask, my answers would make sense.”

“What do–”

“But you’re right. I do owe you something. I just hadn’t thought we would reach this impasse quite yet. Something else I can thank dear Mister Chambers for.”

“You expected something like this to happen?” I asked.

“Not at all. I expected that something would happen that would lead us to talk. I just thought I had more time.”

He rose. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Sure.”

“Good.” He walked into the kitchen and I followed. “What do you want to know.”

“What can you do?”

Uncle Roger laughed. “My Vitae are quite extensive. Explaining all of them would take some time. For instance, I am a poet, I am an Associate Professor of English, which means I’m capable of critical work and of teaching. I–”

“You know what I mean!”

“Do I? If you don’t know what you mean, I can’t possibly know what you mean, Chickadee.”

“But — God, talking to you can be so frustrating.”

“Nolo Contende, Karin. I can’t make this easy for you, I’m afraid. If you’re going to get answers you can understand, you’ll have to ask questions that are specific enough for me to answer exactly. Otherwise, I’ll have no way of knowing what you can understand and what you can’t. If you want answers — ask.”

“All right. Magic. You can work magic, right?”

“Yes.” The answer was quiet and unpretentious, but it still shook me. It was confirmation that the world wasn’t what I thought it was. “And so can you and so can everyone.”

“What do you mean?”

“Everyone can work magic. In ways, everyone does work magic. You have a double-dozen magical experiences a day. When you twist the laces of your shoes into a bow, you’re casting a very minor sort of spell. When a man ties a windsor knot in his tie, he’s casting a varient. Tying a bow tie is a more advanced varient. And the Boy Scouts teach ropecraft that is very advanced indeed.”

“But… that’s not magic.”

“What is it, then?”

“Tying knots? It’s a skill. Something anyone can learn.”

“Really? I was a Boy Scout once, but I doubt I could even identify a sheepshank. I never really got past the square knot and the bowline, and I’ve never used a bowline in my life. My father was somewhat disappointed in me.”

This is a fragment — an incomplete chapter one of a book never written, dating back to the early 90′s. As with pretty much every science fiction writer who was once twenty, this was the beginning of my dystopia novel. Back in the days when I figured I was going to graduate school as a matter of course, I had seriously considered Utopia and Dystopia as a concentration and field of study. I was considering that alongside 19th and 20th Century American Poetry, of course. It never entered my head to go for a Ph.D. in the Modern Superhero Story, which is a pity since that’s what I’d clearly be able to nail.

To that end, I started writing my dystopia. I called it America the Beautiful, because I was very, very earnest about it. This was going to be a call to arms — a warning for the ages that would rank with Brave New World and 1984.

You know. Just like all the other dystopias out there.

Well, I never got out of the first chapter. But rereading the first chapter I’m a little amazed — as unsubtle as the title was, the opening, the establishment of tone and character… it’s better than I expected when I went back to reread this. I’m actually moderately interested in what Thomas’s story would turn out to be.

Not that we’ll ever find out. At least, if I ever pick this up, it’ll be significantly different than whatever I intended fifteen years ago.

There is one thing I like in this, as well. To me, a good dystopia — I mean, a really good and scary one — had to be compelling. You had to get the sense that the people living in that society were perfectly content to live in that society. I didn’t believe 1984 would ever happen for the sheer fact that if the entire world was uncomfortable and unhappy, someone would do something about it in a power bid. Brave New World was far more likely, because as scary as that would was, you could believe the people living in it enjoyed themselves. And when people were happy, they weren’t rebelling against the social order.

Anyhow. Here it is. I hope you like it.

*** *** *** ***

America the Beautiful

Chapter One

Thomas had been dreaming when the thunder woke him up. It had been a dream of sunshine and blue skys, in a field that was well mown, so that the smell of hay and grass hung in the air. It was a good smell. A healthy smell.

There were nervous voices all around Thomas. Chattering though it was hours after curfew. It was pitch black except for when the lightning flashed through the windows. There were twenty five windows in the room.

Thomas’s bunk was by a window. He had a window six months, then was placed across the aisle by the lockers. It was fair that way. Fair for everyone in the study cell. It was Thomas’s turn right now to be on the left side in the upper bunk by the window. Then he would be on the left side on the lower bunk by the lockers. Then on the right side on the lower bunk by the lockers, then by the window, and then back to where he was, but on the lower bunk. And then it would start over with him being on the left side in the upper bunk by the lockers, and the whole thing would start over.

There were eight bunks in a study cell. Eight students. And there were twenty-five study cells in a ward, which meant two hundred students per ward. The Hamilton institue had ten Beta wards, so there were two thousand students at the Beta level. Half male, half female.

The chattering was getting louder now, so the Voice-of-WorldNet spoke up. “Beta-stus of Ward Six,” it said in its cool, pleasant female voice. Half the time WorldNet was female, half the time it was male. “It is past the curfew hour. Talking keeps your fellow Beta-stus awake, and that is unfair to them. Please refrain from talking.”

The noise lessened slightly, but not much. There would be two more messages before the Hall Proctor would be summoned. Until then, there wouldn’t even be a record beyond `mild disturbance,’ and that was no big deal.

Thomas thought about his dream. It smelled like the playground back when he was a pupil at the Hall Primary Instruction Center. It had been thick with hay and warm air, out in the country, and students got to run in the fields during recess times. That had been some years ago. Thomas was sixteen now. Two years away from Tertiary Apprentiship. He had been at the Hamilton institute since he was thirteen.

There was another rumble of thunder. Thomas rolled over and faced the window. There was an old tree just outside the window. Old and a little twisted, but with a smattering of leaves still on it. It wasn’t dead. All the outside and inside lights were off, so he could only see the tree when the lightning flashed, giving him glimpses of bark, twig, leaf.

“Beta-stus of Ward Six,” the male voice said. “It is past curfew. By talking, you are acting in a divisionary manner. Please refrain.”

Thomas wondered what time it was. The active ID on his wrist had a chronometer, but at this hour of the evening he’d have to illuminate the dial to check the time, and that would make a record on WorldNet that he was awake and active. That might bring the Hall Proctor sooner, or it might mean a visit to a Medical Proctor to see if he were all right, since his usual routine was off.

Another flash of lightning. The tree branches looked ominous.

Thomas was in Bunk Sixty-Six Upper in Ward Six. Six and six and six were eighteen. One and eight were nine. Three threes made nine. Two threes made six. Three sixes made eighteen. Two three-threes made eighteen, and so did three two-threes. Thomas was sixteen, which together made seven, which had no divisors. It was a prime number. So was two and so was three, but not six, or nine, or sixteen or eighteen. Four fours made sixteen, and so did two eights. There were eight students in a study cell. There were forty students in a class, which was five eights. Five was a prime number. Thomas’s Study Cell was number Eighteen in Ward Six. Six and eighteen made twenty-four, or four sixes. It was also three eights. Factored, it was two by two by two by three. Three twos and a three. A two bracketed by threes.

The field had been warm, and there were children playing in it, and Thomas had been playing with them. He was sure of that, though he couldn’t remember the game. It might have been a counting game, because Thomas liked those. He liked them almost as much as he liked drawing.

Study cell eighteen was part of Class Four, Study Cells Sixteen through Twenty. They were Betas and all of them liked to draw. They were all good at it, too. Class Four was devoted to the draftsmen and the artists, who would one day be architechts and civil engineers, graphic designers and city planners. And of course illustrators and artists. Not too many artists — you didn’t need too many artists. But one or two, maybe. You needed more illustrators, of course. People to illustrate manuals and draw figures and diagrams. Cartoonists and animators to make amusements for the Gamma children and Delta adults. But artists — so called fine artists — weren’t needed in great numbers. Just a few. They worked for the Alphas and Betas.

The hay had been freshly mown, so it must have been late summer in his dream. That made sense. Everything made sense if you thought about it.

The tree glowed with the lightning. It was old and its branches were bare.

The funny thing about sleep was you never knew when it was going to happen. Thomas knew he had still been awake when the final warning sounded — the warning that got everyone to quiet down. He had been awake that long, staring out the window at the occasional flashes of light that let him see the tree. And he was sure he was awake longer than that, though he couldn’t check his active ID to know. He just lay there, staring and thinking about his dream and thinking about the numbers, and then the gentle tones of First Alarm was waking him up and it was six twenty-five in the morning.

It was thursday, so breakfast was oatmeal with skim milk, toast, a banana, three strawberries, a cup of tea or coffee — student’s preference — and juice. It was apple juice today. The oatmeal had brown sugar and maple syrup cooked in with it, so that it was like having a bowl of sweets for breakfast.

Each Ward filed into the messhall one after the other. Each Ward had five minutes to file through the line and collect their trays. They would sit at their wardroom tables, two tables per Ward with one hundred students each, and wait for the tone to sound. They then had twenty minutes to eat before the cleanup tone sounded and the Ward collected their trays and set them in the disposal. Ward One started collecting their trays at seven on the dot and began bussing them at twenty-five after, which was when Ward Six was collecting their trays. In that way, everyone had exactly the same amount of time to eat, which was only fair.

The chime to start eating, which was the same chime for Ward Seven to begin collecting their trays and for Ward Two to buss theirs. Breakfast was kept fast paced to discourage conversation. Later on, lunch and dinner would be leisurely, allowing Thomas and his classmates to discuss what they had learned in the day, what they had thought about this and that, and so forth. But at breakfast-time, you had to eat quickly and compose your thoughts for the day. Thomas’s thoughts were usually about what he was eating — that and counting chimes. They all had their active IDs on, of course — they didn’t come off — but with the passing of the years you just got used to listening for the chimes. Every five minutes, another would sound — Word Seven would start eating, while Ward Eight collected their trays and Ward Three would buss theirs. Then Eight would eat, Nine would collect, and Four would buss. Then Nine, Ten and Four. The next chime would be for Ward Ten to start eating and Ward Five to buss their trays, and then the chime would sound for Ward Six to buss their trays. It was for Ward Six alone, which Thomas liked though he knew he shouldn’t.

As soon as the tone sounded, Thomas dove into his oatmeal, the silver flash of the spoon’s bowl getting cut off as it cut into the brown oats, and then shoveled up the thick, warm paste into his mouth, and then back down, flashing of silver again. Up and down, up and down. It took twenty-three good sized spoonfuls to empty the bowl of all its oatmeal. Thomas had counted once.

Thomas usually ate his oatmeal first, on Thursdays. Then he would eat his toast, and then have his fruit with his tea, saving his juice for last. Today the strawberries were frozen — a little flake of ice in their center. It was wonderfully cold against his tongue, compared with the hot, red tea.

And then the juice. Cold against his teeth, washing out his mouth. He always finished with his juice, because he liked the feel of the cool liquid and he liked the tartness of the fruit, whether it was apple, orange or grapefruit. At the Hall School, the apple juice had been much sweeter, like syrup. This apple juice was tarter, and Thomas liked it very much.

So, this is another incomplete story — the first chapter of an extended fanfic I never wrote a second chapter for. As with a lot of fan fiction I did over the last decade or so, this one’s based on In Nomine, but rereading it now it seems to me it stands on its own, more or less. The non-In Nomine fan might not get every reference, but I think pretty much everything is explained by context. You don’t really need to know what Essence is, for example — just that it’s useful, souls have it and demons want it.

Shal Mari appeared in my last In Nomine story here as well — Shal Mari Apres Vie: Or This Ain’t Bat Country. As with that story, Shal Mari is the grand city of Hell — the closest thing Hell comes to a nice place or a good face. Only, naturally, it’s Hell so it’s neither nice nor good in the end. There was some feeling, back a few years, that Heaven and Hell were woefully underdescribed in the official supplements, and this was one of my drivers for writing the Shal Mari Blues. I wanted to talk about… well, Hell, from the point of view of the poor schmuck condemned to it. And, because I find societies interesting, I wanted to actually examine the society that would form around damnation. Especially when damned souls themselves were valuable to demons without themselves being of value to demons.

Anyway, this is a story about Hell, so expect nasty language, concepts, mature themes and all the rest. But then, the site does have a disclaimer, now doesn’t it?

