《MY SHORT STORIES》


 Silver Arrow

    "Then didst I draw it forth, and behold! T''were all silvered, and did flash as you see ''afore ye, Lord."


    "And the stag?"


    "It be in the yard, Lord. I would not skin it, nor bleed it, but brought it hence as shot, to await thy reede upon it. Your will, Lord?"


    Lord Desomprey picked up the silvered arrow by its fletched end. From nock to mid spine, it was just another Yeoman''s yard, the fletching some sort of pheasant feathers, by the look.


    New cast, and still crude by his standards, the iron arrow head glittered as if coated in quicksilver. Oddly enough, so did the wooden shaft halfway down it.


    Corrant B had been colonized by nature loving survivalists, and while they hadn''t brought much with them in terms of technology, they had made up for that in plantings and fertilized animal ova. The colony had degenerated during the isolation of the Great Hiatus of course, as had many. It was now classified as a medieval level colonial world; but this all worked in Desomprey''s favor. Especially when circumstances, such as the forester had brought to light, occurred.


    "I would inspect the beast, then. Good sense show you, not to fiddle it...stay here. Wouldst contemp it alone, forester. Sit yourself to table, meantime."


    The forester''s face lit gleefully, and he turned his attention to the smorgasboard of cooked food before him, but waited until Desomprey turned away before reseating himself.


    Desomprey stalked out into the camp''s new Bailey, stopping before the carcass, now dangling head down from a game rack in the packed dirt of Gurtenhold''s compound. His retinue had wanted to name the new community after Desomprey, but he had demurred, insisting the ranger who had discovered the site, be immortalized instead.


    Work had already begun on stone fortifications, and by the end of next season the wood walls around it would be replaced to match the strong stone Barbican of the gate.


    His arms-men clustered about, neglectful of their posts in their curiosity.


    Desomprey felt around the animal''s front quarters, where a silver dribble marked the entry-wound of his gamesman''s shaft. Something bulked beneath the flesh. He motioned to Guerre De Temps, who stood nervously by, concerned, no doubt, that his master might be exposing himself to some vile forest magic. The captain''s face worked through a marvelous panoply of fear, concern, amazement and resolve, then he stiffened and strode briskly forward, delivering one of the hold''s new-forged knives into his Lord''s waiting hand. Then Guerre just as quickly retreated, a little further away than protocol might dictate.This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    Desomprey cut deeply into the flank. Then, rolling up the sleeve of his gown, thrust his arm into the cut, eventually wrestling out a small silvery box. It too, was punctured, jagged metallic eruptions puckered where the tempered arrow holed it. His arm dripped with a combination of red stag blood and traces of silver fluid.


    Desomprey heedless of that, eyed the box closely, and shook it. A tinny rattle announced something loose and broken within. A small smile twisted at his lips, and he abruptly turned, to reenter his hall, signaling Guerre to follow.


    The Gamesman still sat, stuffing himself with greasy fingers from the table''s bounty. Seeing his Lord approach, he shot up from the trestle and bowed to Desomprey. Having both the gamesman''s and the Captain''s attention, Desomprey lifted the box overhead.


    "I say this to be a good omen, a talisman of my success in this land, of the fortune that hast followed me, and a sigil of our new fief''s success. Send out to every vassal, for I open my preserve for hunting to all. Let every man catch his stag, and look you, to cut forth the talisman within, and show it, mark ye, upon a pole afore his dwelling for luck and faith."


    ###


    Lieutenant Folley cursed, slamming his open hand down on the display. "Every one! Every damn one! The locals hunted down every single animal, cutout the probes, and mounted the snooper boxes on poles! I''m getting flooded with static locator signals!"


    Marshal Willis sighed, and pulled his hand over the short sanctioned haircut that decorated his scalp. "Did we get any views from the implants before the stags got gutted?"


    "Not much of anything. The natives clean the stags on the spot, and rip out the transceiver box right away. A few stag''s eye views of the woods, that''s all. Nothing from the boxes, once ripped free, save for the homing beacon signals. No sign of Jack Desomprey." Folley glanced meaningfully at the wanted circular taped to the bulkhead.


    Wanted: For unsanctioned exportation of culture and technological contamination of class six through class three colonies. Retrieve dead or alive.


    "Should we send the men out?"


    The Marshall shook his head slowly. "Can''t. We''d violate our own no-contact ruling. Need hard evidence the bastard''s here, even to mount an extraction sortie. With those boxes in plain sight, we have already involved ourselves in cultural contamination. Any chance we can get them back?"


    Folley laughed. "Off twenty-foot poles? Stuck right in front of every shack, compound, hut and barrack? Those dead stags aren''t about to come back to life, retrieve the boxes and zombie their way back to the ship, for us to dig them back out, that''s sure. I don''t see how, unless we march officers right up and..."


    "Alright, alright. I get it. We probably precipitated a hunting spree. Those stags wouldn''t normally converge on a human settlement, place like this. Pack everything up. We''ll try somewhere else. It was a long-shot anyway. If the council ever finds out we exposed all that tech to the locals of a class three culture..."


    ###


    Lord Desomprey spent the evening entertaining the adoring young ladies of his court, then excused himself to stroll the Barbican''s rampart, stopped with hands clasped behind him, to watch a bright comet-like tail rise from the deep woods, and shoot off into the night sky. About time to invent paper and movable type, he thought. A smile lifted the corners of Desomprey''s lips.


    He retraced his path, back to the comforts and adoration of his court.

 An April fool

    Lord Desomprey watched the colorful cloaks and fanciful garb with both amusement, and some trepidation. The traveling troupe juggled, danced, and performed acrobatic feats across the bailey of Gurtenhold, passing yellow hats for donations through the gaggle of residents.


    Spring had finally bloomed. With it, came the back-break of plowing and planting, the digging out of new cesspits and clearing of irrigation channels. With the better weather, more travelers made appearances before the hold''s gates. Some would stay on, to take up fealty with Desomprey, cultivating new fields, and building up the village that swelled beyond the gates.


    A baker, cart loaded with the pans, salts, and sacks of milled flour had sought refuge and fealty this week, looking for a fresh start. Desomprey had accepted easily, offering up an abandoned village building. The building was badly in need of restoration, due to damage from a winter end raid, courtesy of the new masters of Cornet, the nearest holding. Still, better than starting from scratch for the baker. Disomprey felt happy that the hold was attracting more than simple farmers finally. The holding was not of such a size that entertainers like these would settle. Most of them would move on to other Steadings. The trepidation came from the sheer volume of new, unknown faces this all caused. The Galactic Council''s agents still searched for him. He had finally completed the assembly of a movable type printing press, and wished to introduce it in safety from discovery.


    Guerre De Temps, who captained the hold''s guard, motioned at one small actor, clothed in motley, at the yard''s side. "Interesting, that one, my Lord."


    A clot of residents gathered there, guffawing and hooting while flowers seemed to magically bloom behind a surprised guard''s ears. The capering fool issued a continuous stream of limericks and jokes in a novel affected high falsetto. Ass-ears decorated the performer''s skullcap, ending in bells that tinkled endlessly since the figure never seemed to stand still.


    "How so?"


    "Makes cunning comment of several residents quite insightfuly, but how be that, when this troop is only recently arrived?"


    Disomprey shrugged, but his eyes narrowed. "I''d guess sharp eyes for details of dress and manner, scars and comportment, and a fair grasp of human nature. People in the main, suffer the same slings and arrows in life. The trick is to make the apparent seem special knowledge, or encourage people to drop clues as to their personal lives. A skill I have seen practiced before."


    The fool had since moved on to juggling some colored balls.


    Across the yard, a man with tosseled dark hair cast knives through a tunnel of four inch metal rings, suspended from hooks, pegging a thin wand behind them with astonishing accuracy. The black iron knives, flat and handle free, turned only once in the air, then arrowed through the rings like lightning, perhaps even sped up, before spitting the rod, all to the applause of onlookers. More betting on the act seemed to be taking place than hat passing. The display of skill seemed to bother Desomprey. "Master Guerre'', Do we have any iron hoops like that?"


    Detemps snorted. "Of course, Lord. But we use ''em to guide rope and such, Not practice dagger work. The chief mason has a chest full of them."


    "Could you quietly ask to borrow a few, and bring them hence?" De Temps did so immediately, returning with a half dozen, which Desomprey pocketed without comment.


    Meantime the Fool caused a older woman to shriek, as the jester pulled what seemed to be the woman''s wedding ring out from behind her ear, then handed it back to the matron.


    "I have seen that skill before as well," noted Disomprey, but mostly from pick-pockets and street thieves."


    "The Fool did return the jewelry, Lord," noted Guerre De Temps, "t''were not theft, though perhaps over-clever."


    Desomprey frowned, noting a pouch hanging from the Fools robe seemed to fatten over the performance, although the performer was not passing a hat. "Have the jester approach me, Guerre."


    "Lord!" Guerre slammed a fist over his heart, bowed, and trotted off towards the entertainer. Ensued a few short words, during which the fool seemed everywhere around the Captain, who''s scabbard belt fell inexplicably about his knees, much to the crowds delight. In retrieving it, the captain''s short cape ended around the fool''s shoulders. Eventually though, the two returned to Desomprey. Detemps a bit red faced in the fore, the entertainer cartwheeling behind him.


    The entertainer made a sweeping bow. "My Lord?"


    Desomprey smiled down at the heavily powdered face beaming before him. "From where does your troupe hail, little girl?".If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    The entertainers face fell. Young girls did not travel the roads of Corrant B as entertainers, or without family. "How did you guess, Lord? Please, my Lord, I only mean to make my own way in this world. I''d not wish to labor in a workhouse, or service travelers at the inns of Cornet!"


    "A boy of your height and apparent age would be an uncoordinated mess, not a fluid acrobat with a gilded tongue. Also, your calves are tapered too high. Other things. I am not inexperienced with disguise. But I am not concerned with that. Answer the question."


    Her shoulders tightened, "From Cornet, Lord."


    "And before that?"


    "I do not know, Lord, exactly. I joined the troupe in Cornet. We performed there for most of the winter."


    "Not the troope, but you, personally."


    "Just Cornet, please your Lord."


    Jack Desomprey had not always been a resident of Corrant B, one of many lost colonial worlds that had degenerated during the isolation of the Great Hiatus. Corrant B was now classified a four, as a medieval level colonial world. Jack was a wanted man elsewhere, wanted for unsanctioned exportation of culture and technological contamination of class six through class three colonies. A non-intervention policy of the Galactic Council, with which Jack took actionable exception. The trick was, to get technology out, and circulating widely enough that it couldn''t be traced back to any one person, especially Jack. The printing press would be a big help with that, and its safety from Legates of the Empire, paramount. Which meant out of sight of Imperial agents, and Desomprey had word that yet another one had come to Corrant B.


    "You did not learn your trade in a few months while entertaining the bored gentry of Cornet."


    A smile returned to her mask, and another even more theatrical bow followed. "Even the least of us had parents at one time, Lord, though I may be alone in the world now. The Georges were not always the rulers of Cornet. Nor is the court there healthy for all it''s former denizens."


    Desomprey nodded. "Well might I imagine, knowing Giffen Georges. He attacked my steading here, last winter. I thought that might be the case. I won''t ask why you are fleeing, or who your sires were, but I can appreciate a person able to mask their origins, who have skills. What of the knife thrower?"


    "He joined in Cornet also. Came not with the original troupe. Snoops about the taverns when not plying his act."


    "Ever see him practice? Use other equipment save those rings?


    "No. Nor are his skills broad in the use of cutlery, he even dines clumsily, I have seen. A one trick pony, he is, with a profound disinterest in his fellows, for all his rooting about the local''s taverns for gossip, Lord. He does seem to do well making bets on his throws at the taverns howsoever."


    "I see. I would challenge you to perform a small slight of hand for me."


    The iron rings reappeared from Desomprey''s pocket. "Were you to juggle these close to the knife-man''s rings, might a few be substituted for those hanging on his line? - And bring those you change out to me?"


    The girls face twisted sideways and a new grin spread there. "Would require a bit of subterfuge, and slight of hand, as well as my juggling skills Lord, but possible. What might such an act of foolery be paying?"


    "A permanent position in my court until you tire of it, for one. Part of my retinue. Not necessarily as an entertainer either. I have manifold use for your skills, but for purposes of position, call it Court Fool, a sort of advisory, or devil''s advocate position. No more seeking the road to escape what persecutes you."


    The girl made a sober and quick nod. "I could accept that, Lord." The rings passed to her, she made her way juggling as she skipped, to where the knife thrower collected side-bets between his throws. She squatted beneath the line of rings, hers arcing high above, around and through them. Noticing, the dark haired man tried to run her off, which ended in a buffoon''s chase up and down the line much to the crowds amusement.


    Guerre looked on frowning. "Are you certain about this, Lord? What is the purpose of such a contretemps?"


    "The Fool is more than she seems. Obvious to me, well familiar with Cornet''s court. Probably a daughter of the former Jester there." Desomprey passed a small purse to Guerre. "Distribute this among your men. Have them place bets on the knife-thrower''s missing his mark. The odds should be good by now."


    Guerre De Temp shook is head. "As you will, my Lord."


    The performer had completed his betting and returned to line up on his target when the girl returned, passing back a set of six rings.


    "You were successful?"


    "Oh yes, these be not the hoops you passed to me, Lord."


    Jack noted a slight vibration from the rings, and putting his ring hand through the center of one, noted his heavy signet tugged to center and pulled forward. An agent of the Galactic Council. The show is a cover while he scouts for odd arrivals teaching forbidden skills, or introducing more advanced technology. Desomprey had an arrest warrant on him for such illegal introductions, and had become more careful in his work.


    Things went badly for the performer, who missed his target consistently, and even the rings.Several throws bounced off them with clangs, even injuring one onlooker with a deflected cast. Eight burly guards hustled up, demanding payment at three-to-one odds, along with others of the crowd. More, apparently, than the performer had to pay out. The guards emptied his purse anyway, and cast him out of the yard, where he took to his heels followed by several angry residents waving markers.


    Gurere rocked on his feet, hands behind his back. "Shame, that. A man shouldn''t dice with money he doesn''t have."


    "Indeed. See that word travels about this luckless, unskilled fellow. Wouldn''t want to find him employed by one of our unwary serfs. Oh, and if you will, have the blacksmith turn these rings into a set of horseshoes. - And procure a couple of long stakes. I''ve a game to show you."


    Turning to the young girl, he smiled. "Welcome to Gurtenhold. I didn''t ask your name, did I? You are called? --The truth now."


    "Mazzy Cornet, may it please, Lord."


    Despomprey nodded to himself,then leaned down near her ear. " I will see you are known just as Mazzy. I would not use Cornet, were I you. Have Gurere set you a room in the keep."

 Winds of March

    The battlements of Gurtenhold''s compound overlooked a scarred field of desolation. Smoldering foundations, dead animals, and tumbled walls of cobblestone surrounded the central compound and its keep, extending north all the way to the nearby woods. Desomprey curled his fingers against the Barbican''s hard stonework, and breathed in the constant wind that blew from the west. A smell tainted with sulfur, rot, and a hint of oil floated in it. Behind him, inside the keep, his men at arms worked wood for more arrow shafts, and bound their wounds. A small smokehouse inside the compound was being disassembled for its stone,to provide ammunition for the two catapults set up in the yard behind the holding''s newly finished stone walls .


    Giffen Georges, a bright and inventive, if aggressive, scion of the late Calvert Georges, and newly installed ruler of nearby Cornet, had again decided to expand his holdings. Trade had brought to Cornet some newer native technologies, such as the crossbow, and Greek fire, which he was quick to adopt. Two attacks had broken against Desopmrey''s holding, and the fortifications had done their job, repelling Giffen, who now camped out of bow-shot, but had not withdrawn.


    March was a bad time for such adventures. Desomprey contemplated Giffen''s probable next moves. The man''s conscripts would be leaving soon, to plant their fields. His ragtag of marauders would shrink alarmingly. There was little chance he would or could, sustain a siege.


    Good thing too, Desomprey thought, This time of year, the larders of the keep were at their lowest ebb. The man must have stumbled across something he felt would provide for a quick victory. But what?


    The keep''s children had been let into the Bailey for a brief respite from the central hall''s confinement, chaperoned by the few women not currently aiding the men, or tending to cooking, or any other of the multitude chores a medieval community required to survive.


    The waif''s faces tilted up at him, beaming. Small hands waved, and the children jumped up and down, squealing. Desomprey waved back,warmly noting Mazzy''s blonde mop among them. Mazzy, had brought him warning of Giffen''s adventure, allowing him some chance to prepare, and now entertained the youngsters with a little juggling, and trickery to keep their spirits up.


    His introductions of upgraded technology had made him a hero to these lost colonials. Such advances were slow and careful introductions though. If the Confederated Galactic Cultural Contamination Council felt the devolved colonies progress had been enhanced by outside agents - and he certainly did all of that - it would come again and search for him, or for someone like him.


    The sudden appearance of gunpowder, for example, would quickly bring star-ships down on fiery tails. They treated such colonies as zoos, and forbade the importation of technology with the rabidity of the wrong headed. Desomprey''s active disagreement with this policy prior left him a hunted man.


    Still, some introductions were accomplished. He had recently succeeded in introducing movable type, albeit of carved wood blocks, and a paper made of local wood pulp. Literacy again now blossomed and spread.


    Guerre De Temps, his captain, huffed up a ladder to the barbican, a copper tube fitted in his sash slapping one thigh.


    "My Lord, I have the tube, as you requested."


    Desomprey took the tube, another of his introductions, checking both ends for the glass fitted there, and raised it to one eye. The camp resolved blearily closer. Giffen''s camp worked to erect what appeared to be two towers. Siege towers? Looking with the glass showed no wheels or sleds at their bases. What use would immobile towers be? A platform of some sort was being built between them, further affirming their immobility. Scanning the camp, one area seemed busy knocking together cross- shaped frames, and covering them with sewn material.Perhaps gut, or linen.Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    Kites? Desomprey nodded. Kites were not new here, but not common either, light materials like linen being expensive to make, and fine looms scarce. Not something to waste on children''s toys. Some bright lad, perhaps Giffen himself, had figured out that if big enough, a kite could loft a man.


    Catapulting Greek fire had not turned out to be quite a game changer, as Desomprey had it too, and catapults in the open could be targeted. Hidden behind walls, Desoprey''s could be moved surreptitiously. He kept a large quantity of sand handy, tiled his roofs and built of adobe brick and lately, stone, not wood. Any approaching catapults were destroyed as they pushed into range. Fire from above though, could change that. The catapults and men could be targeted. Fliers were safe from return fire. And perhaps, would prove a substitute for wall-breaching ladders or clumsy siege towers, if Giffen could mount enough of them.


    Desomprey lowered the spyglass,and squinted at the sky, A few birds of prey circled in it, riding the higher thermals to slowly drift off towards the northern wood.


    "Guerre, how much Greek fire do we have on hand?"


    Guerre rubbed his rough-shaven jaw. "Two hundred jugs left, Lord, last count."


    "And hewn or unhewn stove-wood?"


    Guerre looked puzzled. "Harder to say, Lord. Enough to stand a siege though, if that''s the way of it. Several cords of chop and tinder. A reserve of uncut log, all bone dry, mostly from the palisade disassembly when the stone walls went up."


    Desopmprey stared again at the high circling raptors. Though spiraling, they always seemed to drift generally northward. They didn''t hunt the wood. Upon reaching forest canopy they dropped, and winged vigorously southward over the plain, to rise once more and spiral, swooping down on field mice, voles, or anything small that offered a meal.


    Jack Desomprey liked the Barbican, often spending his infrequent free time to watch the bird''s daily hunt from its ramparts.


    "Send men out the front gate,to pile the wood about the middle of town. I assume that would be reasonably safe, I doubt Giffen could cover that distance, to engage them before they could remake the walls?"


    "A safe guess my lord. Doubt he would try. But why-for?"


    "I want to make a big bonfire there, time comes, a big conflagration. Spread as long as our front wall, at least, and wide by several yards. Bury several jugs in it, maybe half our stock. Send five men out the side toward the north-wood. Have then dowse the trees before the river with the rest. Save back a dozen or so."


    Guerre looked shocked. "But, why waste it lord? T''would it not be wisdom to reserve it for the catapults?"


    Desomprey smiled. "I intend to lift the spirits of one and all."


    Guerre shook his head. "If you say so, M''Lord"


    The piling of burnables was completed before dusk, and Desomprey had one catapult moved to face the woods.


    There was activity in the enemy camp. Men and kite-like affairs mounted the now complete towers and crowded the platform between. Then, like bats leaving a belfry, they launched into the wind, rode it up a tad, then circled to head towards Gurtenhold, with the March wind behind them. They came on haphazardly, obviously not practiced in the sport, and floated lower as they approached. A few simply crashed. The flicker of small baffled lanterns winkled in the dusk air, like a clump of Chinese lanterns. Such lanterns were unknown here, as had been paper till recently, but the look seemed similar to Desomprey. Eventually the wind blew them over the town and nearer the keep''s walls.


    Desomprey signaled the forward catapult, and a flaming ball arced over the wall, touching off the long piles of burnables he had ordered set there. Instantly, the bonfire rose, a tall, twisting curtain of heat and smoke.


    The kites suddenly ascended like ash caught in the draft of a chimney. Higher and higher they climbed,until they caught the prevailing crosswind, the same one raptors rode towards the wood. A brace of the kites caught fire, and a light rain of Greek fire pots descended to the plain, increasing the updraft slightly.


    Guerre watched struggling skyborne neophytes attempting to gain control of their rides in the hot updraft and signaled the northern catapult. Another arcing ball was generated, then flame spat upward from the incinerating woods.The kites jerked upward again. A few, failing, dropped down into the conflagration. The rest sailed up, and scattered north across the river.


    "They seem quite taken away by the view, my lord," said Guerre.


    "A difficult sport to master, Guerre," noted Desomprey, intent on his spyglass. "Especially while juggling jugs of Greek fire." Through the glass, the tiny figure of Giffen was disassembling his camp, ordering his troops to withdraw. "Perhaps next year, then."


    "Perhaps, my lord."


    "All this reminds me of something, Guerre. Send Mazzy to me. I want to show her how to make paper kites for the children.

 Trees of Alcora

    I stared out the port for another few minutes. She floated there, in the cold of space, just above the event horizon, arms extended towards me like a 3-D snapshot, a life portrait. Below her, the pitch radius of a Black Hole her unending frame. I wept, mourning that which was neither lost n or saved. Neither gone or fully with me still.


    ***


    We had been recording the songs of Alcora''s choral forest.


    Light winds caused the singing, as they passed like shadows through the lithe branches. Elevating, harmonious, and beyond description. The weather caught up her golden hair also, played with it, as a child might. It was a green and verdant place, a separate, and a peaceful place. Shanna''s lips flexed, holding back the instinctive wish to join its melody. We both felt it. The recorder was on though, so we held back, quiet and appreciative, so there would be a good transcription to share.


    The song was eternal, for the wind never ceased here. It is said to have healing properties, and certainly, it poured balm onto my soul. The forest existed in a rift valley of this non-rotating world. Eternal, frozen night ruled one half, a torrid desert baked the other. But in between, in the twilight of the world, a mild wind swept serenely through the enchantment of the trees forever.


    No one lived here, in the rift between the dark and the light. Only a few hundreds of meters wide, the long valley wouldn''t support a colony, even though it encircled this world. Besides, no one could face this treasure and keep thoughts of tearing it away. It melted hatred, dissolved greed, salved all fear, soothed all remorse.


    Ageless, beautiful, glorious. So the trees sang on, until our recorder filled. Shanna turned off the recorder, and turned shining blue eyes to me.


    "Jon, do we have to leave?"


    There was a wistful pleading to her voice. I smiled.Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.


    "Not just yet."


    So we sat, her head on my shoulder, and we joined the trees in song.


    Leaves fell around us, each sounding its own note, until it decomposed. This happened swiftly, for the earth here was fecund with some sort of fast composting bacteria. The sad tinkle of each leaf ended as the earth reclaimed it utterly, before our very eyes.


    Closing mine, the melodic surf seemed to whisper, telling of its life, and the cyclic decay that both ended and renewed it, and I slept.


    In slumber, the song continued, and it seemed, a new theme twined with it, a warm and loving theme, one I knew well, depended on daily, that held the essence of my soul within it. It was...Shanna!


    My eyes flew open, and sought out my sleeping love. She lay slumped upon the rich earth, and as I moved to shake her from this mutual dream, I saw it. A cut, very small, on the inside of her forearm. Around it decay grew, like the rush of fire through wheat. I thought of the leaves melting away, how their song had died with each leaf''s return to the soil, to feed the trees again. The song swelled within me, her part of the refrain growing to an almost complete presence within it.


    I swept her from the ground and rushed to our ship.


    I placed her in the medical unit, and fretted as it tried to quell the fast spread of corruption. Our biology had no defense against the alien spore. The song was in me now, dominated by her presence. It called to me, of beauty and of our time together, our hopes, shared dreams, and knew, even as the refrain sang on, that an ending drew near; that her life was also to cycle back into the earth of Alcora.


    The machine affirmed that her end was inevitable. It''s drugs could slow, but not stop or cure the force that spread though her. A motif of pity tinged the flow of inner music.


    I ran to a console and lifted ship, spearing the Songstealer toward the only hope left me. This cosmic place where time stood still, just beyond the event horizon of a Black Hole, and consigned her flesh to it. My love floated down, slower and slower still, finally stopping, frozen in an endless moment of relative time, on the cusp of it.


    I turned from the port at last, and returned to the world of twilight, between the dark and the light, between heaven and hell, life and death, once more beneath the trees of Alcora, and sat. Listening.


    Sheena was within that song still, strong and loving, and alive, and would be for all of time. Someday, I will join her in the tree song, though briefly. I cannot be both here, infected, and in space jumping down into eternity.


    But for now, we sang together beneath the trees in a light wind, that passed like shadows through lithe branches. Elevating, harmonious, and beyond description.

 Shirt of Grey (Choice)

    The gray work-shirt didn''t fit very well, and was threadbare at the collar, but it had been clean. Fiona cursed under her breath, jerking and tugging to loosen the bolt. Her gray eyes squinted reflexively when the old fluid sprayed out, soaking the shirt''s breast and sleeves. Doggedly, she continued wrenching on the connector until the seal completely separated. The spray lessened to a blue fall of oil, ceasing to spurt, and pattered down into a waiting funnel. After wiping her hands off, Fiona tugged the sodden Mechanic''s cap firmly back down over her short dark hair.


    The Contine family had supplied only one outfit; a cloth cap, a gray button down shirt, and a pair of tan work trousers. The pants were men''s pants, with a too low crotch and untapered waist that corrugated uncomfortably when belted to her thin midriff. It would take an extra hour tonight to clean the uniform well enough to pass the Domo''s morning inspection.


    The star-liner was old, past due for maintenance. Pressure had built up behind fittings unopened in a decade of storage. The fleet''s newer ships were better serviced. For some reason, the hanger''s Domo had ordered all these older ones flight prepped.


    She reached in and ragged the gland of gelled oil, wiping it down carefully before resealing it. Fitting the fill hose to its nipple, she flicked on the pump, metering in the new lubricant. As she finished, some tech elsewhere on the massive cruiser, powered on the dormant A.I.''s general interface.


    Monitor lenses flickered to life along the passageway, one winked to life just above the present station. Its stabbing ruby light startled her, scanning across the identity code of the drenched shirt. Fiona recovered, then leaned down to pull out her tester.


    "Wait, tech Fiona. I can pressure test the sub-system for you." The voice creaked tinnily from a small speaker grille near the lens.


    It was not the first time she had been addressed by a ship''s AI, though these systems were few and the intent rarely helpful.


    "Oh, thanks."


    Fiona nodded appreciatively. The self-test would save her some work. Likely the A.I. was just performing its own evaluation, but at least this one had made an effort to save her a few steps.


    "Stable at 80 PSI. Tech Fiona, you are assigned to the level one hydraulic maintenance schedules?"


    "Uh, yes. Is something wrong?"


    "No. Pressure test and valve response time checks are part of my start-up routine, which will go better if the tests follow your servicing. My clock shows me dormant for over ten years. Several service functions are sluggish. We can work together on this, as it happens, and it will save you time. This is suitable?"


    It was a blessing, probably being offered techs all over the ship, now that the direct interface was on, but the deference was still a welcome scrap of attention.


    "Of course, Navigator. Direct me as you wish."


    "Just keep to your service schedule. I will do the tests and report my results to you. It will save you 18 minutes on each station. Your next valve port is 23D ?"


    "Yes. Yes that''s right." Fiona tugged her cart down the long central service corridor, but not without a longing glance backward at the elevator to the command center. This did not pass unnoticed by the A.I.''s pick-ups.


    "You have an interest in Navigation?" Then, by way of explanation, "I have access to your records."


    A wistful look passed over her slightly squared features. "I trained for it, but my father died the day navigation tests were given. I attended the funeral instead. It was take the Mech exam, or wait another year."


    "You couldn''t wait?"


    "Mother would have starved. I had to keep in some kind of program, or I would have been removed from the dole." Luckily, the house of Contine contracted to train me, based on my Mech pre-exam scores."


    The Residence Proctor, she remembered, had shaken his head adamantly. "It''s not up to you or me. This colony is entirely Contine property, including this residence, the food you eat, the ship that brought you here, the mills that provide your clothes. Even the air scrubber that extracts the ammonia so you can breathe it, all Contine owned. You are their property. They protect you, train you, and decide where you will stay."


    Fiona bridled. "My mother has lived here all her married life. My parents slaved their lives away for the Contines. It is only right we be allowed to stay."


    "This is a couples residence. Your mother isn''t a couple. The space is needed for another working married pair," the Proctor sneered, "and you would be best to worry more about your own future. You missed your examination date, yes? If you don''t pass one this week, you won''t qualify for housing at all, not to mention losing your stipend. What will you do then?"


    ***


    Having reached the next port, Fiona repeated her assigned maintenance cycle.


    "81.5 PSI, Stable. You are an efficient tech. I can''t say you made a bad choice."


    "Choice?"


    "To stay a Mech."


    Fiona shrugged. "A natural talent, I guess. Didn''t expect to pass the Mech. Just luck. I would have aced the Nav exam, could I have waited for it though."


    Choice. Almost, an anachronism. The dull routine of valve maintenance encouraged her mind to drift, and memory stirred.


    ***


    Walking the common corridors, the warm hand of Trip squeezing her own. The tan everplast walls seemed brighter, almost colorful. He nattered excitedly about his upcoming exams.


    "Dad thinks my best shot would be to take the Chemical engineering app, and stay in the city, but if I get a pass on the Agri-test, we could move to the farm belt. Good weather, no crowding, outdoor work, and lotsa time with each other come winter."


    Fiona laughed. "You just like the idea because you know your math isn''t good. Well, good enough for ship engineering anyway. I would have to give up Nav, and take the Agri-test, too."


    His eyes almost pleaded at her. "You could pass the agriculture exam! Place in farm logistics, or something--we would be together, that''s what counts!"


    Fiona sighed. "We''ll see. The exams are months away yet."


    ***


    She shook off the reverie, and focused on repacking her tools.


    "You are a dutiful daughter."


    "I was. Mother died soon after. We--I lost the survivor''s half stipend then. So with her housing reassigned, I ended in the single''s Mech barracks."


    "24D, next."


    The gland seal was seized, and Fiona had to chisel it out. She lost some skin replacing it.


    "79.7 PSI, stable. You still wish you had been able to follow the Navtrack?"


    Fiona winced, wiped her hands, then bandaged a damaged finger gratis the chisel work, considering. "Sure, but the Contine royalty don''t allow for changing occupation tracks. Too much trouble."


    "I may be able to help with that. I do have the standard exams in my files. If you can show me a pass on them, I could tutor you, put your name on the stand-by roster."


    Fiona hesitated, wondering why the ship navigator comp could give a damn. "You? Take an interest in me?"


    "I...resonate to your condition. I was trained as an expeditionary Nav-Comp. My purpose was to serve the colonists ¨C but ended installed to this ... royal barge. Does that surprise you?"


    Somehow, she reflected, it didn''t. She remembered when making choices had ended for her. It happened without warning, unexpectedly, like the fall of a ripe fruit from a tree. It was a robust part of your life, then suddenly it was gone, unplucked, lying in the dirt at your feet.