*** *** *** ***

Four months, three days. Dave had felt every second of it. It was one of the things he hated about Hell. Nothing ever helped you pass the time. Nothing ever made even a second of it better. It was like a paper cut — it didn’t incapacitate you, but no matter what you did you just couldn’t ignore it.

You don’t sleep in Hell. Rest doesn’t seem restful, and it’s not like a Damned Soul can find a bed or even a mat. Most of them huddled around stoops or doorsteps or even the ground and tried to pretend they were sleeping. Others — the ones who bought into the Shal Mari package — hustled or scrounged or stole Essence, so they could get into one of the hotels or brothels and enjoy the thrills that lay before them, only to get thrown out when their essence ran dry.

Dave had been told he had it good. The souls in Abbadon wandered the blasted plains and waited to be torn to shreds. The souls of Hades were chesspieces — pawns of the lowest strata of demon. You just didn’t talk about Gehenna. Shal Mari was supposed to be the ‘good’ choice. The lucky souls ended up there.

Lucky.

Dave kept his eyes down as he walked, hands in his pockets. Don’t make eye contact. Don’t draw attention to yourself. Just keep moving. Don’t let the demons know you had Essence. Don’t be drawn into the Casinos or the Brothels or the Theaters. Don’t don’t don’t look distinctive. A few more days, and he’d be full up with Essence. That’s what he wanted. He could do things with Essence. Some of those things even some of the demons couldn’t do.

You asked for this, he thought bitterly to himself. You chose your own damn Fate.

He wondered sometimes what had happened to the others. Not the Soldiers. He knew what happened to them. He’d shot Skip and Warren himself. He’d watched the Djinn tear Abby’s head off. All dead, in the service to the Lord. Either they made their Destinies and even now were enjoying the eternal delights or they didn’t and they were put back to the head of the queue, waiting for their chance to try again.

Chance. Dave had a chance, and he bought into propaganda. He’d be a big shot one day, they said. And he’d enjoy eternal pleasures, at the hands and mouths of Andreaphulus’s finest.

Enjoy eternal pleasures, he thought, stepping around a drunk Calabite on the street who had a death lock on a female damned soul, who looked battered and bloodied and despairing. So long as you can pay for them. So long as you can enjoy them.

“Hey!”

Dave blinked and looked up. A Djinn, long bodied and beaked, ratlike with some hint of bird in there, was glaring at him. “I was eating that.”

Dave looked down. He’d walked through something. Organs of some sort. One of his fellow souls, torn to bits by the Djinn’s attentions. But not torn apart to his Forces. Oh no, that’s too simple. He’d get better. He’d probably felt Dave walking on his small intestines.

Fuck him — Dave had worse troubles. “A thousand pardons, bold Lord,” he said, bowing slightly. “I would be happy to pay you for your lo–”

The Djinn snarled forward, tossing his head to one side and throwing Dave into the wall of the tenement they were next to. “Shut up, you pig — what are you? Oh — you’re a lustie, aren’t you? One of their little pets. I hate lusties!”

Dave spat out blood. His body’d been cut up and drained of fluid and burned at the public expense, probably three months back, but down here he had blood and bones that could break. Break and get better. Blood that wouldn’t stop flowing, and only a scar would remain. “I–”

The Djinn slammed a hoof-like foot into Dave, then another, and spun and kicked him back into the wall. There wasn’t much force behind the kick — Dave was probably more powerful than the Djinn. He almost certainly knew more Songs. But that was a loser’s game. You didn’t try to pull rank on demons. You endured. Oh God don’t let him eat me….

Something warm slopped onto Dave’s back. Warm and slick and smelly. The Djinn was expressing his opinion of lusties it seemed. His warm, brown opinion. Dave could hear the Djinn laughing as he walked down the street.

Eternal pleasure. An eternity of pampering, hand and foot. The rewards of betrayal. The fruits of Fate.

New clothes, a bath, perfuming… this would cost Dave a fortune.

#

“I don’t get why we can’t sleep.”

Dave stared down into his coffee cup. New guy. Sure, he’d only been in Hell a few months himself, but he knew more than the average, and you soaked the lessons up fast.

“What would you want to sleep for,” Fast Johnnie said. “You know how many nights I wished I didn’t need to sleep, back topside? There’s so much you can do when you’re not sleeping….”

“I like sleeping.” The new guy pouted, eating his burger. Idiot — meat cost a lot, and there wasn’t any reason to eat it. You didn’t get hungry after all. Well, not physically. Maybe he hadn’t figured out what they made hamburger out of, down here. Cows don’t go to Hell, you know….

“Well, stop worrying about it. There’s no damn good for it. So shut up.” Fast Johnnie slurped his soup. The cafe was one of several along Fecundity Way — “human joints,” a Balseraph once told Dave derisively. “The greasy spoons of the damned.”

Dave liked the Spread Legs Cafe. Sure, there were nude dancers on the platforms, but they were damned souls, not demons, and they couldn’t care less if you tipped or even watched. The owner was an old lustie soul named Miranda. She claimed Shakespeare wrote the Tempest about her. Dave thought she was full of shit but who cared? He liked places demons felt above going into. That’s why he spent precious drops of Essence on coffee. You had to be a customer to be in the Spread Legs.

“I thought they were supposed to torture us,” the new guy was saying. “It’s like they only notice us to beat us, but if we have Essence we can get anything. They’ll fuck us, they’ll perform for us, they’ll give us work….”

“Bible-thumper,” Fast Eddie snorted. He turned away from the New Guy, putting him out of his world, and walked over to the stage where Amber was dancing. He got out his sax and started playing along with the music. Amber grinned and danced to his beat.

“Bible thumper?” the guy asked. “What did he–”

“You a Christian?” Dave asked, finally.

“Huh? Well, yeah. I mean, I didn’t really believe, but now that I’m in Hell… I mean, you can’t–”

“Look. Let’s say God or Jesus or whoever did write the Bible or inspire it to be written. In what way do they speak for Hell? In what way does Hell have to do what they say?”

The guy stuck his lip out. “What about those Angels? I saw them when they were herding me in–”

“Last angels you’ll ever see,” Dave said. “They keep the riff raff out, and it would take a Prince to tear them down, and they’re not about to. Look — if you really want to be tormented you could ask to be transferred to Abbadon or the right parts of Hades. If you want someone to torture you in Shal Mari you’ll have to pay for it like everyone else. The demons have better things to do than pay attention to you.”

“Or you?”

“Damn straight. If we’re lucky.” Dave finished his coffee and rattled a spoon against the mug. Tina walked over with the hot pot and refilled it.

“So why can’t we sleep, if they care so much.”

“Sleep is an escape.”

“But you said–”

“Shut up and listen.” Dave was annoyed. He didn’t have time for this. “Sleep is an escape. Not of your sad sorry life but of Hell. When someone sleeps, they go somewhere else. Purgatory, or dreamland, or whatever the Hell you want to call it. The Marches, the demons call it. The angels too. So of course we can’t sleep, and neither can the demons unless they work for the Princess of Nightmares or they’re up on Earth. It would be a way out, and there’s no way out.”

The guy stared, and looked down at his burger. “Oh.”

“‘Oh.’ Je-sus Christ.” Dave sipped more of his coffee.

“So… how do you know so much?”

“Fast Johnnie’s right. You’re an idiot.” Dave finished this cup. “It’ll cost you.”

“What?”

“You’ve got Essence coming out of your ears, or you wouldn’t be eating a burger. Or you’re really stupid, but either way — I want some. One note’ll do.”

The guy looked a bit horrified. “I… I thought only the demons could–”

“You want an answer or not?”

He nodded.

“Then fork it over.”

They touched, celestial hand to celestial hand. Dave felt it… the soft touch of luck and creativity, flowing to him like drops of water falling on the forehead of a fever. He withdrew his hand slowly. “I worked for them, back topside.”

The guy blinked. “What? You worked for demons?”

“Ultimately. Most of the time I worked for angels. Learned a lot from them. About the nature of the universe, ways to change it… what Essence is and what it’s for. Lots.” Dave leaned back. “So I got the naked truth, kid.”

The guy looked stunned. “Then… why are you here?”

“The demons made a better offer. Or so I thought at the time.”

“You… betrayed angels?”

“Knife right in the back, yup. It was a slaughter.”

“How could you do that?”

Dave laughed. It was a bitter laugh. “Destiny and fate, boy. Destiny and fate. They made it seem worth my while at the time. What did you do to come down here, mm? Must have been pretty good.”

The guy flushed. “I shouldn’t be here. I went to church, I gave to the United Way, I held doors for old ladies–”

“I thought you said you didn’t believe. So what bad thing did you do?”

The guy’s voice was soft. “He was bleeding to death and I let him die. I was scared of AIDS. I don’t know why that was so bad….”

Dave snorted. “He was probably destined to cure AIDS or something. So, nice and selfish act, coupled with whatever the guy could have done if you saved him, but you didn’t. Good bye.”

“Wait! You promised me answers–”

“You asked how I knew so much. I told you.”

“But — my Essence… that was my last–”

“My heart bleeds.” Dave headed for the door and pushed through, waving at Tina as he went. Not bad. One Essence for coffee. One back from a moron who’d be torn into Forces before too long. Not bad at all.

#They found Dave on the steps of a flophouse, staring up into the eternal reddish ceiling. It was always night in Shal Mari — the lights of the city reflecting off a roof that was Christ only knew how far up. One big cavern. Three of them. A Balseraph leading a couple of female Impudites. Good looking ones — well built, one in a leather thong and bikini, the other in some kind of black toga thing.

“David Masters?”

Dave sat up, then bowed his head. Servitors of Lust — technically, he worked for them. As much as anyone worked for anyone in Shal Mari. “I am honored, Lord.”

“Polite. You are wise. You were a Soldier of Hell, yes?”

“That was my honor, Lord.”

“I’m certain it was.” He judged Dave. “Mm — seven Forces, it seems. Where did you get that extra one?”

“My Lord, if it pleases, it was part of the deal I struck with my Masters on Earth.”

“Deal? But the sixth would be — oh… oh, you were a Soldier of God, and they converted you to the cause….” the Balseraph slithered a bit, managing to look smug and gathering his wings about himself. There were rubies set into them at regular paces. This one was powerful. “Excellent. You have been summoned.”

“Summoned?”

“Mm. Yes. Yes, and I believe I know why now. But never no mind. Come.”

Dave rose. The two Impudites of Lust bracketed him. Maybe he’d offended the wrong person and was about to learn just how Hellish the accommodations could get. Maybe he’d be torn apart — or have his sixth and seventh Forces pulled from him. They’d remembered them now. That had to be a bad sign….

“Mm,” one of the Impudites purred. The toga one. “You’re a handsome one, aren’t you? I can see why you were made a Soldier.”

“Thank you, Lady,” Dave murmured.

“I could just eat you up,” she continued, smiling slowly. Impudites. They were what had gotten Dave into this mess in the first place. She’d be after his Essence. He had to….

No, they hadn’t touched him. Not yet, anyhow — so they were working for someone Badder than they were. That scared Dave. But everything made him at least a little nervous. That was part of being sane in Hell.

They were inside of one of the Casinos now, walking past the gambling and the damned souls and occasional out of favor demoness in the bits of lace serving drinks. Dave could hear the joys and lights and sounds all around. The desperate damned screaming and rolling the dice — feeling just for this moment like winners, like they’re on top of the world, like the demons work for them. In here, you didn’t say Lord or Lady to the help. It’s what tripped you up outside — the rules kept changing.

“Come on baby!” a damned soul shouted, pumping his hand at the Roulette wheel and shouting at his victory. The Balseraph that had draped herself over him licked at his neck contentedly and he cuddled her. Snake or not, they were alluring… because they weren’t snakes. Dave remembered that every time he really looked at one. And they could make you believe they were just what you wanted….

They went through a skybridge over the alleyways. Below, Dave could see a bunch of Calabim tearing at someone. The new guy — the one from the cafe. He must have pissed them off. It’s not hard. How he’d wandered into one of the inner circles, Dave didn’t know. Shal Mari was all one layer of Hell, but you could go deeper and deeper into it… where the damned were worth less and less, and the demons were uglier and angrier and meaner and hungrier.

“Eyes forward,” the Balseraph purred. “You’re not interested in that, are you?” And Dave wasn’t. Not at all. He absently wondered if he ever had been or not — with a Balseraph, belief was slippery and so was the truth. And it wasn’t worth fighting for. Not now. Not ever. What good is truth in Hell. Truth just gets you depressed.

They were in what looked like an office complex. Right down to cubicles and middle management. The damned souls in here wore collars of silk or leather, and skimpy clothing. Well, the demons weren’t much more dressed. Servitors of Lust, Dave thought. I’m in Andrealphus’s domain.

“Master,” the Balseraph hissed to an amorphous Shedite, flowing out of a cubicle at their approach. “We found him.”

“Took you long enough,” the Shedite giggled. “What’s the matter, Ippy? Mm? Get… distracted?”

The Balseraph bristled. “He doesn’t work and he rarely spends time amusing himself. He’s rather anti-social. We had to ask around.”

“Well, go on then. I’ll bring him to the Captain.”

Dave took a deep breath. He didn’t know much about the upper hierarchy of Andrealphus’s Servitors, but there was a noble structure in Hell. You soaked it in with every boot-kick. Knights serve Captains, who serve Barons. If a Captain were interested in him….

What if it were the Game? When he’d first arrived, the Game had… Soldiers know things, and he had betrayed Heaven. They told him he’d been there for less than a week, but it’d felt like years before he’d been given over to the Lusties.

Why would the Game care about him? He was nothing and he knew he was nothing. He deferred to demons and he didn’t use his Songs for anything but healing and to–

The door opened. He knew her at a glance. The black leather wings, the red horns — they didn’t change the face that had burned itself into him six months before. Her lush body, her bright blue eyes, that golden hair.

“Julie?” he whispered.

“Captain Yuliya,” the Shedite said. “Is this the one you wanted?”

“Mmm,” she looked him up and down. “Well, he’s looked better. Never could match his shoes to his shirt, but what can you do, mm? That will be all.”

Dave stared at the Impudite for a long moment, mouth open, as the Shedite made his way out, leaving the pair alone in the ornate office. “Well, Dave — it has been a while, hasn’t it.”

“Yes,” he swallowed, his lips dry. “Four months and three days. Nearly four now, L-lady.”

“Oh, don’t call me Lady. We’re old friends, aren’t we Dave? Mm?” She ran her hand along his shoulders. “Well, you’ve been hoarding Essence, haven’t you? Oh — no no. Don’t be so flinchy. I’m quite well off that way for the moment.” She smiled a hair.

“L– Julie… why… do you–”

“Please — Yuliya. After all, we’re not on Earth now, are we?” She laughed a touch, smiling. A predator’s smile. “And why? Well, can’t I want to see you, mm? I like you, Davy-boy. After all, you got me my Captaincy. Well — your assistance did. Besides, I have some work for you. You’ll like it.” She paused, pursing her lips. “What is that smell?“

Will there be more? I guess that depends on what people think. Let me know what you think of this particular chapter, but also let me know what you think of the series in general. I appreciate it.

On the whole, even if I never pick this back up — and it’s worth noting my father likes The Old Ways, so there’s every chance I will — I’m glad to have written at least this much. This has been a different kind of story for me.

It is worth noting that the ultimate idea would have been less fantasy adventure and more ‘breakdown of civility into the bush a la Heart of Darkness, which is hinted at in this chapter, just slightly.

Have fun.

*** *** *** ***

Sir Roderick’s look was slightly mocking, with an expression between indulgence and superiority. “You look rather like a girl of ten, found splashing in puddles an hour before the Service on a Sunday,” he said, and Lady Jessica’s face flushed hot.

Jack was distressed at Sir Roderick’s words. It was fair to say that the wind had swept Lady Jessica’s hair and clothing about, sporting with her as they rode, and some moisture had penetrated the blankets he had given her for the journey, but to call her sopping would be to call a summer’s sprinkle a cloudburst. “I believe you might overstate, sir, which is to say that while the lady has taken a bit of the damp, she’s not–”

“And you,” Sir Roderick said, turning on Jack. “You I did charge most specifically with keeping the Lady Jessica, my betrothed and the author of our adventure, both warm and dry as she perched up there, and as far as I can see you have done neither.” His tone was reproachful, yes, though that same mocking amusement clung to it. Jack had seen Sir Roderick turn his humor’s edge on others before — always cutting, but with a sly glance to his fellows that said ‘I do not mean what I say, but watch him, pinioned on my words like a butterfly caught.’

Before, however, Jack had been one of the fellows. He had never spent much time as one of the skewered, and the point was sharper than he expected. “Sir,” he said, “there was not much rain to be seen, and what there was–”

And Sir Roderick glanced at Lady Jessica, that very glance that Jack had seen so many times when Sir Roderick had been confronting a fool or lackwit, and Jack felt his flush grow, and his need to explain rise. “And, that is, sir, she did not speak of the wet, and it did not seem overly much. That is–”

“Jack,” Sir Roderick said gently, “did I not tell you that if it should rain, you should stop so the Lady could join me once again?”

Jack’s flush grew, and he looked down.

“Nay,” Lady Jessica said. “You did not.” Her voice sounded aggrieved. “You, in fact, rather completely dismissed me. Your half-hearted protest of rain–”

“Indeed, of rain,” Sir Roderick said, turning back to her and releasing the spike from Jack’s pride for the moment. “I did tell you the weather would not hold. I said to mark me if it did not rain and behold, my lady,” he spread his arms before her. “I stand unmarked, do I not.”

“You do, and you are* most* proud of that,” she snapped. “But if you can let me complete one thought without turning the conversation to the magnificences of Roderick Owles for just a moment’s span, you’ll hear that you most certainly did not direct Jack to stop the carriage and return me within should rain come. I met your protests of rain with the suggestion that if the rain were too much for me — and by the by I hardly think the sprinkles we felt counted as rain so much as a late dew that fell instead of appearing — then I would elect to return. First, the wet would have to be worse than your company, which I see now is more poison than even when you first arose upon this morrow.”

Sir Roderick took the broadside in stride, and glanced back at Jack, and there Jack saw the familiar quirk of Sir Roderick’s mouth — the very one he had directed to the lady not five minutes gone. “Jess — dear Jess… it matters little who said you should return from the rain. The simple fact is that you should have, and you did not. And now I am dry and you are wet, and you see the folly of avoiding my counsel, yes?”

Lady Jessica’s face set rather into a pout. “I see the folly of conversation with you in any way,” she said. “We ride to glorious adventure and no doubt great peril. If a tiny bit of wet discourages you, we should strike the wheels from Beacon this moment, and make it a house. The Northeastern Wall will have dampness aplenty.”

Sir Roderick chuckled. “I would and have stood on deck in a gale, smoking with the man on watch — Jack, mark me if I did not, yes?” And Jack nodded, having been there. “You see? Jack has seen my disregard for the damp up close. But it is not my discomfort I worry about, my dear. Not one jot. If you wish me to hurl myself into a pond to prove myself I shall. But you, my dear Jess, my bright Jess… to see you made uncomfortable in the slightest is to inflict torment upon myself greater than any storm.”

“And you believe me uncomfortable? Not so — the air has freshened me. Indeed, Master Jack — who has taken to his studies most well, I should add, and shows himself of some small potential — did mention how the air and breeze did make my color better and my face lovely to be seen. Did you not, Jack?” And Jack was a bit shocked, for indeed he had said no such thing to her, though he did mention at one point that she looked rather well for one who had not ever ridden in the overcrop of a carriage before. He could not imagine how such fine and flattering words could be inflated from so mild a comment, but then he could not imagine the thoughts and logic of the Lady Jessica. And yet, though he knew he had said no such thing, he nodded agreement with her. He would not disagree with her, certainly, and in a way he wished it was the sort of thing he could have said to her, that would have flowed off his tongue as easily as a sonnet or love scene flowed off Master Palintier’s pen.

“Ah, I see I am caught on both sides,” Sir Roderick said with his customary amusement, now expanded to include both Jack and Lady Jessica. Whether he meant for them to share in the joke or to be pierced by it, Jack wasn’t entirely sure. “Very well then. If riding in the wind and wet makes you happy, please accept my permission to ride in any gale you wish. Indeed, having one of us above with Jack will make riding easier for the other two, for the carriage isn’t quite as large as I’d like.”

“I did not say I would always ride with Jack,” Lady Jessica snapped. “Though I do find his society a pleasant one on the ride.”

Sir Roderick arched an eyebrow. “Society,” he asked quietly.

Lady Jessica opened her mouth, then closed it. “I meant his presence and conversation, of course,” she said. And Jack understood — that they had shared a good amount of time together did not mean they associated. And he flushed yet again, and did not say a word.

“Well, that’s settled,” Sir Roderick said. “Come, let’s find this Micah. We’ve given the stableman enough of a laugh already. And then perhaps some lunch before we set out again.”

Lady Jessica nodded, and began to stride through Tosunberry. There was not much to the village, certainly. There was a church on one end, unpainted with a spire that had some drooping, so that rather than reach up to God it rather slouched, as though inviting God to go on ahead, and it would be along. A few other mean buildings — a tanner’s, an inn, a cooper’s and the like — lined the streets, which she ignored. But she, and her companions, were not ignored. No, the townsfolk had fairly pushed out, lining the streets to watch as they passed and speak of them quietly. Such a small place so out of the way got few visitors, and fewer still courtiers and ladies-in-waiting of the Court down south in the city of Baden.

Still, Lady Jessica pressed on, not turning to speak or be acknowledged. Indeed, her stride lengthened and grew more purposeful, as she approached what to Jack looked to be the meanest hut along the edge of the village. Timbers haphazardly hammered into place gave it an unsound look, made more so by the roof — a good roof and frame, it seemed, but built perhaps for some other house. This roof did not lie square on the hut but instead hung over the left side rather more than the right, and it looked to be at an odd angle as well. A sign hung from it, with the cut symbol of the Runemark. More Elvish was burned into the top of the door frame — a rather common invocation against evil things.

“That is a sorcerer’s house?” Jack asked, aghast at the tumbledown cottage. “One should think Elf’s Magic could at least secure the same living as a mason or carpenter, and see a decent house for it.”

“A mason can build his own walls,” Sir Roderick replied as quietly, “and a carpenter can cut even bad wood into good lines. Sorcerers have only words to work with, that sometimes have power and sometimes don’t, so those words are ill-suited to construction.” For that was how it was in the days before the Eclipse of Progress. Elf-Magic had been slowly fading, as the Elvish blood in men thinned with the passing of generations, and longer and longer distance was placed between that modern world and the ancient world of the Elves and the Six Swords.

“That’s so,” Jack said. He stood and waited, for that was what Sir Roderick did. Lady Jessica, alternately, approached. “Hello,” she cried out. “Hello?”

A heap, parked on a chair perched in front of the hovel, which Jack had taken for nothing less than a pile of clothes and rags left to rot in the rain, stirred itself and rose up into an old man with a shock of white hair that rose from his dirty head like a bird’s nest perched on a weathered old log. “Aye,” he called back. “Who be there and why?”

“Micah,” Lady Jessica called back. “We’re here for Micah!”

“Micah?” the old man said,pulling at his ear slightly, and showing a round face.

“Is that Micah,” Jack asked, suddenly afraid, envisioning trying to cart the man in Beacon hither and yon, depending on him for directions.

“Mm? No no — that’s old Hesh,” Sir Roderick said. “Or so I assume. He tutors Micah. Gives him his devoirs.”

“I feel less secure in his sorcery then,” Jack murmured.

Old Hesh had indeed roused himself by then, and shaking his head slightly and pressing into the cottage, he seemed to be having a conversation with himself. “Aye,” he said. “Fetch Micah forth for the lady. Indeed I will. Should I then? Oh, aye. Micah said, did he not. Adventure, he said. And Baden. Micah said Baden and the college, and that’s no lie…” Hesh disappeared then, his words unabated.