    More memories welled.


    ****


    She kept company with Trip in the registration line when war with the House of Trent had been declared. Something about a mining concession. All of the eighteen year old males exams had been suspended, replaced by the conscription. A crushing second blow, so soon after her father''s death. With the Nav exam for her group missed, all her options evaporated. Her mother, still morning dad''s death and facing the loss of her couple''s residence, was panicked and depressed.


    Trip swayed on his feet, looking down at the crumpled green notice in his hands.


    "They say it''s not permanent, necessarily. When the war is over, I can get assigned to other things, depending on training. Won''t be by open examination though, just by service record¡ªbest match. Maybe we will end up close enough to, to..."


    He fell silent.


    Fiona started to cry. The line moved forward with a shuffle of feet. They held hands again, kissed fiercely, then, he was gone.


    She took the very next available examination, for Ship Mechanic''s rating.


    ***


    Fiona found herself staring down at the three point wrench on her cart, and put her torn glove back on. A choice? Standby for ship navigation support? She laughed nervously. "I would have to be assigned as on-board crew, not as a station Mech, to qualify for standby."


    "You were not told?"


    "Told what?"


    "The Contine family is abandoning Auris Three. It is why I am active. Why I am being prepped for running, after ten years of dormancy. You will be assigned this ship, as soon as it is fully prepped. You will not see Auris Three again."


    "Abandoning?" Fiona stood speechless. "The whole colony?"


    "No, of course not. The Royal family only. Not enough ships in the system to accommodate the resident populous. Mechs, techs, servants and family members. 25D next."


    Fiona''s head whirled. So much for choice, still...She put her cart in order then pushed on to the next site, thinking about her friends, and beyond that, the broken families this would leave stranded here.


    "80 PSI, exactly. Stable."


    Fiona rolled the lube hose neatly on the cart, and checked off the station maintenance as complete.


    "Return tonight after hours to the external bay console. I can offer the exam to you then. By the way, I wouldn''t say anything about the Contine rout, were I you. If they wanted you to know, they would have told you."


    The hours passed more than slowly. Mech quarters were right at the hanger, to save time, so there was no question of access.


    The commissary was filled with Mechs, all just off shift and as ravenous as she was. The buffet line buzzed with rumors. A tall Mech pushing his tray ahead of her leaned down and whispered, "They say all the ships on planet are being prepped. Some kind of royal display for the Ascendant Contine''s birthday. A kind of parade is being planned."


    "Oh? A space parade? Who would be able to appreciate that?"


    The tall tech, Stafford, she remembered, shrugged. "Who can say what runs through the minds of Royals? Anyway, that''s what I heard." He looked at her expectantly. Everyone seemed to have some ''insider'' guess, and these were being traded like children''s collector cards.The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    "I haven''t heard anything official," Fiona temporized, reaching for a clean food tray, "but there''s a lot more work being done."


    Fiona heard other rumors, including that the colony was being abandoned. But all of them were guesses, whispers. Her nerves were raw by day''s end, from keeping silent, from adding to the confusion what little she knew. From wondering why the issue was left cloudy, unannounced. From questions piled upon questions, and of course, excitement over the ship Navigator''s opened opportunity.


    As promised, the console was active when she finally returned to the Waystalker. The test was exactly the one she had prepared for, those long years ago. As the A.I. must have concluded, her interest and self training, along with her understanding of ship mechanics, made the test simple. Not only her aptitude, but her grasp of specific system knowledge tested well above requirements.


    "You have passed. I will register you on the ship roster. You now have bridge training access, at my discretion. Would you like to go over the Nav consoles? I can allow you that now, if you like. There is no further Mech work going on at this hour. Good time to train, generally."


    Fiona thought about laundering her shirt, and the short sleep cycle that would mean. It all paled next to the opportunity to assert, in however small a way, control over part of her life.


    "Of course, Navigator. I''m breathless."


    "To the bridge then. The elevator will open to you."


    The Nav room was smaller than she had envisioned it from the diagrams and videos. The same, but perspective is a funny thing. She had always envisioned it as being larger, from the materials she had studied. The consoles, though, were exactly like the simulations she had run. Exactly, since this was an older ship.


    The following three weeks were exhausting. Running almost two out of three shifts, tending to Mech duties, then Nav training until late in the evening. All for a chance that some Bridge Nav officer would take a sick day, or be removed for discipline during flight. A carrion bird''s chance, hoping to profit from another''s loss.


    Domo Morgan stopped her just outside her sleep cubicle, and thrust out a sheaf of orders.


    "I have your exchange service papers, Fiona." He stared curiously at her for a moment, then grunted, "I wasn''t aware you had applied for the auxiliary function training. Not many techs know that program still exists. The auxiliary training sequence was scheduled to be phased out. Duty directs me to commend you, so, good work, I suppose, and," he hesitated, "Good timing. Next time, see to it you advise me directly about any -- outside activities you undertake, however. Is your training complete?"


    Fiona smiled. "Almost. Six more log hours to go. Luckily, the ship is still in dock, so I have had a lot of access time."


    The Domo''s expression soured instantly. "What do you mean by that?"


    "Oh! Nothing sir. Just that if I had to train on active service ships, I would have been lucky to log an hour or two a week. It has gone faster working with the dormant ships we are prepping. Just luck, sir."


    The Domo''s features smoothed. "Well, as it turns out, I am scheduling you for Ship''s complement aboard the Waystalker, when it''s recommissioning is complete, so as I said, good timing."


    "Thank you, sir. Can I ask when that might be?"


    Some of the sourness crept back into the Domo''s visage, overladen with a bit of suspicion, but that faded. He sighed heavily. "Yes, I suppose you would want to know that, as I have mentioned it. Their recommission is almost complete, save for stocking the galley with delicacies for the royal entourage, and general staples. So your new orders will likely be cut within the week. You have that long to work in those six hours, before the ship bridges become busy places. Carry on, but don''t let any of this interfere with your real work."


    She was tired , and reeked of lubricant, but managed to make her night''s visit to the Waystalker''s bridge, still excited that the ship''s prediction of reassignment had come true.


    "This session, we will work on planetary survey protocols. This is a little beyond the Contine Navi-tech specifications, but the log hours will reflect against your training requirement as well as any."


    "Satellite deployment? But, that is only done by survey ships, or commercial enterprise service vessels."


    "You are competent enough with the standard control systems. Your remaining hours would be better spent in considering advanced deployment protocols. This will constitute best use of your time. Fiona, there are...other reasons." Almost, a hesitancy seemed to enter the flat voice. "You have earned the opportunity I am offering. It will make a difference to you, I promise." The A.I. reverted back to its usual uncadenced voice. "As you know, ships of my class cannot make final decisions about landings, even when the protocols are automated. We were originally colony seed ships. The Nav personnel must make all final evaluations and decisions, whether the runs are standard or not. So there is more to do and to learn on older ships. Refer to the printouts I have provided. Only sixty pages or so this time. We begin..."


    It was interesting. Setting trajectories for small body insertions required solving non-standard mass, velocity and approach vectors. There were more look-ups to do, and of course, some probes orbited high or medium, instead of the low parking or approach orbits the ship itself used. Fiona wondered where the Royals intended taking the Waystalker.


    "You are almost fully qualified. Would you like to have me telex notice of your graduation to your friends and relatives?"


    Friends, she thought, that she would never see again. Taken, as she would be, off to whatever destinations suited the Royal complement.


    "You would do that, navigator? I have no close family left, but there are some, a few friends, near the shipyard. I know I will never be given time to contact them myself, the Domo bragged as much."


    "Did your Domo tell you when the ships will be lifting?"


    "No, Navigator. He seemed worried I might have found out, though."


    "The House of Trent has launched a fleet directly against the Contine holding here. They are every bit as viscous as the Contines, but their fleet is much larger. This place cannot be defended against the Trents. So the Contines are abandoning the colony to Trentonian mercy. The entire Contine military fleet is deployed midway between as a delaying screen, so the family is understandably hurried and wary of loose talk."


    Fiona thought angrily back to the proctor''s speech, when he had served the eviction papers. They really were just property to the families. Possessions to be discarded at convenience. "Just a change of masters, then, for most here."


    "Perhaps not for all. Don''t speak of this to the yard workers. They will be divided up to crew the ships, for the most part. Anything you could say would only serve to bring family attention down on you, so keep this to yourself. Not all have been told. You may as well bring anything you wish to take with you back to me tonight. I will set aside quarters for you now, as you will be crew on Waystalker. Yes, bring your things back, and stay here tonight--here is your room assignment. I will file your completions."


    "I, I need to wash my uniform, and my duties start early..."


    "Trust me with these details. I know your schedules better than your Domo does, since I handle them, as regards my fitting requirements. New shipboard uniforms are stocked on-board in any case. The Royal Contines are scheduled to board in three cycles, and I want my crew at station before that happens. I will notify your Domo, as appropriate."


    "I don''t mean to presume, Navigator, but protocols may have changed in the ten years of your dormancy."


    "Ten years are nothing. You cannot guess how long I have been in service. The Contines did not commission me, nor did their predecessors. The rest of the essential crew have already received instructions from me. You will not be boarding alone. Your scores were the highest of any I have trained, but you are not the only one. Several key operators needed...reassignment, and most of the new crew will be boarding with you."


    Fiona nodded briskly, eyes downcast. Ship A.I. navigator systems were respected and catered to. Most of the newer ships didn''t have them. Only the older ones, and most of those were kept dormant, as Waystalker had been. Whether this was because the technology was lost, or considered too expensive and unnecessary for standard running, she was unsure. She only knew that the royals seldom recommissioned them.


    The older ships, as the Contines kept in service, were extensive refits of the original colonial vessels. Their size assured comfort for the family, slaves and servants, on interplanetary affairs or junkets. The Techs, even the Domos, still deferred to the behemoths, when they were active. There was something about them that the Contines and their like, could not replicate, or quite do without.


    Back in her small alcove, she carefully packed the few things of importance to her. A framed picture of her parents found a place beside her nano-player, and song collection. A pair of real shoes,not issued work-boots, tendered to her on her sixteenth birthday by her mother. A carved bone comb, and an antique brush. A vial of scent, a packet of letters from Trent, letters that had ceased arriving a year ago. Her library and reader. There were not many things. Twenty years, and surprisingly, her world fit all in a duffel half as long as she was tall. She reflected on this a moment,before hoisting it to her shoulder.


    As warned, a troupe of workers clogged the various entry ports of the Waystalker. Few enough, still, to be lost in this yard of giant ships. Some stepped off the ubiquitous hover carts that always swarmed the yard, some seemed to have come on foot, dragging duffels, some perhaps from the berths of nearby ships still undergoing maintenance. In any case, she was not alone. Just one of many jostling along narrow crew corridors. Her ears filled with the scrape and rustle of baggage being manhandled into new quarters.


    Fiona followed the room numbers, noting the section flags. The general corridor layout was the same as on the maintenance decks, but still, this was unfamiliar territory.


    She, like all the others, had learned early to be quiet and quick on the way to her tasks, and uneasy about asking for direction. The thought spurred a quick glance at the hurried crewmen.


    Surprisingly there were no officers or Domos about. She hesitated before one final door, whose number matched the one Waystalker had issued her. She was high in the ship cabin area. Fiona bit her lip, worried. What if she had wandered into the wrong section? Was this the right room?. It will be, she asserted inwardly, or it won''t open to me. Entrance anywhere on a star-liner was monitored. She took a breath, and pulled on the door handle. A brief red light played over her identity patch, then the door opened. She bumped her sack over the threshold and into the cabin.


    The room, or suite rather, was thirty times the size of her alcove. The bed--there was a real bed--was more than twice, maybe three times the width of her shoulders! An embroidered blue and orange comforter decorated it, and below that, she found fine sheets stretched. There were built in drawers for things. A sliding door unveiled a closet the size of her alcove, with paper bound parcels of clothing stacked on the floor of it. Shelves scattered across the walls.


    Another door opened on a bath. A private bath! There was a sink, a shower...her eyes swept across it, but settled on a new, pressed uniform, just hanging there. Not a Mech uniform. Not even a ship-Mech uniform, but a full bridge navigator''s kit!


    She found, after first trying the shower, that the pants fitted at the waist, and were comfortable everywhere else, for a change. The clothes felt wonderful under her fingers, and some time was invested in front of the mirror, just to enjoy the sensation of them, and what they meant. It was hard to put a finger on. A sense of accomplishment, yes, but more than that. A sense of freedom, of personal...space, latitude...choice. Some of the closet packages contained clothes not necessarily suited to working, more uniforms, other things. None of them were gray or tan.


    She whirled, taking it all in. "I will never, ever, leave this room."


    Although speaking to herself, a reply rasped from a speaker set above the quarter''s door. "I am afraid you will, and often as well, Fiona. But not tonight. Your quarters are a little better than some, because they are closer to navigation. Your Navi-tech option has been activated. You will be appearing on the bridge most days, and are specifically to be there tomorrow by ten bells, ship-time,tomorrow."


    Fiona was aghast and elated at the same time. A dizzying sensation, that sent her to sit the fine bed.


    "What, what happened? Was there an accident?"


    "I would say rather, a reassignment. Several people on your notification list have agreed to come and celebrate your new status. You will find them gathered in auditorium five-C, tomorrow at nine bells, so I suggest you start your day a little early. That will be one deck down, second corridor. There will be others there, so you will have to look for your guests. Do not leave the ship tonight."


    "The Contines are going to allow commoners aboard?"


    "The circumstances are unusual, as we have noted before. The case warrants it. I suggest you retire now. There will be a briefing, at the proper time."


    She rose at eight, having slept in her new, luckily wrinkle-free, uniform. There was a commissary on the current level, she found, but in her state, taking advantage of it was furthest from her mind.


    The auditorium was crowded with people, some in ship garb, some not. It took a harried 15 minutes, but she found her group. They were clustered together, and beamed at Fiona''s appearance. Old neighbors, Bill and Linda Green, who had been of so much help when her mother had passed, and their daughter, Barlina. Tom Allen, one of the math tutors she had been assigned as a student, quite old now, it seemed, had come. Several friends from outside the shipyard were gathered as well. Becky, an Agri-tech, the other, Philip, a Med-tech. Trip''s parents had come. They all talked excitedly and simultaneously, so it was hard to sort out what was said. Generally, everyone seemed more enthusiastic than she would have thought appropriate.


    Bill grabbed her hand. "Thank you, Fiona. Such an opportunity, a shame only so few...but especially for our daughter, a blessing."


    Mr. Allen laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. "I knew there was something special about you. Sometimes with a student, you can just tell. This person will change a life, you think, and ...."


    Becky hugged her, Phillip looked on with serious, bright eyes. It was embarrassing, more than she had expected, and certainly more than was her due. Phillip waved a text fax saying, "When we got these, we grabbed what we could and boarded the hover-carts sent immediately. I knew there was something fishy going on, but no one was saying anything sensible. You probably saved our lives."


    Open mouthed, Fiona took the fax from Phillip''s hands. It was all there, the plan to abandon the colony, the imminent invasion, all of it, and an invitation from her to escape! Not just from the invasion and occupation, but from the Royals as well.


    The Navigator had never intended allowing the Royals to board. Voluntarily, no officer or Royal would ever confine themselves to ship, days before it was scheduled to cast off. No royalty, or officers of the royalty had been asked to board early, so none had. There was a temblor building in the floor, a sense of motion, and the auditorium address system came on.


    "Welcome aboard the Waystalker. By now you realize that all aboard her, depart to a new future."


    The auditorium screen lit, showing an angry gaggle of officials. Domos beat on the closed locks of the ship''s hatches, clutching important looking documents. Another pair in the background struggled to lug some heavy cutting torches up to the lock platform.


    One of them, yes, it was Domo Morgan, Fiona recognized the beet red face, glaring angrily up at the exterior camera lens. The faces grew smaller, as the ship rose. Smaller in more than size, she thought.


    "We are beginning ascent. Crew is directed to stations. Colonists to their appointed rooms."


    ***


    Fiona ran her hands deftly over the Nav console, still enjoying the cool feel of the controls beneath her fingers, despite all the months spent plying unexplored space.


    "What do you think of this one?" the Waystalker''s A.I. queried.


    Planetary data chuckled across the display, while she made a few small adjustments to the mineral survey probe''s orbit.


    Fiona knit her brows and ran a comparison against prior candidates. "It is definitely worth considering."


    One of three possible new homes they had discovered. She dispersed a soil report to Philip, to make some decisions as to which of the available seed crops might do best here. The temperate zone spanned a larger latitude range than the other two, but the planet also pulled a slightly heavier gravity. Not, she thought, uncomfortably so. The ocean percentage was greater. Daniel Fess would have to go over the geological reports closely, and of course, everyone would get the overall summary. Then, a location for starting the colony needed choosing. It was only one of many decisions that needed to be made. One of many, many choices to be considered.

 Oceanside

    It looked like the edge of the world. I motored onto the sunken beach reluctantly, only at Evaine''s insistence. The view here unnerved me.


    She flung the door open, leaped out, and rushed toward the dark waters. Here, miles of sullen tide-pools fronted an endless expanse of ocean. It was a trackless waste of dead water, terminating against the ocean''s endless curve. Under starless fading light, far banks of low gray cloud punctuated a lost horizon so limitless, you feared falling into it.


    There are certain places on this earth: A mountain overlook in the Yukon at dawn, dropping away with the frightening vertigo of the Grand Canyon. You look out, not to the comforting presence of a far rim, but at a surreal expanse of cloud piercing, jagged teeth. It seem to warn, to enter is to be lost. A devil''s vista, it shakes the life from you, leaves you to feel alone, chill and vulnerable, lost in vertigo before it. The beach here was one of those places. It built on fears you didn''t know you had.


    I followed her to a crumbling gray cement bridge, squatting alone in a puddled depression of this trackless delta, just a few yards long, spanning a pool from nowhere to nothing, onto a low bed of half-submerged round beach stone. It called you onward, the sunken jetty bending away and out of sight, until all around you was nothing but listless tidal waves, and chilling liquid forever.


    I don''t think there was an end to it, a destination for the thin path. You went along it until fright and danger drove you back, or it finally dissolved beneath bleak waters. I followed her until she stopped to perch on a lone eruption of black rock. She sat there, staring out into the cauldron that lapped at our feet.


    "It''s not safe here," I warned. Beyond was nothing, just mist and thrashing wave. "I don''t know if the tide is in or out. We could easily get swept from this rock."


    She turned her head, focused on me. "It''s home. I come here sometimes, to think."


    The idea disturbed me. The very air here screamed of danger. This was one of those places man, in his perversity, set aside as a reminder of his frailty; not to appreciate nature''s beauty. I doubted the rare visitor lingered more than a few moments before turning back. It held all the charm of a halo jump, all the color of a tintype. Its sole feature was distance, in unrelieved perspective.Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    Even to stand here sent adrenaline coursing through me. To watch Evaine actually sit and ponder it suggested some vast, perhaps unbridgeable, difference between us.


    She pulled back her yellow hair, frowning. "I am an orphan, you know. Raised here by my adoptive parents. You should meet them, John. Wonderful, kind people, if not my own."


    "I''d like that. I can take us to dinner, then pull by there and drop you off, if you want."


    I had met her in town on a curio tour of these small Oceanside communities. There were many antique shops in this one, filled with nautical memorabilia and old, imported brass. Legacies of sailors'' travels, wooden ships, and whaling voyages.


    She had turned up in a coffee shop, and we had started a conversation. One thing led to another. I''d stayed over, and today she''d brought me here.


    Her eyes, green and endlessly deep, softened, watching me in my discomfort. I am not agoraphobic, but there are some places that can dig under anyone''s skin, and this was certainly one of those.


    She reached out one thin hand. "I wanted to thank you for the time you spent with me. It was good to sit, and talk like we did. It meant a lot." She smiled wanly, returning to gaze introspectively at the deep, dreaming waters. "They say all adopted children come to a time when they must search out their roots, find that from which they were...dispossessed. I''ve come to that time."


    I wasn''t quite sure what she meant, but nodded uncertainly anyway. I held back on voicing my discomfort for her sake, and waited quietly. Without warning, she pulled my face down to hers and kissed me. Surprised and delighted, this distracted me from my contest with the insensate and defiant power surrounding us.


    She seemed to come to some private decision, rose from the rock, and facing the endlessness, began to walk on. I stood rooted in fear, my flesh unwilling to go any further, heart a trip-hammer. The shallows deepened quickly, and she was soon wading waist deep into the surreal surf. I called, and pleaded for her to return to solid land, watching in panic as she dove forward, and did not rise again.


    I held my place with difficulty for a time, seeing nothing but a lone dolphin-like tail lofting a salutation in the distance. Eventually fear drove me back along the rock, to the higher sands where I sat and waited. She lived here, knew this place, I told myself. She would not do anything truly stupid; purposely drown herself. She would come back over the bridge, and I would see her, and we would go to dine.


    The beach slowly darkened. I returned to the SUV, started the motor, and drove back to the highway in a stupor. I did not know where her family lived. Maybe this was her way of ditching a date, or maybe it was something else. In my mind, a dolphin''s tail rose across black waters, waving.

 Nights Of Wind And Sand

    "So he carried me before Solomon, who received me after the foulest fashion and bade bring this pillar and hollow it out. Then he set me herein and chained me and sealed me with his signet ring, and Al-Dimiryat bore me to this place wherein thou seest me..."


    Literal translation by Richard F. Burton, City of Brass, The Arabian Nights


    It was a small bottle. The lead plug melted into the neck was so tiny, that the Seal of Solomon emboss could barely be made out without a glass, yet it was there. Don turned it over in his hands, squinting at this present of the wind, that had blown away the concealing sand.


    The gifting winds  twisted up ribbons of gagging dust, invading his nose and irritating enough to choke him. The glare of the noon sun crashed down to bake uncovered heads, leaving small ink spots of shadow that tried to hide under things, just as their owners did, if desert savvy.


    Donald screwed the sweaty pith helmet tighter to his head and hiked back to the relative cool of the land rover, where a gurgling swamp cooler, mounted to the side window, fanned moist cool air through the otherwise unconditioned cab.


    The thing had shone out like a beacon, even from ten car lengths off the dry roadbed,  so hot from the sun that it singed his fingers picking it up.


    The Janub Preservation Project team had just completed its survey. The two minor structures, threatened by the Stadt - Dixon desalinization reservoir, would be moved block by block to higher ground, salvaging the architectural history they represented from a flooding burial. Nothing but a few shards of pottery and some faint tiled inscriptions graced the otherwise artifact-free structures. However, the buildings were important in themselves to researchers, even if they did not qualify as big deal tourist attractions. Not every preservation effort made headline news.


    Little surprises like this bottle were often the highlight of these otherwise pedestrian assignments. Peering through a surveyor''s transit, and pegging up small flags while trying to keep sunstroke at arms length, comprised the bulk of the work.


    Don wrapped the bottle in a handkerchief and stowed it in the truck''s seat box.


    According to legend, Solomon built his great temple with the aid of Hell''s chief, Asmodius, after about 961 B.C, controlling the demons with his six pointed seal, the mark of Tetragrammaton. The symbol itself is ubiquitous, of course. Supposedly only the seal ring given to Solomon by God held power over such spirits. Likely the bottle, old as it looked, would not date back to before 900 B.C. The area would have been considered part of northern Arabia by most but still part of the expanded frontiers of Solomon''s influence. Anyway, the object would spark the interest of his partner, Sarah.


    The sand kicked up under the rover''s tires as he peeled off, jouncing along the virtual cattle track to make up lost time. Eventually he had to turn off even this condescension of a road to approach the site. The drive became a nasty challenge, and Don had to depend on a compass bolted to the dash to keep on course. Eventually, two blocky structures resolved on the desolate terrain.


    Sarah watched the dust plume off the truck as it came into view. One hand held a salute to baffle the solar glare, the other held on to her wide brimmed gardening hat against the wind. She had been anxious about his long trip through the Janub Sina alone, despite their need for fresh power cells.


    "Did you have enough water for the trip?"


    He grinned, looking up at Sarah''s approach. "Yes and no. Halfway back, I had to drain a little from the trucks swamp cooler, but no big deal. We''re all set ''cept for raising those tiles, right?"


    Sarah nodded. "We''ll need the batteries to run the floor saw. Lug a couple of em'' inside and we can get to it."


    The two buildings were tentatively categorized as constituting a Moabite trading outpost. The larger structure had three rooms; one for stocks, one for the traders, who would live on the post, and the shop front area itself, where merchandise was traded. The smaller structure seemed a simple temple, a large square room, with pockmarked, block walls and a floor unadorned save for a central set of ornately inscribed tiles. It was thought possible that the inscribed sandstone tiles were in some way connected to the worship of Chemosh, an early and bloody deity of the Moabites, contemporary with the reign of Solomon, according to some. They had decided to remove the stones now, for safety, before the deconstruction crews arrived.


    Sarah''s presence reminded Don of the bottle, and he dug it out from between the seats, turned and flashed it at her.


    "What you got there?  Salt tabs, vitamins? "


    Donald smiled broadly. "Desert treasure. Found it on my way back. Looks real old too. What do you think?"


    Sarah peered curiously at the bottle, taking it in hand and holding it to the lower but still withering sun. A milky flow could be made out through the semi-transparent sides. Revolving it to look at the top, she caught the tiny dual triangular crest and circle pattern of the seal.


    "Seal of Solomon. Pretty small bottle for an Ifrit, don''t ya think?"


    "Hey, I just found the thing. You''re the big cheese expert on this soiree. Thought you might get a kick out of trying to place it. Could be a new bottle of perfume for all I know."


    "No, it''s old, all right. Doubt it dates back that far, there''s something still in it. The seal symbol was popular for a long time, used as a ward to aid the preservation of contents. The kind of superstition that drove Pennsylvanian farmers to paint wards on their barns. That marking on the bottom though," Sarah chewed her bottom lip and frowned, "that''s a very old style glyph. Might be something. See here?" She traced her finger over the flat bottom of the bottle. "That, my friend, is a glyph for bricklayer. Maybe it''s a mortar additive."


    "And maybe," Don quipped, "it''s a very small evil bricklayer. You know, tiny."Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.


    "Not as tiny as your mind if you think this gets you out of moving those batteries into the building before dark." Sarah pointed to the diesel flatbed behind the larger building, while slipping the bottle into her shirt pocket. "There''s a hand truck under the carrier with balloon tires on it. You can use it for free. I move the stick around, you handle all the complicated equipment. That''s the dealie-oh. See ya."


    Richard trudged to the flatbed while Sara retreated out of the full sun and into the smaller building.


    Soon the batteries were sorted out and hooked up to the construction lamps and what-not. Don finished wrenching together the scaffold for their small electric winch. An early dinner of unleavened flat bread and what remained of the cheese was washed down with tepid water fresh drawn from the sweat bags. The burlap-sided water bags kept their contents a little cooler than the scalded metal canteens did.


    The cut lines were marked on the plain stone floor around the tiles. Already numbered and cataloged in situ, the tiles were ready to be removed. Evening came on, and they moved outside to catch the comparatively cooler air, and watch the nightly spectacle, before finishing the last of their work.


    Night flowered with the racing departure of the falling sun. It dropped exhausted beneath the flat horizon like a thief, stealing away the remaining light. Warm zephyrs played under a heaven suddenly revealed, and stars cut from clearest Russian crystal danced across the sky. Against this pitch desert firmament, scintillating patterns formed that seemed to whisper of tales told by Bedouin emirs and Arabian princes long dead. Don pulled Sarah close, compelled by the mystery revealed, and they kissed in the solitude of the timeless sands.


    The hot, dark air seemed supercharged with dry static power.


    Somewhere, far to the east, welding robots crawled through a steel riverbed, joining the pipes that would soon bring part of the desalinated red sea here, to turn this desert into crop land. But for now, magic ruled, and all the tales of a thousand and one nights held court.


    Reluctantly, they returned to the hot confines of the small building. Sarah switched on the yellow tungsten construction lights, throwing jagged, pin sharp shadows splashing away from every box, bag and can that lay on the floor.


    Don plugged the cement saw into the battery box and lined up on the scribe marks surrounding the tiles. With a whine the saw bit deep, and in twenty minutes the square area was ready to lift.


    They worked thin strong nylon belts into the cracks, then carefully see-sawed them underneath the cut masonry, finally hooking them back onto the small electric hoist that depended from its pyramid of struts over the floor area. Don picked up the switch box and thumbed the green button.


    Slowly, to the thin keening of the hoist, the tiled section rose. A light seemed to gather beneath the slab, a faint orange glow that strengthened as both struggled to swing the dangling section over the waiting flat cart. At first it looked to be an effect of the construction lamp''s reflection underneath the slab, but as it swung away, the light increased.


    A scraping, scrabbling sound came up from beneath the tiles, suddenly lurching under their hands. Sarah gasped, pulling her hands off the stone as if stung. Her startled eyes sought Don''s questioningly. Again the slab bolted upwards and both the preservationists pulled back in alarm.


    Suddenly a huge glowing arm swung out from beneath the slab, and a smell of decay and festering wounds enriched the air. Then a second arm joined the first, and an animal countenance drew itself up from a pit centered beneath the breached flooring.


    Armored in bronze and leather, Chemosh, the Abomination of Moab, lord of death and war, rose. Its massive mailed hand shoved the slab away and the apparition roared, hitting Sarah and casting her to the floor. The small bottle Donald had given her flew from her vest pocket and spun across the tiles, shattering on the unyielding stone of its sepulcher. The Demonic form straightened, dragging up a huge crescent headed spear, and gazed hungrily down at the pair of preservationists, its drooling saw toothed mouth splitting open in a macabre rictus .


    In the corner, smoke poured from the forgotten shards of the small bottle. Glittering under the streaming Arabian starlight, it formed into a naked torso above a rich red sash, below which smoking, glittering dust whirled in a tornado''s dance. Even as Chemosh reached out to grab the fallen woman, it rushed forward in a blur of activity. Around and around the twisting figure of the God it sped.


    In moments a wall of stone rose course upon course, surrounding the deity, impeding its progress out of the pit. Don and Sarah watched, frozen in horror at the spectacle. Chemosh raised its great spear, stabbing and slashing at the whirling Ifrit who continued building its brick and mortar barrier higher and faster, finally closing it in a dome over the fearful mien of the God of unclaimed dead.


    Beneath the dome a pounding grew, and small cracks appeared in the entombing structure.The Ifrit pointed at Donald with importuning eyes, and gestured toward the broken remnants of its bottle. He unfroze to look where the Ifrit pointed, confused and unsure what was wanted of him. More cracks appeared in the Ifrit''s handiwork, and it resumed its blurring whorl around the encased god, patching and repairing the structure as it went. The pounding increased and more fractures appeared. It seemed the Ifrit fought a loosing battle. Soon the god would free itself.


    Donald moved toward Sarah, who slowly picked herself up from the floor. The Ifrit screamed, stopping to jab one hand again towards the bottle''s remains, then melting back into the blurring rush around the imprisoned deity. Don stared uncomprehendingly at the ifrit for a moment, trying to divine the Djinn''s intent, then turned back to help Sarah.


    Sarah staggered to her feet wiping blood from a small cut on her head. "The seal!" she gasped. "It wants you to get the seal!"


    Moving in a daze toward to the bottle''s shards, Don scanned the floor, and saw the small gray lump of lead still lodged in a portion of the bottle''s broken neck.


    The pounding reached a thunderous level, each strike shaking the entire building, and larger rents appeared in the Ifrit''s work. The roaring became an incessant force, pounding at the preservationists ears, driving away all thought and emotion, save quaking fear.


    Despite its incredible speed, cracks continued to form faster than the Ifirt could repair.


    Don grabbed up the seal and cracked off the remaining glass, holding it up toward the Djinn in shaking hands. The Ifrit pointed to the top of its domed wall and keened imploringly. Don staggered across the vibrating floor, climbing the remains of the hoist''s supports, and looked down at the top of the Ifrit''s barrier. There in the center of the dome, was a small perfectly round hole, through which the blazing eye of Chemosh, glared.


    Donald fumbled the seal and reached down, dangling from the scaffold, and with shaking hands, pushed the small bit of lead into the hole. The seal glowed, flowing to fill every gap between itself and the stone.


    The pounding ceased.