“Baden?” Jack asked. “Isn’t that entirely the wrong direction to get to the Northeastern Wall?”

“The last time I looked on a map, aye,” Sir Roderick said quietly.

Lady Jessica returned. “It’s unfair,” she said. “That so learned a man should be reduced to such poverty.”

“What, that sack of cloth and flesh?” Jack asked, stunned. Knowing the Lady’s dislike of even his own attire and state as a Gamekeeper, Jack couldn’t imagine she would be charitable of the flabby old spellsmith.

“Oh, no no,” she said, half-laughing. “Not old Hesh, though Micah tells me he was once a skilled man of the Craft. I mean Micah, of course. He tells me that once the talented were brought from around the entire world — savages from Bhent or Kier, Drakish chevaliers and wizards of Reardon alike — to the Towers of Knowledge, where the Arts were taught and the old ways kept. But the Towers have fallen with age and decay….”

“If they ever existed,” Sir Roderick said.

“They did, I am certain,” Lady Jessica said, her chin high. “Why, their scholarship has been proven conclusively, in journal and letter. John Night, the Queen’s Astrologer and Royal Sorcerer, has shown me in his books and tomes–”

“Enough,” Sir Roderick said. “Lady Jessica Berwick’s sorcerer approaches.”

They turned and looked. Micah of Tosunberry was moderately tall, with black hair that was a bit overlong, and no beard on his chin. His eyes reminded Jack somewhat of ravens’ eyes, and his cloak was a deep red, held with a good pin. A gift, he learned later, of Lady Jessica.

Most distinctive, however, were Micah’s hands. The Elf’s Blood generally manifested itself in its children by a trait or two — beyond their ability to use some fragments of the Elvish Magic, of course. A point to the ears, or silvery eyebrows, or perhaps a cat’s eye. In Micah’s case, his Elvish heritage reflected themselves completely in his hands, which he had folded in front of himself almost as though he wore them like badges of honor. They were much thinner of palm than most mens’ hands, and their fingers were slightly wrinkled, and much longer than would be expected. One half thought that if Micah placed his hands on the trim waist of Lady Jessica on either side, his fingertips might touch. The nails on his hands were lightly golden in color, and the nails on his index fingers looked almost hooked.

“Micah,” Lady Jessica said, smiling. “Well met. Well met indeed!”

“Well?” Micah asked, in a voice used to being mysterious. “What is well and ill within this world, that could not be said to be its opposite elsewhere?”

“Oh, of course,” Lady Jessica said, digesting this phrase for its wisdom and nodding with a slightly knit brow, affecting a serious demeanor though she could not keep back her enthusiastic smile. “Still, I say it’s well, and indeed, you should as well. We are prepared, Micah, and within our carriage Beacon we ride to destiny.”

“Beacon?” Sir Roderick asked, then broke into a knowing smile. “Ah, of course, the great Carriage Christening.”

“My things are gathered,” Micah said. “Send your man to stow them, and we shall discuss our journey at some length in the Grey Pony before we set forth. I must say, you are swifter than I anticipated.” Micah did not make it clear if he thought their speed was a good or bad thing.

“Yes, yes of course,” Lady Jessica said excitedly. “We will of course. Quickly, Jack — gather Master Micah’s things and bring them to the carriage. We will secure lunch within and you may join us, and then you shall hear of the Prophecy and of the great task we undertake. Yes, that is the way of it.”

Jack glanced at Sir Roderick, who nodded slightly. He turned and looked at Micah, who was regarding him silently, his dark raven’s eyes flickering from Jack’s hat to his boots in practiced strokes, like a boatman’s quiet sculling to pull himself along a lake.

“Master,” Jack nodded, and stepped around the sorcerer. He had met more than a few in his time, and for the most part he had a low opinion of them. Sorcerers had the Elf’s Magic, it was sure, but that meant little. Tricks and flares and stories of the days when Sorcery fueled the very turning of the world. But it was rather like wishing for one of the Six Swords, it seemed to Jack. Of course, it would be nice to call down a storm or raise a mountain with a word. But it was long in the past when such things were done, and many believed they were never done at all. Micah seemed typical of that breed. Jack walked away from the group, who themselves were heading for the Inn.

He approached the hut rather quickly, wanting to get there and get Micah’s things swiftly. In part this was his dislike of the ramshackle building and the ramshackle old man who lived there. In part this was his desire to hear this Prophecy once and for all. And in largest part of them all it was the desire to eat a healthy lunch and get some hot ale or mulled wine into himself.

Micah’s baggage seemed to be contained in a single sack,tied with a bit of rope that itself had a flat stone affixed to it, and painted Elvish characters upon it. A ward against snooping, Jack supposed, though it seemed silly to him. Why one couldn’t just cut the rope or bag to get in was beyond him. And more, who would want to rob a sorcerer? Even a beggar would likely have a good bowl and a few half-groats to his name. A sorcerer had no such assurance.

He scooped it up and turned to leave, when the old Hesh’s voice rasped out. “You,” he said, an accusatory sound.

Jack turned, a bit startled. Had the old man gotten so fuddled he thought Jack was stealing the sack? “Aye,” he asked of the man, whose round, pitted face seemed to hang out the doorway, with his body behind.

“You. You’re with that woman, be you not?”

Jack narrowed his eyes. “You’ll not be referring to the Lady Jessica such,” he said.

The old Hesh rasped a laugh. “Answer enough, answer enough,” he said. “So it is you, and you think old Hesh as worthless as the others believe. Aye? Aye, that you do.” He laughed again, a rough thing. “But old Hesh is not mad, is he? Nay, not a bit, I should say. Should old Hesh tell him then? Ask — ask and you’ll know what you must, eh, Hesh?”

Jack took a deep breath. “I’ve no time for this. My lunch awaits. God ye good den, master.”

Hesh fixed a stare suddenly that seemed for a moment to freeze Jack in place, startled at the old man’s sudden intensity. “Tell me,” he half-whispered. “Do ye know the manner of doing great deeds?”

Jack blinked. “What,” he asked.

“Ye heard me. Know ye the manner one goes about to do great deeds?”

Jack tried to look away from that terrible stare, that old fat man’s stare that seemed to pierce more surely than Sir Roderick’s mockery or even an arrow’s shot. “I… it… it is not for me to know such things. The Lady, perhaps, or Sir Roderick, but I do not know these things. Do not ask, for I have no answer,” he stammered out, trying to force his hand to the sword he wore at his side, but even that would not obey him now.

The old Hesh weighed this answer for a long moment, and laughed again. A quiet laugh, this time. “You do not know the way,” he said, “and so you know the way. The woman and her man, and even my pupil — they think they know. Oh yes, old Hesh, they do indeed think they know the way of great deeds. But in their surety they lose their path. So while Micah will be called guide and one other — the Hawk, or the Black — will be called upon to lead… it is the Hewer’s movements that will guide them to what they think they seek. Oh yes, the Hewer, called Jack.”

Jack shivered at the old man’s words, not knowing what they meant but suspecting the man was truly mad. And so, feeling a flush of fear, he did not quite run as he left. And as he ran, the old Hesh’s voice followed him, crying out and cackling. “The Hewer should remember old Hesh when he comes into his own! Yes indeed, the Hewer should remember old Hesh, and accord him courtesy, for the Hewer did name him first, did he not? Aye, he did indeed! He did indeed!”

Old Jack used to pause here, drinking a mug of beer and thinking as he did so. “That was what always strikes my memory,” he would say. “We had all the signs before us. I have to admit that. I don’t shy away from it.” And then he would look at me, and point at me with his mug. “Remember that,” he would say. “We were warned. Before we had ever even left Leincastershire, we were warned. So whatever came after was ours at fault, in the end. Remember that.”

And I do remember it, and as I am telling old Jack’s story, and not my own, I now tell it to you as well.

For the record, as of yesterday we’d broken 200,000 words on this site, not counting comments. Which is a good amount of content for 70 days of blog existence, any way you look at it.

It kind of scares me that we’ve been doing this for seventy days already.

Anyhow. Here’s Jack and the merry band.

*** *** *** ***

The morning after the first day’s travel was bright and somewhat clear. The sun was not hidden today, but instead sported with long clouds of white and grey. Clouds heavy with the deep blue of rain sailed through as well, spilling water here and there as they go, to remind them all that this was September, and if the rains were pausing now, they would certainly return later to make up for their lack.

And Lady Jessica wandered around where Jack was reloading the carriage, near to the Boar’s Inn in Haldane’s Corners where they’d spent the night. Her arms stretched back as she breathed in the crisp, cool morning air. “It is a truly beautiful day, don’t you think, Jack?”

“Eh? Aye, that it is, Lady,” Jack said, pressing the steamer trunk into the undercompartment. “A good day for the travel, I should think. If the weather holds, that is. Yes, the weather’s the key, it seems to me. If she stays clear, we might make Tosunberry by one or even half noon, and from there be on the road again, perhaps. And that would be better than we expected.”

“Yes,” Lady Jessica said, half-spinning in place, causing her red and yellow dress to billow out and looking like a girl of twelve for a half moment. “Yes, much better, and I should say augurs well. Oh, Jack — I feel so alive! This is more than a journey, this is a great deed we do, and it feels so wondrous. I feel as though… as though we should have a scribe to record our progress. Yes indeed. Do you not feel it so?”

“I… a scribe, Mistress? T’would be hard to keep pen and ink in a carriage, and while I believe you’re no doubt right, I can’t say that I know what this adventure is about, beyond some mention of a Chalice of some importance to your family and your past, which is enough for me, but as for what a scribe might write–”

“Some–” Lady Jessica laughed then — a laugh of condensation, perhaps, but lightened with her legitimate pleasure of the morning. “It is indeed of some importance, Jack. Some great importance. Tis the key to the entire future of the Berwicks. The reclaiming of our legacy. The restoration of the old ways, and the old values. Everything shall follow our quest — you shall see. You shall see. But I shall let Micah tell you that, when we reach him. He knows the fullness of the Prophecy, and I should not wish to leave off something of some importance.”

“Ah, there you two are,” Sir Roderick said as he approached, smiling slightly and still smelling of his morning pipe. “Are we ready then?”

“More than ready, dear Rod,” Lady Jessica said. “You are the one so fond of his bed this morrow. Why, you slept longer than I, and when I descended, there was Jack arranging breakfast. I do see why you spoke so of his quality. I think perhaps one sees quality better just before breakfast — the pang of the stomach reminds you of when gentility is at its most important.”

“Ah, and a good thing too — you see? I do spend my coin wisely. And I too have had an excellent breakfast, and feel twice the man I was when we pulled in last eve — close to midnight it must have been, yes Jack?”

“Half ten, sir,” Jack said quietly. “And ready to head north. Tis well rode yesterday — we’ll take the north path from here — I saw the ruts as we came in, and they look passing well. I should think the trip a hair more bumpy today, how ‘ere.”

“Bumpy bothers me not,” Lady Jessica laughed. “So long as we arrive and swiftly, that will be well.”

“That I expect,” Sir Roderick said. “Are we packed then, Jack?”

“Aye sir. And I’ve my things above, and should like to get riding, in the hopes that the weather holds, which means leaving early enough to give it half a chance to do so.”

Lady Jessica peered up at the coachman’s seat. “Does the carriage have a name?” she asked.

“A name?” Jack said, turning towards her, eyes wide.

“A name,” she repeated. “This is our ship to the Wall. Our bold craft. Should it not be named?”

Sir Roderick laughed. “Oh, Jess,” he said, “you continue to amaze me with every word or gesture. A name for a carriage indeed?”

Lady Jessica frowned. “I do not see why you must forever make light of doing things properly,” she said. “After all, our Jack no doubt has not heard a carriage named before, but he does not laugh at the thought — do you, Jack?”

Jack blinked, and felt suddenly pinioned between the two. “I, well… I do not believe anything that you believe is worthy of laughter, nay,” he said haltingly. “I do not pretend to know what is the right and what is the wrong of such things — they are out of my place, after all.”

“And that is so,” Sir Roderick laughed. “Indeed, that is why you have declared yourself my Jack’s teacher, yes? That he can learn what comes naturally to you and I. Why, within two weeks, you might have him laughing at the thought of a named carriage as naturally and easily as a gentleman.”

Jack flushed, and looked away — half-realizing that Lady Jessica too had a flush on her face. But she did not look away. “Perhaps. And perhaps I shall teach him an openness that you seem to lack, Sir Roderick. After all, he at least admits that he does not know the right and the wrong of this, where you know such things as though truth sprung from your head whole and adult.”

“Ah, and now I see you are distraught, my dear Jess.” Sir Roderick smiled, and placed his hands on her shoulder mollifyingly. “Please, if it makes the sunshine return to your eyes, give the carriage name and pedigree to go with it, and ask the pedigree of all carts we come across, at hopes to have our carriage stand at stud. I’ll not chuckle or titter.”

“I mislike your tone of voice,” she said. “I do believe I shall ride above, with Jack, and the company of the fresh, open air, and not your stale ideas.”

“Lady?” Jack said, stunned.

“Ride above?” Sir Roderick said, eyebrows arched. “Our good footman’s hopes aside, the weather will not hold and you’ll be drenched by noon — you mark me if you’re not. No, Jess — come and ride with me and we’ll loot Palintier for good names for a four wheeled ship.”

“No and no,” she said. “I think it will do you good to be deprived of my company for a while. You will learn to treasure me again, and not laugh at me like an indulgent parent.” She smiled. “Besides, this shall give me an opportunity to begin Jack’s education. And if the rain comes then I shall join you.”

Sir Roderick turned and looked at Jack, with an expression of incredulity. And then he shrugged slightly — the well worn shrug of man confronted with impossible, incomprehensible woman. “If you feel I have slighted you, I crave your pardon of course. And if you wish to ride in the wind and wet with our footman, then by all means do so. I shall not hinder you in the least. Indeed, I shall use the solitude to meditate upon our mission.”

“Nap, you mean,” she accused, and Sir Roderick did not dispute. Instead, he quirked his eyebrow, sketched a proper bow, and clapped Jack on his shoulder. “I look to you to see her safe and dry,” he said.

“Sir — do you think it wise? I mean, even in good weather the wind and–”

“I think her mind is made up, whatever I think, Jack. Anon to you both. And listen well, Jack. Listen well.” And Sir Roderick ascended into the carriage and drew the door shut, clapping its latch tight.

Jack stared a long moment at the door, and then turned to regard Lady Jessica. He was somewhat conflicted. On the one side of it, the chance to be in Lady Jessica’s company — her exclusive company — thrilled him. On the other side of it, however, was the simple, irrefutable fact that Jack had no idea how to entertain the Lady during a drive.

Lady Jessica herself was staring a long moment at the door. “Well,” she finally half-snapped. “Let us climb up. We have wasted entirely too much time on this as it is.”

“Aye. Aye indeed. Have you climbed up onto one of these afore?”

“The front? No, I can’t say that I have. There’s no trick to it, is there?”

“That there is. The rungs are recessed on the side, and not easy to navigate in a dress such as that I should think. Mm — I shall climb up and give you my hand, and then if you slip, you’ll keep up and not fall.”

“You’re strong enough for that?”

“After my fashion, aye.”

“All right then.” She waited while Jack pulled himself up, watching how he did it, and then offered him her hand. His hand was slightly rough, but not scratchy, and he had a firm grip that almost surprised her. She found the rungs with her feet, and made her way up. She was surprised to find the rungs were slippery from the last night’s wet. And she remembered how sure footed Jack was climbing.

Now, to be sure Lady Jessica still believed Jack was somehow a savage child-man. But it began, perhaps about now, to occur to her that he was indeed of high quality. Dependable and faithful. And it occurred to her that this was a very valuable thing indeed when one pursued a vision, a dream. For while the knights and elves of old might have been higher born, they did have with them their support. The faithful ones who stood with them, or died for them. And she might have begun to realize as she made her way to the roost that if Sir Roderick and herself were the gallant heroes of this tale, Jack was their faithful one.

“The seat is wet,” she said, without reproach.

“Aye — I’ll put a blanket down… there. That should make it softer too. And this wool blanket will help keep the wind and any drizzle off you. I think perhaps you might keep a parasol handy as well.”

“Indeed, indeed. And then we can begin to discuss your education.”

Jack nodded, and waved for the stableboy to let the horses go. He maneuvered the carriage around, and headed for the south of the town.

Lady Jessica half-jolted as they wheeled about, grabbing the overhang to keep her place. She laughed as they moved out, the wind filling her hair. “This is wonderful,” she said. “Like riding but without a balky horse.”

“Aye, indeed,” Jack called back, grinning. “There’s something pleasant about driving a carriage. It’s peaceful, to be sure.”

“Indeed,” she said, looking around at the buildings as they headed for the road.

Jack road down the Willow Road for half a mile — it was a smooth road of cobblestones beaten into place, well used and well worn. The road to Tosunberry, by contrast, was a road through fields by convention. Two long wide ruts without grass, dirt and rocks only, with a tuft of grass in between them. He angled the carriage onto the road with a few bumps, and then they were rumbling off, the horses moving smoothly on the uneven terrain. It wasn’t too unlike the roads around Owl’s Head that they were used to. Perhaps a little rougher.

“Oh, that’s a jolt,” Lady Jessica laughed. “Will it be like this all the way?”

“So I suspect. This road’s not the thoroughfare the Willow Road is, after all.”

“Well enough. There’s no reason it shouldn’t be. No reason at all. After all, we aren’t simply riding in the country, are we?”

“Apparently not, Lady.” There was a long pause as they rode. “The horses are Blossom and Gertie,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“Well, you said you wanted to name the carriage, and if so it seemed right to me that you should know the names of the horses, since they’re the ones connected to the carriage, what have names and all.”

“Oh? Oh! Yes… yes that is well thought, Jack. Well thought indeed.” She paused a long time. “You don’t feel naming the carriage is silly, then?”

“Silly?” Jack drove for a moment, brow furrowed in thought. “I think it might possibly be silly, yes. But I think sometimes everyone must be a little silly, or else you lose the ability. And if you lose the ability to be silly when needed — well, the world’s a harder place to live it. So it seems to me.”

Lady Jessica nodded. “Well spoken,” she said. “There is hope for you yet. Yes. Mayhap it is silly and so am I, but it feels right so I say we name the carriage.”

“As my Lady wishes.”

“And perhaps it can help me educate you. After all, it is more my place to name things than yours, and so if you can see how I do it, why, you should have good insight in the method itself, yes?”

“Oh, aye,” Jack said, slightly dizzy at the lady’s logic but unlikely to hold that against her. “I can see that, if I think on it.”

“Good. Now — we’re on a noble quest, so it has to be a noble name.”

“You mean named for the Queen?”

“Oh, no no,” she laughed. “Nothing like that. I mean we can’t name it after the barn cat or the like. It wouldn’t do. It should probably be an Elvish name, as the old swords and ships and staves of power all had Elvish names.”

“Well aye… and were named by the Elves for the most part, now that I think on it.”

“That as may be. I have some middle Elvish.”

“Middle?”

“Oh yes. There are three Elvish tongues — don’t you know that?”

“Not as much as all that. I guess it shows my lack of knowledge.”

“Perhaps. Well, there is High Elvish, the words and language of power that make the world and shape destiny. There is Low Elvish, which the Elves taught to other people that were too dull to learn how to well communicate with them. The Bhents still use Low Elvish today, as do the Kiers. And there is Middle Elvish, which the Elves wrote in and spoke to one another for knowledge and communication. It’s held today like Latin for the church.”

“Ah, I do see. Then you know some of the middle? And that is good for naming?”

“Mm… perhaps. It should be high for a name, but I have no high. We could wait for Micah to join us.”

“Aye, we could.” Jack thought a long time as they rode. “It seems to me we should name it now, though, and that way we can tell your Sorcerer what you have decided, and he can find the High Elvish to match it later.”

Lady Jessica laughed, clapping her hands. “Reasonable good,” she said. “Excellent, Jack. I can see we’re going to go far, quickly.”

“So what meets our noble quest?”

“Mm… Endeavor would seem fitting, but perhaps a little grandiose. Sojourn feels right, but does not rhyme with much….”

Jack nodded. “I don’t have good thoughts for it — some kind of path, perhaps. That’s what we’re traveling on.”

“Oh, no no, Jack. We’re not travelling in the path.”

“No… no we aren’t, and that’s true.” Jack flushed. “I should leave the naming to you, I would say.”

“Oh, be not sad, Jack. It was a good try. Hm… it is our vehicle, and in a way guides and informs our path…. Beacon, perhaps?”

“Beacon,” Jack said. “Well, it rhymes with deacon, and that’s a Godly thing.”

“Yes… yes it is. All right then, I christen this good carriage Beacon.”

Jack grinned. “A fine name indeed. Light our path well, Beacon,” he said to the carriage then, and Lady Jessica blinked. Jack saw the blink and blushed. “I… that is…”

“No no. Be not embarrassed. It just… surprised me. You speaking to Beacon, I mean.”

“Well… names are strong. When you name something, it’s like you’re saying its alive, and if it’s alive, you should treat it well.”

Lady Jessica nodded slightly. “That too is wise,” she said. “In the old stories, the ships of the heroes seemed to ride better for their names, and their captains spoke of them as being alive. I… think that is well for you, Jack.”

“I thank you, Lady,” Jack said, flushing with the praise.

Some rain began to fall then. Lady Jessica bundled better in the blankets. “We should continue your education then,” she said. “If you’re of a mind to.”

“Aye, as you will.”

And so it happened, as the rain fell — but not too harshly — that Lady Jessica and Jack talked. She told Jack of poetry, and those poets whose work were in favor, and she told him of manners of the table, and what hose was right for gentle company. She was pleased to learn Jack could read the vernacular, and could quote some of the Bible from memory, and was not unfamiliar with the works of Master Palintier the playwright, though he had not heard any of Babbage’s poems, nor any of the classical works of the ancient Fortisians or the Reirdans who had ruled the known world a millennium before, when the Elves still walked the Earth. But he did know some of the stories of the Elves, and of the Six Swords of Destiny’s Edge, and of their ancient foes the Golden Elves of the Island of White Hope, off the coast of Fairhaven and Bhentlund, in between them and Kierland.

And Jack was dazzled, as the two spoke. This glorious woman, speaking so familiarly to him. And Lady Jessica was heartened, encouraging him and enjoying his rapt attention. And if she liked that he accepted her word and treated her as an authority, not as the child her betrothed seemed to, well, where was the harm in that.

Of course, she was aware of his passion and devotion to her. The Lady Jessica was flighty, but she had eyes and ears. And she saw no reason why she should dislike this devotion. So long as she could impart the principles of courtly love and closeness, why should she not impart those principles to him?

And as for Sir Roderick? For some hours, he returned to sleep, thankful for the quiet. Though he had been fully amused by his passion’s antics, that didn’t mean he wasn’t glad to step away from her a bit. And he was certain she would return to the carriage, and rather soon. So he slept, and relaxed, and enjoyed some of the dried apples, and pondered.

And so, with the Lady Jessica getting somewhat wet beneath the blanket, sometime not long after lunch should have been the party pulled into Tosunberry, where the Elvish Sorcerer Micah lived, in their carriage Beacon, on a slightly rainy day.

And so our company is almost assembled for the first truly long portion of their journey to the Northeastern Wall. And if their characters are not who they would become, and who you expect them to be, at least now you should know who they were at that time, and from there watch as they become. For as Old Jack Hewer says, the oak comes from the acorn, and so to understand the oak, you’d better have a good idea of what the acorn looks like.

On the other hand, I think this chapter begins to move more towards narrative and less towards storytelling devices (though not all of the way, of course), and people might think it’s finding its place now. Or not. We’ll see. Regardless, enjoy!