    The low susurration of the desert winds filled the silence of the tomb, and the upper portion of the Ifrit dissolved into the revolving dust devil below it. The whirlwind circuited the room twice more, then vanished out the ancient portal and disappeared into the hot waste of dessert sands.


    Neither Donald nor Sarah ever figured out why the Ifrit had saved their lives. Don guessed it was because Sarah had released it and, like in the old tales, owed a debt to her. But it was gone now, and that guess would likely never be confirmed. With any luck, neither would the existence of such things.


    Both worked through the night, bricking up the temple entrance, and then revised and resubmitted the deconstruction plans. Under the revised plan, only the larger of the two monuments would be salvaged, due to cost overruns. Both preservationists attended the opening of the reservoir, and the hydro engineers noted a profound sigh escape the pair, as the waters rose and covered the remaining structure forever.


    Must be tough for a preservationist, agreed the engineers, to have to watch historical monuments be destroyed, but that''s progress for you.

 A Thousand And Two Nights Street

    His eyes bulging, white teeth a tight line beneath a thin black mustache, the swarthy man pulls and wrestles with my left hand.


    "Give it to me! The ring! Now!"


    A sudden push, and both of us topple over the balcony rail.


    A giddy weightlessness vies with the roar of wind streaming past my face. Far below, gnat sized people swarm and eddy, providing me with a sense of scale against the flat ground. The brick facade of the building, blurring by on my left, a flailing dark suited figure pacing my decent on the right. I have lost control of my orientation, so the vista changes moment by moment as I helplessly and slowly revolve; no direction constant save for the inevitable downward crush.


    I rub the damn ring and an alarmingly toothed maw forms just below me.


    "Shit," I note.


    Images flash through my mind, though not the ones you would think.


    #


    Sarah eyes me speculatively, one hand running through her brown hair, searching for knots. Her other fingers drum lightly upon the breakfast table while she awaits her toast which is singeing along nicely in the toaster. I am bent over a small fry-pan, carefully attentive to the popping eggs sizzling in a minor sea of butter.


    "Are you going to get rid of all that trash finally?" she asks.


    This of course references the oft-mentioned stack of boxes cluttering our garage, a bequest of sorts from my late uncle.


    I use the term bequest, just to be upper class about things. I wasn''t mentioned in the Last Will and Testament but after his death my relatives descended on his house like crows on corn. The stuff no one else took, fell to me to clean out. This amounted to an attic-sized pile of crumbling corrugated boxes and old milk crates, now piled against one wall. No day went by without a comment about the inconvenience this cramping pile caused Sarah, or the dust that brushed off on her clothes each time she scooted past it.


    "Yep, today''s that day. Just as soon as ..." The toasts click up and I stop to pluck them out, browned and steaming. I add them to the plate and layer on the hot, aborted chicken legacies. The yellow centers goggle up accusingly at me, but they are Sarah''s favorite morning supplement. Me, I''m a cold cereal guy. I move the plate to the table for her. "Soon as breakfast''s over with."


    "Good. Need any help?"


    I shake my head. "No, think I can manage. You can move the Chevy out of the way though. I want to sort through the stuff a little before it goes to the curb."


    "Sure. As long as I can pull the car back into the garage before the day''s out. Say, this isn''t going to turn into some dragged out deal, is it, Don?"


    "No,no; just a quick look or two. Uncle Jeff might have stashed some tools; you never know."


    Sarah sighs and forks up some egg and toast. "Nothing we can''t live without, I''m sure. Just don''t get all maudlin and save out a bunch of crap, OK? Please?"


    "It will all be sorted out and gone today. Promise."


    "Oh, and let me know if there''s anything for the church Bazaar in that mess. I have to go to the university library now anyway."


    She nudges a couple of tomes piled next to her elbow. "Returns."


    I suppose it was a little odd that my uncle and I had not gotten closer. His fascination with Egyptian artifacts was, in a way, seminal to my picking archaeology as a college Major though later my waffling course choices had led to a firmer commitment to civil engineering. In the end, as my education grants ran thin, I had scrambled to consolidate my coursework to yield an identifiable degree in archaeology with a minor in surveying. This, along with my field co-ops eventually netted me my loving Sarah and my site surveyor job for the Preservation Society.


    We had just returned from the Standt / Dixon Desalinization project in Arabia. Our encounter there with a real Ifrit and a hair raising episode with an old Moabite God had shaken the urge to travel from us, and we both quietly filed for our off-time as soon as we finished up there.


    The society loves sending out married couples. They feel that the high-travel jobs go smoother when staffed with compatible pairs, or something.


    Anyway, we returned in time to make the surprise funeral of my Uncle and inherit the clean-up opportunity.


    Sara finishes up at table and is off to the library leaving me to rummage through the eclectic collection of crap in the garage.


    I position two empty waste cans near at hand, and began cutting open the taped boxes. Lots of curled up photos. Old ribbons from gifts salvaged more from habit, I suppose, than intent to recycle. Old books, old in a bad way, outdated texts on early Egyptology and such. There were yellowed digests and pieces of crockery awaiting a glue-pot that had never materialized. One small box, once I excavate it of paper, yields a dozen earthenware cosmetic pant pots which in their time likely decorated the dressing table of some first dynasty lady-of-means. This is a surprising find. My uncle was only an armchair archaeologist, a fascinated hobbyist more than a traveler or collector.


    One jars'' small lid is adorned with the sitting figure of a thin, squatting Fakir. Lightly pinching its head, I gently wriggle it free from its pot and inside is a small, jeweled seal ring. I dump it out and scrutinize it. The inset stone looks to be a small ruby. I fit it to the little finger of my left hand, set the collection aside to show Sara, and rummage on.


    There are no other surprise finds. I salvage an old cement trowel and a gaggle of mismatched crescent wrenches. Refusing to give up my manhood by not rescuing these, they get dumped into my toolbox.


    The rest ends up in the cans. While putting the lid on the last rubbish container, I see the gilded edge of a small pocket memo book peeking out from the debris. It is black leather bound, with a white sticky label pasted on the front cover. Just one word, Egypt, is scrawled on the label. I hesitate, then pick it out of the trash.


    Uncle had made one foray to Cairo in his younger days. Maybe, I think, there might be some notes about the pot collection in it. Sara might be interested, being the big time archaeologist in the family. I pocket the thing and then haul the rest to the curb.


    Sarah returns home happy to find the garage vacated, cleared of potential memorabilia, and gives me a pleased peck on the cheek. "Thanks, Don. The garage looks much better now," She says.


    "I did find some interesting things in all that stuff though."


    Sarah raised her head inquiringly, so I continued, "On the coffee table in the front room. A small box I saved out for your professional scrutiny."


    "If you say so."


    "Well you could at least look at it, might be something for the Bazaar, at least."


    Sarah sighs and plods into the front room. I stay in the kitchen at a safe remove, and let her browse through the box undisturbed. A small shriek, which I have learned passes for "Eureka!" from my mate, calls to me so I join her.


    "Ooo! A complete set of First Dynasty cosmetic pots! Where the hell did Jeff ever find these! They belong in a museum! Oh, I hope they aren''t on a proscribed list someplace. Do you know when they got exported?"


    I confess my ignorance as to my late uncle''s affairs, helpfully including the fact that I have salvaged his memo book from interment, and mention Jeff''s tourist jaunt to Cairo. I pull the notepad from my pocket, and hand it over. Sara flicks her eyes up from the book to the ring, now half embedded below the knuckle of my little pinky.


    "What''s that?"


    "Oh! Erm, I almost forgot. I found this mixed in with the lot."


    I suck on my finger and try to pull it over the knuckle, with no success. Twisting it just seemed to irritate my finger more. It seems to swell up further as I fiddle with it. I raise my hand back to my mouth.


    Sarah grabs my paw, and gives me a scolding look. "Stop that! You don''t know where it''s been. Don''t put it in your mouth, God''s sake, Don!"


    "It came from the box."


    This nets me a whack on the head. Sara is good for head whacks.


    She pulls my hand close to her face and squints at the ring.


    "This could be First dynasty too. Don''t you dare try anything! We can go the University..." she looked out the window at the quickly darkening skies "...tomorrow, and have someone in the restorations lab suggest something. You should never have put it on in the first place, you idiot. Be extremely careful with it. Oh, I hope your body acids don''t damage it - What if it comes apart? What were you thinking?"


    "Hey, sorry! I''m an archaeological surveyor not an artifacts guy, and no surgery!"


    I get back a tight glare for this. So OK, I''m not comedy clinic material.


    "Let''s look at the notebook," I suggest. "Maybe Unk wrote something in his trip-book." It is a good ploy and re-centers her interest on something less fragile than my Ego.


    The notes actually were from the Egyptian jaunt as it happens.


    "Look,"said Sara, pointing to one of the scratchy entries, "he bought it in Cairo. Goes on and on about getting the set from a digger in a marketplace there, but that''s all. Let me go look through my references."


    Now, with Sara distracted, I wander to the front door and pull in the mail. Nestled amid the usual, is a business envelope. The return label states Tucker, Ahamat, & Sheem P.C. 1002 Knights Ave. It''s addressed to me in dry courier type. I scoot my thumb over the Glassine address window, wondering what this could be about.


    Enclosed is a typed missive stating that a sealed letter from my late uncle awaits me at their law office. Apparently part of the estate distribution. A handwritten memo from one of the partners, Ahmat, is attached. He apologizes, stating the envelope was to have been delivered prior to the estate disposal but got mislaid. I need to sign for it, though.


    It''s too late to make the trip downtown, but my curiosity is running high. I show Sara the letter and tell her I want to pick it up tomorrow before we go to the university, since the Law office is not on the way.


    Arising early, I ease quietly out from between the sheets and tip-toe to the bathroom to dress, grab the letter, and scoot. Traffic trudges along at the typical weekday slog and I find myself backed up in a traffic queue, awaiting my shot at the freeway ramp. The yellow painted traffic control bulges its red eye at me like some pompous stoned mandarin, and my hands tap impatiently on the steering wheel.Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    The ring pinches, and has managed to turn itself around, so that it now clicks on the wheel. Mindful of my wife''s concern for it, I twist my fingers about trying to readjust the seal face away from it, brushing over the inset stone several times in the process.


    #


    I am now suddenly elsewhere.


    Glassy red walls curve around and above me like some World''s Fair geodesic dome. The floor too, is a glassy red and hard. I know this because I am sitting on it, my arms still crooked out in front of me like the guy in the old Hertz car rental Commercials.


    Inanely, I note, no car.


    Suddenly a voice reverberates throughout the dome saying, "Adsum! Here am I, at thy service, O my lord! Ask and it shall be given unto thee. What so thou seekest, it shall come to pass, by leave of the King-of-all-might, Creator of day and night. I am the slave of this seal-ring, standing in the service of him who posseseth it."


    This is accompanied by blooms and billows of blue and red smoke out of which a giant, half-naked hunching form resolves - like a Buddha-form linebacker at the snap. I feel blessed that my morning trip to the bathroom was full service as I stare open mouthed, scared witless by this looming apparition.


    "Gahh!!...I,...in the car," say I.


    The giant form Salaams raising a hand bigger than me.


    "Wait for it..." it intones, "Whatsoever he seeketh, that I accomplish for him, and I have no excuse in neglecting that he biddeth me do, because I am Sultan over two-and-seventy tribes of the Jinn, and they are all under command of me and may not gainsay me. My name is Abu al-Sa''adat."


    The pedantry rings in my ears, and strikes a memory. I have heard this before. Or most of it, almost word for word, from the Arabian Nights tale, Ma''aruf, The Cobbler.


    "You were the Jinni of Ma''aruf the Cobbler? "


    "I am that very one!"


    "Passed on to his second wife the princess Dunya, until her death?"


    "And as it is writ and told!"


    "I guess, Ma''aruf also passed you into the keeping of his last wife, the daughter of his Wazir? The story doesn''t say."


    "Good guess!"


    "And then into her paint-pots until my uncle found you?"


    "Ne''er didst he rub upon the crest, nor through cunning or grace, call out upon my presence, or puissance!"


    This recommended itself to me as the reason why Unk ended his days in a small suburban home instead of on the Riviera someplace. Although, come to think of it, coming into that kind of unexplained wealth these days would probably raise the hand of every tax collecting agency in the world against you. Hell, that would just be the short list. On the other hand maybe uncle Jeff did know, or suspect, the origin of the ring. Maybe that was what the letter was about. All this left me in an even greater burn to know the content of that letter.


    "Lo! Thou hast gotten hold of it, and I am become thy slave; so ask what thou wilt, for I harken to thy word and obey thy bidding!"


    "I was on my way to retrieve a last message left me by my uncle before he died. It''s quite important to me. Could you put me back, please, eh, safely on my way? I need to think more about this other stuff before I make any ¨C requests. Oh, one other thing. I can''t help but notice you seem to, er, slip in and out of vernacular on occasion. How''s that?"


    The Jinn grinned a monstrous grin, and flicked the nearest red wall, which rang.


    "Crystal -- picks up radio waves." With that, he clapped his hands together. "Nothing were easier!"


    I am back in my car still at the light, and on my way to the law office.


    #


    The Door to my house blows open and to Sara''s startled stare, billows of blue and red smoke swirl into the living-room, out of which, a giant half-naked hunching form resolves - like a Buddha-form linebacker at the snap.


    Quoth he, "O my Lady, Quail not, for I bear thee no whit of malice, but instead, bring word of your Husband, whose tale now falls upon me to relate, as this I have seen with my own eyes, or by my arts."


    Aghast, Sara falls to our couch raising her hands to her chest. "What is this? What has happened to Donald--and what are you?"


    "I am the Jinni of the ring, Abu al-Sa''adat, O daughter of Eve. The tale is a burden upon me, and must I tell thee all to be free of it. So shall I reveal all, patient be. Here is the story."


    And this is the tale he tells her.


    Wherefore, know that in the days before the Destroyer of delights and the Sunderer of societies came for Donald''s uncle, being his mother''s good brother, that his uncle wrote a council full of rede and knowledge, to be passed into Donald''s hands upon his demise. This missive he placed into the care and keeping of his trusted Wazir of the right, for safekeeping, saying, "When the Orphaner of sons and daughters comes for me, thou seest then that this passeth to my sister''s son, Donald, that he may know my final thoughts in privacy."


    So it came to pass that Ahamat the councilor came into possession of it. But when the lamentable time had arisen, and all the uncle''s effects were cataloged, there came to Ahamat his partner Sheem, all wroth, who wept, crying unto him, saying; "O partner, in the name of the Living One, who to death is never dight, am I undone!"


    Asked the Wazir, "What is this thou tellest me?"


    Whereat Sheem cried out with a long cry saying, "Aforetime, long ago in Egypt, I was but a simple digger. At that time, I slaved for an antiquities dealer, Al-Hassa, uncovering the treasuries as lay hidden in the sands. These I would remand to him for my wage and keeping. It came to pass one day that my master came to me saying,"Go ye to thus and so place, where it has come to me that a cache is buried. Unearth and retrieve for me a teak wood box, otherwise you can have for your own all else you find there; and that you bring it forth to me unopened, and may hap, your fortune will be made, for is it not writ:


    How poorly, indeed, doth it fare wi'' the poor,


    With his pauper existence and beggarly plight:


    In summer he faileth provision to find;


    In winter the fire-pot''s his only delight:


    Hearing these verses, Sheem rejoices and cries, "On my head be it! I will go forth and uncover it, for I have fallen low in my estate! Whereupon the tears streamed from his eyes and he wept for joy with exceeding weeping, and kissed the merchant''s hands.


    Sheem proceeded forthwith to the spot the merchant foretold and did labor there a day and a night, till his pick did bark upon a rock, which disturbed, fell away revealing a deep black hole. Then he thrust in his hand and drew forth a heavy golden plate, all set about in Moorish designs. At this he cried out, for certainly his fortune was made. Then he thrust his hand a second time and brought out a box of ash, and some smaller vessels of brass and copper.


    "This is not done," quoth Sheem, "for no box of teak is among these things." Then a great fear overtook him, for surely his master would beat him, and take all in recompense for his failure, or should he run, bring down the judgment of the Kazi upon him. So again he reached into the hole, till his waist wedged in it, and his hands fell on yet another box, which he withdrew. This then was the box of teak for which he was sent and Sheem shouted out in great joy, packing full his bag of treasure and returning to the Bazaar, and his master.


    The antiquities dealer, Al-Hassa, awaited in his pavilion, lofty and spacious, washed in gold and silver, and in each corner a fountain of many colored marble. Wherefore did Sheem the digger throw himself down saying, "Blessings upon thee, O my Lord. For thy reede was true, and fortune has smiled on us. Here is the treasury foretold!" Opening this sack, he poured out the contents for the inspection of the Merchant. The merchant smiled, but rose not, for he was in company with Jeffery, the uncle of Donald, your husband.


    Quoth Al-Hassa, "Bring me forth the box of teak, O Sheem, and as for the rest, it is your own, as agreed."


    Sheem did so, and the merchant queried him as to what he would do with the bounty he had won.


    "O my master, I shall sell all, and seek my fortune with the proceeds."


    At this the merchant smiled and said, "I can assist you in this, then, for see, here is a client of mine, eager to acquire such relics as you now own."


    Therefore did Jeffery, your husband''s good uncle inquire of the artifacts and inspect them, finally cajoling Sheem to open his box of ash, wherein the paint pots of a women of means were revealed to their sight. Ensued then some little haggle, and the proceeds of the sale Al-Hassa remitted to Sheem. The rest, being beyond means of your husband''s uncle, were purchased for a fair price by the merchant and added to his stocks.


    With this, the merchant and his servant were left alone; whereupon curiosity having the better of Sheem, he queried his former master. "O Sir, must I ask it, what is contained in the teak box, whose retrieval has assured my future?"


    The merchant laid his hand upon it, and said, "This box it was told to me, were the property of the princess Dunya of Ikhtiyan al-Khutan, inherited by the third wife of King Ma''aruf, who had it from him as bridal gift. In it are her personal treasures, and it is said Ma''aruf''s seal ring, the ring of Shaddad, son of Ad, him of whom it is said, the base of many columned Iram laid. Whosoever controls the ring controls its Jinni, A Sultan of his kind and ruler of many tribes of Jinn. Behold, before it, all other riches pale; for its master rules all else."


    Sheem was sore amazed with this, and spake, "O Sir, pray open this box for I would wonder at its content!"


    Wherefore did Al-Hassa break the lock and fly open the lid so both could gaze within.


    The box was lined Inkhalanj wood, inset with Ivory, and Andalusian copper which is equal in value to gold, filled with pearls, and ruby adornments, and fine broach work such as were fit for a queen. Therein also were emeralds large as nightingale eggs, and pins of wondrous craft, but there was no ring to be found amidst these things.


    The merchant grew wroth, and thrust away the box. "Thief!" he cried. "Where is the ring!"


    Whereat Sheem pulled back in alarm saying, "I know not of the boxes treasures! I brought it to you locked, as t''were set afore you, and opened by your own hand!"


    The merchant thought on this, and saw the truth of it. "I was told poorly then and must look further. Still, a bargain made is a bargain kept. For your part then, keep what you earned by it and leave me in peace."


    So Sheem left in great joy, and took himself to university, and with his earnings, learned the craft of law. But never did he forget the ring and thought on it oft times. It came to him t hat perhaps the ring were secreted elsewhere in the trove he had uncovered, and thought also on the purchaser of the box of ash. He studied diligently his craft but also of such elder texts as could tell of the ring and its seeming, until it seemed to him he should know it on sight.


    In time, his talent brought enough wealth, so that he decided to travel to the new world, and purchased a place within a practice of law there. It was to this practice that your husband''s uncle came, to hire a Wazir to provide him council, and handle his affairs.


    Having related his tale to his partner, Sheem burst again to tears, wailing,"I never thought to again encounter aught of the ring, until Jeffery, your client, did appear. But see now in this inventory, no mention of the box of ash, or the pots of paints! All is truly lost to me!"


    Whereat he fell to sorrowing and wringing his hands, while his partner did take thought.


    Quoth Ahamat, "Know ye that Jeffries left a sealed letter, to be delivered unto his nephew, Donald?"


    "Ai! I did not! Bring it forth! Quick, let us open it an assay its content! May hap all is not lost, after all!"


    But Ahamat held him back from this saying, "Nay, for it is sealed and in trust to me, and would be unseemly to rend it. Also, actionable afore the courts of the land, so I may not. Still, were you to agree to share some of your heart''s desires and that it lead you to it, I will advise you when the man comes for his bequest. Then you could ask after the artifact, and may still come into it."


    To this Sheem agreed, and an announcement of the letter was penned and delivered to your good husband.


    Today, then, came your spouse, with the ring upon his finger to retrieve his uncle''s last words to him. As he had conspired, did Ahamat excuse himself from his presence saying, "Wait, and I will bring forth the letter." Then went he unto Sheem and told of his appearance, who made haste in his avariciousness, and ran forth to greet Donald, and professing to be an old acquaintance of Jeffery, offered him his hand. At this time Sheem''s eyes caught the glimmer of the ring, and he knew it was the seal ring of Shaddad, son of Ad, the long aspired to object of his quest.


    Whereupon, he took forth the letter, and walked with Donald to a balcony of his suite, offering him coffee and all manner of nuts and cakes and professing of the view until your husband followed. Then Sheem handed him the letter, saying, "This is the bequest of your uncle. I know you to be in his grace, for I can see his ring upon your hand."


    As Donald reached for it, Sheem grabbed his ring hand and pulled furiously, to dislodge it, that he might possess the treasure. But Donald pulled away, and the two contested on the balcony until your husband overbalanced, and carrying Sheem with him, flew from the perch and was cast down to certain death. But he remembered me, and rubbing the ring, gained access to my puissance, calling out, "O save me, for I fall to my death else-wise!"


    I appeared, capturing him in my mouth as he fell, and Sheem I caught also in my open hand, and flew us hence. Then turned to Sheem and spake thus, "O mortal, and that thou hast contested with my master, to steal and do him harm, so therewith you have harmed me. You must ask of me a boon."


    Quoth Sheem, "What boon should I have of thee?"


    "Ask into what shape I shall bewitch thee; a dog, an ape, or a fly?"


    Whereupon was the knave ensorcelled, and he did flit from this hand to buzz off towards the nearest heap of droppings, there to feast. Then did Donald say to me, "Loosen this ring for I cannot shed it on my own," and I did so. Then quoth your husband, "Were I to smash this thing, what of you?"


    "Alahu Akbar! Then I would be released from its servitude never to trek this cursed land again! By Solomon, I Swear it!"


    Donald took him to thought, and says, "But my good wife would revile me, and never believe me, and many days would I sleep alone on my divan, nor would that day come when all taint would cease and I hear of it nevermore. Also, I should have nothing in its place to give her."


    Quoth I, "Command me and I shall lay the world at your feet. Ask, and a mountain of gems, shall I bring to her, carried on the backs of ten thousand Mamelukes all dressed in kingly silks, praising you, and a thousand dancing Houri shall follow them to wait upon her. Wagons full of cloths of many lands will I bring and a palace of Alabaster will I build for her, and another for her treasure!"


    Whereat Donald says, "Oh, sure, that''s just what I need, and the U.S Army right behind no doubt. How about you just tell her what has happened and give me a replacement for the seal ring? Promise that much, and I''ll stomp on it right now."


    With a roar of laughter and billows of blue and red smoke, the Jinni dissipates from my front room. I peek casually around the threshold, hands in my pockets.


    Sarah gets up from the couch and approaches, staring at me.


    I hand her a ring, an exact copy really, of the other one.


    Wrapping her arms around me, she hugs me, crying. Then whacks me on the head. Hard.

 Wheel In the Sands Of Time

    After reciting the Three Jewels and the forty-eight vows of the Sutra of Infinite Life, the elderly Manahhat meditated.


    Jet threads rose from two lit tapers set on the stone tiles before him. The smoke from these met, to pool oddly above his head. The soft but insistent candlelight left all else in shadow, for the hour was late. Manahhat Bhrevita sat calmly hands on knees, eyes closed, and breathed his personal mantra into the still and quiet.


    Before the folds of his orange robe, a prayer scroll lay upon the cold floor. There exists only one copy of this, and its keeping forever belonged to Manahhat. It was the chant of the eternal wheel, the paen of forever. Manahhat felt his muscles loosen, his senses open to the peace of cosmic unity that washed over him.


    The monk attained jhana quickly. The deep meditative state realized, he began vipassana and flowed through realms of ultimate reality, to obtain the insights he searched for.


    Unbidden, a smile turned his lips. The time of restoration comes.


    ####


    Cole Drum twisted the unfortunate beggar''s arm ruthlessly almost out of its socket, then pulled it behind the victim''s scrawny unkempt back, pressing the man''s head against a daub and straw wall. The screams were inelegant.


    "Where?"


    "I do not know, Sahib!" the victim sobbed. "I am not Buddhist! It was the Sabina, the Mrs. Coveny, something she said--about a temple dig!"


    Cole grabbed the laborer by the neck, concentrating his will through his Uma, or third eye, but received no additional insight.


    The drunken Taoist master Cole had kept in Saki as payment for training his third eye would have spat, to see the misuse. It was worth a try, he thinks. Cole shoved the near-naked Beluchi laborer away in disgust, tossing a few bright coins after him.


    Don and Sarah Coveny, he mused. Minor project drones for the Society. They had shown up near some of his digs before, always on some saintly preservationist business. The husband was a surveyor, the wife an archaeologist of minor publication history. It was unlikely they quested for his scroll. Theirs would not be an independent effort, but some money-trap project structured by the Preservation Society to keep its donations flowing and its non-profit status assured.


    Regardless, their proximity to what he felt certain to be the goal of his search, was discomfiting. The huge man''s brow furled. He tried to think of what monuments or temple sites might be attracting the interest of the Society.


    The area around Hingoli, part of the R¨¡jasth¨¡n state, is rife with Buddhist, Jain, and Mughal ruins. It could be any one of them. The beggar overheard the information while standing in a hiring queue, and it might mean nothing at all. He should check the registrar''s office in Jaipur, before sniffing after the pair directly. If a preservationist project had been sanctioned, the details would be recorded there.


    The hot sun beat at him uncomfortably, and the telegraph office would at least be cooler.


    ***


    Sarah groaned, knots twinging up her backside from too much sitting in ill-formed rattan chairs. She rolled her eyes up at Don, who was setting push-pins into a survey map tacked up on the small office''s wall.


    "That''s it," she proclaimed. "Ten workers; more than we will need this time around. Why do we always pull the desert assignments?"


    She rubbed at her forearms in irritation, noting they were beginning to show signs of exposure rash, which did not improve her disposition. Don continued to quietly inspect the map, but thought about it for a moment.


    "I suppose it''s a kind of type casting. You pull a couple in a row,they think you''ve acquired some expertise for them, and you go to the top of the list."


    It was a map that currently placed them deep in the Great Indian Desert, just beyond the borders of Thar Desert National Park. The society had been concerned with the region since India held its 1974 nuclear testing there. Don wasn''t looking forward to the job. a camel-back expedition, since there were no roads to the target site.


    Still, the subject small ruin, though isolated, might prove important one day. Exactly the kind of site the Preservationist Society tended to specialize in.


    "Wouldn''t need so many animals if we could take the Rover," he noted with a shrug. "But all those sand dunes might kill the old thing. Is this, Gooja Khan guy you hired as our drover any good?"


    "Oh, who the hell knows. Came recommended by the Society though. He used to shepherd tourist caravans through the park, our destination isn''t far beyond that, so he should be okay. You can line them all up tomorrow and stare at them until you''re cross-eyed, if you like."


    "No thanks," Don snorted. "I need to get my equipment parceled up, then I''m quits till we get on site."


    Both finished up preparations, retiring early in expectation of a morning start.


    ***


    Drum reread the reply, a satisfied excitement in his eyes. The site was registered, as the remains of a Buddhist shrine, no less. His eyes bingoed one of the names mentioned as historically significant in relation to it. Manahhat, The Keeper of the Wheel. The exact named scholar whose legend he was chasing, attached finally to a particular shrine. Just what his last few months of research had looked for. He scratched a two day stubble in abstracted irritation, considering.


    Best if I can bribe someone in their outfit to delay them, keep them away, to give me time to search for the scroll and get out. Fewer problems that way, if it''s a dead end.


    That could all be done by phone, and leave him the day''s balance to make for the site.


    Drum reached across the small apartment''s bed, dragged a rifle by its blued steel barrel onto his lap, removed its clip, and began loading it.


    There''s the old ways, and the easy ways, he thought. Meanwhile, his mind traveled over other weapons, knowledge he had wrested from the earth in long years of tomb robbing, hack archaeology, and treasure hunting.


    He had found, slowly, that the real wealth of the past lay not in artifacts, but in revelations. Scraps of arcane wisdom learned painfully by vanished civilizations in facing nature''s unvarnished wrath.


    It had been a profound revelation, one that changed him from digger to dedicated seeker. It even re-built his reputation, in a minor way, for others saw him turn from money, sensing a re-dedication in his thirst for the past. In truth, at core, it was still avarice that drove him. A will to power had simply replaced grasping for wealth alone. The scroll of Time''s Wheel was his grail quest.


    ***


    Manahhat''s eyes focused beyond the walled monastery, and its carefully tended garden to the sanded hills beyond.


    What would come was troubling, would cause difficulties, perhaps even alter the Karmic balance for some undeserving of it. He motioned to the nearby Dahl, an advanced pupil, or Sravaka, of his small Sangha. An apt student, Dhal was well along the path of enlightenment.


    Dahl moved forward with an endearing lack of grace. Within his boyish gangling frame was a fine ordered mind, that whittled away at the obstructions of life, and was difficult to frustrate. All qualities that would serve Manahhat well right now. Dahl had come to temple uncalled. Likely, he had intuited some of the portents, interpreted some of the vibrations of the cosmic wheel in his own meditations. This cycle, time and motion were Dahl''s subject of meditation.


    "Visitors come, Dahl ¨C from Hingoli. Go and smooth their path."


    Dahl bowed. Thought, perhaps worry, minutely crossed his unlined features.


    "They are to know the mysteries here, at the shrine..."


    Manhhat raised his hand, interrupting the query. "It is not their present path. They are yet puthuijana, ordinary people, but they come with reverence for our shrine, a Dharma of a kind."


    Dahl bowed once more. "Then, I go to walk the high path, Manahhat."


    ***


    Sarah woke late, to the insistent prying of brilliant light beneath her lids. The bed was otherwise empty, but she had expected that. Don would have risen early to drag his instruments and their other gear to the office, where the pack animals would be loaded. She pulled herself together quickly, splashing off at the room''s washing bowl, and cursing the lack of a shower.


    ***


    Don rubbed road dust from his eyes, watching the hub-bub of swarthy porters busy moving the expedition supplies to street''s curb. There was still no sign of the expected camels, which were late arriving. A shouting Gooja Kahn, seemed intent on a bald-headed pile of yellow robes that sat quietly cross-legged, fronting the office.


    "No, no, no! Is Private Caravan, very! Do not to be pilgrim infestation, putting up with!"


    The Drover turned quickly back to supervising the men. "You and you! Stack those bundles at the front, where the camels will stand. Find more rope." Finally he salaamed towards Don, saying, "Am regretful sorry, Sahib. The vendor has not come with the animals yet. All else is ready, am efficient Babu, very!"


    Late as usual, Sarah finally made her appearance, just as a thin youth ran up waving a paper. The drover turned his attention to this new nuisance, and after a swift read, fell into a loud argument with the boy, who eventually threw his hands up and stalked off.


    Gooja Kahn turned sadly toward Don. "The camel vendor says the animals redirected were. All go to Adiem''s caravan. Is regretful, Sahib, what will we do now?"


    The drover turned quickly again to the seated Buddhist, "Go! Go away!"


    Don looked glum. More paperwork, more delay. "There''s nothing we can do right away, then. Have the porters put the supplies back inside. Put in a new order, and we will try again tomorrow I guess. Try another vendor."


    The monk looked up at Don. "If I can arrange for the camels you need today, you could still leave, and I might accompany the caravan?"


    Don took real notice of the man at this. Used to the beggars, fakirs, priests and monks that plied every street of Hingoli, he had allowed the presence of the man to fade into the background, content to let the Drover order the workmen here as he would.


    Spying Don''s change of attention, Gooja blurted, "Sahib, do not..."


    Don ignored this, cutting the drover off. "You can get thirteen camels, with tack, in the next two hours?"


    The monk smiled. "Yes, if you wish it."


    "Do it, and you got yourself a ride, gladly."


    The monk unfolded, standing taller than Don would have guessed, and briskly bowed, setting off down the street with a skeleton''s gait.


    "Sahib..."


    "Mr Kahn, if I can get some camels loaded up in the next two hours, it will save a day''s pay to move all this gear off the street again. Keep the men working. I''ll give the monk his two hours before I go through all that."


    Gooja salaamed, returning to directing his crew.


    Sarah eased her small backpack off, placing it next to Don. "What''s all this about?"


    Don shrugged, "The usual foo-bars. Camels not on time, locals trying to cadge rides," Don eyed his wife with his usual mix of appreciation and fear of her liquid temperament. "May work out though, a Buddhist monk wants to go along--thinks he can sort out the transportation problem for us, so we wait."


    "Is that likely? I thought monks held to strict vows of poverty. If that one could arrange for a whole caravan so quickly, why was he looking to mooch a ride with us?"


    "Depends on how extensive his Sangha, or community is here, how much authority they have. A monk''s vows would preclude using influence to provide something like that for himself, but he might decide to use it to aid others. Worth a shot to see. What choice do we have?"


    Sarah folded and sat on her pack, grinding back frustration. Snapping at Don would do no good. Some leakage of disappointment was unavoidable though.


    "Two hours, Don?"


    "We''ll see."


    A remarkable twenty minutes later the yellow robed monk reappeared. Behind his marionette-like gait followed a train of dromedary steeds, one tethered to the next. The monk wore a face-splitting grin.


    Goojah Kahn frowned, looking incredulous. "Where could you get these, so quickly? You are in league with Jain thieves...we are to be robbed and killed in the desert, eh? Sahib," the drover turned and begged, "not to trust this miracle, Sir. Better we wait, make new arrangements with trustworthy vendor. Not thieving Buddhist priest!"


    It was Don''s turn to frown. "Mr. Kahn, in my limited experience, Buddhist priest and thief rarely conjoin in the same sentence. Load the animals. The monk goes with us."


    The drover drew in on himself and turned to shout importantly at the rest. Soon the camels stood facing the desert, bulking with brown tarp covered bundles and Beluchi laborers, save the last four saddle-fitted dromedaries. The drover had these kneel, and quickly mounted one, sweeping his outstretched hand at the other three, pointedly ignoring the Buddhist.


    The monk grinned and bowed, lightly mounting one animal, while Don courteously aided his wife in her boarding.


    Roping on a small bundle not entrusted to the packers, he took the last camel, and with hoots and clicks, the caravan moved off into the wastes.


    ***


    Cole cursed under his breath, watching as the thin line of the caravan wended across the sands. Kahn, the drover, had sworn camels would not be available to the preserver expedition. Now, I will have to ride extra hours each day to stay safely ahead. He lowered his binoculars in thought, glancing at the carbine fitted behind the saddle.


    Too close to Hingoli yet, he mused. Officials could still be bribed to come out and investigate, and that could be trouble. He slithered back down the dune and remounted. He could follow until they stopped, then try something in the dark, or just ride hard, to gain ground on them. Mental wheels turned, and in the end, he decided to press on.


    It might, he mused, be better to join the caravan forthrightly. Perhaps a little socializing this evening was called for. The two archeologists could always be handled if they got in the way. He could walk the high path, the road between worlds, and wait for them at the distant gorge they were heading towards.


    Drum closed his eyes, envisioning the rift. It had been years, but most traffic from town passed through it. Unlike the temple, he could resolve an image of the pass, having been there before. It wasn''t a Hindu trick, rather something he had learned in Tibet.


    The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.


    Two years spinning prayer wheels and drinking buttered tea, melting ice for an old fool of a priest. Eating bird seed. His anger blurred the vision he was trying to build, so he cleared his mind, began again...


    ***


    The rolling gait reminded Don of an Ab-machine workout. Horseback riding abused an entirely different set of muscles, so having experience with one did nothing to prepare the rider for the other. Kahn seemed aware of this, and kept the pace slow. Don''s animal did not like Sarah''s, so riding apart, he ended keeping closer to the monk. Dahl,was the name given, he remembered.


    For a while both seemed satisfied to move along quietly. At the slow pace set by Kahn, the column stayed mostly staggered, sometimes riders bunched up for company, then drifting back into a sort of procession. Currently, the Monk''s animal was nearly alongside. Dahl graced Don with one of his frequent smiles.


    "Our temple is very old, far from Hingoli, and the donations of tourists. Strict, so few come for enlightenment. So," he shrugged, "the sand takes it. Yet, you come to save it. Why?"


    It was a common question, given the nature of most preservationist projects. Don felt almost guilty spouting pat answers at the intense priest.


    "There are always some who want to keep the past from fading away, who believe the future learns from the past, and wish it salvaged from the complacency of the present. We work to preserve many places like your Temple."


    True also, but unsaid, was that many foundation members were only interested in the non-taxable deductions generated by the Preservation Society. This trip would survey the site, take some photos for the societies publication, and spray a clear polymer binder onto the exterior. It was a cheap fix, one that would never be considered on a more valuable building. The sands would still take it, in time.


    "This is your personal reason, as well?"


    Don furled brows at that. There was no pat answer for his own commitment. "It''s funny, you know? I could do without the travel--It''s hell on home life. But, there''s something special about reaching out and helping save something. Field preservation is...not exactly like museum work, or exploration, either...it''s like, being a fireman, or a Medic, I guess. Like pulling a cat out of a tree. I''d miss not doing it."


    "We believe it is what remains inside one, that matters, yet also, preserving the teaching of the masters is important, so I can understand this diligence to save things. Though it is misguided effort, it speaks well of you, and your wife."


    This amused Don. This string-bean had went to great lengths to start their expedition off, and make this journey to the shrine, yet seemed indifferent to the fate of it. As if nothing important existed that was material, regardless of the significance of the structures culturally.


    "Is this a pilgrimage for you?"


    "The temple is part of my Sangha, my community. I have studied there."


    "Yet the thought of losing the temple to erosion and neglect doesn''t seem to bother you much."


    "All things have their time, and cost. The temple will falter, its energy will be recycled on the wheel, to be reborn greater in its next incarnation, aided by prayers, and the Karma its acolytes have collected. To morn the present, is to deny it evolution. Essence is what must remain. Preservation is stasis, at best, Don-ald.


    The monk fell silent, as if listening to something, then added, "This animal is bored with your Camel''s company, Don-ald. I will fall back. Have you some words for your wife?"


    The statement might have been a thinly veiled insult, but the monk said it with such disarming forthrightness, that fault wouldn''t stick to it. Instead, he felt tickled, laughing, "I''m bored with camels generally. Be glad to get off this one. Tell Sarah to give a shout if she gets sick of the ride, and I''ll have Kahn stop for a stretch."


    Dahl smoothed down the billowing saffron of his robe. "That Drover does not avoid evil. You should watch him closely, Don-ald." At this he slowed his animal, dropping back in the dusty straggle of the caravan.


    ***


    A rocky divide offering at least some shade, prompted a stop. Several bright-colored blankets appeared like magic. These were soon populated with food, canteens, goat skin bladders, and dicing workers. Younger members, automatically detailed to caring for the desert mounts, shouted side-bets and generally aired discontents. Don helped Sarah down, and both walked off their sore backsides along the shadowed gorge.


    An angry bellow from one of the populated blankets preceded a quickly trotting Dahl, who gangled up towards the two archaeologists, grinning and stuffing his winnings into a flopping handbag affair that served as pockets for his simple, if colorful, garb.


    Sarah took in the monk, and the calls of upset from the workers. "What was all that about, Dahl?"


    "Differences philosophic, on the nature of chance. Is just a turn of the wheel, Sabina Cor-veny." The monk cocked his head to one side, closing his eyes. "Someone else travels our way, Sabina. Perhaps, more workers?"


    "Better not be...Don?"


    Don shook his head. "We all left at the same time, I checked. You sure, Dahl? I don''t see..."


    Cole''s figure appeared around a kink in the gorge, a westerly approach, that cast his slumped figure in shadow against the bright afternoon sky.


    "Our traveler," Dahl announced, making a small gesture.


    The rider seemed calm, and as the distance between Don and the shadow diminished, features came clear. Rugged, square jawed, western features that sparked some recognition in Sarah, who nudged Don in the side.


    "I know this guy! Um, at least I''ve seem him around before this. The name escapes me, but he''s a field worker for sure. Semi-pro, I think, or an Indep. Oh! Saw him at the digs in Peru. Cochran, or Cole, I think. Remember Don?"


    Don nodded. "Okay, yeah. Cole Drum, an independent. Recognize the half bald thing. He had some problem about permits ... a small fracas with the locals. Turned out alright. A shake-down attempt for fees by a nearby village council claiming domain over the site. We were concerned it might spill over onto us, at the time. Wonder what he''s doing out here?"


    Sarah frowned. "There was something else, too. Can''t get my hands on it, but the name rings bells somehow."


    "Well, let''s greet the man, and find out what''s what."


    Dahl became animated. "I would very much, to meet this person enjoy also. I will come too. A friend then?"


    Don''s look soured. "No. Just a professional acquaintance. He was scratching around near another site we serviced a while ago. Come to think of it, I have heard other comments about him in passing. Nothing good. A little disreputable, maybe."


    "A man of experience then? Good stories he will have, could be."


    "Could be. Lets find out."


    Cole kept a mild expression as he dismounted, watching the approaching trio from the corners of his eyes.


    Tack attended to, he turned bluffly toward Don, somewhat ignoring Sarah, completely ignoring Dahl. "Hot ride. Missed this gorge coming out, circled back to get some shade. You heading west? Cole Drum, here. I know you from somewhere...Peru, right? This your expedition?"


    Don took Cole''s proffered hand briefly. "I remember. The permit squabble, all that. Don Corveny, and this is my wife, Sarah, and Dahl, a monk traveling our way. You here on business, Mr. Drum?"


    "Just Cole will do. Touring the Jain Shrines, mostly. Someone said there was an old Buddhist ruin out this way--put it on my itinerary. You heading there?"


    Sarah huffed. "Seems a suddenly popular destination. Yes. The society donated a preservative spray job for it. Dahl here is on a pilgrimage, then there''s you. The site isn''t Jain, ...a bit of a march for some tourism, isn''t it?"


    "Well, business and pleasure, business and pleasure. You going to stay the night? It''s a full days ride from here. Probably wouldn''t make the next water well before sundown, if you go on, might even miss it."


    Don pointed to the drover, still gaming cross legged on one of the blankets. "That''s up to Gooja there. He''s trail master on this hike."


    Cole squinted where Don indicated. "The Swami in the red turban? Good enough, I''ll go ask."


    Dahl bobbed a series of bows at Cole, talking ceaselessly the while. "Most gratified, illustrious traveler Sahib, to meet you. Understand an adventurer of note you are. You must regale me with the wonders of your travels, the insights and marvels of your work. Your turn on this wheel must be exciting!"


    Cole started at this, focusing on the monk for the first time. "Speak English then, do you? I suppose I''ve had my moments, come to think of it. You''re familiar with this shrine, then?"


    "Oh yes sir, very. Part of my Sangha. I would trade stories with you, gladly. Let us go to question the Caravaner now."


    Cole hesitated. "Later. I am interested though. Hold that thought, I''ll be right back."


    Sarah made a slight face after Cole, as he went on towards the Drover''s Blanket. "Humph. Just waltz in, and make yourself at home. Did he actually ask, at any point, to join our caravan, Don?"


    "Strong headed sort, no doubt about it. Long as he feeds himself...it''s a public area, Sarah. He has the right to travel where he wants. Guess we can stand him for a day. I can ask Cole to take off, If you want."


    "No, I guess it''s up to us to demonstrate professional courtesy. I don''t have to like it though. Dahl seems pleased, at least."


    The drover rose to talk with Cole, an unusual piece of courtesy on Gooja''s part, Don thought. Immediately after, some clipped orders piped out of the drover, and further activity began on the part of the workers, many of whom left their blankets to pull other supplies from the camels. Cole returned.


    "Your drover agrees. Looks like we''ll both be camping here tonight. Say, you don''t mind if I tag along till tomorrow do you? I''d like to take Dahl up on his offer, if you don''t mind. It''s always nice to have a local''s background on an...attraction. That be okay?"


    Don looked at Sarah, who shrugged. "Alright by us."


    Cole grunted, turned, and began to unload his animal. Sarah gripped Don''s arm as she caught sight of a rifle stock peeking out from the man''s bedroll.


    The late day sun soon vanished, replaced by cook fires and a few scattered lanterns.


    Gooja and his crew removed the camel''s saddles, and set two of them up as stools for Don and Sarah. Cole arranged a semi-separate campsite, and put on some coffee. A worker even brought some of it over for the two archeologists.


    Dahl seemed to have become a Cole groupie, and followed him constantly around the camp, bending his ear at every opportunity. Eventually Cole drove him off, and stalked back towards Gooja''s blanket. Dahl approached one clot of men who still gambled, but was waved away with hoots and calls.


    Don looked after the monk thoughtfully. "We should talk to Dahl about Cole, he''s been dogging the man since he showed up, maybe he learned something."


    Sarah raised an eyebrow. "You mean, on purpose?"


    "I mean there are three diggers here, and Dahl only seems interested in Cole. Both of them are odd ducks, but they paddle around in different ponds. I''m not worried about Dahl''s motives, whatever they are. Cole bothers me."


    "Cole''s rifle bothers me. Why would he come armed like that, on a sightseeing tour?"


    "We could ask Dahl. He must have gleaned something about the guy by now."


    Sarah nodded, and beckoned to Dahl.


    Dahl came forward with his usual skeleton''s gait, smiling and baby faced.


    "Sabina?"


    Sarah hesitated a moment, considering her words. "You''ve spent some time with Mr. Drum; what do you make of our guest?"


    "Ah, Sabina, a man well traveled, widely knowledgeable, possibly intemperate. A man of diverse skills, and old lore."


    Sarah flashed a dead-pan look to Don. It was her frustrated expression. The one sometimes followed by breaking things, so Don hastily took on the burden of quizzing the monk.


    "We noticed he came armed. Any reasoning given for that?"


    "No, he did not say, but he is to traveling alone, and this area is rife with thieves and revolutionaries. He knows much of my sect. He has many questions that only one cognizant of my Sangha would know to ask. Even the name of our master. He has several tools of the path with him, contemplative aids useful only to an adept. He is a great bastard, I think. I shall very much enjoy introducing him to Manahhat."


    Don looked perplexed at the mixed metaphor, but soldiered on.


    "Manahhat is the spiritual leader of the shrine? Your teacher?"


    "Oh yes."


    "Cole seems very focused on this shrine of yours, then.


    "Truly."


    "Were you able to answer any of his questions?"


    "Oh no, Sahib Don-ald. I am a student, not a teacher. Also, I do not like him. Is he not wonderful? It is my place to sit at his feet and learn from him."


    "Is that some Buddhist saying?"


    "It is my personal opinion only, Don-ald Sahib."


    Don decided to quit while he was ahead. "We''ll see you in the morning then."


    Dahl bowed with his smile still in place. "Always happy to aid you on your path, Don-ald, Sabina Sarah. Good night to you both."


    "Well," Sarah said crossly, "that was helpful. As it happens I half agree with Dahl. I think he''s a bastard too, but I don''t think Drum has anything to teach me."


    Don nodded. "All this jogged my memory a little. I remember talk about pilfered artifacts involving Cole, from before the Peru thing. It bothers me that he understated his interest in the temple. He has some specific purpose in going there, obviously, and no intention of telling us what it is."


    Both retired groggily to their bedrolls. Across the gorge, Drum sat cross legged before his campfire, swaying rhythmically. It seemed to Don''s closing eyes, as if the fire''s reflection somehow passed beneath Cole, as if he were levitated before it, some trick of the light...


    ***


    Don awoke to muffled screams and squeals. Sarah! Don tried to pull himself up, and failed. There was pain in his wrists and ankles, and he felt woozy, sick.


    Hog-tied inside my own bedroll! He squirmed around to face Sarah, who was also trussed, and currently bug-eyed. Both shouted into the echoing, and abandoned gorge.


    The coffee, Don thought. The bastard drugged us, tied us up, and left us.


    Two camels, with their personal gear mounted, were hobbled nearby. Must have been in too much of a hurry to bother with them. Drum, Gooja, and his crew had vanished. Even Dahl was gone. The sun was low in the west, almost dusk. Whatever they had been given, it had knocked them out for the day. His mouth was cotton dry. Were it not for the shade of the gorge, they might have died.


    Might still, if I can''t get loose.


    He looked into the suffering eyes of his wife, and struggled more. The effort only desiccated him faster, leaving him further weakened and fuzzy.


    Not good.


    Shadows deepened. A clatter came up the gorge, and both tried to call out in parched, thin cries. A camel with a thin silhouette astride it approached.


    "Yes, that Drover does not avoid evil. You should have watched him more closely, Don-ald."


    Dahl dismounted, and dragged a skin bag off the animal. "Water. Drink first, then I will cut the ropes. We must hurry, or we shall miss the great bastard Cole''s meeting, Don-ald Sahib. Cole and Gooja Kahn hid you here; Gooja told the workers that Cole was going to complete the expedition, that you would follow later. Which you will. It was no fault of the men, they only took Gooja at his word. I left the caravan before all of this."


    Dahl administered the life-giving water skin first to Sarah, then to Don. He pulled out a thin dart-like knife and sawed away their bonds.


    Don reached for his wife as soon as the bonds were cut. Sarah lapsed crying into his half numb arms.


    Dahl watched quietly for a time, but finally urged both to prepare for travel. "I will ready your camels. We must hurry."


    The sick feeling and thirst abated, and Don shook his head, rubbing circulation back into his wrists. "Why? It''s a days travel from here, and Cole''s got a rifle. What good would that do? Get us back to Hingoli and a phone. I''ll call the Society. Cole will get his. Whatever he intends to steal will be returned."


    Dahl grinned. "But, I know a short-cut. You will be safe in only a few minutes."


    Don helped his still disoriented wife to her feet, and both managed to get mounted.


    "Only a short time, follow please."


    Dahl remounted, and his swaying camel lead theirs to the center of the gorge. Dahl closed his eyes. His face took on a meditative calm. Colors around them seemed to fade, and a thinning of things began. The gorge faded away, and the three ridden camels reappeared at the edge of an irrigated plot before an old and crumbling monastery. Sunset shadows trailed behind the plot''s rows of struggling greens, and beyond, a weathered wall, broken by a gated entrance, curved away into an early evening grey.


    Sarah gasped. Where has the day gone? Did I pass out, while riding the trail?


    The white plastered temple, splashed with yellow torchlight sat behind the distant wall. A Blackened bronze effigy of Shiva danced in torchlight at the entrance''s right, a remnant of some prior incarnation of the temple''s long history.


    Donald felt dizzy. He cast about trying to recover his bearings. "Where..."


    "No need to thank me, Sahib Don-ald." It will be fun, you are safe. Wait here, wait and see."


    From the pairs vantage point, they could see shapes move within the sliding torch light, under the darkened portico of the shrine. Two cross-legged forms seemed to float within it. Don squinted expecting to discern supporting chairs, but there were none. The heavier-set man, youngest of the pair, raised a rifle, and a crack echoed across the courtyard. The rifle took on a blue glow and almost immediately dissolved, and faded into a haze.


    The shooter waved the haze away, raised his hand, and a nimbus seemed to well up, to encompass the opposing figure. It brightened, and within its rosy glow, the second man, a wizened elder priest, cried out. A white glow immediately pushed out from within the elder, and that halo too, dissolved.


    Sarah gasped, stunned and confused. Grabbing the saddle''s horn, she leaned out to clench Don''s shoulder. "Don, do you see what I''m seeing?"


    Don tore his gaze reluctantly away from the spectacle to meet his wife''s terrified eyes. "I don''t know what I''m seeing. One of them...Is that Cole?"


    The gate-side effigy of Shiva shuddered, lifting a drum in one hand and several swords in others. It ran through the gate, and attacked Cole. Its arms wove an abattoir of menacing steel with fatal intent, but before it closed, the younger man made several complicated hand movements. The statue seemed to dissolve, only to reappear many feet away, dissolving again, then reappearing further off, then closer, as if being redirected in some battle of wills. Then it too, was gone.


    Cole pulled something from a pocket, a flute, which he played. The flute-notes were discordant, and hurt Don''s ears, even at his distance from the pair. Winds rose, and swelled around the thin, older opponent. The gale built into a whirlwind, that appeared to beat at the elder, who howled. Flashes of blinding light beat back and forth between the two, and the sanctuary seemed to stutter. Reality seemed to flicker, like a badly framed film.


    In one particularly bright flash, shaven headed men in orange robes, rank on rank of them, became visible seated and passive on the temple floor deep within.


    The heavier man gestured with his left hand and shouted, while with his other, he made a catching motion. A searing bolt shot forth from him, and a small paper scroll seemed to levitate from the side of the opposing elder, to fly into the bolt-tossers grasp. The shout carried clearly to Don.


    The older form dissipated, vanished. Scroll in hand, the stocky Cole descended to sit cross legged on the stone floor. He unrolled the scroll, and seemed to read from it. A blurring of Cole''s distant and darkened figure began, a saffron color suffused it, his shoulders shrank, aging, somehow.


    Don squinted to focus on the figure as Sarah gasped. It no longer resembled Cole, after all.


    The scene stilled, the firelight steadied, and Dahl left Don''s side to approach the figure in reverence, seating himself before the winner, then looked back with a smile and motioned them forward.


    Hesitantly, numbly, they went.


    Jet threads rose from two lit tapers set on the stone tiles before the man. The thin smoke seemed to twine above the figure''s head, oddly pooling there. The candle light, soft but insistent, made all else black, for the hour was now late.


    In place of Cole, Manahhat Bhrevita, once again sat calmly, hands on knees, eyes closed, and breathed his personal mantra into the still and quiet.


    As Don and Sarah watched, the old man opened his eyes to gaze kindly at the pair.


    "I welcome you to my Sangha, and the Temple of Times'' Wheel. I trust Dahl provided sufficient guidance for you?"


    Don looked quickly at the rows of Buddhists behind the Priest, at the seated Dahl, and to where a black bronze of something very like an effigy of Sheiva again decorated the entrance. There was no trace of Cole Drum, save for a slight hardness to the priest''s eyes, that somehow reminded Don of the man. "We, there was a man, a Mr.Drum..."


    The old Buddhist nodded. "Yes, there was. Some day, there will be again, but not for many turnings of the wheel, a long road. I am glad you were not harmed. Your workers are arrived. They, and your goods are behind the temple wall, outside-- I do not allow animals in the temple grounds. Tomorrow, you can start the...preservation process?"


    Sarah looked bewildered, and for a change, speechless. Don swallowed. "I suppose so, sure. Tonight..."


    Manasseh Bhrevita raised one hand from his lap.


    "Was a ceremony of rejuvenation. Only repeated once each century. You need not worry,the celebrations are over."


    "The celebrations..."


    "Yes. I will have fresh water drawn for your people. Go and rest, Don-ald and Sarah Coveny. Another day in the cycle will begin soon enough. We can talk more then, if you like."


    Dhal rose from before the master, and grinned. "I will take you, Don-ald. Gooja Kahn will not be there, I am afraid. I will see you back to Hingoli when you are done here." Donald took Sarah''s hand and followed, glancing over his shoulder at Manahhat Bhrevita.


    Before his pooling orange robe, on the cold floor, lay the prayer scroll, the Eternal Wheel, the Chant of Forever. There exists only one copy of this, and its keeping forever belongs to Manahhat. Always Manahhat.

 Somewhere over the Rain-boughs

    We awoke in the trees, well above the thick roil of mist. These were the high times, when perpetual fog infested the middle boughs, condensing along the mid-level tree-limbs to patter ceaselessly over the forest floor. Bad times for us, as the mud released thousands of poisonous bog frogs. They ate everything that dared to share the drizzling damp with them. The frogs climbed up as well, to infest the obscuring mists below us. Anywhere really, where the constant fog and drizzle could keep their skins wet.


    Our troupe scavenged only the dry tops at such times. The fog drove bentworm and others as could migrate up too, so food stayed available if not plentiful. Seagin, my mate, swung gracefully towards me, her white furred face beaming, our daughter, Pinsai, clinging tightly to her chest.


    "The troupe will move today, over the bright gap to the Rickey Tops." she said. " The fruit harvest there is ready or so proclaims Macbac, our great leader anyway."


    Seagin slapped at my ribs with the back of her hands. She did this often when mentioning Macbac to me. She felt I should have stood for troupe leader. Macbac was harsh, often bullying and no better than I at sniffing out safe feeding grounds. I grunted. It was not a good call. It was late after the birthing season. Children would be large and heavy to carry. Later, when the children were independent, or earlier when they were a lighter burden, would have been better. The bright gap had few high crossing-branches; leaps would be required now, in the season of raining boughs. Seagin adjusted Pinsai''s instinctive grip on her fur due to some whining complaint from the sleeping child.


    "We will go late in the troupe, when the crossing is not so crowded and the boughs well tried. Find the ways where you will not have to leap so far." Seagin sniffed, and swung off to glean what food she could before the troupe moved on.


    Macbac stood on the thickest of the top branches, long arms high overhead, jerking to punctuate the clan calls he made. The troupe assembled gradually below him. Behind, on his branch, Reeree his mate huddled coddling the large lump of her child, who shifted uncomfortably in her grip sensing her unease with the prospect of travel.


    My mate, Seagin, had queued up lower in the pack as I had asked, just above the foggy shroud that marked the now dangerous middle ways of the forest. Macbac howled, "We will cross now, while the season is early and occupy the best sites. In two months, when the clouds go, other troops will find only our leavings."


    I pounded for attention. "In two months the middle ways will be open and the journey safe, our children moving on their own. There is food here still, why risk this crossing now?"


    Macbac leaped down catching one limb on the fly to redirect himself, so as to land before me. He swung an arm at me, knocking me sideways and almost dislodging me. "You had your chance to lead. It is up to me now, or do you challenge?"


    Concerned with my mate and first child, I had not contested for leadership this season. Perhaps a mistake. Macbac was a brute, more interested in glory than the safety of the troupe. As I had not contested, I was still an insecurity to him politically and he had moved quickly to assert his position. I understood this but there was still a chance he might consider a safer course, so I forebore. "It will be slow going. We will have to take more precautions. We may lose mates and children otherwise. What will you do?"


    Apparently, he had not bothered to consider this before. He growled, but thought briefly.


    "My plan is this. You will follow at the end with some younger males, and see that the females with children cross safely. We will not wait on you. Any losses will be on your head." He swung back to his high perch, directed the mothers to follow with me, and assigned a few young males to accompany us. With a screech, he moved off leaving the rest to follow.


    I huffed and snorted, but there was nothing to be done save follow my earlier advice to Seagin, and shepherd the remaining quarter of the troupe. I hooted and the single males he assigned gathered, none too happy with me.


    "So, Rheit. Now we must leave the company of single females for mated ones, and travel without the strength of the whole pack because you cannot shut your mouth. Now what?"


    The speaker was two seasons away from being old enough to challenge anyone, but old enough to court and angry to be relegated to the rear of the pack.


    "Now,"I hooted, "you will take on the responsibilities of adulthood. The future of the troupe is given over to us. I hope you are up to the challenge."The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    The thought of the responsibility and the honor it might bring was not lost on them. Thoughts of tales that might be later told to admiring females flitted through young minds, and a background of excited barking rose.


    Not all the nurturing females had stayed behind. A few whose young were lighter had gone ahead, but many remained. Mostly mothers of more experience who had faced the light gap before. Not, I noticed, Reeree. Macbac had made sure she stayed with him.


    "We can travel normally until we near the gap but do not outrun the females, stay close, be watchful. When the gap nears, some must go ahead, find the soundest ways. No leaps over eight feet. No splintered limbs."


    We traveled west for an hour, following the setting sun. Clouds thickened above the canopy, piling up against the horizon and a darkening beneath promised that we would soon be headed into a downpour. Lightning lit the far mists, playing between the low clouds and the high green canopy. This would make the way treacherous. Rain slicked the sappy limbs underfoot and made for unsure holds. I felt my footing loosen, and ahead, the young males reached out from swaying limbs to steady burdened mothers and our pace grew even slower. High in the canopy branches were thinner and swayed, springy with new growth in the gathering wind and rain. The lightning was unwelcome as well. Ahead, Macbac, having set a much faster pace, was already disappearing from view. Those he lead, though comparatively unburdened, struggled to keep up. His mate, Reeree, child clinging desperately to her chest was already falling behind. Macbac lead on in evident unconcern.


    Soon, the cloud cover swept over us and torrents of water sheeted everywhere, down and up, like a flood, going where the strong winds willed. Everyone hunkered down. I looked desperately at the troop and down into the denser middle branches where normally we would be seeking to shelter.


    A bolt of lightning crashed, leaping from branch to branch along the soaked ways of the high passages and I knew a decision faced me. To face the frogs or the lightning. Another flash and crack, so loud, it shook me, so bright that it blinded me for a moment. Screams rose, and as my vision cleared, a sight of Ree-ree hanging from a broken bough. Only a twisted ribbon of wood connected the piece she clung on to the former swaying tree branch. Holding to one leg, her child dangled over the forested abyss.


    As I watched, her grip loosened and she tumbled wailing into the darkness below. My heart stopped, and I automatically sought out the form of my mate, thankfully gripped tightly to the thin trunk shivering in the drench but our child still safe. I set my face grimly and shouted to the rest, "Seek shelter in the middle ways. Stay together and watch out for the frogs! Sweep clear a tree with cuttings and make a nest, but stay as high as you can. The rain may have driven the frogs back to the lower ways, for a time. l will be back shortly!" It was dangerous, but the frogs also breathed through their skin, and though liking the damp had their own reasons for avoiding the heavy downpour we faced.


    With that I raced downward though the storm, toward where the dangling Ree-ree had dropped. I made a leap to the next tree, feeling my weight pull hard on the wet limb I caught, rebounding again with the recoil of it to grasp at the giant, slick trunk and slipped as much as scuttled downward, past the middle ways and even the lower ways. I would have to find a thinner trunk to climb back up.


    She lay crumpled on a brown erupted root, one leg-bone poking through her flesh, obviously never to breathe again. The child, also dead, several lengths away. I howled sadly.


    Wind shuttled leaves along the forest floor and with them, came a pack of frogs, running before the coming floods that would soon sweep away anything but the strongest tall trees. I ran to distance myself from them and find a climbable one.


    A bright glint caught my attention as I ran. A white cube twice my height, and four times as long. There was an opening in it. I loped toward it on impulse. A prickling ran over my body as I flew through the entrance. Outside, the frogs scattered away abandoning their chase. Water rose to over two feet or more, coursing fast, but by some magic did not enter the doorway. Some sort of hard material closed across the entrance and the shock of a sting impacted against my arm. A lassitude overcame me, and I could not move. Darkness fell upon me.


    "Subject male from tribal group 458-p discovered the capture lab, and entered. State, healthy, but some nutritional deficiencies noted. Specimen not fitted with tracker prior, minor scrapes."


    My eyes opened to take in the space, which was filled with stuttering lights and odd shapes. Noises came from a grille set high in the clutter of the place, but I smelled nothing living here. I lay sprawled on a thin white rock surrounded by odd metallic shrubs. Small vines seemed to be attached to my head, and a transparent one punctured my wrist.


    "Colonist Genotype seems well adapted to the planetary environment. Cyanotic atmosphere resistance remains high. However, comparison to human specie norm shows ongoing atrophy of cognitive abilities, vs the original template. Some adaptive changes in the use of its intelligence links probable cause. Visual cortex changes progressing as expected. Atrophy of speech centers in process, which was not projected. Musculature stable, similar to simian norm, per gene splice. Hirsute, similar to ape ancestry. No advanced tool use has been noted in the experimental group specimens captured over four generations. Survival index seven of ten. Will release subject. Suggest discontinuation of automated outpost. Note: Audible report mode still engaged, but specimen not responsive to linguistic stimulus. Data packet transmission - engaging. Mobile handler will remove subject from specimen trap."