*** *** *** ***

There are times of the year that are not good for travel in Fairhaven, and which few people would recommend a serious expedition. The early autumn is one of those, and this was about when Lady Jessica Berwick had decided to travel to the Northeastern Wall in pursuit of a Prophecy. To be fair to Lady Jessica, one could call mid-September a late summer as easily as an early autumn, but either way, it was well into the rainy season when they had set forth on their trip.

This might seem unwise, but ask yourself — do you delay travel or business because of the rains? Do you even fear the winter when it comes to your travels and business. It is fair to say you do not — we would never get anything done otherwise, after all. And in the days before the Three Wars of the Sundering, and the Eclipse of Progress, mankind had gone as far to conquer his environment as we have today. The carriage that the Lady and Sir Roderick rode in itself is a fine example — it was warm and dry within, well padded though not truly opulent. Opulence would be wrong for a journey such as this. They could ride and comport themselves in relative comfort even through the gales and storms.

And Jack? Jack was not distressed with rain and wind. He had his clothing, and what protection there was in his perch, as he drove the horses on. His gloves and cloak kept the wet off, as did his hat and hood. While it might not be a pleasant day to travel, it was in its own way endurable.

Part of that endurance, of course, were regular stops, and along the Willow Road there were many — inns and taverns and small villages that had cropped up specifically to draw business from the travelers that passed through. And if Lady Jessica grumbled a bit when they would stop so Jack could get some warmth into himself, she did not do so loudly. She might have found Jack somewhat crude, but she had resigned herself to Sir Roderick’s whim. Besides, Jack’s presence meant she could have her fiancee with her, keeping her company as they rode. Their conversation was gentle. At first, Lady Jessica’s words were full of the Quest, and of the Prophecy, and of excitement and the supposed restoration of her due….

Ah, but you have not yet heard the Prophecy, or know the reasons behind it. That is not much spoken of late. So sad, really. One should understand the whys behind the great stories. One should understand what began everything that came after. Well, you shall hear the prophecy in turn, as they travel. And you may see the flaw that Lady Jessica did not, but Ed the Hawk did, too late, even as Sir Roderick and Jack did not believe in and Micah did not care about the consequences.

But that is neither here nor there. The conversation ranged after a time. It is nearly impossible to be enthusiastic for very long without having to shift topics. They discussed gossip and the Court — though the Berwicks were no longer the Lords of Leincastershire, Sir Arlen was himself quite in fashion as one of Queen Catherine’s courtiers. He had acquitted himself most well in the Drakish War, and as a result he and his family were welcome in Baden. Lady Jessica herself had attended the Queen as a Lady-in-Waiting more than once. Of course, she was considered somewhat flighty in Baden, but well spoken nonetheless. And Sir Roderick himself was a rakish man and a canny courtier. Possessed of Owl’s Head and a considerable savings and salary — which you ought to have inferred by the princely sum he could pay even a friend to be footman and chauffeur, regardless of the length of time the trip would take — Sir Roderick had access to Baden through the city of Alberta which in those days was at the end of the Capital Bay on one side and the Willow Road on the other, and which even today Albertashire in Fairhaven is named. Though Sir Roderick was of good breeding, he was wise in business and fortunate in investment, which made him a rarity — an aristocrat with a merchant’s pocketbook. And, as Bets was wont to say back at Owl’s Head, made him perhaps too good a match for Lady Jessica, whose family no longer had Leincastershire four generations gone, and whose father had the Queen’s favor, but little in the way of money or land of any sort. But Sir Roderick was in love, and having beheld the woman herself, Jack could hardly have blamed him.

But while Lady Jessica’s station and savings were of no consequence to Sir Roderick, they were something the Lady herself was aware of. Oh yes, they were.

But again I am ahead of my story — rambling on the players rather than setting them in motion. Forgive me.

The party stopped three times that Wednesday they set forth: the first after they reached the Willow Road from the roads and paths they had followed from Owl’s Head — three hours and the most bumpy of the day. They stopped at the West Wind Tavern and refreshed themselves. Lady Jessica was somewhat impatient, but Sir Roderick went in with Jack and bought him mulled wine to help warm him. They took enough time to visit with the locals and smoke a pipe or so, while Lady Jessica concentrated mostly on taking a small glass of wine herself — it was too soon since breakfast for her to consider a luncheon just yet. But she did get Sir Roderick to purchase a small packet of dried apples for the journey.

The second stop they made at the Albert’s Tip Inn — a stop of necessity as it was quite past lunch and towards dinner at that point. The storm had been rather vicious that day, as well, and while Jack was quite secure in his wraps, water had begun to creep in. First up his arms as the wind blew, dampening his shirt and the underside of the oiled leathers and then back down in drops as he set his hands down on the bench or reached for his flask or his food. And then along the insides of his legs in his trousers and into his boots. Not a wet that would freeze him to the bone or even chill him during the day, but enough of a wet that he would begin to dream of dryness, like it were a place one could go. Thirteen miles to dryness, he would think to himself. Now ten, now five….

He tied off at the Albert’s Tip, and tossed a threepence piece to the boy set to watch the post, and then opened the door of the carriage for Lady Jessica and Sir Roderick.

Lady Jessica stepped out first, accepting Jack’s hand and looking him up and down as she descended. “You look an utter fright,” she said, frowning slightly. “Is there nothing you can do against that?”

“Nothing in this wind and rain, Ma’am,” Jack replied, not offended by her words. They were true enough, he reasoned, but at the same time no source of shame.

“Perhaps not, but still — get yourself in and try to comport yourself. This will simply not do.”

“Come, Jess,” Sir Roderick said, exciting behind the Lady, “do be charitable. Jack’s seen us here in good time. Why, we’re practically in Leincastershire, and it’s early, yet. We might perhaps see Tosunberry by midday on the morrow, not evening as we’d thought.”

Lady Jessica’s mouth opened, and then she nodded curtly. “That’s so,” she said, “and I do not mean to be cross with you, Jack. I know you’ve the brunt of the journey. Still though, let us get you inside and somewhere closer to clean and dry — you smell all the more like a drowned dog than even before, and that I did not think possible.”

Jack nodded, and walked the pair, parasol in hand, to the door of the inn, then returned to button up the carriage.

“She’s quite the one, eh,” the stable boy said. “Expecting you to be in hose and garters after a ride on the Willow in a storm, eh?”

Jack looked at the boy coldly. “The Lady expects those about her to comport themselves accordingly, I’d say, and who am I or you to deny that, eh? I’ll tell you once to keep your tongue civil, and not a second time.” He pulled the meal bag and the long cover that held the wheellock down and headed for the door.

“I’ve seen Ladies afore,” the boy muttered, setting to the task of attending to the horses. “But they knew the difference between the clouds and the rain, at the least.”

Jack did not answer. In a way, Jack could not hear. Nothing the boy could have said would have penetrated his oiled clothing to his ears. Far more than his clothes, the sight of the Lady, seared in from that first moment in Owl’s Head, remained in mind and on eye, like the spotty scar a candle flame leaves on your eye when you stare at it too long. Perhaps that image would fade, but for that moment his vision was fully obscured with her.

The Lady herself sat within, near the fire. Sir Roderick was arranging for food and hot drink over by the bar, so for that moment, though fine enough to attract a certain attention of the passers-by, Lady Jessica was alone. She watched as Jack walked in, and unwrapped his cloak and set it on a peg. He removed his wet hat, and threw his head from side to side, almost like a large, shag covered dog fresh from a lake, with water spiraling in the firelight to either side, and began almost a curious dance of clothing, as he shook the water off himself and pulled off outer layers, revealing the damp man beneath them.

Lady Jessica stared, transfixed almost in horror, as she watched the process of Jack’s drying. It was as though a savage from the Midsouth Seacoast had taken the place of her driver, and was letting his wild ways infect the room of the tavern around him. And she turned away, shuddering.

“A chill, my love?” Sir Roderick asked, sitting next to her. “That carriage has a draft, I swear it. I’ll have Jack look at it, after he’s had a chance to eat and warm himself.”

“I would he were not so course,” she said, turning to Sir Roderick. “It’s unseemly.”

“Unseemly? He is no more course than half the farmers or artisans in this room. Come, my dear — you must truly leave off of Jack. He has served us well, has he not?”

“Oh yes, and I would lie to say otherwise. I would not dream of dismissing your Jack,” she said. “But it is simple truth that he is base, and we are on a mission that will exalt us, are we not?”

“As you say, my dear, I shall swear to it. But Jack–”

“I am not quite finished. It would be seemly for Jack to be exalted as well, would it not?”

“Jack? What do you mean?”

“Well, come Rod. Surely you would not deny your friend is of good quality — though I have not yet seen it, you are the one who told me of his quality and I did believe you. A most excellent quality, as you said.”

“Of course — and he is, and more. But will you remake him? Cast him in the light of a squire from your stories and books?”

Lady Jessica laughed. “No no, do be reasonable, Rod. Jack would no more make a Knight than I would make a nightingale. But he can be a truly fine man nonetheless. Let me take and mold him, remake him in the light of our Quest. Let me teach him gentility. Do let me recast him, as you say, and make the metal gleam, not lie black from the cooking fire.”

And Sir Roderick laughed. “You make it sound so simple, my dear. Do as you will — I think he will not argue.”

“Perhaps he will not at that. You got us food?”

“It will come. Jack will no doubt bring it to us.”

“No doubt.”

And Jack himself would certainly agree. He had by now made his way to the barkeep, and put a penny down on its old pine wood. “Something a bit hot,” he said. “It’s the Ragman’s rain out there and no doubt.”

“Aye,” the barkeep said. “And keep your bit — the gentleman saw to your need. To where do you ride on a day such as this? Leincaster?”

“Tosunberry.”

“Hah — you might be the first I’ve ever heard gone up there, and no lie that.”

“Aye.” Jack picked up the steaming cider mug even as it was set down, and drank deep. “I hadn’t thought the apples right for hard cider. Not yet.”

“First of the Applejack. Mmm — Tosunberry’s yet a day and a half or more. You’ll be wanting to leave the Willow Road come Haldane’s Corners, I think.”

“That soon? I thought perhaps to come to the outlie of Leincaster, then divert?”

“Eh? No no, not that way — the road off that way’s horrid — just a span where tree’sve been cleared. No, go up the Haldane’s Corners route. Faster, too, and the ruts are deep enough you barely need to drive.”

“As though that were a point. Wish the Willow Road came closer to Tosunberry?”

“Aye? Well, I wish the rain would cause my well to overflow with gold, but it hasn’t happened yet.”

“That’s so. Did Sir Roderick order food?”

“Eh? He did — there, on the end of the bar. Wilma must have left it there while we debated roads.”

“Ah — well enough, well enough. Mmm — stay the night at Haldane’s Corners, then. Get up fresh and we’ll be ready for the trip. Thank you and kindly, sir.”

“Indeed, indeed.”

And so Jack lifted the food and carried it over to Sir Roderick and Lady Jessica. The Lady was half-asleep by the time he had arrived — the peculiar fatigue of travel taking her. Sir Roderick nodded amiably, drawing another puff on his pipe — a fine pipe it was. Its clay bowl was broad, with a plate of silver not unlike Jack’s to protect the ash, and a long curved stem of jet with gold inlay. A good amount of money, that pipe represented. Sir Roderick had owned it as long as Jack could remember.

“Well met, sir. I’m going to get some food in me and perhaps doze as the Lady seems to be.”

“Excellent plan. You’ve had a day of it, for certain. How fare the horses?”

“Well enough. They’re strong, and I expect after a rest they’ll be ready for another bout. I’ve spoken to the innkeep, and he suggests we divert for Tosunberry in Haldane’s Corners. If we go somewhat into the evening, we might make Haldane’s Corners tonight, and make a good run for Tosunberry on the morrow, then.”

“Mm — well, I expect he knows the roads better than we. I certainly have never gone to Tosunberry. I wasn’t aware anyone actually lived there. It was just a mark on the map, required by the Queen’s Census and attested to by Leincastershire’s Sheriff in the name of his budget.”

Jack chuckled and took out his red ash pipe. He opened the packet of tobacco given him by Sir Roderick as partial payment for the journey, and filled. He noticed Lady Jessica’s eyes were open, watching his hands as he prepared the pipe, and then reached down carefully for the fire with his wire, to light the pipe.

“Aye, m’lady?” he asked her, and closed the silver stack, drawing the sweet, mellow smoke. A pleasant aroma began to surround him like a halo as he puffed.

“I was watching you prepare your pipe,” she said, and glanced at Sir Roderick. “You have a delicate hand with delicate tasks, I believe.”

“Do I then? I thank m’lady full well. I was taught to use the right hand for the right task.”

Lady Jessica nodded, ever so slightly. In approval or agreement, Jack couldn’t swear. “That shows great wisdom, Jack. Too many learn only one path, and trod it in any weather. A wise man knows there are many routes available.” She looked at Sir Roderick. “You could learn from your Gameskeeper,” she said. “You have only your gentility — a route that limits you, perhaps. But Jack seems to have more than one route he could take, and that could make all the difference, yes?”

“Oh, of course,” Sir Roderick said, knowing where she was leading with her comments. “Jack is versatile, certainly.”

Lady Jessica began eating her stew, watching Jack smoke and drink. “Jack,” she said, finally, “it occurs to me that a man such as you could learn a great deal — and would be open… well, perhaps to trying new things.”

“Ma’am?” Jack asked. It seemed going on this ludicrous mission — whose purpose Jack still had no clear vision of — was proof enough of his willingness to try new things. He sipped his hot ale and listened.

“Well,” Lady Jessica said, spooning up a bit more stew delicately, “You recall my first impression of you, of course. And that it perhaps did not do you justice. Certainly Rod feels that is so, and I can see you are a man of great dedication and service. And I feel that is most commendable of you.”

“I… thank you, Lady,” Jack said, wondering at the compliments from so fine a woman.

“And this is of great concern to me,” she continued.

“My dedication?” Jack asked, mystified.

Lady Jessica laughed, as though she were talking to a boy of eight, and not a veteran of war. “No no no. The first impression I got of you. After all, I do consider myself more than uncommonly perceptive, and therefore if I could look at you and think you a clod and menial, it stands to reason this is what many people would see you as. We simply cannot have that, Jack. It is not fair to you, after all.”

“I… can see what you say,” Jack said, frowning slightly. “Do I truly seem so course and plain? Not that I should ever wish to doubt the word of one such as you, but it does seem frightening to consider, and I have never encountered such reactions afore.”

“It does indeed,” Lady Jessica said. “And I simply will not have it. After all, it is so dreadfully unfair to you. And I have no doubt but most people have kept their tongues around you — after all, does one stop to every beggar on the side of Edding’s Street in Baden and mention their beggarliness? Does one pause to tell the fool that he is a fool, or simply regard him a fool and stay silent, avoiding him after? No, it is certain that you are neither fool nor beggar, nor anything bad. But if one must pull away the rustic caul to find this of you, why, most shall not — they shall see the caul, the very crust of it, and call it the substance, not the surface.”

“Then… what shall we do?” For Jack was sorely concerned now — he had always regarded himself as being pleasant company, and had never considered his baseness or deformity of character before this. Indeed, he had always sought solitude when so many around him would have crowded closer.

But he believed what he heard, from this bright woman. What was the opinion of Miss Diggit compared to the daughter of Sir Arlen Berwick? And more than this, Lady Jessica could have called him a Drakish woman of the night and Jack would have accepted her word over his own experience.

“Do? Well, if you are truly concerned, and I can see that you are, then I would be happy to help, of course. To teach you a new route, of gentility of character and the impression of worth. And the art of conveying that impression. Impression is so important, is it not, Sir Roderick?”

Sir Roderick roused himself from where he had half-slumbered over his stew. “I would never think to debate you, dear Jess,” he said.

“So then,” Lady Jessica said with a bright smile of triumph that left Jack giddy, “it is settled. I shall be your teacher, Jack. And I shall be a stern Headmistress, I warn you.”

“I… I am warned,” Jack said in wonder. “And I thank you, Lady. Thank you full well and total. I — excuse me a moment, I must spend tuppance.” He made his way up and out back towards the rear of the building.

Lady Jessica looked as pleased as if she had been given a danby pup. “Thank you, Rod,” she said. “This is truly kind of you. I do believe I shall enjoy the molding of our Jack.”

“And if you enjoy it, then I shall enjoy it as well,” Sir Roderick said. “Now come, you must eat — we are to reach Haldane’s Corners tonight.”

“Of course, of course.” And Lady Jessica ate and drank, her mind diverted from her Purpose by the prospect of the exalting of Jack. Their journey, but a few hours old, looked already to be truly excellent. Surely, that augured well for the recovery of the Chalice of Alderesth. Surely it must.

I assume.

It’s in my style. It’s in my files. It’s definitely one of mine from the Kinko’s years. And I have absolutely no memory of it.

It’s not impossible it was something I discussed with my friend Mason Kramer, or perhaps my friend Chris Angelini, or also perhaps my friend Gary Olson, as they were all writing for Superguy at the time — as was I, as has been detailed elsewhere — and both dealt quite a lot with dreamers and dreamweavers.

Though this doesn’t seem to be about the same thing at all.

I don’t think that’s where I intended to stop the story. I assume I meant to write more. But I have no idea. I don’t remember this at all.

So. I pass it to you, for your thoughts and impressions. Should I pursue this one? Should I not? Should I have… pie?

Let me know. And please enjoy.

*** *** *** ***

And then Michael woke up, and it was all a dream.

He swallowed a few times, drowning in the feel of it, noise forcing his eyes open in the dim haze of morning. He swam against it, fighting to hold himself in the dream, his arms around Elissa and his friends close at hand. The smells and touches and tastes fresh in his head and so real, feeling the bitter disorientation he always felt when waking up, but so much more this morning. Where was he, and who….

“–assic Rock keeps coming here at D101 FM. That was Don Henley, with the Boys of Summer. We’ll have four more in a row, right after this!”

“Bob, I’m worried about Tim,” the radio was saying near Michael’s head.

“What about him,” a male voice Michael had heard before on radio commercials asked. “Has he been playing with matches again?”

“No – but he’s been buying his garden hose from a store that isn’t Walter’s on Thirty-third….”

Michael slapped at the radio, missing it and shoving a book over onto it, which muffled it a little. He turned and slapped his feet onto the floor, stumbling through the grey light for the bathroom, the tile floor, the cramped shower.

Michael had made it past shampoo and rinse and was firmly into repeat before he could really claim to be awake. The dream had seemed so real. He was fighting to remember, to hold the details close. Elissa’s face and form, wearing an autumn dress of gold and red….

Michael walked back out into the studio apartment, stepping around the treadmill and grabbing his pants off the hook on the chimney. The daily routine far from wars and quests and beautiful wives stretched its arms out and took hold of him, guiding him to underwear and socks and a clean shirt for the day. It knew to make the cup of morning tea he always drank and the piece of toast he always ate. In the background, Meat Loaf was singing about what he wouldn’t do for love. The radio would play for two hours unless it were turned off. At night he could set its sleep timer to play for ninety minutes to lull him to sleep. It knocked him out shook him awake. One-stop shopping.

Her hair had been strawberry blond, and it had played over her back in waves. He remembered sticks in it. They had been in the wilderness, riding hard along the path, with Hector running before them and the old man behind. Who was that old man? He was important, somehow….

The office was usually loud in the morning. Jack and Alice shouting over the ringing of the phone while Anton ran photocopies and Gillian tried to route calls and people where they needed to be to keep the business rolling. It was the way it went here.

“You look real perky this morning,” Anton said, glancing up. “What’s the matter? Bowels keep you up all night?”

“You know, I could really do without bowel references this time of the day,” Michael answered, setting his bookbag on his desk and slapping the power button on his keyboard.

“Mine was terrible,” Anton persisted. “I think that fish we had at lunch yesterday was a little undercooked. I remember mentioning it to Gillian, and she said that hers was dry if anything, but I couldn’t see that. I mean, really–”

“I had the teryaki chicken,” Michael said absently.

“So really – where are you today,” Anton asked, leaning over the desk, mockups in hand.

Michael shook his head, clearing it a little. “Sorry,” he said. “I woke up in the middle of a dream. It’s hard to shake it off.”

“Oh, I’ve had those.”

“With Mel Gibson in swim briefs?”

“Be nice,” Anton said. “Besides, I’m more of a Kevin Costner man. No, this was entirely different. I remember being on stage – oh, this was an old theater. The footlights were candles with bowls in front of them to reflect the light back at me, and there was a smell – it was wet, I think. Maybe it was raining outside. But anyway, I was dancing and singing both, and they were laughing.”

“Oh, very nice dream. Were you naked?”

But Anton wasn’t listening. “I had them in the palm of my hand,” he said, eyes looking distant. Every pratfall and sidestep had them howling, because my moves were expert, they were perfect. I was really alive up there. Everything was perfect and beautiful, and then something hit me.”

“Hit you,” Michael asked, suddenly interested.

“Yes… yes, I don’t know if I missed a step and stumbled or… maybe I had a stroke. Or maybe someone shot me from the orchestra pit. If it was it was probably my wife – now don’t say it. In the dream it made sense. But that woke me up all disoriented….”

But Michael wasn’t saying it. “With me,” he said, “it was… some kind of fantasy epic. I don’t know much more than that. I was married – her name was Elissa, and we were at war with… well, someone. I’m not really sure whom. There was another warrior, like me… and….”

“And clearly you’ve been reading too much Lord of the Rings,” Tom said, walking by and dropping three project folders on Michael’s desk. “I need the mockups on the Babbage Technology business identity by the end of the day, and all of these are new – needed by the end of the week.”

“What – oh, come on,” Michael said. “I can’t design another three projects by the end of the week – I have layout work due for Thursday as it is. Get Christa to do it.”

“Christa’s overbooked too,” Thomas said. “But one of these are just a business card design and plugging in names.”

“Four color,” Michael asked dubiously.

“Single color,” Thomas said. “Thermographic, so we’ll need a four-up for pre-press after approval.”

Michael sighed and nodded. “Guess I’ll talk to you later, Anton,” he said. “Keep dancing.”

Anton looked wistful for a second. “I don’t know a step,” he said. “Have fun.”

Thomas shook his head at Anton as Anton made his way back to his own desk. “You know, he means it,” he said. “I’ve seen him watching Riverdance. It practically breaks his heart.”

“Huh,” Michael said, looking at the project folders with something close to contempt. Three more vital projects for the world. Letterhead, business cards, maybe even brochure work today. There was such a feeling of importance in the dream. The whole world depended on them….

“I’ve had one of those, you know,” Thomas said, still watching Anton.

“What – dances?”

“No no. One of those dreams you wake up in and it seems real.” Thomas smiled, which was a rare thing for Thomas. “I was a bookbinder.”

“What? A fifteenth century sort of thing?”

“I don’t think so,” Thomas said. “There were people walking around my booth in jeans and tee-shirts. It’s hard to remember, but I think I was working at a Renaissance festival or the like. Or else there were just odd things in it. You were there, I think. You bought a tan leather bound book that had a thong and button to close it.” Thomas smiled a bit. “I remember the smell – the smell of paper and cloth and the dryness of the dust. And there was the smell of horses – from the jousting field or the like. And I remember drinking coffee out of a hand-thrown ceramic mug. It was very nice.”

“I… see,” Michael said.

Thomas snorted. “I’m sure you do,” he said. “Anyway, let me know if you have trouble making those deadlines.”

“I will.” Thomas moved on, more folders in his hands. Michael watched him go. He turned back to his computer. It had booted now, and downloaded six mail messages. All spam. He closed his eyes, thinking about Renaissance festivals, and found himself picturing Elissa, riding her horse, her face ernest and the wind in their faces as they ran….

“Two messages,” the electronic voice of the answering machine chirped as Michael walked inside his apartment. He slapped the button almost aimlessly. He was behind now, and probably should have stayed late in the office, but it was hard to focus. He was trying to piece everything together….

“Michael,” the first message said, “it’s your mother. Give me a call – if you’re coming home this weekend we need to put your bed together and make certain we do a laundry of towels. Call me, all right? I mean, really call me.”