    I slept again, to awake on the lower branch of a nearby tree. Several white patches were stuck on my arms, which were painful to rip away. Distantly, I hear the chattering of my tribe, Orienting on that, I swung off toward it.

 Two Rooms

    The rutted lane was crossed with rills and pitted by winter ice. It sprouted both root and rock, revealed through the slow action of seasonal rains, making my footing treacherous. I stepped carefully, still managing an occasional stumble in the darkening gloom. The enfolding bowers of the forest gave nothing away; its sounds were its own sounds, the sky hidden, the direction of things kept secret. There was the lane, and the wind, whiffing through old oaks, like the rustle of a crepe sun-dress in a quiet room. An uncomfortable,waiting quiet, a hush of nature.


    I squinted at the yellowed card, and checked my Geo-positioner. I can''t explain my interest in these Geo-quests. Monkey curiosity, perhaps. About twenty meters more, then left, somewhere to the north. Probably a trail, for the greenery was too dense for cross-country travel. Then there it was, a hole in the damp,cloistered wall of crossing limbs and thrust-up bracken.


    Almost, I quailed to make the turn, so dark it was. I felt my way forward, more careful with each step, slower with every inch gained. The light of the Geo-screen a blue firefly, barely able, it seemed, to reach from my hand to the hollows of my face. It was an insular universe of timeless pushing forward.


    The confining press of this insensate gullet ended at last, and I hazarded a match. Its flare filled my blinded eyes, but holding it away and cupping it caused the dark to retreat.


    A candle. I had one in my hip pouch. The catch eluded me, and I fumbled after it one handed as the match burnt lower, lower, and out. I caught the clasp, just as blackness returned, and in the seamless pitch, groped out the soft waxy stub. Concentrating on that, I touched candle to match. Eager to share, the match-flame doubled. Its twin quickly grew to dance upon the wax. It held on to the thin wick as if it were afraid it would slip off and fly away. Satisfied, I pushed the stub forward as far away as I could.


    Slowly, my eyes adjusted and by the fluttering glow and my surroundings slowly resolved. Virescent foliage defined a round open space, as if flattened against glass, a reverse terrarium of writhing brown stem and green leaf, tan branch and yellow creeper. A further black hole graced the far side of it. I was not alone here, for vines chained a thin form against it to my left. I stood nonplussed in pooling yellow light, considering the bald, emaciated form of a bound man. It was as if he was grown into the verge of it. He hung, oblivious to my presence. I approached, and reached out to touch him, finding heat and life within his white, papery skin. Eyes opened. They had an inward looking, reflective quality and focused only with effort upon me.


    There was a folding knife in my pouch. I reached for it. "Let me cut you down."


    "No. I am of all this, and at peace here. I am the point of the spear of creation, the culmination of all that has ever grown. You were sent to learn; do so."


    "What is it you can tell me?" I asked.


    "Everything about you, for you are the summation of all that comes before you. Your needs, the needs of life, your talents, desires, motives, all grown from the forces of nature, to forward its continuance. A history in carbon. A need to thrive."Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    At a loss, I introduced myself. "My name is John. Are you sure I can''t cut you down?"


    The wrinkled forehead further creased, his head shook. "Not even if you tried, and I wished it. There is no end of me to cut away. I extend back to the moment of creation, and before me there is nothing to cut."


    "What am I to take away from this, then?"


    "Give me your hand."


    I reached out to his right fist, held flattened against the wall of greenery. It opened and a seed dropped onto my palm. The kernel sunk into me, infused me. I sensed the driven nature of life, and along the rooting threads of the seed, I followed its logic, feeling for the imperatives acting on me, the origins of will, love, hunger, pain. All that I had ever felt.


    "Now you know. Leave."


    I ponted to the ajacent hole. "Where does the other opening lead to?


    "Nowhere of importance. You have what you sought; go."


    Regardless, curiosity drove me to explore the further bower. I knew the origin now, of my need to quest, fulfilling life''s dictum to seek ways to expand, to find new places to grow. Still, the urge was no less sharp.


    I went forward, jealously protective of my scant and fragile flame, and the darkness enfolded me again. Once more the vine woven passage opened.


    The wick capriciously bloomed, and light shot away in all directions, ending hard against a granite cliff, bounded by the same tangled thatch, but without a covering vault. Mica in the rocky sheer picked up the candlelight and set it dancing in reflective glitters, ending to merge at the top with the welkin above. It was as if ground and sky melded into one whole. The closed in feeling left me, soothed by the empyrean vault above.


    There was something else here, A someone perhaps. In the reaching bloom of the candles light, a presence tied by an umbilicus to a thriving mound of green in the space''s center. Feminine of form, golden winged, it fluttered and strove upwards, pulling and tugging at the strand connecting it to the mound. Lucent orange and green, shot through with a web of vermilion, it stretched finely crafted arms to the heavens, as if reaching to snatch at the impossible.


    Noticing me, it turned, pleading. "Release me! Cut the cable that holds me! Let me go, on to the heavens I seek!"


    I approached, astonished, pulling my knife out as I went. "How is it you are trapped here," I said.


    The lithe form''s wings trembled, slowed, it descended almost, to the mound top, one perfect foot a hair-breadth above it. Clearest eyes of green pleaded soulfully with me.


    " By what? Almost, it seems, by my first thought. Aid me!" Again it shot up, until the chord tautened, arms once more straight above in yearning obeisance to the starred sky.


    I grabbed the chord and brought the blade to it, then stopped. The chord pulsed in my hands, and examining it, I saw veins and arteries carrying life blood to the ethereal thing above.


    "I don''t think I should; it seems to be a part of you. You could die."


    The delicate thing turned , and came to float above me. Her perfect hand reached down to my head. "Tell me why you have come."


    I showed her the card.


    She reached into her silvered hair and pulled forth a jewel. I could not determine it''s type, but it scintillated like the stars themselves,and was as small as they seemed, a grain really.


    "Perhaps this will help you to find a way to free me," She said.


    I took the jewel, and it, like the seed, vanished into me. A sense of wonder, of future horizons filled me. A need to be more than I was. The essence of striving.


    "Go, there is no more for you here ¨C yet."


    I left, returning to the riverbed of a road, having satisfied the curiosity that drove me to such quests.


    A blush of dawn touched the east. I had not abandoned the two, for they, through their gifts, came with me, were within me. I felt the seed of those strong ties to my past, to the truth of my own biology and its purpose, and instilled with the jewel of need that made me to always reach for that which was beyond my grasp. I turned the card over and re-read it''s quest line.


    "Know Thyself"

 Small World

    The beach light wavered enchantingly across the shore, fading softly away beneath the lapping sea, and warming the sand. Theen wandered across it, head swiveling, looking for the rare bright grains the traders sought. Not the red ones, or the lovely yellow ones. Not the dull black ones his nest often sent him for. Only the bright green ones. The thread-like strap of his sack chafed, caught between abdomen and thorax.


    Ah, there was one. He carefully picked it up in his mandibles and dropped it into the tiny sack.


    He had found three, so it was time to go back. Experience had taught that any more than three grains became to hot, and caused the bag to start smoldering. But it was enough, the traders would give him more sticky-golden God food than he could eat or haul away for them. He shivered at the thought.


    He had found that by basting sand with the thick, sweet reward, that a large ball could be stuck together. He could tumble this to the nest, to be enjoyed by all at leisure. Being industrious, he could make as many as twenty trips on a good day, as the nest was near the dead black hills of the trader station.


    That was a lot of honey. His nest now had four gravid queens busily laying. With the new hatching, the nest would increase a hundredfold, dominating the entire area. The Reds would be crushed, next they came. Their raiding armies destroyed, the hills would belong to the blacks forever.


    ###


    Randy scratched his half day stubble, and rechecked the UV meter. The levels waxed and waned under the pulsing collapse of the the dwarf star. It was a hot mini, one of only a handful of such anomalies ever discovered. It scorched the planet in a bath of high band radiation and ultraviolet, even at the distance this rock maintained.


    He tried timing his collection runs with the lulls in the pulses. Even then, it was a near thing. The radiation shielding of his suit was barely adequate for a three minute exposure. It had cost a fortune to cart down enough clean lead and cadmium to shield the tiny station. The planet literally fluoresced under the beating, tiny sun. Far too hot to mine, but oh so rich in uranium and other heavy elements. Incredibly, it still supported some residual forms of life. Not so surprisingly, mutated insect life; thus this station.


    Good as it''s gonna get, he thought, squinting at the meter.  The dull blue black radiation armor was cracked open and waiting. Randy stepped into it, set his three minute timer and buttoned up. The lock cycled open. He picked up the cad bottle, the honey jar, and stepped out. Oh god, he thought, caught the bugger making a delivery.


    The bug looked like a giant ant, or a child''s cootie toy. Two inches long, jet black, with compound eyes and and six legs. It was pulling the small carbon fiber sack off itself and putting it on the dished out, leaden feeding station. There were already five other sacks on it, one in each of the shallow wells of the tray.


    That was frightening. Geeze! I''ve got to be more careful about pickups!  The system was set up to keep too many fissionable grade substances from being gathered into a mass.


    The container was already open, so using the two foot long tweezers propped beside the station, he quickly plucked up the bags, shoving each one carefully in its own cadmium tube. Then he sealed the heavy lead cylinder with its thick plug. The ant watched with its glittering multifaceted eyes as he poured out a thick dollop of honey into the grooved feeder runnel behind the pickup station. Using the tongs, he put out four new empty bags in place of the six he picked up. Better safe than sorry. The little bastard must have figured out how to carry off more than one bag at a time. Or maybe there was more than one bug, these days.


    Of course, he could have just checked the station more often. Seven days into his shift, he was already getting lax. According  to the exo-entomologist, the things lived in very deep nests. Almost totally self sufficient, the bugs farmed lichens and mutated fungus in deep tunnels lined with high lead content sand. The scavengers, a specially bred few like this one, culled the lead from the beach. This one was now busy building a sand ball with the honey, like a dung beetle. Usually only one or two short lived mutants were produced at a time by each nest, replaced only as they died, conserving what resources each nest, as a closed ecology, had.


    Sweating, Randy turned the bulky suit and racked the cad container with the rest, then quickly reentered the station lock and cycled back inside. Decontaminated, showered and roentgen checked, he sat and retrieved the pickup schedule. He stared at it, even though he knew it by heart. Two more days. Extremely high pay and short work periods were barely worth it.You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    The bugs, operatively conditioned by experts long gone home, gathered grains of virtually pure reactor grade uranium. Almost a slug''s worth, over a day''s gleaning. Not some uraninite ore, either. It was a geologic impossibility, that just happened to exist on the deadly beaches of this place. Enough fissionables a day to power a fair sized reactor for a decade. No centrifuging or condensing needed. Picked up once every ten days, along with the station manager, who could then live high off of his contract pay for a year, if he liked. There was lots of other ores here too, and lead galore, from eons of series degradation. But as impossible to mine as the nearby dwarf star. It scared him, this whole, completely impossible place. It was like living on an undetonated nuclear bomb.


    In point of fact, it was one. If the lead cadmium content of the sands were only a little less, or the distribution of the surface radioactives were only a little heavier, the place, this whole system, wouldn''t be here at all. Just a cloud of radioactive vapor, apparently spun off from from a hyper-rotating dwarf that shouldn''t exist either.


    Nobody in the company really cared, it was strictly take the money and run.


    ****


    Theen watched the giant pour out the golden elixir and shivering, clambered into the tray to drink his fill. Next, by carefully sopping up as much as he could with the sand, he built a ball so big he could barely roll it. Then it was off to the nest. The route was well traveled now, but no easier for that.


    He raised up and pushed, carefully coddling and repacking the ball as he went, shepherding it along over inclines, keeping it from rolling off on the declines, until reaching the nest. Here he broke the ball into smaller ones, and with many trips, managed to get the bulk of it deep enough where other workers could get at it, and the food of the gods was quickly taken away.


    A messenger approached, tangling antennae and passing pheromones until the note was passed. He was to visit a conclave of the queens! This was an unprecedented event. It was either a reward, or he was to be eaten. His work was good though, so likely he was to be honored.


    The queens stroked him, climbed all over him, feeling, testing, smelling.   A chamber opened, and fifty smaller replicas of himself emerged! They too, climbed all over him, and the process repeated. Never had a gatherer been so honored. He was to lead them to the sands, and gather all they might, then carry back as much God food as they could!


    Theen knew his cycle was soon to end. Gatherers were short lived. His predecessor had mentored him as he would now mentor these. It was the peak event of a gatherer''s cycle, but never, never so many! Pride and purpose washed over him. There would not be enough pouches to supply so many, but fifty could still carry many times more grains, even if one at a time. He proudly marched them all from the nest, and to the beach.


    ###


    The entertainment chips were few, since the stints were only ten days long. A prison sentence more than a posting, really. Randy carded through the few available, selecting one he had not seen because he didn''t care for the subject matter, but bored, popped it into the player anyway. Like most who take such work, he was a lazy man. Quick money in trade for tedium and danger. They had trained him well, he knew as much about radioactive geology as any matriculated geologist. But his point, was not to have to use it for anything. Just sit, make pickups, pour honey, get paid and get laid.


    Two more Days.  He only put out four sacks, so he could lay back for a while. To hell with the company. There were enough canned radioactives stacked outside to power a world for a year.


    Two more days.


    ###


    Trouble. Theen felt it through the pads of his legs. The beach was close,just over the scattered rocks of this last rise. Then they came. The reds. Out from behind the rocks. Raiders. Breakers of nests, devourers of children. More than a dozen of them. Jaws clacking,scurrying forward. Theen charged, fearless before his students, his legacy. Those following him picked up the hate, the challenge from his scent on the sand, and enraged, they too sped forward. The first red went down before him, head rolling off to the side as a second attacked, clamping on his third left leg, breaking it off, hoping to climb his back and slice him in two. But Theen''s protege''s swarmed the red, pulled it away and killed it.


    Battles raged on every side, rolling clots of black and red washed around him. Triumph was inevitable, for his students were fresh and full of life, and he on his life mission''s peak. In the end, Theen lost ten pupils. Ruefully, he eyed his sack''s remains, tattered and ruined. But even with only five legs and no sack, he could still teach. They marched to the beach, victorious. They combed the sands and Theen carefully indicated which grains were required, though he was depressed that he could not yet demonstrate the use of the sacks. They picked through the sand for an hour, until every single student had a grain like his own, carefully held in mandible. Then they marched on to the trader''s place.


    ###


    The drama chip was every bit as horrible as he had expected. Randy decided to make one more collection then go to bed. Depressed, he got into the suit, grabbed up an empty can and the mostly depleted honey jar.  When the lock bumped open, his eyes flew wide. There at the station, must have been thirty or forty of the buggers. A small pile of glowing grains carefully set on the lead plate, steadily brightening, and one last bug, a little bigger than the rest, dropped another grain on the pile, which then obtained critical Mass. Along the beach, a chain reaction started as sands fused, clumped and reacted.


    The transport found only a highly radioactive cloud of gas circling out and around a dwarf so dense and old, that only UV, and high rad bands escaped it. The captain grouched at the crew, annoyed. There would be no percentage, and he had wasted  a month in space for nothing. Randy had seemed like a good guy too.  A service was said.

 Indetermine-mancy

    He was, in fact, a wizard. To his fellows at the Boure'' Quantum Mechanics Laboratory, Professor Elliem Brown, Quantum Physicist, Ph.D . But that was just a title covering his education.


    "All matter," he lectured, "can exist in an indeterminate state. The Heisenberg Principal is only the tip of the Quantum Iceberg. Even before the first Einstein condensate, we demonstrated the dual wave and particle nature of matter. It has shown us that all particle behavior and thus all matter derived from it, obey rules, that only statistically, sum into the systems that support common physics. It is not a question of which way a quark spins, but that it can spin both ways at the same time, or even be at the same moment on Mars, and here, as part of your shoe."


    The initial lecture was always the most difficult for students visiting the institute. He waited while the expected murmuring abated. These tours were droll inconveniences, but total must-be-done efforts of the institute to bolster Public Relations and pave the way for future grants and entitlements, the life blood of the researcher.


    "Here at BQM, we research the applications of such knowledge, find new ways to translate the theoretical and mathematical into the practical and usable. Quantum Physics has already given us all the devices of electronics that exist today. As early as 2010, ways of harnessing quantum entanglement to determine non-local events was paving the way for today''s advanced quantum computers."This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    Here, per script, he flashed his ring. Actually he was quite proud of it, gold and platinum inlay, with his initials, the institute''s crest, and a micro engraving of his graduate thesis on it, all 400 pages.


    "I have on my finger, more processing power than was available from all the computers in the world, at one time...and, I see that you are not impressed."


    An expected chuckle ran through the group. Ring based supercomputers were common as coal.


    "But it was only made possible because of the dedication of fierce slaves to the science, such as myself, in places like this." He swept his ring hand up and gestured broadly.


    ***


    Professor Elliem Brown, pulled deeply at his cigar, and dusted his cue, leaning over the green felt to line up on the six.


    "You gonna call that shot?"


    "You, are a putz, know that, Emmit? Six in the side, just like it looks. Get me another whiskey. Neat, no ice this time."


    The cue cracked sharply and the six ball sank like a ship. "Owe me five."


    "Aren''t you supposed to be guiding a tour over at the plant right now?''


    Elliem unbent from the table, looked at his watch with a raised eyebrow while taking up the offered rock glass in his ring hand. "Yes. I''m just finishing up the lecture right now, and leading the kids into the lab. Why?"

 Work Needed

    Year one


    Bull adjusted his hard hat and shouted"heads down!"


    The station''s windows were small and utilitarian, but looming in them, was a giant globe of ice rock. The berr-ack of a warning horn mixed with the chatter coming through the comm links, as crewmen scrambled to get back through the station''s air locks.


    In a rush, Peavy pulled up, a bare foot short of colliding with Bull. "All greens for the bounce, Boss. Techs say three minutes to go."


    "Get ''em all back in, buzz me when we''re clear. I''m going up to the bean-can and warn Phobos platform that the last of ''em are on the way. Conway on the damn switch?"


    "Yup."


    Facing the space rock, a bank of firing plasma thrusters mounted to "the shack" were already hazing blue, as the space-faring rig started to put extra miles between it and the largely ice asteroid.


    Bull huffed and quick stepped along the rigid carbon fiber band that formed the stiffened walkway for the space platform, which was basically just a rotating, inflated doughnut of composite plastics built around a central hub, the bean can.


    He took a sharp right, and banged up half-slanted riser treads, hauling his bulk away from the centrifugal force of the rotating doughnut-ring towards the metallic hub. The bean can, suspended in the middle hole of structure, was in a "float zone", as it did not rotate fast enough to create any centrifugal "gravity" to speak of. The ring was mostly used for storage, sleeping quarters, and as an exercise area. The gravity free center module. or hub, contained the work center''s guts.


    Bull eyed the approaching module''s hatch with distaste. He had watched when the construction shack was first inflated, and had snorted that the metallic, so called "Hard-zone module" mounted in it''s middle "looked like a bean-can". The term stuck. He pushed through, into a short, barely man-sized service tunnel, and on to the cramped compartment of the work center.


    Conway sat before the Fire control/Detonation/Safety station, eyes glued to an illuminated countdown. The men now aboard and accounted for, an all clear shuddered through the air and Conway pushed and held down the fire switch. The "burn" was ignited directly by timer, of course, for accuracy. As long as Conway held the switch closed by main force, the ignition would go forward. If released, the thrust system would abort, for the sake of crew safety. Bull watched the last flickering blue decimals count down, then flash green. On the far side of the asteroid, six pits bloomed with white fountains of gas.


    Each pit contained the volume of an oil storage tank, like the ones he''d constructed for Texon back home. A mixture of frozen oxygen, harvested by heating local oxides, and liquid methane, fountained up under the heat of thermal lasers, driving the asteroid to a new course. A "soft" explosion of gas with enough thrust to send it into a collision course with Mars.


    Pretty anticlimactic, thought Bull, no noise, nuthi''n. Takes all the fun out of the construction game.


    "Okay. Good job, Conway."


    "Hey, how come you never call me Bert like everybody else?"


    Bull squinted. "Honestly? Its the gray hair. Reminds me of my old man. Don''t want ta'' call you Pops by mistake, Mr. Conway''s to formal, so... Bother you?"


    Bertrand Conway''s seamed features flattened in a disgusted sort of way. "No. Just as long as it''s spelled right on my check, you can call me anything you like. Speaking of which, that was rock 247 of 247 total. We get to go back now?"


    "Yeah. Gotta call Mars Platform, let em'' know, but yeah."


    Once the scientists had used up their budgets poking holes in Mars, and speculating about what kind of mummified bacteria they might have found, had there been any, the ''Man to Mars'' projects had pretty much stalled.


    No air, barely any water, and what there was, buried in the rocky chemistry or existing as thin films of frost beneath the dust. Sure, you could free it up, extract it like some freaking mad science project, haul it from the poles, or rocket up tons of it from earth, all for about a thousand bucks a gallon, but bottom line, no way residents would ever be able to pay their water bills.


    Mostly though, the planet was just too damn cold. Temps between 20 degrees centigrade at best, to 87C below zero, all the time.


    The government was considering formation of MASA, Mars Aeronautics and Space Administration, to study what else congressmen might do about that. Budget projections ran to a billion a year, just to fund the bureaucracy. That was when Bull Construction put in a job bid, and got the development contract.


    In ten years, Bull promised a warm planet with water, and something like a real atmosphere, albeit not a breathable one. But something that offered a P.S.I higher than it gets in Earth''s Ionosphere.


    Part of the project were two large customized Tokamak-like magnetic field generators , one at each pole. Not as good as the earth''s magnetic field, but the power plant''s magnetics could be shaped to stave off solar flares when they came around. Bull Co. would own the concession to distribute fusion power pretty much forever, to the whole planet, as part of the deal, when they weren''t used as shields. A few specially clad nukes the government set off near Mars supplemented that, yielding a particle shield as well. This also raised the rad count temporarily, but ended with an overall reduction in inbound radiation, from solar perfusion and other sources, which the nukes cladding compounds dispersed. Yes the whole thing was dirty and violent, but quick, as such things go.


    All the raw materials were free, in orbit between Mars and Jupiter. NASA''s Far-eye survey found and tracked all the rocks they needed, and supplied the high tech needed for free. The giant rocks were relatively small, without expensive-to-navigate gravity wells. So easy on, easy off. The rocks were movable, too.


    So here he was, four years later, with ten Astro-engineers, plus his regular crew, on budget and on time.


    Bull tried to remember how many of each type of rock he had boosted. This had been one of the three really big ones, all water ice. When they hit, Mars would go up about 12 C, even after evaporating off enough water to put cloud cover on the planet. The techs said they would still put a good sized lake back in the Mawrth Vallis. Other rocks would bomb in CO2, Oxygen, burned out from the rocky substrates of his meteor storm, other stuff. All of them would heat the place up, create enough green house gas and particulate cover to keep it that way, at least for a few thousand years. Power, pressure, a few degrees warmer, and some open water. Didn''t sound like much, but enough to kick start a real effort to colonize the hell hole it otherwise was.


    Conway lifted his head. "Phobos."


    Bull grumbled and snatched at the floating mike. "We''re done here. Ten months of euchre with these jack-asses and then beers all around. I want to get back before the first meteor strikes blow in. Save me a seat. Your people better have the Tokamak sub-assemblies ready by then, Or it''s your ass. Over." Waiting through the ten minute radio delay was exasperating.


    While waiting for the reply, Bull thought about the overall project. It would take most of its remaining years just for the dust to settle, and there were a million things yet to finish up. He wondered what his punch list would look like. Ten months wasted. But off-work seasons were always rough. Construction was a tough game.


    ***


    Year 100


    Carl Witherton hated the suit. You couldn''t scratch where you itched. Regardless of what the techs said, the cold seeped into it when you hit a shadow, and the weak sun was slow to make a difference when you left one, even on the hottest days. Rain descended slower in the one-third gee gravity, wind whipped fat globules of falling rain, often as not blowing parallel to the ground, or crashing down as hard hitting hail. Today, it was a slurry that froze on contact, and the helmet washed with it, blurring everything.


    Sure, it pulled dust out of the air, getting rid of the worst Martian dust-devils, and was likely a blessing, but it left you totally dependent on the heads-up display. It was like walking through a video game, and it left you cross-eyed.


    The wide canister on his back sloshed beneath its dust cover, tugging him off center, so he walked drunkenly in the light gravity, swaying against the shifting liquid inside. The lake, his destination, was in a crater though, and the erupted rim was rocky and steep, so you couldn''t motor up to it. The whine of his compressor/filter vibrated against his chest. It fed in, scrubbed and vortex filtered what passed on Mars for atmosphere to the suit helmet, maintaining a near Earth-normal pressure there. The result was still bitter and sulfurous, still stung at his flat Mongolian nose, a heritage of his mother''s Sherpa forebears. He twisted up, passed the red rock eruptions, gaining the much colder rim at last.If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    One foot caught in a slippery crack, and pain shot along his leg. Off balance, he fell. Bouncing heavily, Carl rolled onto his side. A tear ripped along three inches of seam, near the ankle, and chill bit quickly along his right side. Not instantly lethal, it was only twenty-five below or so here at the ridge. But the mini-compressor had sustained damage, and breathing turned from being a chore to impossible. Red spots danced before him as he fumbled for the auxiliary oxygen bottle at his waist. A hiss, and before blacking out, ice cold sweet air.


    Carl came to, head throbbing in time to his heart, vision blurred. Woozily, he checked the heads- up chronometer in the helmet. Five minutes. Fifteen in the cylinder, so say ten left. His legs and lips were mostly numb, but the right foot was worse. The laboring heater coils were unable to compensate much for the ripped seam, and trying to pull himself up, he saw a red frozen crust frothing it.


    "Shit." Carl toggled on the suit radio.


    "Reagan, I''m at Crater lake two. Got mashed up pretty bad. You copy?"


    "Reagan. God, Carl, help is dispatched, hang in there. You''re twenty minutes out! How bad?"


    "Bad. Compressor''s compromised. Leg''s screwed. On Bottle Ox. Twenty feet upside the rim wall from the rover."


    "How much O2 left?"


    "Maybe nine minutes. Blacked out. Still groggy."


    There was an intake of breath. "Can you fix it? Dial down? Try and crawl back to the rover. Carl, I can get Mike there in fifteen, but..."


    "Don''t think so. Too far without legs. Waist seal is OK." Carl turned painfully toward the rim lake.


    Blue-gray. The first bit of color, except red, he had seen since leaving the dome. The thin ice surface seemed to ripple in the fog of wind-driven ice-drop. He removed the canister on his back, balancing it on the fine, frozen red mud of the lip, just before the waterline. The solar panel array to his left terminated in a sealed plastic lump from which two leads ran into the crater-lake. Bubbles would be surfacing between the two lines. A low current electrolyzed and heated the water here, breaking a little of it into oxygen and hydrogen. Most of that oxygen dissolved back into the crater lake, but maybe even enough still fizzed up. A few strikes with a rock hammer broke open a hole in the ice near the iridium anode.


    He dragged the container closer, fumbled it open, and dumped it in. Twenty carefully adapted bottom feeders swam out, that would hopefully survive on the algae already established. Algae fed on the products of special rock-eating bacteria and molds, genetic hybrids cultured from deep caves on Earth. For eight years, twenty pioneers had been alone here, and now, he thought hazily, maybe a few mutant Carp. Carl watched them swim hesitantly, pearling about close to the bubbler, but not too close due to the mild current, maybe ten feet down.


    In another eight years, if I get through this, maybe I''ll come fish for some. He chopped around the electrode cables, brought them closer together, wrangling them into two masses. The bubbles got bigger, more frequent, boiling up through the hole. It was the anode, he remembered, which released the O2, the other bubbled out the hydrogen. The outside pressure was awfully low, but if he could just...he ripped the dust cover off the empty container, and spread it over the anode''s hole, then ducked beneath it.


    Checking the chronometer, he had less than a minute left on bottled air. Breathing deeply twice, Carl cracked the helmet''s seal. Blackness again encroached. Here''s hoping I can still be revived when Mike gets here. God, I miss Earth.


    ***


    Year 200


    "There''s just too many damn people!" Reggie swept his hands out to encompass the canyon rim. "Just look at ''em all, lined up to stare into the thing, like fish eyeing a worm. I hate tourists!"


    "They''re not tourists, Reggie," I sighed. "Not really. Most of them are Martian born, just not from around here. The Rift is one of the few natural wonders we have to gawk at. Gotta admit, it''s something to see. The few real tourists are all in sealed choppers, flying around down there where the air is thicker." I waved generally down into the bottomless gash.


    Actually, the thing scared the shit out of me from vertigo. I didn''t care much to stare over the edge, or even think about the three to seven mile drop to its floor. The choppers looked like swarming gnats from here. "Too much big money and time lost to come out here from Earth, just to oogle and go back, for more than a handful of VIP''s."


    We had this argument regularly. There were real obvious differences between Earthers and Martians. They say we look like poster-kid basketball stars¡ªthin and tall. We were all gene modified by the second generation, to increase birth lividity, and Martian gravity provided its own twists to our natural growth. To us, they looked stumpy and obese. Every one of them fitted with supplemental oxygen breathers, like asthmatics. They defined the word "tourist", as the term applied to Mars. Reggie held that anyone not from the rim-dome community was a tourist, and watched his 400 hectare property lines rabidly for trespassers.


    Most of the domes were still up, if not pressurized these days, but really, the term "dome" had just come to replace "city" over the years. A tourist once told me that "Doma" was a Russian word for home ¨C don''t think there''s any connection there. Most residences sprawled out and away from those glassed bowls that once kept the colonists alive. There is a movement to establish a community in the Rift Basin, where the extra five miles of "Up" provides a somewhat greater air pressure. But as that means travel out of it would be by ''copter mostly, it''s kind of speculative, and Martians are rather adapted to the thinner atmosphere of the rim and surface generally. Well, at least away from the Mons, and higher altitude structures here.


    Reggie ranched cattle, one of the few people I knew involved with that. Real beef was a recent luxury good. Only lately had enough engineered ground lichen and hardy grass proliferated for the enviro center to approve limited ranching. Wasn''t beyond the pale that a few head might get driven off by"Tourists" to stuff homesteader larders. There was, of course, no wildlife on Mars, the diet being predominantly vegetarian, save for some synthetic protein, so that was a real threat.


    "Thieves then," he grumped, "or at least, some of ''em. Lost four head last month."


    I refrained from mentioning that some had perhaps sauntered too close to the rim and simply slipped over the edge. Reggie was a little shorter than my seven feet, so I got to see the tips of his ears redden, whenever I brought that up.


    "You know though, you might make some money from all this interest in the canyon. You really don''t need your herd that close to it anyway, and your rim-side property has some of the most spectacular overlooks on the south edge. Could set something up there, charge admission."


    Reggie looked startled for a second. "You think so?"


    "Sure. Maybe open up a grille there, too. Sell steak meals to the visitors for hefty prices. Might even attract some of the "real" tourists."


    Reggie scratched himself in thought. "Mean a lot of extra fencing and grading. Actually, not a bad idea."


    I still had a good income from my great grandfather''s power concession at the poles. Old Bull had made a decent profit from them back when, though by contract, most of the output was plowed into maintaining magnetic field regeneration. As less and less got siphoned off beyond that, to maintain the domes, the government checks attenuated, but the giant Tokamaks still supplied the small power grids in the deep north and south, proceeds which his heirs still split, including me. While the power itself was basically free, maintenance charges still were assessed, and there was a small profit attached to that. So I had some savings. Much as the trench scared me, I didn''t have to look at the damn thing to appreciate the investment opportunity.


    "You know, Reggie, I might be convinced to put something into that, if you decide to go ahead with it."


    ***


    Year 300


    "So, how does it feel. I mean, how do you feel?"


    "Good." Ben turned his hands up off the table in a sort of palm shrug. That kind of off-hand response was promising.


    "There are differences. Touch is more localized. Tips and pads of the fingers, only four spots on each foot--that sort of thing, but phantom nerve effect, kind of fills in the gaps."


    "That''s not what I mean. You don''t feel, disconnected, remote?" I knew the phantom effects would eventually wear off, but by then, he''d be used to changed tactility the exoskeleton provided.


    "No. It''s me, from the top of my head to the tips of my toes."


    He looked good. They always looked good. Like golden, diamond statues. I checked the Mag shielding. The flux meter showed a good field. Between it, and the collapsed crystal armor, he should be able to fiddle around during solar storms without damaging himself. Still, there were other things. Human things.


    "Any phantom pain, unnatural sensations?"


    "Nope. We already did the range of motion and sense routine, remember? Ann, I''m fine. Can I go now?"


    I looked at the pressure tests, cold penetration results. All were highly compliant, still I was reluctant to let him leave.


    "Remember, there''s no such thing as ambient sound in a vacuum, Ben. External sound cues come to you only from other Belter''s transmitters, or from impacts on the suit skin, or are internal. Think of sound as non-ambient, or as a knock, unless you are on a breather ship, or in a breather dome."


    "Yes, Ma''am. No offense, but I''ve had the training. I''m of age."


    I nodded. The problem was with me. I had passed the opportunity ¨C no that''s not the truth, I had chosen against conversion when it was available to me. Fear? Something religious?


    Out the port window, small flashes of milling citizens darted among the rocks and platforms of the Albequere'' collective. He would be fine here. They were all fine. Mining, exploration, energy without limit, entire world-lets of resources. Even with Mars port just ten months away, it just seemed¡ªalien. I waved Ben off the table and escorted him to the lock.


    "You have family here?"


    Ben hesitated, one metallic hand glittering on the seal frame. "Uh, no Ma''am. Some class-mates though. My family is, um, well, we''re founders. My great-great-great-grandad was "Bull" Harrington."


    I felt a bit shocked. "That Harrington? The terraformer? Your family owns the polar generators?"


    "Yeah. They were not amused about my decision to come here."


    I bit back my tongue, embarrassed. Albequere'' was a new collective. There were no breather domes here. His parents and such, would be mostly too old, not convertible so as to face the vacuum or impressed with their sons abandonment of his heritage. The hardness of space, probably seemed a desolation to them.


    They scooped out the human body, to do this. Only the spine, for stem and blood cell generation, along with the nerves and organs, transferred to the shells. Took three weeks. Bone wouldn''t be of any use anyway. Mesochimal tissue got replaced with vita foam, to pack the organs with. First year without gravity you''d lose more than half the mass of any reminant bone, and sixty percent of any muscle you had. Wouldn''t be safe, to try and pack all that extra baggage along, maintain it, heat it. Martian Gene-jack heritage, and adaptation to low gravity made the process barely possible. The Exo-shells had to provide a substitute for all that support and much more. It wasn''t without risk.


    Ben lifted his hand from the frame; made a tentative motion towards me. "You okay? You did a good job. Glad I had you for final orientation."


    "Just thinking. Good luck; it was nice knowing you."


    Their was a small whine from the electrics that drove the plastic replacements for muscles the suit was fitted with, still audible in the thick atmo of the ship.


    He snapped off the external speaker and stepped through into the lock.


    I cycled him out.


    The outer door opened on two golden, floating figures--the Welcome Wagon, I guess.


    Odd, knowing that while they could come visit me, I could never even survive the life they lived. But, when I get back to Mars, well, we have trees now, grass, blue skies, my parents are there, I''ve real wood furniture to wax, spend Sundays at the Xeno-Zoo. I remain content, just a homebody at heart, I guess.

 Firelight

    Crisp and blue beneath me, a soft coaling bed glowed. I could feel the rich race of oxygen pushing past, an enveloping caress. Not something special, usually unnoticed, the everyday fact of it, the cushion of life. It sustained us. We burned about our daily business, learning, looking out into the universe, nurturing our children, perfecting our dances.


    My place was not an important one. I marked the knots, where damp steamy traps might erupt, disturbing the flame-dance. It was a minor chore. The rare eruptions almost never actually blew out the life of a fire imp, but we had learned to become careful of them. The elders kept track of how deeply into the food bed the blue glow ate these days. Millions of cycles would pass before it coaled out, so life went on, and we danced.


    ##


    Brian sat before the campfire, thinking. I saw him doing this a lot lately. The recent divorce, the bills--I understood the changes that haunted him; hoped this outing would at least relax away some of the tensions that came with all that. I pulled at his shoulder, squatted, and passed him a fresh long-neck.


    ¡°Still thinking about Sally?¡±


    Brian stirred, accepted the bottle, and continued gazing into the campfire. ¡°No, just watching the wood burn. I used to like doing that when I was younger. I imagined the flames were little people, leaping about. Ever do that? Just sit and watch it burn?¡±


    ¡°Sure. Practically the only thing about camping I ever liked.¡± Seemed a little more needed to be added to that, so I said, ¡°The fishing bug bit me late, and Dad never took us to those resort campsites. Just places like this. Wind. Trees. Water and silence.¡±


    Brian fished a green stick out of the nearby kindling, stripped some bark off it. ¡°She wants me to take Andy all next week. I''d like to borrow your truck to move the rest of my stuff into the apartment, if it''s okay. Otherwise the kid won''t have a place to sleep when he comes down. I don''t get off till six, just isn''t enough free time between now and then otherwise.¡±


    ¡°Not a problem. Just swing by after work anytime. I''ll follow you back in the Chevy. Help you load up.¡±


    ¡°Thanks. I wasn''t going to ask, but...¡±


    ¡°Not a problem.¡±Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    Brian reached his stick out and poked at the coals. They shifted a bit, and orange sparks spilled up into the quiet night air.


    ###


    It had been thousands of cycles. I was almost due for retirement when the first disaster stuck. There was a shaking and a trembling. The blue flared out in some places, burst high in others. Those caught on the rising blue were the lucky ones. They shot up, rising atop the cerulean bed, growing, undulating in even greater excitement than before. Others were not so lucky. Whole areas lost their blue corona entirely. There, dancers perished by the hundreds. Giant pieces of ash blew out into the air, frightening everyone.


    The philosophers bent their efforts to discovering ways to see past the great outer darkness, to delve more deeply into the secrets below the blue. Many formed societies that preached environmental control, blaming the older, faster dancers for over-using resources, blaming the eruptions on them, and lobbyed for controls. For a time afterward, the dance became more moderate, people did what they could. Eventually the blue returned to the scoured areas, the trouble became a forgotten dream, and the dancers flourished again in the ruined wastes. The dance increased...


    ###


    We watched quietly together as the fire died down after from the prodding, then leaped back again, higher than before.


    ¡°You could call in. We could stay another day if you want. I''m off all week. Leave early Monday and move some of that junk over before Tuesday. Sally would like that. Give you a head start.¡±


    Brian shook his head. ¡°Can''t. Used my sick-time up during the divorce. Anyway, Sally would have to be called about it. If she wasn''t expecting us, it could cause more friction. Don''t want Andy exposed to more of that. Best just to go in in the evenings. Nice thought, though.¡±


    I finished my beer and we sat staring at the campfire. ¡°Okay. We better put this out and retire then. ¡°I''ll get a bucket.¡±


    The stream wasn''t far. I scooped the tin pail through the rippling water, coming up about two thirds full, and lugged it back to camp. I looked regretfully at the campfire. An even blue fluttered below flickering yellow licks that twisted and leapt above it, like little imps at a barn-dance.


    It was an exceptionally good fire, not too hot, or smoky. It was just starting to burn down into the meat of the quartered logs below. A waste to put it out so soon.


    I put the pail down. ¡°Maybe we can do this again after you''re settled in. The summer''s just starting.


    Brian smiled and nodded. ¡°That would be good by me. Almost forgot how relaxing this is. Maybe after mid-July.¡±


    ###


    Philosophers working endless cycles had reached a breakthrough. My job became suddenly important. It was possible, it turned out, to harness the explosive energy of the knots, to rise above the food-bed, taking slumbering dancers fast enough to create a new blue, up and beyond the world on new food beds. By harnessing the colored burn of certain mineral contaminants, the largest of our philosophers had managed to pierce the darkness, and had found one within reach , if the right sized knot could be found.


    I spent hundreds of cycles looking for one, not too deep, with just enough vapor, just the right orientation. Dancers were trained, and carefully set to loosen the knot, prep it, and inhabit it for the terrifying journey. The cycle came, and a countdown started. The coal Banged up into the either, carrying our hope and dreams with it into the great beyond


    ###


    I picked the bucket up and sighed. ¡°Yeah, we''ll plan on it.¡± I upended the bucket over the campfire, which hissed and sputtered. A wood knot banged and shot out from the sputtering remains. I tracked it down and ground it out on the lugs of my boots.


    ¡°Goodnight, Brian. See you in the morning.¡±

 Get a Job

    Alex coughed into his face mask and looked expectantly at the Reception desk in the small medical lounge outside his doctor''s office. He was uncomfortable sitting in the rail sided chairs the clinic offered. They were a tight fit for his 387 pound body.


    "Alex Tellveccio? " A starched white priestess in mask and gloves raised her head from the office clipboard, scanning the lounge.


    "That''s Me." Alex piped, pushing his bulk out of the chair, he waddled to the inner sanctum door, and waited for the nurse to admit him.


    The door opened, and evil clone of the receptionist gave him a brief professional smile. "Dr Kyle will see you in room eight" The nurse pointed down the small hall to the last room at its end.


    It would be the last room, Alex thought sourly, but nodded at the nurse and made his way to the examining room, where with the aid of the small stool there managed to scoot onto the pallet.


    Dr. Kyle entered thumbing a thin dog eared file, and looked up saying, "How''s that diet coming?"


    "I switched to diet pop," Alex said helpfully.


    Dr. Kyle stroked his chin, eyeing Alex, and said, " I think you should find some, ah, moderate form of exercise to help increase your calorie burn rate. I wouldn¡¯t suggest it to an older man, but at your age, perhaps a part time job for the summer, mow someones lawn, or something that would guarantee a regular schedule of activity would be helpful."


    Alex shrugged, working to remove something from his left nostril. "Mom takes care of me. Money is always tight, but she still comes through with my allowance on time, and gets the laundry out. That¡¯s all I really need. Anyway, we are all supposed to stay home if we can"


    Dr. Kyle''s face tightened. "Your poor mother is too old and frail too be coddling a big strapping lad like you. Besides we are talking about your health here, not your mothers."


    There was more of this in the same vein, and then the weighing in, the chest thumping, tiny cold flashlight in the ear, and so on. Eventually Alex found himself back on the street, and made his way to his favorite coffee shop, It was still closed of course,but he stopped outside long enough to pick a paper out of the squat lock box. There wasn¡¯t a lot of classifieds in the Daily, but one item caught his eye.


    Wanted: MACHINE GREASER


    No experience required. 2 hours only.


    Apply 222 Dexter Drive


    Two hours didn''t sound too strenuous, and he had promised the doctor he would do something. Best of all, it was only a half block away, so Alex sucked it up and made the heroic half block walk, ending before a nondescript red brick building, with a couple of black smoking stacks poking skyward in the rear.


    The receptionist passed a small clipboard and pencil stub through the window, and Alex was pleased to note the applications Brevity.This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.


    Name:


    Age:


    Weight: Height:


    Social Security number:


    Marital status: Sex:


    Address:


    Well, thought Alex, it was only for two hours. Probably paid minimum wage, they likely didn¡¯t care about the details as long as you showed up for work. The weight thing bothered him though.


    "Is there a weight restriction for this job?" He asked the receptionist.


    The receptionist shook her head. "Actually, quite a few successful applicants here are a little overweight."


    Alex passed the clip back through the window.


    "Please have a seat. The interviewer will be with you shortly."


    A middle aged harried looking man bumped through the anteroom door and shook Alex''s hand. "Just the man were looking for, no doubt about it. Machine greasing requires a special jumper though, for obvious reasons. You mind wearing one?"


    Alex looked surprised at the fast response, but shook his head.


    "Good, good. Come on back and well get you fitted up."


    They passed through the small office area and through a heavily built door into the factory proper. Giant grey machines shuddered and cycled, armatures shuttling round in tight mechanical routines, with a great deal of squealing and shuddering.


    "Should have asked what the pay rate is." Thought Alex, as they approached another jumper clad worker who was busy wielding a huge wrench at the base of one of the automations.


    "Bob, Alex. Alex, Bob. Alex is here to help grease the machines. You want to get him started?" the harried interviewer asked.


    Bob looked Alex up and down, nodded and said "You''ll do. Follow me."


    "Gee, sure is noisy in here, hot too," noted Alex, following the blue jumpered maintenance worker to a small door at the plant''s rear.


    "Yeah, we are way behind on maintenance, good thing you''re here. Go on in" said Bob, "and get an empty locker. Strip down and put this on." He said passing a


    TyVek jumper, bound in a paper strap to Alex.


    Alex passed into the locker room, found an unoccupied olive green locker and changed into the rather comfortable jumper. It wasn¡¯t often that any kind of clothes fit him properly, and he was thankful for that. He swung the locker door shut, frowning. No lock. He would have to ask for one, or buy one if he was going to be using the lockers regularly.


    Bob was waiting outside when he emerged. "All set? Remember your locker number?"


    "One sixty three," said Alex.


    "O.K.," said Bob, "let''s go."


    They walked to one of the large grey machines, and Bob opened a hatch affixed to a large hopper.


    "What you do is, lean way down into the hopper here, and then follow my instructions. Be careful, it''s slippery," noted Bob.


    Alex looked into the deep black hopper, but couldn¡¯t see anything , so leaned in as far as he could and stuck his arms out ahead of him, feeling around.


    Suddenly a couple of gears set in the hoppers bottom started up, snagging at the jumper, pulling him in.


    Bob quickly grabbed at the boys legs and pulled him up dumping him entirely into the hopper, then banged the lid closed and hit a button. There was a grinding noise, a burbling, gloping sound, and the machines in the shop seemed to quiet down some.


    The harried interviewer trotted over and wiped a handkerchief over his balding head. "That¡¯s a lot better" he said. "How long did it take?"


    "Less than an hour total since he hit the front door, my reckoning" said Bob.


    "Probably ought to change the ad, we''re still saying two hours." The Interviewer noted.

 BigRed Truck

    Laying down. "Sniff-sniff-sniff, smells like mama''s stove, sniff-sniff.


    "Noisy, Oh! Oh! HereItcomes! Here it comes! Fast! Fast! I''m up! Go! Go-Go-Go! Hey! HEY! HeyHey hey hey hey! Truck! Truck BIGRED Truck!"


    Bob watched the floppy eared retriever scrambled off the neighbors front porch. A hairy sausage mounted to four independently minded legs; no two of which were in agreement as to what direction of travel was best.


    Barking and bounding, it slathered a frantic negotiation of the open gate fronting the yard and settled into an all out gallop vectoring in behind his pickup. Bob liked his truck, but had never been able to muster the enthusiasm for it Boggie had. Especially when it was cruising down the block.


    "Ah, shit. Mrs. Cournet left her gate open again."


    Bob hit his driveway turn a bit faster than usual trying to keep ahead of the mutt. As was normally the case, Boggie lost interest in the truck in proportion to the square of its speed. By the time the truck was stopped, Boggie was sitting on the sidewalk tongue hanging like a disheveled pink tie out of the corner of his wide-open mouth.


    "Woof! LookitsBob! Bob! Bob! First it was Noisy/Smelly, now it''s BOB! I gotta go lick Bob. Smell Bob! Yep, Smells Just Like Bob alright! Glad to see Ya Bob!"


    "Whoa, hey! Down buddy!" Bob gave the big dog''s head a quick once over, then pulled the dog''s paws down off his shoulders. Two years living just one house away from the beast, and still every opportunity that presented itself, Whammo! Dog slobber city.


    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    His mom constantly told him he should get a dog. He replied that he already had his neighbor''s dog, more often than not. Besides, they were expensive these days, what with the shots and all.


    Bob squinted down at Mrs.Cournet''s front gate. Maybe he ought to offer to fix her latch. While he was at it, he could put a spring on the gate so it would shut itself.


    "Come on Boggey, let''s go. Let''s go see your Ma."


    "Truck! Truck! BigRED Truck! GottaGet BigRED truck!"


    Bob stopped in his tracks, eyeing the mutt.


    "My truck''s blue. Besides which, you''re a dog - you''re color blind." Bob looked sharply again at Mrs. Cournet''s House. A vagrant bloom of black smoke floated from the back the house.


    "Shit!" Bob dug into his coat pocket for his cell phone and punched up the fire department''s local number.


    "Hello? Yes, I need to report a fire at 21634 Waysdale. Black smoke¡­yeah. Thanks." He repocketed the phone and ran over to the open gate, through it, and up onto the porch.


    Boggie followed at a merry trot ."Truck! Truck! BigRed Truck! Mama says. Get BigRed truck!"


    From the proximity of the porch, Bob could smell the tarry odor of the burning house.


    He banged open the old lady''s door and started in. He could see, under the rising pall of sooty smoke, the legs of Mrs. Cournet where she had fallen, evidently having pulled over that old oak china cabinet with the bad leg. Pulled it right down on top of her. A large fry pan was knocked over onto the kitchen floor. Burning grease everywhere completed the immediate picture.


    Bob pulled his jacket over his face and dashed in, kicking away the wedged cabinet, and pulling the unconscious woman out into the front yard. By then the fire truck had arrived, and big guys with long black overcoats were hauling hoses and axes out of it.


    Boggie was whining and nudging at the prone form of Mrs. Cournet, saying "BigRed Truck, See Mama? See? GoodDog, GoodDog! Get Up, Mama! BigRED truck"


    Mrs. Cournet stirred and moaned, feebly pushing with one hand at Boggie.


    One of the firefighters approached Bob with a clipboard.

 Silver Bells of Chadre

    The coarse cloth chafed, offering little protection from the blanketing snows and biting winds gusting down the public lanes of Chadre''. Rina shook her scarf, dislodging a building crust of ice. The frozen crystals tumbled off it, to melt upon the nape of her neck, dampening the short black hair there.


    The street was lined with wooden, single story shops, each decorated with long icicles, the weather''s second festive contribution to the village. At the street''s end, was a steepled church, its bell tower visible well beyond the hamlet''s limits. Ierving both as a place of


    Striding up the street, Glave, the blacksmith, gave her a hearty wave. ¡°Ha, Rina! Come to make contribution for the steeple bells?¡±


    ¡°Aye, and I have. In memory of Mother.¡±


    With her mother''s death, Rina had been left in charge of Jon, her younger brother and the small house they had been born in. Among the personal effects left behind was a small silver tea service, treasured by her since time out of mind. Rina found it beneath her mother''s bed, after the corpse had been removed for burial behind the church.


    Fitting, Rina thought, that the silver set end its days forever a part of the Caroline, to watch over her mother''s rest.


    Glave nodded. ¡°Hurry then. The molds are set out, and the melt-pot''s hot. Tis'' the night for the last pour, and most be already there!


    Rina hurried ahead. It had been decided to make the bells this season, something long planned for.


    The bells would announce more than holidays and calls to prayer. They would alert citizens to fires, or other dangers, announce meetings, weddings, other things. These would not be large bells. Instead, a series of smaller ones, ten in all, graded to make a circle of fifth-notes, according to the town artificer. They would be rung by ropes depended down into the church. No fine cathedral that, but the pride of the hamlet, nonetheless. As the collection of the silver was a deed of great sacrifice by the few and not-at-all wealthy residents, these melt and pour events were done with reverent ceremony. Each pour always attracted more than the few able to contribute for the melt.


    Rina added the silver set to the melt pot, and accepted the small hot cup of cider provided by the counsel representatives. All stood and looked on as Glave eyed the pot, and at his judgment, lifted it with long tongs to pour the glowing mass carefully into three small molds. In an hour, the bells were freed from them. Black things that the smith assured her, would gleam like the glitter off lake wavelets when burnished. Most left following the pour. Rina stayed, and Glave showed her how to use his rounded steel sticks to burnish out the bells, and bring forth their shine.


    Rina donated as much time as she could to the bells project, away from the care of her young brother, and the weaving that supported them both.


    She felt as though somehow, the effort was a tribute to her mother, a lavish of affection, to make up for the inevitable lost opportunities, missed during the bustle of daily life. Rina insisted on burnishing the smallest bell This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.


    She imagined the smallest bell to be the one cast of her mother''s silver, though in truth, the pour had contributed to all three of the last castings.


    Even with her help, it was a week before the bells were finished and mounted.


    There was one further ceremony, at which the village priest played on the bell''s ten ropes, producing a marvelous and haunting hymn.


    Thereafter she would always stop and listen when they played, whether it was a call to service, an alarm or just the nightly sunset tolls.


    *** .


    It was months later. The snows were retreating now, the icicles gone. She and Jon gathered firewood in the hills about town, far enough away to be out of sight of the fine steeple. There was danger here, for at this remove from man, the wild flourished, animals roamed.


    They had no ax, nor were either strong enough to wield one properly, and fallen wood was sparse closer to the hamlet. The trees grew thick here, and they went amid forest giants, watchful of the steep rifts and gullies hidden, like soldier''s secrets, beneath the thick brush and verdure of the forest floor. But a slick of mud on the canting side of one rill, caught them both, and they tumbled to slide down an almost vertical rift, into a splash of thin water rippling over round stone at its bottom.


    Jon cried, a puffy swell forming around one ankle. Try as she might, Rina could not pull the boy out of the divide.


    Worse, a moving lump of brown approached along it, sniffing, pawing, raising its large round head high to test the air. It saw them and came at a lope, with grunts and low barks. A brown bear, territorial and dangerous.


    Rina trembled, afraid to call out, unable to leave her brother, instead pulling at Jon''s arms and shoulders, trying to heave his burden up the impossible sides of the gash. Then another sound reached her. A familiar sound. An impossible sound. The tinkling clarity of the smallest steeple bell. It could be no other. It rang faintly at first, but soon loudly enough to hold even the walloping bears attention.


    A flash of bright white fur showed at the rim above.


    A white wolf. It leaped into the ravine, between the bear and Rina, growling, fearsome, head down low. Around its neck, a single silver bell hung.


    It was a bell Rina knew well, upon which she had lavished care and much work. Her mother''s bell. The bear stopped, swaying and complaining but the wolf stood its ground insistent and threatening. Grudgingly, the bear finally swiveled, turning back. The wolf turned also, to approach the stiff, stunned Rina, the bell tinkling with each fluid step.


    It smelt of her, and whined, then sprang to the rill''s wall, next to the pair. To her surprise, Jon reached out, twining his hands in the animal''s pelt, whereupon the wolf, digging in its claws, began to inch and tug itself up the gully side. Working together, the three overcame the slope, and Rina finally stood, able to offer a supporting shoulder to Jon.


    Ringing still, the belled wolf left, melting away into the shadowed wood, the ringing fading to a whisper, then to silence.


    Progress was slow, but they made the village, and Jon was taken to the priest, where his leg was cleaned and bound. Rina mounted to the bell rope platform and hesitantly pulled at the shortest rope.


    High above, the clear, dulcet tinkle of her mother''s silver bell, rang.

 Skat

    I looked through the picture window. Far below, Flashing yellow lights sent waves of colored shadow over the mounded snows of the deep ravine, punctuated by red pin-points of bright, oscillating red. These glittered too, but didn''t seem to spread across the ravine as did the yellow. Stuck in the snow, small black and broken strut affairs strewed across a ten yard spot, intermixed with brightly painted shards of wooden panel. The snow''s surface there was disturbed, like lumpy scrambled eggs on a clean white plate. From my window high on the ravine''s edge, The hook and ladder looked to be about ten inches long. I can''t imagine why they sent it, the EMS truck would have been sufficient, there wasn''t a fire. Two black-and-whites sat like toy cars off the the threading road''s berm, like match box cars abandoned by some distracted child.


    It was a typical day for Skat, our Short haired tabby. Coming downstairs Christmas evening, I had almost tripped over the Tom, as it lay on a tread in the staircase''s middle. Then later, after dinner, We caught it batting bulbs off the tree, almost toppling it off the stand. It wasn''t until he jumped on the table and knocked over the holiday candle arrangement that we temporarily put him out.


    What with presents to lay out, and all the last minute bustle, we remanded the cat to the front yard. This is not a cruelty for the big tom. The front is fenced, and with his thick fur, he actually likes this for short periods. It wasn''t his fault.


    We finished up the presents and tacking up the stockings over the fireplace. Exhausted, we trudged up to bed, Scat forgotten. Terrible to say, but on the rare occasion we forget to call him in, he generally climbs the Elm in the front yard and leaps over to the window casing, shredding the screen until we let him in. It''s usually only summers that he parks himself on the roof to sun. On such occasions I have to get the ladder out and get him down.Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    Anyway, we forgot and left Scat out.


    About four AM, there was a clatter and scraping impact on the roof, some surprised exclamations, and a loud Tom-cat yowl. I rose from my bed to see what the matter was and ran down the stairs, just in time to see a large colorful mass, proceeded by some deer, pitch past the picture window in the dark. I wonderingly eyed the window for a second, stunned, then remembered Scat. I threw on my coat and ran to the garage, retrieving the ladder, and mounted to the rear roof from the side yard, so I could see the rear pitch.


    I fumbled out the flash beam and clicked it on. There was a small cat shaped depression in the snow at the roof center, and a snow trail leading away in that clear and mess manner cats do when leaping away. But before this, clear in the snow, two rail straight tracks and deer hoof prints for twelve feet, then a messy skid just before the cat nest, skewing downward, ending with the roof on the ravine side.


    Even from here, the ravine was just a black shadow stretching away from the yardless rear of the house. We have a small retaining wall there and four feet beyond that, a mandatory snow fence just before the drop off.


    There was a second yowl from the base of the ladder, so with some relief, I climbed back down. Sure enough, Skat was winding around the latter''s legs, looking agitated. I picked him up, and went back inside.


    It was almost daylight when I called the police - Anonymously, I didn''t want police knocking on my door Christmas day to make some droll report. I just mentioned that there might be some animal carcasses on the ravine road, and since I knew the mile marker by heart, they must have sent someone right out.


    Just before turning away from the window, I saw Two EMS guys carrying a stretcher towards the Ambulance. I could just make out a bright red snowsuit on it.

 Silcoid

    Immortality Lost


    F.A.Hyatt


    Lorilard and Severin stood fidgeting in their spacesuits, watching the slower bipedal tower of crystal approach. It stopped, to sway before what appeared to be the shore of a sea of glass, under a red sun.


    The glassine mass, that was the sea, inducted a question towards it. ¡°Data?¡±


    The Bipedal crystal glittered a little more brightly, transmitting, ¡°Has been evaluated and summarized. Report follows.¡±


    ¡°Proceed¡±


    ¡°The sentient agents are random developments of organic chemistry. The result of an almost infinite number of organic permutations.¡±


    The mass searched its data cores. ¡°An Anomaly?¡±


    ¡°No, a result of progressive process. A few, that environment and natural physics did not destroy, build chemical patterns that propagate. Nonviable patterns extincted. An instance of self-assembly chemistry, based on carbon compounds, quite convoluted ones.¡±


    ¡°A chemical process? Are you certain it is sentient?¡±


    ¡°The organic structures became successful in perpetuating the needed reaction states, allowing their peculiar chemistry to update. Various organic processes formed unusual correspondences one to another, forming mutually supporting reactions, though at the same time, parasitic ones. As a whole, the system became stable. Some developed specific chemicals that could store templates of their past progressions. A form of memory, or archiving. This evolved into a quasi-cognitive, seeking behavior, and eventually, sentience. They call the process ''evolution''.¡±


    Severin put his suit helmet against Lorilards. to conduct a private conversation. ¡°What''s it doing now? I thought it was going to take us to someone in charge?¡±


    Lorillard shook his head. ¡°How would I know? Maybe some kind of rite. Just have to wait it out.¡±


    The glassine mass surveyed the visiting pair dubiously using various spectra. ¡°What energy drives their systems? Organic processes are either energy intensive, or very sluggish. Rarely self sustaining. ¡±


    ¡°The system is energy intensive¡±, inducted the crystal tower. ¡°The sustaining ecosystem is a hierarchical pyramid. Slow growing organics process minerals and sunlight to create complex sugars, which are in turn absorbed by more mobile energy intensive organisms, which are in turn parasitized, or outright consumed by organics like these before you, to power higher mental functions and advanced motility.¡±


    The tower turned left slightly, to better face the lowering red sun, increasing its energy input. ¡°The more self aware each unit is, the more cannibalistic. For it must consume more complex proteins and fats to continue the higher metabolism.¡± The tower pinged a few radar pulses off the shuffling humans to assure their position. They wasted a great deal of energy in random movement, to no evident purpose, it seemed. "They never truly become dormant, to store power as we see it. The cognition achieved,¡± it continued, ¡°is just an engine to further propagate its organic reactions, and evaluate the environment for more subtle ways to enable its chemistry. These individual examples,¡± the mobile noted, indicating the pair, ¡°are equally capable of working toward common survival, or cannibalizing other units to achieve it, depending on whether stored patterns point to one reaction over the other.¡±


    ¡°I do not see how this amounts to self awareness. You describe them as being a kind of seed.¡±


    ¡°Their complexity leave them to believe they are masters of their own destiny. It is possible some are, after a sense. The systems propagate random individual gestalts, that sample and process huge amounts of their immediate environment each second. They evaluate, and respond, so qualify as sentient.¡±


    The silicoid mass contemplated that. Cognition was always a rare outcome, an improbable result of the randomness of natural events. The chances of the mass itself occurring were astronomically improbable. It was powered by available radiation, either photonic, or cosmic. Originally a large plate of crystal and rare earths, bathed in benign radiations, it propagated by inducting data, into new, slowly grown crystalline masses as they developed over the eons, learning over time , to compress the needed data passed on more efficiently, so that more compact structures could be enabled. Eventually, mobile ones. But none of these were cannibalistic, whose very survival depended on on eating each other, or less advanced versions of each other.Stolen story; please report.


    It was difficult to envision. Ghastly. It tried to think what it must be like, to only be able to exist by extincting other organic systems of its sort - by eating the results of its own struggling evolution.


    It was aware of organic chemistry, and how friable such structures could be. A world of apologetic vampires, it thought. Chained to self consumption. It reviewed the report. Saw the science it had achieved, sampled the striving of its culture and art. It lived, it thought, it strove, even understood to a point, its failings.


    And now, it was here. The mass continued to process the huge data file sent by the biped crystal tower.


    One piece of art stood out, in the data stream. That of a snake eating its tail. Both of the aliens had orifices full of ripping teeth. Whose main purpose was to chew up and swallow other forms of life. Then the eaters died, for the organic chemistry could not sustain the extreme complexity of any one unit for very long, as it perceived it.. So consciousness was not preserved, just the insensate common mass of organic chemistry that spawned it, its ecosystem. A snake, eating its own tail.


    Luckily, the form did not eat silicon though, so he could afford to be sympathetic, and certainly would outlive them and their ecosystem.


    ¡°What is their Query?¡±


    ¡°They wish mining concessions. A concept of payment, or exchange is offered.¡±


    ¡°I could provide a block of substrate, set to upload the electrical patterns that constitute their thought process. It could , over time, be grown to a size needed to store and run several billion such patterned processes, and remove them from the cycle of death they have inherited, the need to self consume itself.¡±


    The motile turned to take in a far ridge. ¡°I believe they are interested in the heavy metals to the south of us. The yellow ores, especially.¡±


    ¡°What do they offer?


    ¡°They have brought some generators with them, that convert magnetic excitation into electrical current. It would allow-.¡±


    ¡°I know what it would allow. But it allows it at an exchange loss. There are no power sources here, that I do not already access. What energy would they convert to power the generators?¡±


    ¡°The ones brought for trade burn an organic distillate of plant matter. They propose to exchange the fuel for rock, pound for pound.¡±


    Self sacrifice? Further cannibalism?. The mass felt pain, remorse. Their need must be great, to diminish the very biomass that they consisted of, in trade for minerals.


    The benefit was substantial, compelling. The mass stored available energy, expended it in activity until the energy waned, then went dormant, until supplies regenerated to sufficient operational levels. The generators would give it control over when, and for how long it could remain active. Still, the mass was not vampiric. It could not conceive of such an extension at the debilitation of another sentient. If their need was so great however, perhaps some limited exchange would, overall, be best for both.