Michael sat down at his desk in the corner of the studio apartment. His computer monitor and piles of books faced him. Including a good number of fantasy novels and series. The Belgariad. The Lord of the Rings. Sunrunner’s Fire. Grist for dreams. Dreams of women with strawberry blond hair and malevolent forces spreading out across the land….

“Michael,” Anton’s voice said from the message machine. “Gillian’s freaking out again, and she could really use people around her, I think. Look, could you come and have coffee with us or something? Just get her out of her apartment for a few minutes? It’d mean the world to her. Okay? Thanks.”

Michael registered the message absently. Gillian had been feeling self-destructive for maybe the last eight years of her life – certainly longer than Michael had ever known her. He opened up one of the drawers of his desk – it was a fake granite looking formica. He’d bought it at a Warehouse store – it was designed as cubicle furniture but it suited his needs perfectly. He dug through it, and pulled out his journal. At least, it was supposed to be a journal. He was going to write in it every day and always have a record of his thoughts. He had only written six words in it. ‘Well, I suppose I should start.’

Elissa and Hector and Manlius (the old man had been Manlius, a mighty wizard who held the key to driving back the ancient Thull… or was he from Manlius?) were a dream. Just a dream that he’d awakened in the middle of, when he’d been hit in his chest (Hit? Yes, he’d been turning his face forward from looking at Elissa, and the bowman had nailed him – practically threw him off the horse, and how could he forget that….) A dream, just like the dream Anton had about dancing or the dream Thomas had about bookbinding. They weren’t real, just flotsum churned up by the subconsciousness as a kind of brain optimization. It defragmented the mind, like a hard drive. He *knew *this.

He looked at the tan leather book in his hand, closed with a thong, and a celtic knot stamped on the front. He remembered the Renaissance festival where he had bought the thing. Andrea – that was when he had been going out with Andrea – had mocked him about spending the money for it. Like she ever wore the bodice she bought, and that had been twelve dollars more….

He tried to remember what the bookbinder had looked like. He could remember the old man’s hands as he slowly laid the pages of his book down, sewing them together without glue. It had been fascinating. But what had his face been? He remembered the EMTs had been to the festival later – they’d brought a stretcher through, covering it with burlap so it didn’t break the illusion of the festival, but had it been the bookbinder they’d brought out? He couldn’t remember….

The phone rang. Almost automatically, still cradling the book in his hand, Michael walked back to the phone and scooped it up just as the third ring began. “Hello,” he asked.

“Michael?” It was Anton.

“Hey there,” he said. “Just got in. I was just about to call you.”

“Oh, good – she’s really freaking out, Michael. She went out with Horace last night–”

“I thought she broke up with him after his last set of mindgames.”

“Look, I don’t pretend to understand her, Michael. If it were me, I’d have smacked Hell out of him and moved on with my life. But she feels stupid and afraid and isolated right now. If there’s anything we can do–“

“Right, right. I’m on my way. Coltrane’s?”

“Sure. Thanks, Michael. I appreciate it.”

Michael said something about it being no problem, and then looked at the book in his hand as he hung up. The Thull would sweep over the mountains and destroy Concordia town by town. They had to be driven back. Elissa and he had been the leaders of the army, until the Thull had driven them away with lightning and death magic. The man from Manlius had been leading them to a weapon that could stand against the horde. He remembered this, more clearly with every passing second. A weapon Michael had been destined to wield, that no other mortal man could hold. But then he was shot. Shot and killed….

Michael shook his head to clear it. This was insane. He grabbed his coat and headed out the door. He’d need the coat, he figured. It had been looking like rain.

The jazz wasn’t all that good tonight – a local band with a little too much sax on drugs for Michael’s tastes, but the crowd hadn’t come in yet so they were really just jamming as background noise.

“It looks like it’s getting fierce out there,” Anton said, craning his neck to look at the window. “I thought it was supposed to be partly cloudy all weekend?”

“You’re not listening,” Michael said, frustrated. He thumped his hand down on the book. “Don’t you see what this could mean?”

Gillian half-laughed, gulping down one of those coffee smoothees Michael could never stand. “At what? Your psychic fair experience with your supervisor?”

“Renaissance festival, not psychic fair. Gillian….”

“What exactly are you suggesting,” Anton asked. He was drinking a thick, strong coffee. More intense than Michael himself liked. “In simple words.”

Michael looked down. “Look, I know its crazy… but that dream seemed so real. I remember everything. Smells, colors – I thought you didn’t dream in color, but she had strawberry blond hair and everything.”

“I dream in color,” Gillian piped in. “I always have.” She giggled again, a giggle from the edge. “But then, I’m nuts, so you can’t tell by me.”

“You are not nuts,” Anton said firmly. “No no no. We’re going to drive that self-negativity right out of you, do you hear me?”

She was nuts, Michael thought. Screwed up by society, her boyfriend or herself, he didn’t know. But screwed up nonetheless. Two or three times a month Anton organized these interventions to keep her from going over the deep end, and Michael usually got pulled along as the anchor into mundane normality. He wasn’t playing that part very well tonight.

“It’s… just think about it. Thomas had a dream where he sold me a leather bound journal at a Renaissance festival – a dream like mine, where it all seemed so incredibly real. That really happened. If that happened… maybe….”

“Maybe what,” Anton asked. “Maybe you’re really some kind of crusader fighting to save a country from the barbarians? Michael, that’s insane. You had a dream. With all that stuff you read, that shouldn’t surprise you.”

“It seemed so real,” Michael said intensely. “Like you said your dancing dream was.”

“But I don’t think I was a dancer in a past life or anything,” Anton said. “I had that dream maybe two years ago. I didn’t have time to reincarnate – or do you suppose that when you go to Heaven instead of becoming an angel you become a copy-jock for a desktop publishing firm? That’s obscene. When I die, I expect to make a higher living wage.”

“I don’t…” Michael sighed. “I don’t know what it means. Maybe we live in many different places at once. Lives in many worlds, but our direct consciousness travels from one lifetime to another as we die. So even while Thomas was working at A-Frame he was also a bookbinder who traveled to Renaissance festivals. Only he died, and his consciousness jumped into another body.”

“Oh please,” Anton said. “That’s beyond a leap of logic. You just want to believe in that redhead of yours, so you’re willing to say anything. Besides, by that logic, we all live in Hell now.”

“Hell?” Gillian asked.

“Well, sure,” Anton said. “Take my dancing dream. I loved dancing. I was a star, and I was incredible, dying on stage even. But when I died I woke up here and I was making seven seventy-five an hour to be a glorified clerk. Thomas clearly loved bookbinding. That simple life, the smells, the women in bodices and flyaway skirts. What’s not to like? And now he’s overworked and overstressed. He almost never smiles. And you, Michael. Come on. It’s not enough that you were married and happy – you had to be the Messiah too? Of course you want to go back.”

“It’s not Hell,” Gillian said quickly. “I know.”

“What?” Michael asked. Anton looked stunned.

“I know because I remember mine, and I was glad to be dying.” Gillian sipped her ice drink, then looked at the two of them. “What? We’re talking about waking up from dreams that seemed so real they could have been other lives, right?”

“Riiiiight,” Michael said slowly.

“Well, mine was terrible. I mean, I’ve had other dreams, but this one seemed… well, as real as this frappacino. It was horrible. I was some kind of peasant girl, and I was running for my life. And there was this thing after me. It looked like a spider, but with extra legs and it jiggled, like it was made out of Jell-o or something. It wanted to breed with me, I think. At least, my clothes were torn. I ran and ran and ran, so scared I was ready to die, and then I reached a cliff, and I turned and it was almost on top of me and it was reaching for me, and I could smell it….”

Michael took Gillian’s free hand carefully. She was shaking like a leaf with the memory, almost spilling her smoothie. “And I fell backwards,” she said, “and I remember falling, and I was looking up and staring at that thing as it looked down, howling at me, and I remember crying with relief and happiness because I wasn’t going to be that thing’s, and I hit, and my whole body jerked and I was awake, and it was all a dream! I was awake and alive, and it couldn’t get me. I was crying and laughing at the same time, so hard I woke Horace and he yelled at me but I didn’t care. I showered and got to the office early and I was so happy.”

“Whooooa,” Anton said. “That’s….”

“I remind myself with it sometime,” Gillian said, sipping her smoothie. “When I really can’t take it, I tell myself it could be so much worse. I could be living an eternal Hell with a creature from beyond the pit – not even allowed to die. Just to breed.” She shivered. “You know, after that Horace doesn’t seem so bad….”

“Horace isn’t a dream,” Anton said. “He’s a nightmare.”

Michael squeezed her hand. “I’m glad you got away,” he said quietly.

Gillian smiled slightly. “Thanks, Michael,” she said. “I’m sorry you lost your wife.”

Anton shook his head. “Why do all my friends turn out to be complete nuts? Maybe it’s me.” He jumped as another thunderclap ripped around the café, the lights flickering this time. “That was close!”

“So what’s your theory,” Gillian asked. “That you go to sleep and live another life?”

“Huh? No. No, it’s… I’ve had too many dreams about sitting in class naked or flying or being trapped by Thomas carrying project folders to believe that. But maybe… oh Hell, I don’t know.”

“That’s the smartest thing you’ve said all night,” Anton said. “If you kept this up I was going to have to suggest getting something stronger than coffee just to sedate you.”

Michael glanced at the time. “I wouldn’t have time for anything stronger,” he said. “And sure wouldn’t have time to sober up for it. I’ve got work I need to do tonight to stay ahead of Whipmaster Thomas.”

Anton snickered. “We should get him a leather collar and some studs,” he said.

Gillian laughed, her eyes twinkling. “Well,” she said to Michael, “you sure took my mind off my idiot boyfriend tonight. Thanks.”

Michael nodded. “Look, I’ve got to go.” He pulled out a few dollars and set them on the table. “Catch you tomorrow, Anton?”

“I suppose – unless you wake up and it’s the Roman empire or something.”

“God, I hope not. I hate olive oil.” He grabbed his coat. “See you later, Gillian.”

“Yup.” She grinned. “Take care of yourself.”

Michael nodded, heading outside. His car was across the street, but in the deluge there wasn’t much traffic. He dashed for it, thumbing his key fob to unlock the doors. He still managed to get soaked before he got inside – there had been a quarter-inch of water flowing throuh. Rain was slapping against the windshield, a torrent of fat drops slapping hard enough that Michael thought the grass would crack. He didn’t think it would hail.

The radio crackled when he put it on. “–thunderst… giving way to partly cl… ndoors tonight, for sure. Now, here’s Sl….”

Michael slapped it off, and started the car. He glanced either way but he didn’t see any traffic. Why would he? What fool would go driving in this? He expected to see an ark float by. He pulled out, flipping on his lights and seeking the ripple of light along the driving rain as he went.

It was slow going. Even at twenty miles an hour, driving up Foster’s Hill, Michael could feel the car shimmy a bit. He peered into the gloom – streetlights must be out around here – and swung around a curve. The backroads were usually faster getting to his neighborhood, but tonight–

He saw lights cresting the hill, and flipped his own lights down to low beam. Gillian had seemed so frightened, remembering her Lovecraftian dream. Even with all the crap she brought on herself and others brought on her, that dream seemed to hound her. Seemed to….

Michael winced. The other car’s high beams were still up, and it was hard to see. He swerved away from it, but it seemed to follow him. It was weaving, hydroplaning in the rain. Michael swore and tried to gun the engine – pull forward of it before anything happened. His own wheels lost purchase and the car wheeled to the left, the glare of the other car – no, it was a truck of some kind – hammering through before the entire world seemed to explode, to shatter….

Darkness. Everything seemed to hurt. Everything. Michael couldn’t move. He couldn’t even feel his body. It was as though he were trapped in it, but it wasn’t his. It was just where his mind was… and now it… he… his mind was fallling… falling….

And Michael hit the ground, and his eyes snapped open.

“My love,” Elissa moaned, leaning over him – but not touching him. “My love, can you hear me? Is it you?”