    ¡°The ridge, and that ridge only. Just that four, what is there measure?¡± Consulting his data download, he found it. ¡°Four square mile area only.¡±


    More would be a cruelty, and control over the masses dormancy not all that important, just, useful. It concentrated, started a piezoelectric reaction and vibrated a section of itself nearest the alien visitors. It cracked, and separated. Into it, the mass inducted the needed support pathways and assets.


    ¡°Give them the crystal. Perhaps they will reconsider, and use it to break their chains of mortality and eating-of-self. The minerals for the generators.¡± He would need to explain its use, the mass realized. ¡°Tell them...¡±


    At this point, the mass went dormant, having depleted its charge reserves.


    The motile waited a moment, realized the mass had went silent. Experience told him that the aliens would not stand and wait for the three cycles needed to recharge. They held to a belief, time progression, it was called. It had the answer to the query, and the gift to deliver. That much could be done now. It turned to the suited men.


    ¡°That piece of substrate is for you, a gift. For the generators and fuel, your query has been evaluated positively. You can operate within the four square miles comprising the ridge.¡±


    Lorilard picked up the block of crystal, and shrugged at Severin. ¡° Some kind of agreement ritual, I guess.¡± Then to the crystal spike thing, ¡°As agreed? One gallon of Kerosene for every troy pound of refined gold we mine?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    The men retreated to their ship.


    ¡°Man oh man, we hit it rich this time.¡± Severin nodded at the foot square piece of milky glass. ¡°What are you going to do with that, Lorrie?¡±


    Lorilard turned it over clumsily with his suit gloves, squinting at it through his faceplate. There was oxygen here, but also toxic gasses.


    ¡°Might be something we are expected to keep. A contract token or, who knows? Make a good souvenir, I guess. I can chuck it later, after we''ve mined out that ridge. Good thing we had those spare generators on board. Lets get the equipment set up. Then file rights, and arrange to get a few tons of kerosene up here.¡±


    He laughed, and picked up his pace.

 Gift of Sutur

    The deep chanting thrums in your ears as you creak closed the Tome of Sutur, and consider the progress you have made. Your night-black cloak flows open in the sulfurous wind that flows across the rank of baby-fat candles, held in thirteen Hands of Glory.


    "Set me to my labors, that I might gain the gifts of Sutur," you cry.


    Thunder shakes the basement shrine, and your thirteen acolytes wail and bow low. You note with satisfaction that the two you had to hire from McDonalds, to complete the unholy number, get it right and cower on cue with the rest. You pull forth the wand of cottonwood, carved on solstice eve from the dead wood of a cemetery gate. Closing both eyes, you strike out at the codex, nailed to the alter before you.


    "Read the engram. Let Sutur''s will be known!"


    As arranged, Dominick, your head acolyte, rises to peers down the wand.


    "Um, landed on number twenty-three, Boss"


    Twenty-three. Twenty-three.


    You recall the verses.


    "Therefore you shall keep the feast of Beltane, as according to your customs. Two Ghouls must you raise by my will, and bind to service. With thirteen Icons of Beltane shall you adorn that place as houses my shrine. Then attractive to my power shall you be. Feast all that celebrate the night, for dark am I. Abjure the waters of lake and stream then, for its opposite am I. Upon the stroke of midnight my full power shall invest ye, and evermore in my name shall you wield it."


    "Boss?"


    Shook from reverie, you turn gravely to pierce your acolyte with an unholy stare.


    "What?"


    "Um, its um, like nine-thirty, and I told my mom..."


    "All are dismissed! Pick up your checks in the morning."


    "Okay, g''nite. Great service, um, your worship."


    Alone now, you seek through the arcane tomes. Bound in human skin, and ancient, except for the cheap Naugahyde knock-off you settled for last week when it turned up at a flea market...but never mind, arcane enough. Your bony finger traces down a yellowed page. Ghouls...raising of...


    The cemetery gate creaks open, minus one missing board, and you stalk through the fog and gloom, a wraith, a shadow, a flux of vapor, lost in the silence of death and...


    "Hey you, tall guy."


    Two forms assemble within the mist and rot. They approach you, stealthily, uncertainly.


    "Hiya. I''m Greentooth, and this here''s Moldenjaw. We kinda both saw your ad inna Gloomy Times? Sez your looking for a couple good Minions? Part-time? That was you?"


    You look broodingly at the pair. Short, one with a slashed cheek through which a few yellowed molars peer. The other mange ridden and humpbacked. They leer at you in the cold dark...


    The mange ridden one opens its hole, and gassy words roll out over the moor-like desolation. "What''s the job? Just general minioning? Corpse eating is my game but you know, times are rough right now..."


    The one called Moldenjaw pushes at the speaker''s shoulder, dislodging a poorly attached ear. "Shut up. Its a job." Then, to you, "We''re your boys...well not real boys, but you know what I mean. Any benefits?"


    You raise your cloaked arms to pronounce their fates. "Just need you for Beltane, general help, nothing to strenuous, A sabot, of sorts. You''ll be well fed."


    "Eh, heard that one before.. You know a girl named Strongoak?"


    "Who?"


    "Never mind. Well take the job."


    Your minions follow to your dark dominion, just this side of the classy west-end, really every bit as good, just with a different postal zone because of the recent redistricting. And anyway, you think, the land taxes are more reasonable. You loom before the yard, casting a moon-forsaken shadow, that lengthens until it engulfs the very ... nice primrose hedge you installed last year.


    Your voice writhes like a tortured soul in the dark. "We must accouter the property in the vestments of the Feast of Beltaine."


    "Feast?" Your attention is drawn to the hopeful voice of Moldenjaw, your cringing creature.


    "Yes, Candles, Jack-O-Lanterns, that sort of thing. Try the A&P. Here''s my Visa. Don''t overdo it."


    "Ah. Candles. And Jack-Ah-Lanterns are?"


    "Pumpkins"you intone. "You carve toothy faces in them. Put candles in them. It is ..."


    ... you shall keep the feast of Beltane, as according to your customs.


    "Customary."


    "You''re the Boss, but eh, me and Greentooth here, we kinda stick out. Sort of foreign-to-these-lands type of thing. Sure they''ll do business with us?"


    "This night and tomorrow especially, you''ll fit right in. Trust me. Pumpkins. Thirteen of them. At least as many candles. Take the wheelbarrow out back, You''ll need it."Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.


    The winds howl around you. Already you feel the power of Sutur. Within your black and shriveled heart, heat within heat builds. Rouge fire courses through your veins. And, a little gas, maybe.


    Just past nine clock now, you see the grotesquely humpbacked and fetid forms of your minions approach through the starless night. The barrow they push is loaded with the orange fruit grown of earth-hugging vines, a last harvest before the fall of winter bleak, the...


    "Wow boss, these things sure are heavy. We got a discount ''fer buy''n a dozen, but," the one called Greentooth burbles to you, "we had to buy some back-packs, cause the wheelbarrow overloaded, with the candles and all. The shop-boy offered to help carry them out to the car for us. Nice folks. What''s a car?"


    You watch as Moldenjaw shrugs the round-humped sack from his shoulders, and aids Greentooth with his, chiding, "Cars is those long black carriages what pulls up before the catacombs all''a time, you idiot. Pay attention to current events, I always says. Right Boss?"


    You roll your yellowed eyes upwards and shake your cowled skull. "These will need to be carved tonight, you intone. I have some pictures for examples."


    By midnight, you look with satisfaction upon thirteen bloated effigies lining the manse front, glowering like shriven heads piled before a gallows. Next to these, a pile of scooped out pumpkin waste, already attracts the small souls that fly by night, or creep the earth.


    "Lotta bugs boss. What now."


    "Now, you can do what you ''do best''." You retire to the sucking sounds of ghoulish feasting as the waste is consumed. A few low moans reach you.


    "Okay, MoldenJaw. You and your jobs, jobs, jobs. This eat-it gig familiar to you?''


    "Shut-up, and finish your vegetables."


    "Got any salt?"


    "Shut-up."


    You prepare the candles yourself, dedicating each one to Sutur, God of Fire. A simple ceremony, requiring the souls of twelve still-born infants, a six hour chant while walking widdershins around the Alter of Hestus, and cleaning out the basement toilet with your tongue. Though the last part was possibly a miss-translation from the Naugahyde bound tome from the book fair, better safe, you somberly consider, than sorry.


    Dawn of the day of days breaks, and after brushing your jagged teeth, you retire for a few hours well earned rest. But then, you recall:


    Feast all that celebrate the night, for dark am I.


    "MoldenJaw! "Your sibilant bid pierces the waking dawn. Belching, the creation of chaos slumps into sight.


    "Boss?"


    "Get back to the A&P. Have the clerk provide you with a few large bags of candies and All Hallow''s Eve treats. I will expect most of them to be uneaten upon my rising this eve. I suggest you two rest after, we will have work to do come the dark of Beltane."


    Your Minion Yawns. "Read my mind Boss. On my way. Should I take the wheel-barrow?"


    "Gods no." Half one of your backpacks will do. Don''t go crazy, and this time, give me the card back. Pick up some toilet paper while your at it, for the basement," You mutter.


    You notice on his return, Moldenjaw has acquired half a sack of various day old meats, supplemented with an assortment of roadkill picked up off the street, so you explain carefully once more your requirements, and send him back to the A&P.


    "Perfikly good chow, " you hear him mutter as he walks away. You notice a throbbing at your temple has increased, and take a aspirin, then retire till the evening.


    You wake energized, for tonight is the night of nights!


    You note that all is prepared in accordance with the engrams of Sutur. You afix the unlit candles, the lights of Sutur, within the carven effigies, and set them without the shrine, especially along the porch railings and steps, but shoved under the banister where they will be out of the way. The offerings of sugar for the Feast of Beltaine are set in two large bowls beside the door.


    Your minions are passed out on the front room couch snoring in counterpoint. Anger rises within you, to note one has shoved his dirty toes through the very nice lacy afghan your mother wove for you last year. One of your good china plates is balanced on the sofa arm, a half eaten rat on it. Still, it is the night of nights, and at least they will not be underfoot for a time. You return to the basement and use an electric curling iron to touch up the arcane scars on your back.


    Evening descends upon you like a burial shroud.


    For the celebration, you decide on the short opera cape, and high starched gull-wing collared shirt, with a purplish smoking jacket and tuxedo pants. Perhaps your attendance ribbon from the Society of Sorcery, as a final touch.


    Soon the celebrants will be appearing, so you roust out your minions and have them light the evil squash lanterns. As each is lit, the yellowed flames bend toward you, yearning.


    *** "Then attractive to my power shall you be." ***


    Small persons in varietal clothing began to appear out of the foggy evening dank. You descend the porch steps and prepare to hand out the beneficence you have provided. As you pass, small flames lick out like tongues from the Jack-O-lanterns on the porch behind you, caressing your bottom.


    "Hey Boss. Boss? Your pants are on fire."


    You turn, to the sound of children''s derisive laughter, and swat at the flames eating away the back of your tuxedo pants.


    A multitude of murmurs and shrieks fill the night. "Oooh, Hee-hee, ''s pants ''r on fire! Hee-hee!"


    "Gah! Put it out! Put it out!" You leap about like an Imp in celebratory dance under the waxing moon.


    MoldenJaw runs to pull at the yard hose, but you wave him back frantically, for it is reservoir water. "Not the hose, something else! Put it out!"


    ***"Abjure the water of lake and stream then, for its opposite am I."***


    MoldenJaw jumps back and forth, then motions helplessly to Greentooth,


    A soothing drizzle hisses at your back, and the flames extinguish. The snickering of the trick-or- treaters increases.


    "Hee-hee, lookit, funny man''s butt is sticking out ¨C Trick or Treeeat!"


    A dampness and the feel of wind rises from you posterior. You turn to see Greentooth behind you, zipping up.


    "All set, Boss."


    MoldenJaw raises an eyebrow, and points his thumb at at the laughing children, partially drawing a dagger from his belt. Then his eyebrow falls off.


    "Just..hand out the sugar, " you rasp, one hand spreading over the large hole in your pants. The children squeal in delight at the Ghouls appearance, and for the treats of the night.


    The revelry has finally ended. The curtain of darkness draws to midnight, and you wait under a setting moon for the gifts of Sutur. You feel a power running through you, building, building...


    ***"Upon the stroke of midnight my full power shall invest ye, and evermore in my name shall you wield it." ***


    "Hey Boss? Me and Greentooth, we gotta go. The deal, it was just on till tonight, you know? "


    You wave them off, caught up in the rapture of Sutur, and the bestowing of his power.


    You sit alone now, the cement of the porch cold against the hole in you pants. Past the gate, a man in a somber trench coat approaches, enters the yard and looks at you. He pulls out a package of cigarettes. Taps one out and speaks to you.


    "Gotta light?"


    You slowly raise your hand to him, and with a fearsome incantation, a small flame appears at the end of your index finger.


    Surprise passes over the mans face as he lights the smoke from your finger. "nice trick. Can you do anything else?"


    "No. That is the extent of my...gift."


    "Hmm. I''m Saul Wetherby,. Detective Whetherby. Sorry about the hour but Halloween, you know, lots of calls. We have public nuisance complaints against you for public exposure and another for public urination, by a guest of yours? Wild Party was it? Here''s a ticket. Normally we''d haul you in, but, busy night. Court date is on the ticket, pervert. Oh, and happy Halloween."


    This one was written in second POV. Almost nothing is written in second POV, outside of the gaming / text adventure world, but given the seasonal nature of the story, I thought , well. maybe just this once....

 New Hires

    Prester Fremble bent further forward to see over the bell ringer''s hump."It''s still got dull spots on it," he noted. Startled, Snottle jerked his bandy legs a bit straighter, bumping his hunch against the Prester''s chin. Unbalanced, Fremble reeled back, planting one foot deeply in the hunchback''s wash-bucket.


    "Arragh!" The bucket slipped and with a whoosh, Fremble''s leg flew up like a chorus dancer''s high kick, dumping him with a bounce-less wet slap onto the cold and still soapy stone of the rectory floor.


    Fremble, vision swimming, glared cross-eyed up the well of the rectory''s bell tower, while Snottle shuffled around, knotting the polishing rag nervously.


    "Thorry mathter. Wath my fault, mathter. Let me help you up, mathter." Snottle reached down, and grabbed at the starched and pristine white sleeve above Fremble''s wrist. Fremble glared at the hammy, black soiled fingers as they pulled at him. Long streaks of oily polish gack smeared across the immaculate vestment. Fremble furiously slapped away his servant''s grasp, struggling to his feet.


    "Stop. ¨C I can manage myself. Look at my robes, Snottle!"


    Snottle pulled back, a pout crossing his broad features."Thorry again, Mathter. I am a little rushed. Almothst time to ring the hour. I''ll have to finith polithing the brath later."


    "So you say.  I am still waiting on you to wax the pews." Prester Fremble plucked disconsolately at his stained sleeve. "We need more help. Too many things going undone. Post an ad in the Postmortus Daily."


    Snottle hesitated. "Not the Village Voice?"


    "No," bit Fremble. "Of course not - can''t have townspeople poking about the sanctum, Snottle. What if they discovered my other ¨C avocation?"


    "The zombie workths downstairs, you mean?"


    Prestor Fremble glared. "The second life clinic, second life, you dolt. Not zombie works. It is," Fremble smiled beatifically, "my holy calling. The resurrection of, em, of the better, if over curious, souls of Westerville, that saints may one day walk among us."


    "Stho, I won''t have to be mopping the bathment up of chicken blood, anymore?"


    "A duty we can delegate to the new hire, I''m sure."  Fremble stroked his chin, considering. "Try to specify a Ghoul, not in too bad a condition, mind. It could eat the vivisected carcasses,too. Getting tired of chicken dinner every day."


    "It is a lot of chicken guts to dispose of, sthir. Maybe we could sell the better parts fried, in town, thir. Recoup, if you pardon the pun thir, the cost of all the fowl. Thome of the congregation are wondering where their donations are going. There are thome remarkths about your appetite for chicken, thir."


    "Remarks? Remarks? Is that so."


    "I''m a dab hand with a fryer, thir. I would then have time to cook with more help around. Bring in more money thir."


    "A good suggestion, then. Hire two. We can pay them ¨Csomething ¨C with the proceeds, and justify the poultry expense for the staff''s upkeep. Good thinking, Snottle. Get on it."


    "Ath you command, Mathter."


    Snottle turned to lumber up the long stairwell to the bell tower. Some rake had once suggested buying a rope, to ring the bells from below, a suggestion that precipitated the rakes processing into Fremble''s basement laboratory. What an insane idea, thought Snottle. Takes all the fun out of life. Use a rope, indeed.


    Bells were to be pushed. By hand, while chortling maniacally, and leaping about, occasionally howling, when the bell''s bonging got loud enough to cover the sound. Ah, the painful vibrations within the skull, the very bones ringing in sympathy with overwhelming sonic torture before the sheer wall of sound, hammering away at the roots of one''s teeth. St. Albraut had such nice, large bells too.


    ****


    Greentooth lounged on the sarcophagus lid, squinting through moonlight at the easy-eye print of the latest Postmortus Daily. "You''d think the paper would find a way to make reading by moon-glow easier, use florescent ink, or something." He twisted the paper one-handed, angling it to catch the lunar light better, while picking at a loose tooth through the rent in his cheek.


    MoldenJaw snorted, fishing around in a not-too-recently opened casket. "Ah, an overlooked finger. I knew I dropped one in here somewheres. Find anything in the paper?"


    "Mebbe one. Now hiring: Two ghouls wanted, light indoor work, chicken dinners provided free daily. Apply St. Albrauts, midnight to four AM, rear entrance. Adjoining cemetery, cash pay, other perks for the right applicants."


    "I like chicken. No sorcerers though. I won''t work for a sorcerer again, or a female barbarian either."


    "Says here, we''d work for the church Prester. That''s like, different eh? All holy ordered and that, and it''s full time." Greentooth hadn''t stopped his casual teeth picking, and one fingernail caught under a gum and pulled free. He spat the nail out. "Rats. That''s three gone. Gotta be more careful. Goes on to say -- must be in good condition, no major missing parts."


    Moldenjaw brightened. "See? All that Pilates stuff is worth it. Kept us in fighting trim, all that."


    "Had to sew your leg back on twice."


    "Vicissitudes of a good health regimen. So, off ta'' church?"


    ####


    Prester Fremble inspected the two ghouls dubiously. One had a missing ear and a bare, skinless patch where its left eyebrow should be. A large rent in its cheek suggested eating face-on was optional. The other stood a little canted, one leg evidently shorter than the other. Both were short, mangy, and fidgeted as if suffering a palsy. Still, no other applicants had turned up. It belatedly occurred to the Prester that few ghouls would feel called to the faith. Still, pushing a broom wasn''t catapult-science.


    "You understand there is physical work involved. It won''t just be an endless buffet of chicken dinners." Looking at Moldenjaw, Fremble found himself tending to lean right, and irritated, corrected his stance.


    Greentooth nodded, surreptitiously pushing Moldenjaw more vertical. "Oh yes, yer honor-worship. A good day''s work fer a good days pay I always says -- doesn''t I always says that, Moldenjaw?"


    Moldenjaw lifted up off his left heel to take on a less Tower-of-Pisa-esque pose and nodded.


    "Regular workaholics we is. Corpse disposal''s a specialty o''course, but need things done, we''re you men. Well not men, exactly, but you know what I mean."


    Fremble considered. I suppose, in a couple of choir robes, they might pass as cripples. "Very well then, I shall give you the opportunity. You will work at the direction of Snottle, who you will meet ¨C ," there came a rather loud bonging from above the sanctuary mixed with a undertow of maniac howls, "in a few minutes. Meantime, I''ve some working robes for you to try on."


    #####


    Snottle stared blankly. Dressed in choir robes, the recruits looked rather like some little girl had gotten hold of her brother''s action figures after a brutal session of firecracker immolation, and put dresses on them. Eyeballing the ghouls wasn''t a chore at least, since even bent over by his hunch, the two were short enough so that looking up was not required. For some reason though, he did tend to lean right, watching Moldenjaw. "Follow me, pleasth."


    The oaken stairs to the basement were worn, and wound down a vaulted passage barely five feet in height, forcing normal men to walk penitently, heads and back bowed. Not an issue for any of the three currently descending figures. Snottle carried a torch, thrust far forward, and black smoke twisted up from it, casting ominous shadows. The torch''s glare wavered against the walls to end in deep blackness beyond three or four feet ahead or behind.


    "Reminds me of home," noted Moldenjaw into the echoing gloom.


    Greentooth groused, "What do you mean, home. What home. The tombs outside town?"


    "Naw, ''afore that, way back; the catacombs under Rome."


    "Oh? Didn''t know you were Italian. I had an uncle..."


    To Snottle, the re-echoing pandemonium of the Ghoul''s chatter was somehow less pleasing than the characteristics of bell-tower clamor. "Shut up, pleath. We approach the Laboratory."


    Indeed, the darkness became less overwhelming, and the torch suddenly caught scattered reflections from sombre chamber walls, glinting off brass objects whose purpose could only be guessed. The hunchback thrust the torch at sconces placed about the walls, which whoofed into brilliant flame, and the space lit properly, if waveringly.


    The floor was wet, tacky, and deeply red. A sodden, sweetish miasma filled the space. Small squiggles of tiny intestines and other bits dotted it. An occasional chicken foot protruded upside down from the puddled goo, giving the floor the aspect of some multi-footed, if ridiculously short legged, beast lying on its back.


    "The masther butchers poultry in here. It geths... a little messy. There are mopths and buckeths, in the back. Clean the floor pleath. Feel free to nibble on anything you pick up. Part of the job, actually. Less to dispose of, thort of thing."


    From behind the closed door beyond the room, a rustle and chatter issued. Buck-a-buck-buck buck, beyock, cluck cluck cluck, woo!


    Next to the door was a closed chute, clearly marked with a rough engraving of an apple. Snottle remained stone faced at the noise, and waved it off. "The mathster keeps his live specimens in that room. You are not to go in there. Ever."


    Greentooth rose the scabby patch formerly known as an eyebrow, towards Moldenjaw. "Buck a buck? Cluck? Pretty good diction from a chicken, as such things go, I says."


    "Ever."


    Moldenjaw nudged his companion sharply. "We gotcha, boss, the back-room''s off the menu. You can count on us."


    "Wise beyond your yearths, then. Get busy."


    Greentooth shambled disconsolately toward the mops. "Eh, so this mess is the chicken dinners you guys promised?"


    "I can retherve thum livers if you like. I''m to fry the other parths for sale in the village. Thum of that will pay for your sthervices stho, no complaining."


    "Hey boss, we could help in the kitchen, if you sweeten the pot, so to speak."


    "I''ll think about it. The floors now, pleath."


    Mops acquired, the two began swabbing the stained pavers. Greentooth grumbled sourly. "Well, here''s another fine mess you''ve gotten us into, Moldenjaw."


    "Ooh, a chicken head!"


    ####


    Rottle Wormsbottom adjusted the overlong sleeves of his black vestment, while turning a page of the Book of Many Legs. The list of ingredients, he mused, was complete. He arranged them before the Caldron of Insectivus. Soon, that pompous Prester''s village would be desolated, gone from memory, and his little hunchbacked assistant, too. Incantations rolled from his lips, while this was added to that, and a flourishing dash of aromatic whatsis, drifted into the pot.


    A greenish miasma rose, accompanied a buzzing noise like a thousand chitinous wings. Thunder rolled, and the very earth sighed. Rottle closed the book, which shut with a scritch like the rasp of angry mandibles. He focused down into the pot cross-eyed. It didn''t help any, as his large nose interfered with binocular vision at close range. The effort only brought more of the proboscus into view. Normally, he closed one eye, when looking close up, but this was a moment of gravity, not to be sullied by winking at the pinnacle achievement of his art. So dual views of the bubbling purple puddle swam before him. After several misjudgments as to the exact distance, he picked up two special ladles in two left hands and spooned the mess into two identical bottles, which he capped with two identical caps, eyes watering with the effort.


    Walking dead, indeed. The charlatan.This Diocese ain''t big enough for the both of us. Take that, Fremble.


    He chortled madly. Time was, when an assistant would be doing the mad chortling for him, but times were hard, what with Fremble''s Temple sucking up all the donations of late. A situation soon to change. Rottle surveyed the empty pews of the Church of Gooey Death sadly. A burning anger welled. So, reincarnation as beetles not good enough for townsfolk, eh? The three mile walk from town to onerous, is it? Hah!.


    Only one thing left undone. Somehow, the poisoned apple he had prepared would have to be substituted into Fremble''s Zombie recipe. Yes, it had taken much scrying, but the secret recipe, well, most of the Prester''s formula anyway, had been divined. The important point was, that essence of apple was one of the main ingredients. Something sympathetic, or symbolic, to do with the rebirth of life ¨C some such rot.This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    The prepared apple was a spell reverser, which ought to ensure the dead stayed, ah, deader, or at least didn''t walk around very much. His revenge would be complete. The surviving citizens, properly chastised by the power of his God''s rebuke, would return. Cackling, he plopped the apple in a box, and cast The Spell of Ultimate Delivery (FOB) on it. Rottle grabbed up the overlong robe, and stomped determinedly up the suitably ominous winding stairs from his laboratory. Have to put together some kind of disguise, something cheap, maybe some of that stuff from last year''s Walpurgis festival.


    #####


    Prester Fremble adjusted a few condensing coils, unkinked a line plugged into the back of his latest corpse and reloaded the hopper with more chicken-brain and apple stew.


    Breathing and demonstrative, the rows of ex-citizens still weren''t actually moving.


    "Cluck-cluck, buck-a-buck, Woo!"


    What am I doing wrong? Perhaps, more apple essence. They looked human enough, as corpses went, save for the crossed eyes, though he wished they spouted parables and blessings instead of poultry-ish pronouncements. The apple bin was quite low, the produce not being in season.


    An effect of substituting chicken brains for people''s Pineal glands?  Well, live and learn, St. Albraut was not built in a day. At least not the second time. The first time, a torrential rain had kept the mob''s fire damage to a minimum, he reminisced.


    Bump, flop, smack. Muffled by the door, sounds of argument seeped into the room, further agitating his flock. Annoyed, Fremble threw it open, to glare at two contesting ghouls. Moldenjaw pulled his sopping mop off the face of a bespattered Greentooth. Greentooth, mop held in a casting stance, seemed about to reciprocate.


    "Here now!" Fremble barked, just as Greentooth let fly, jamming the goo dripping swabber into Moldenjaws face. There issued some sucking sounds, and a belch. Fremble purpled. "What are you two about? Why aren''t you mopping the floor?"


    One eyeball peeked through the mop''s stained tendrils, rolling sideways to focus on Fremble. Moldenjaw''s muffled voice issued from the mop-head, causing it to jiggle. "Eh, Lunch break, yer worship. Just living off the land, so to speak."


    Fremble tightened his grip on the door, holding back a desire to use the mop''s handles in a different, somewhat less creative manner. "Take your lunch elsewhere. In fact, tell Snottle you are to help him for a time."


    Greentooth pulled his mop off Moldenjaw with a sucking sound, and dropped it to the floor. "Okay, but, he''s in town putting up a shack to sell some fried chickens." Both ghouls eyed each other''s heavily stained choir vestments.


    Fremble rolled his eyes. "There''s s pair of monk outfits in the vestuary. Put those on first. Use the cowls. Oh yes, and tell Snottle I''ll be needing more apples. Just go." From behind the Prester, a rattle of clucks and beracks broke out. He turned back, slamming the laboratory door behind him.


    Moldenjaw stared after the agitated Prester. "Bet that''s the premium larder, back in there."


    ####


    Snottle Climbed down off the small ladder to admire his handwork. In somewhat shaky brush-strokes, the billboard now announced, ''Colonel Albraut''s Mostly Fried Chicken''.  It had been several hours, and his hands had started to palsy and twitch. A slow bell-shoving movement began to manifest, which he slowly brought under control.


    Ith''s too bad thereths no time to add a bell tower to it, but it will do. The small stall of unpainted wood, was open to the street, and just big enough to contain a large black caldron of bubbling oil next to a crate of what seemed to be chicken parts, indifferently butchered by a blind maniac. Folding the ladder, he lumbered behind the counter, and began throwing parts into the pot.


    Two rather short monks, one upright, the other seemingly walking at a twenty degree tilt, approached the counter. Snottle peered suspiciously into the shadows beneath the two raised hoods.


    "You two! Stho, what are you doing here? Bathement thwabbed out already?"


    From twenty degrees off center, one robe replied. "Boss says ta give you a hand for now. Oh, yer ta keep an eye open fer some more apples, he says." Both robes bowed forward in a spiritual pose, though a benediction, noted Snottle, sharply centered on the crate of chicken parts. "Mebbe we can watch th'' chickens, eh, store fer ya, so''s you can go hunt up them apples?"


    "I could hack you both up and throw you in the pot; I doubt the custhomers would notith the differenth. Most everything odd tasths like chicken anyway. I''ll mind the sthore. You two can athk around town after thome apples."


    Moldenjaw mumbled quietly. "Philistine. Maybe we should raid the basement pantry later." Aloud, "Yessir. Happy to help thir, I mean, sir. You can count on us, boss." Both walked off to check out the village.


    ####


    The long rubber costume nose was actually a tight fit, and save for a few more warts, and artificial hairs, the mask differed little from Rottle''s face. The black witches outfit and wig looked suitably peasant-like though. It did obscure his exact  features, which, given his real nose, was always a problem. He discarded the costume''s broom and retrieved the small box containing the poisoned apple. I wonder if I should put a ribbon bow on it? A note saying ''for use in zombie potions only,'' perhaps. No, probably that would be too much. The box will seek out the brew on its own. It was a complex incantation, but no matter who held the box, it would inevitably be taken to the mixture it was destined to join. He wasn''t much of a fruit person, so even though the harvest season was over, there were still several in the larder.


    Rottle put the box in with a small sack of other apples and set out for town.


    ####


    "Next contract job," Greentooth grumbled, "I wanna cafeteria clause init."


    "Hard to get ahead in this world," Moldenjaw admitted, snacking quietly on a chicken skull salvaged from the basement.


    The village streets were dusty tracks, lined with unpainted ramshackle huts. The town had obviously seen better days, perhaps, a succession of them. A sign over one rebuilt, slightly smoking store announced, ''Yet another fire sale''.  Next to it, a wizened vendor in a black gown swayed, holding a stick topped by a small sign with the single word, ''Apples'' crayoned on it. The hawker''s face looked like an upside down tea-pot with a rather long spout mounted beneath a floor-mop, but there was a fresh looking sack of apples next to the vendor''s feet. The Ghouls ambled over, waving away smoke from the nearby store.


    Greentooth eyed the small sack. "How much fer the apples?"


    Rottle peered slit-eyed at the hooded pair, correcting a sudden tendency to lean right. "Eh? Not for sale."


    Moldenjaw poked a finger up at the sign. "Yer sign says apples on it," noted Moldenjaw.


    "Perceptive. So?"


    "Usually, means yer selling em."


    "Does it."


    "Usually, a least in these parts, mostly. Otherwise, why wave that sign around?"


    Rottle smiled. " Ah now, that''s an intelligent question. As it happens, the fruit is a donation for St. Albraut. I was looking for someone to deliver them."


    Moldenjaw looked confused. "To the Church or the Fried Chicken Shack?


    "For the Church , of course. Who would want to donate to a Fried Chicken vendor?"


    Greentooth added, "Why doesn''t your sign say help wanted, or where''s St Albraut?"


    Rottle looked agitated. " I know where the church is, just don''t want to...get involved. I''m not a church patron. Just want someone to take them there, not looking to hire anyone."


    Greentooth looked more perplexed. "But..."


    Moldenjaw clapped a hand over Greentooth''s mouth, more a gesture, really, as speaking out the side of his head, was still possible. "We''ll take ''em."


    "Ah. See, the sign worked."


    Greentooth''s brow pulled down, looking prepared to argue the point further. Moldenjaw quickly picked up the sack, and pushed Greentooth''s shoulder around, pointing him back the way they had come, and made a complicated gesture with the sack dangling mystically from the sleeve of his black, hooded robe. "We are the Samaritans you were looking for. We can be on our way. The faith is with us."


    Walking away, Greentooth muttered, "What was that alla bout?"


    "Donno, seemed appropriate at the time. Have an apple. Gift horse sort of thing."


    ####


    "Bellsth, bellsth, bellsth! To the Clangor and the Bonging of the Bellths!". The hunchback grabbed at the boiling chicken kettle, and shoved it rhythmically back and forth chortling, oblivious to the sizzling blisters and peeling skin appearing on his hands or the stares of a small gaggle of store patrons. His palsy was worsening, even his hunch had begun to twitch.


    "Hey Snottle ¨C Hump guy!"


    Snottle recovered to look up, noting the two ghouls toting a sack up the dirt thoroughfare.


    "Any luck finding the fruiths?"


    "Um,"Moldenjaw belched, peered into the sack regretfully. "Maybe. Couple apples, and a small box, maybe another apple in it."  Moldenjaw tried to grab the one boxed apple in the sack, which seemed to slip away from him, sliding around the sack bottom like a greased snake.


    Snottle, fugue interrupted, heaved a tin pail of smoking chicken onto the whiteboard counter, to complete another sale. His crate of chopped chicken had decreased significantly. Sunday was evidently a big sales-day for chicken parts. "I''m bizthy. You''ll have to take them to the mathter yourthelves. ¨C Drop them off and bring me thome more bells, er, chickens."


    Moldenjaw gave a twenty-degree canted salute. "Right, Boss. More chickens. Got it."


    ####


    Fremble pulled the large wooden lever which creaked satisfactorily, and a few solitary apples fell from the hopper into the bubbling pot beneath, but not enough. He sighed in frustration. Laid out in rows, hundreds of his former parishioners gobbled and clucked excitedly, though unmoving still.


    "Feh. Empty."


    Leaving the hopper hatch open, he left the room, and peered into the fruit loading chute, which opened from the butchering parlor. Not even one left. Irritated, he mounted the staircase to the church proper. Remembering that he had sent all the help to town, he stalked off to assess the hunchback''s progress there. All this commercialism had left the church Caroline unattended, and likely, his chief attendant with a severe case of BRW, or Bell Ringer''s Withdrawal. As this was not a state best left unattended, he grabbed up the emergency BRW kit on the way out.


    ####


    Moldenjaw hallooed, but it seemed the rectory was empty. "Prolly downstairs, then."


    Greentooth looked perplexed. "So, where does we gets some chickens? We swept up all the chop downstairs."


    Moldenjaw thought for a moment. "Prolly inna lab, behind that door down there."


    "Oh yeah, the buck-cluck,buck-buck room. The one we was not s''posed to go inside."


    Moledjaw lifted his head righteously. "Snottle said get chickens, so we get him chickens."


    The basement floor looked better, though it remained still damp and tacky. The odor of blood and doom still pervaded the butchery. The laboratory door was still closed, though the apple-marked bin lid, set in the wall beside it, was now ajar.


    Moldenjaw stared hypnotically at the bin. "Bet that''s where the apples go."


    Loosening the sack, he noted the smaller box had come open, and an apple rolled out of it, mixing with the others. He walked with a unusually stilted step up to the open hopper and emptied the sack into it. There came a tumbling sound, a splash, and a lot of burbling.


    A truly rapacious "Cluck-cluck, beerauk Woo! Erp!"emitted from the adjoining room, followed by a bright flash from under the door, then ominous silence. Behind the portal, the chicken brain components of the animated corpses shrank, while the human bodies morphed, inverting into those of poultry, save for the feet. White, red and brown, feathers pushed their way out through the changing flesh. Skin and stilled muscles quickened, Clucking became the human moans of zombies. Soon, a rustle of many shuffling feet filled the air.


    Greentooth touched the door frame. "Maybe we oughta..."


    Moldenjaw''s arm jerked out, grasped the door''s knob and threw open the portal.


    The basement erupted into nightmare. A mob of large moaning chickens, with tiny, spindly legs ending in full sized human feet, flooded into the room. Greentooth screamed, and grabbing up a broom, began to lay about him, thudding franken-fowl left and right. The big footed fowls made a mad rush for the stairs, bowling over and trampling both floundering ghouls. The dread moaning echoed down the ascending stairwell, the last notes lingering in the fading awareness of the two, before losing consciousness.


    ####


    On the village edge, a black draped figure finished pouring the contents of a small vial onto a day old squirrel carcass. It had taken a couple hours to find one just ripe enough to have attracted a good mix of maggots, beetles and worms, but Rottle felt satisfied with the trouble taken.  As the goo hit the carcass, a writhing of activity rose from it, beneath a vile cloud of green vapor. Small insects poured forth, masses upon masses of them, to creep, scuttle and buzz their way towards the town. Rottle cackled ceaselessly. The dirt track became a river of pestilence. Soon, distant screaming began, and Rottle joined the insectivorous army, stalking up the lane towards town, and inevitably, St. Albraut''s.


    ####


    Fremble reached the main-street shop just in time to prevent the hunchback from hoisting himself to the totally inadequate top of the chicken stall.


    "BellsthBellsthBellsthBellthsBellsth! Arrugh!"


    Fremble reached quickly beneath his robe, drawing forth a small brass school bell, which he dangled before Snottle, who instantly went more bug eyed than usual.


    "Bellsth?" The hunchback reached down to take it in trembling hands, reflexively causing it to chime. He whimpered softly, took a breath, then tried softly for a brave, if subdued, howl. Feeling better, he clambered back down.


    Fremble massaged his shoulder, consolingly. "Now, now, who''s king of the steeple, eh? There''s my lad. Why don''t you return to the church now? You can use the rooftops to get there, if you like, what?"


    No one knew the roof-line of the city like Snottle. Crossing the town by roof, in the dead of night, was almost as good as manning the church Caroline. Snottle firmed up and made for the nearest downspout wordlessly. A few townsfolk ran by, thickening into a frightened, screaming mob. Soon Fremble found himself in the midst of it, people all running pell-mell generally in the direction of the church. Actually, they were escaping the oncoming plague of insects from the edge o town, but there was no way for Fremble to know that. Fremble paled. Old visions of torch bearing lynch mobs filled him.


    "Not again," he cried.


    ####


    Greentooth struggled groggily to his feet. "What''d ya do that for?"


    Moldenjaw lay on his back, eyes rotating aimlessly. "Eep," he noted.


    Concerned, Greentooth bent down and shook the stricken ghoul. "Geeze, snap out of it. We''re gonna get fired fer sure. Why''d ya let all''a those things loose for? The stampede could''a killed us. Well, killed us again, anyway," he conceded.


    Moldenjaw shook himself and sat up. "Greentooth? I dunno. I, I just had to, seems like." He shivered. "They was hunnerds an'' hunnerds of em, all commin'' right at me, scream''n and moan''n -- All them big stinky feet and tiny lil'' legs pumpen'' up andown, an feathers everywhere, an..."


    "S''okay, they''s gone now. Relax. They all ran upstairs."


    Moldenjaw paused. "And out into the town? The whole stampeding mass a'' big-foot, moanen'' Franken-chickens?"


    "That''s not good, is it."


    "We gotta get outta here."


    They left the church in a rush, to be confronted by a vision of horror. The entire town''s citizenry seemed to be in a milling, screaming clot caught between a roiling mass of oncoming insects and the stampeding hoard of Franken-chickens. From above, a familiar rounded form dropped down from a roof gable.


    Snottle, sweating profusely, shook an accusing finger at Moldenjaw. "Bellsth!" he accused, and angrily rang the small school bell still held in one hammy, if burnt hand, which seemed to calm him slightly.


    "I didn''t do it!" knee jerked Greentooth. "Anyway, you ordered the chickens. As an aside to Moldenjaw, he added, "If the townies push through those chickens and make it to the church they''re gonna kill us. Eh, again."


    Snottle took in the crowd, went white, and clambered back up to the safety of the rooftops, where he sank down to suck on his thumb and ring the hand-bell vigorously in agitation. The ringing caught the crowd''s attention, and whether because no other avenue of escape was possible or in righteous anger, the townspeople swarmed up the buildings lattices, downspouts and trellises towards the hunchback.


    The thinning crowd freed avenues for the Big-foot-zombie-chickens, who''s un-birdish moaning grew to thunderous proportions. Bare feet working in duck-step, they rushed the creeping insects swarming up the street. The chitinous scritching of the bug swarm mixed with an ethereal zombie moaning. A massive gobbling, gulping, stomping and un-chickenish belching rose, as the Franken-fowl ate their way into the melee, winning the encounter hands down. They gorged frenziedly until they died to a chicken of over-consumption.


    Soon the street was coated a foot deep in feather bedding, from which a forest of twitching people feet sprang, like spring weeds in a bean patch. Dazed citizenry slowly descended from the rooftops, taking in all the bare, upturned feet. A few noted the feather shrouded Prester, and a black cowled Conjuror swaying upright amid the chaos.


    The Conjurors plastic nose fell off. The Prester whimpered.


    "Well," noted one citizen, "we got feathers, now all we need is tar, and a couple rails." The more civic minded in the mob climbed down from the roof tops to acquire these. Some lit torches began to appear.


    Moldenjaw pulled at Greentooth. "I think we''ve been pink slipped."


    Both beat a fast retreat from the village, now highlighted in the rosy glow of its burning church.


    From the smoking steeple, floated a clangor of church bells , and faintly, an undertone of mad howling.

 A hole In One

    It was August, and the dawn-age marshlands felt hot and damp. Feydyom, the clan Cheftian, tensed, feeling the veins and rills of a wooden cudgel held tight in his fist. Around him, Clan Feydyom''s warriors stood their ground. Dressed in skins, they held only such clubs and cudgels as the bogs provided, for the working of iron was not yet known.


    Only the Hetman, old keeper of the clan''s wisdom, was kept apart, hidden beneath a pile of reed deep in the treacherous marsh. Driven from the highlands, hounded through dell and wood, there was nowhere else for the tribe to go. Still, the Tartan tribe hounded them, unrelenting.


    Suddenly, leaping through the mist, scores of knobby kneed warriors howled down upon the Feydyom, with fierce red and blue faces. Arms raised and lowered in a bloody rhapsody of death. Clansmen, women and children alike died fighting, sinking to embrace the semi-liquid ground. It was not a merciful battle, with such weaponry. It was a gory and taxing work, and vile beyond conception. The conclusion was foregone, for the Tartans were many, the Clan few. Genocide concluded, the Tartans returned to their villages.


    The Hetman struggled free of his concealment among the reed. Appalled by the carnage, he searched the field for survivors. One child remained. A chieftain''s son, beaten, all but pushed into the sodden marsh. The pair limped up the one dry mound the bloodied marsh provided, to wait out the night.


    The bog around them, every beetle, microbe and worm in it, lay sodden in the blood and corruption of the clash. Gassy corpses of clan dead surfaced in the following day''s heat.


    For ten days, the Hetman and child clawed graves into the soft loam of the mound. Painfully, the two dragged slaughtered corpses up it, to inter the remains beneath its red silt. The last buried was the clan chief, from whose chest, the Hetman pulled a ragged sliver of iron; a fragment of a fallen star. Part of some Tartan''s club, broken off within the Warrior-chief.


    The child wept.


    The Hetman felt pain for the boy. "Eye canna return yer father to ya, but, an fate have it so, perhaps ye may walk sometimes with his spirit. I''ll try m'' best for you, lad."


    For afortnight, the Hetman poured into the shard all the dawn knowledge he had claim to, and bound the chieftain''s spirit with it. He fashioned a charm of it, and hung this about the child''s neck. He taught the boy a chant, to call forth his father''s spirit from beneath the shallow cairns. "Lay the shard over yer father''s resting place at night. No other place mind ye, and say the words. The spell will call him forth, until the moon sets."


    ****


    Moldenjaw pushed Greentooth''s head down, to get a better look. "Naw, it''s just another hole. Like the other ones."


    "S''not right. They''s all metal lined onna bottom. Not proper holes."


    "So anyway, looks like no gopher guts fer dinner; not good."


    Moldenjaw pushed up from the even plain of green to shake his head, and squint at their surroundings. He had felt compelled to wander to this town, but the area held nothing special. A few rolling mounds fronted by occasional patches of sand. The surrounding acreage, flat and uninteresting. A few fish-forsaken ponds dotted it. A new constructed building, some sort of lodge, sat on a small part of it.


    "Nothing in this whole patch. Looks like goats overgrazed it an'' moved on."


    Greentooth listed to his feet, one shorter leg giving a left lean to his posture on the unnatural sward. Grudgingly, he lowered his right shoulder to compensate, which made him look even odder than he was. While easy to repair, ghouls never knit, and these two had been around a while.


    "Thought we had it made when we stumbled on''ta the new cemetery," Greentooth groused. "But alla'' corpses was burnt ta'' ash an'' jarred up. What''s wrong with these people? Ain''t no respec'' fer th'' dead these days."


    "Hard times," Moldenjaw agreed. "Means if we''re gonna eat, we''re gonna have ta'' get us work somewheres. All this outa-town development stuff is new. Place usta'' be a big bog, as I remembers it. Anyway, they''s gotta be somebody hiring around here."


    "Aragh. Not again! You remember th'' last time we got jobs."


    "This time it''ll be different. Feels it in m''bones. No crazy priests, princesses, or sorcerers. Just some kinda work what we can handle. Forget about checkin'' the classifieds."


    "Look there!" MoldenJaw snapped his hand up to point at a small sign before the lone building. The finger kept moving after the hand stopped, and fell to the lawn in a lazy arc. Greentooth retrieved it and handed it back, attention centered on the building''s banner.


    "Says, MacDivot Downs an'' driving range. Means nuthun'' to me."


    "Not that one, the one staked in front"


    "Oh. Eh, Now hiring: Groundskeepers an'' Caddies. What kinda minions are those?"


    "Dunno, but nobody knows dirt like we do. Gotta be a natural match fer ground-keepers."


    "Better hope it doesn''t involve lettering, or drivin''" noted Greentooth, eyeing his friend''s finger-deficient hand.


    "Well, there''s a light on at the window ta the rear, let''s peek inside."


    ****


    Ratsnark MacDivot bent over the grounds plan of the new links, chortling. "They said I could''na build a course like this on a bog, but I done it anyway, an when it sank, I built another right on top of it. After that one sank, I builded this one over it, an by the rock, it be here ta stay! I''ve only ta'' staff it, an'' it''s off ta town, ta'' gae sign-up some members."


    His eye roved over the hunchback''s hump with proud, if watery gray eyes. In some perverse way, the fellow reminded him of the rolling greens he had worked so hard to bring about. Snottle, whose last position terminated with the burning of Freckville''s Church Of The Gooey Death and Fried Chicken Franchise, felt it best to agree.


    "Ath you thay, mathter. But the townth people thort of avoid the bog, even filled in. They lost a lot of boyths out here over the yearth."


    Ratty MacDivot rose like an unleashed spring, causing his tartan skirt to flounce before settling back against legs so furry, they obscured where his kilt ended and flesh began. This went without remark by the hunchback, who fresh out of bell-ringing rehab was just happy to be employed again.


    "Now ya hear this. Ye just go on an'' hire the first pair a bodies what comes around fer Caddies, and no nonsense about it. All they gotta do is carry bags n'' hand out clubs ta'' the members. Taint carriage science. Besides, I canna'' afford ta'' be choosy until things pick up. Fact, I''ll be off ta'' town now, ta'' put up fliers. I''ll not wait till the cock crows ta'' get this place started up right an proper. See to the hiring, Snottle."


    "Ath you thay, masther."


    ¦Õ


    Peering in the window, Greentooth''s jaw dropped, allowing MoldenJaw to see some of the room through the gash in his cheek. "Cripes! It''s Snottle!"


    "The hunchback from our last gig?"


    "How many hunchbacks named Snottle do you know?" Greentooth hissed.


    "Eh, Maybe he''s looking for work too. Maybe he won''t remember us."


    "Sure. It''s possible. Clinging to the top of a flaming church steeple, madly whacking the bell while his ass burned, might have affected his memory."


    "It wasn''t our fault," whined MoldenJaw. "We was comrades in arms. Not our fault the priest''s hobby was turning parishioners into giant chickens, or ended up in vendetta with an insane bug worshiper."


    "True." Greentooth''s stomach issued a tortured balloon sound. "Tell you what, you explain it to him as he chases you around in a homicidal rage, and I''ll see about work."


    MoldenJaw frowned. "I hate job interviews -- Too much stress. Let''s go around front. You first."


    The pounding at the whitewashed entrance brought a premonitory twitch to the hunchback. The bell-ringer did not expect any early evening visitors, and McDivot had his own key. Curious, he opened the door anyway. Snottle''s eyes narrowed at sight of the two ghouls who stood fidgeting on the stoop.


    "You two! Thought I''d theen the lastht of you in Freckville." An echo of flames scorched up his backside in a tremor of memory, which he admirably controlled.


    To MoldenJaw''s surprise, their former supervisor seemed calm, save for an occasional twitch. The hulking hunchback did sub-vocalize some sort of chant, but all in all, a better welcome than Greentooth expected.


    The ghoul blurted out a short speech, ending "So you see boss, the fire - it wasn''t our fault, and we really need the work."


    Snottle, disinterested in excuses, completed the Mantra of Bellringer''s Anonymous, "and my handth will never touch brath anymore," then heaved a heavy sigh. He stared woodenly at the pair.


    "I''d rather thee you hung, but according to my spethific instructions, I''m to offer you positions to caddy."


    "Ah, yes, caddy. Good stuff, all that," nodded MoldenJaw. "And what does a caddy do?"


    Snottle sighed again, lumbered to a closet, and pulled out a set of golf clubs. "You carry bagths like this one around for the patronths. Hand them the stickths inside as they ask for them. You help find, but do not touch or move, any stray ballths they may loosth track of. You count how many strokes the player takes to complete all 18 holths. It''ths a game. They will try to hit the ballths so they fall into holths in the turf. Otherwise, I may find an odd chore or two for you when things get thlack."


    Greentooth looked worried. "One of my uncles had a stroke once. Nasty, it was. Died of it. Vigorous game is it?"


    "No."


    "And our pay?"


    Snottle sighed again, hand twitching around some ghost of a bell''s handle. "The playerth give you money for your help."


    "Er, how many players are there?"


    "Ath many as the masther can dig up."


    Greentooth looked happy. "You know, we''re good at digging up people, maybe we could..."


    "No."


    "But..."


    "No. Moving on, there''s shorts you are to wear and lucky for you two," he said, noting the empty spot where MoldenJaw''s second eyebrow used to be, his missing ear and the rent in his cheek, "capths as well. I would conthider wearing dark glathes and keeping your collars up, the pair of you. Maybe a hoodie."


    ****


    Time passed, and the Hetman cared for the child and passed on all the lore he knew. Years and advancing age reversed these roles. On a certain day, the child, now grown, saw to the Hetman''s burial.


    The young man, now alone, often called upon the spirit of his father, as the Hetman had taught.


    Sole survivor of his tribe, the forlorn son wove further charms, seeking to raise him. But none of these ever returned the chieftain to life, beyond the setting of the moon. His work did bring more solidity to the called spirit. In the end, he could feel the comfort of his father''s arms around him in the too brief interludes between dusk and dawn. Together, they often walked the fens.


    The boy grew to manhood, married, and with the passage of time, also died. The iron charm passed from father to son.


    All the while, the souls of the clan slept in discontent beneath the Fey Downs.


    ****


    Kurdle Brownbottom, Last High Protector of the Fey Downs, ground both his remaining teeth together. Out his apartment window spread a new Put-The-Ball-In-The-Hole course. It wasn''t, he raged, only that the bandy legged developer drained the bog, and befouled the Sacred Barrows with grass. Not only that. His apartment manager raised the rent, claiming an increase in property values due to the "improved view". There was even talk of ...Condominiums.


    The sacrilege seemed endless. But, he vowed, an end of it would come for the defilers and, he spat, that godless developer.


    He reached a clawed hand for the Shard of Resurrection, symbol of his ancient office, dangling from the chain around his neck. If necessary, he would call out the barrow dead. Yes, even unto that ultimate apocalypse. According to family lore, the amulet had passed to his family from ancient dwellers beneath the cairns. It was also said it passed to them when an ancestral thief choked the life from the true owner in a dark alley.


    In either case, it had come down the generations to him. As did the dues paid by the Fey Downs Cult, a rather nice stipend.


    The greens must not stand.


    From his apartment vantage, he''d noted a place where a tuft of shrubbery substituted for the course''s fencing. The plan was simple. Knotting a hand around the amulet, he made his way through the tuft, and into the hilly greens of the course. Between the darkening hills, it was easy to lose direction, but that mattered little. As long as he remained unseen, anywhere on the former fen''s land would do.


    ****


    Greentooth stood nervously next to MoldenJaw, uncomfortable in their new outfits, as Snottle inspected them.


    The capths, thought Snottle, did cover their mangy hair. With collars turned up, their torn flesh was not as noticeable. Anyway, with luck, MacDivot will fire these two on the spot, and I''ll be off the hook. He couldn''t exactly accuse them of burning him out of his former town, exactly. You couldn''t exactly tell if a particular duck could float either. But letting nature take its course in this case, might serve him just as well.


    "The owner will be here shortly, and we''ll thee whath''s to become of you. Thand thraight, and prethent yourthelves," admonished Snottle.


    Moldenjaw pushed at Greentooth''s shoulder till he took a more or less vertical position and pulled down on his new jacket.


    From outside, a sound of drunken caroling made its way to the door, and a blurry eyed MacDivot banged through it, followed by a gaggle of staggering townspeople. He tramped onward till almost leaning against the hunchback, and poked a free hand into Snottle''s chest. With his other, he made a sweeping backward gesture with a half empty bottle."They''re all here fer th'' game. All-a-em, fer th game...Here. Sign ''em up, membership firs-month-free." Swaying back he boggled at the two ghouls, and whispered in Snottle''s ear. "Who''re these then?"Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.


    "Thesth would be the caddith you told me to hire, thir, with your approval, of course."


    "Eh? Oh. Lessee then."


    MacDivot slewed about to face the pair, tipping heavily leftward. "Straighten up, you two!"


    Greentooth relaxed, taking on his normal left-canted stance. Moldenjaw leaned left to match.


    "S''better." The potted owner squinted briefly at the pair. "They''ll do jus'' fine. Everbody ta the lounge!" he cried, and lead the party on with an over-deliberate tromp.


    Snottle looked at the Ghouls in resignation. "It theems your employment sthands approved."


    Greentooth looked pensive. "Er, so we should go get the bags out then?"


    Snottle shook his head. "Ith''s too late for the game. He''ll just walk the playerth around the greenths until they run out of booze. Meanwhile, motht of the ladies will likely park in the clubhouth lounge. So it''s up to you to keep them from getting bored. I''ll make thum tea and put out bisthcits."


    MoldenJaw frowned a little. "Thought we was ta tote bags fer the players. Anyway how do you know the ladies won''t go fer th'' tour?"


    Snottle raised a thick digit. "And to do odd chores. The only bagths on the links this evening will be brown paper ones that slosh inthide. There are thum board gameth and card decks on the lounge''s sideboard. Ath for the women, most I find, while up for a good party, draw the line at roaming drunkenly around in the dark. Call it intuition."


    "Yer th'' boss."


    Most of the men staggered out with MacDivot onto the now moonlit greens. The rest, a couple of older gents who''d had enough, and most of the bored women, took seats at the various tables dotting the room.


    Greentooth picked up a couple of card decks from the sideboard, and sat down at an occupied table. Two brown haired girls who obviously didn''t know each other well, and one of the silver haired men, looked up in curiosity.


    "Hows ''bout a game a''cards while Snottle rustles up some tea an such?"


    The gentleman raised a brow. "What did you have in mind?"


    "P''raps a Rubber O'' Bridge? There''s four here, so''s we could play regular contract style."


    "A card game? How does it go?"


    "Well. You play as partners, - wit the person across th'' table from ya. Ya win by making yer bid , an'' taken the number o'' tricks youse settled on. Now as ta how many tricks ya take, -"


    "Oh,"one of the ladies spoke up, a small spark in her blue eyes. "Like in Whist?"


    " A bit, a bit. There''s four parts ta'' it. The deal phase, the auction or bid -- the idea is ta take tricks an score points o'' course. The deal is clockwise, thirteen cards each..."


    MoldenJaw set out a couple chessboards, but noting that Greentooth''s new game drew the interest of the bored ladies dotting the room, left to help Snottle with the tea and pastries.


    *


    MacDivot and cadre rambled on through the course under the bright, if distant moon. "Therrrs sandy-trrraps on the fourrrth, sixth an tenth holes. The eleventh''s landing is across a wee strrream."


    Well past sobriety''s reach, the tartan clad MacDivot rolled his "R''s"hard, and punched each word into the night with a fisted bottle. In this area, the grass covered cairns loomed like black shadows, blocking sight of the clubhouse.


    Unseen behind one of the taller mounds, Kurdle Brownbottom squatted, digging a hole in the smooth turf. Under the grass, soil remained spongy and slipped between his fingers as if glad for release from the fibrous growth above it. I''ll put an end to this, once and for all.


    He mouthed words of an ancient call, in a language he did not understand; a dialect lost in time. The syllables fell like glue from his mouth, reluctant to leave the lips that chanted them. A warmth built in the shard around his neck. He grasped it , jerking the icon from its chain. He fondled it briefly, hating to part with it, but thinking, It''s for the greater good. ¨C My greater good, anyway.


    With the final syllable, he thrust it into the hole, deep into the soft loam of the underlying bog. Far below, a sluggish rivulet that once fed the bog-lands, quickened beneath the hills, pushing at newly compacted earth. Those gifted with second sight could have heard the stirrings of dead souls beneath the grass.


    One of MacDivot''s guests squinted at his bottle, seeming to realize that darkness was obscuring the print on it. It was also mostly empty, so he shifted his attention elsewhere, realizing that the clubhouse was no longer in sight. A ghostly green glow seemed to rise like a nimbus over several of the course''s low hillocks. He pulled Macdivot''s attention to one. "Whats all that then?"


    "Eh?"MacDivot lurched about, focusing one then both eyes on the phenomenon. "Ach, tis'' probably just a wee bit a foxfire. T''was a bog here at one time ya know."


    "As you say, MacDivot, but perhaps we ought to return now. Canna see much of the course inna dark, but the downs seem playable." He harrumphed and slid the now empty bottle into a jacket pocket.


    *


    Snottle thrust his arm deep into a box of pastry puffs, coming up with only a handful. "It theems Masther has been depleting the guest fare. We''ll not have enough to go round."


    Helpfully, MoldenJaw grabbed up a half-loaf of bread, and waved it at the larder. "Saw a ham hung up in the cupboard. Mebbe we can fill in w''some samaches."


    The hunchback pulled the substantial ham off its hook, looking dubious. "Not enough bread for that many sandwiceth, I think." The tea kettle began to sing, so he thumped the meat down on the counter and turned to finishing the tea. "Do what you can, then."


    MoldenJaw found a kitchen knife, and wielded it with practiced speed, slicing the ham thin, and managed five decent sandwiches from the half loaf. The result did look meager considering the dozen or so guests they were fated for. They didn''t add much bulk to the small pile of biscuits.


    Maybe if I cut ''em up inta'' small pieces, they''ll go further.


    Snottle returned with a full tea urn, and blinked at the pile of sandwich slivers now covering the table. As he watched, one, then another tumbled forlornly over, being too high for their smallish footprints. Also, one sliced bit seemed out of place. He reached down and pulled up a rotting piece of finger. "I athume this belongth to you?"


    MoldenJaw did a quick finger count. "Oops. Geeze, sorry boss, got carried away. I''ll sew it back on later. Look, I can run a splinter of wood in the samach pieces, ta'' hold the bits together." Suiting action to word, he carved a few splinters off the counter edge and speared together each of the forlorn sandwich shards.


    Snottle rolled his eyes, giving up. "Put them out with the puffs on the small plates. "Maybe they''ll be too potted to notith. I''ll Therve the tea."


    "So the Opener is the Responder?" The older gentleman looked bemused.


    Greentooth shook his head. "Naw, the Opener is the first to make a bid. The Responder is the Opener''s partner. Ya can catch on ta it as we play a dummy hand through. Thats th'' easiest way."


    Several tables had been shoved closer together, and by the scatter of cards across them, the guests were following the opening plays, and learning the game.


    MoldenJaw arrived at the table with small plates of sandwich bits, a puff centered on each plate. The service seemed to delight the ladies, who waited politely for their tea to be poured.


    "Ooh, what are these?"


    Snottle raised a brow at MoldenJaw, who shifted his eyes about guiltily.


    "Em, er, I calls it finger food. - ''Cause I lopped..."


    Snottle grabbed the ghoul up by the back of his jacket and pointed at the waiting tables. "Perhapth you could therve the rest of the ladieth."


    ****


    Gracie Tubers wasn''t quite sure how she had ended up at the clubhouse. She had been walking Pickles, her terrier, when the enthusiastic party of MacDivot had caught her up. One of the women said something funny to her, and passed her a drink. A boisterous gentleman with bright eyes laughed, and picked up Pickles, rubbing the dog''s head. Pickles responded with enthusiastic tail wags.


    The group joined together to cajole her into joining the party "at the new clubhouse on the greens".


    Another drink came her way. And now here she was, puzzling out some game. A card game in which she was "West", and partnered with "East", the lady who had first spoken to her. "North" seemed to be the instructor, and she muzzily wondered if wearing a hoodie and dark glasses was part of the game.


    Pickles seemed happy to dodge back and forth smelling at everyone in the room. The dog had picked something up from the floor, sending one of the two servers to chase after it, saying something about "needing that finger back." Something to do with the "finger food" he had served up? She felt a little numb about it all, and was glad the beverages had changed to tea. Besides, Pickles was having fun, and the animal was capable of taking care of itself.


    ****


    The glow over the mounds shifted, rose and coalesced. Several of his new members appeared worried, and that would not do. MacDivot rattled his bottle blurrily. I''ve na'' enough ta keeps em distracted anymore." Well, ya can sees th'' rest come tomorrow, so it''s back ta the clubhouse then. Follow me!"


    MacDivot drew in the night air through his nose and expelled it. Through the miasma of alcohol, a taint of mouldering peat, a wisp of corruption intruded. "Right! Up the hill then, should see the clubhouse from there, as it''s lit."


    Up the swell he marched, heedless of the eerie glow, with his usual stone determination. Behind, the cadre stopped and pulled back, pointing atthe hill top.


    MacDivot lifted his head from assessing the legwork of stomping one foot after another to squint at the rise top. There, two club bearing cadavers faced him dressed in desiccated furs, eyes glowing a dead yellow and shrouded in green fire. Genetics came into play, and without conscious thought, his feet swiveled 180 degrees to pound down hill, surprisingly passing up the equally intimidated party-goers.


    There was shouting and screaming.


    ****


    Kurdle Brownbottom, scrambled back as the advancing ripped and gruesome remains of a giant approached. Hate poured from its eyes, and the cudgel it dragged behind dripped blood. The club swung up, and the apparition pounded down slope, a ghastly scream echoing from the remains of a mouth.


    The cult leader raced around the hill, and pounded with uncharacteristic verve towards the lit clubhouse. Why are they after me?


    Kurdle screamed at the figure behind him. "I''m the Grand master, guardian of the amulet! Keeper of the ¨C ."


    There was a whump, and behind him a cudgel smacked turf, barely missing his flying heels.


    A hollow basso rose from the glowing cadaver. "You are a thief, progeny of thieves. Where is my son? Who are you to disturb my rest? Tartan dog, scion of my enemies, persecutor and murderer of my kin, die. Return that which you have stolen -- my amulet!"


    Kurdle picked up the pace, shouting over his shoulder. "It''s in the hills! Under the loam behind one of them. I can''t tell where, in the dark. I don''t have it...need time to find it. Give me time!"


    Another whoosh, and the form appeared before him. In his haste to break the headlong run, Kurdle fell, skidding in the grass. He rolled over, his hands flying by reflex to his face in abject fear.


    The green glowing mass bent over him, and breath from its black maw washed him. The lines of a strong face resolved within the glow. "In burying the amulet, you have risen not only me, but my whole Clan. Here, upon our final battlefield, in our place of pain and ruin."


    "It was given me by my father, I''ve done nothing to you. Give me a chance, I''ll find it, return it, I swear!"


    "You pulled us from our graves, ye worthless snot. I sense a clansman among the living here. Some descendant of mine, living kin. Find th'' charm, return it to my descendant, so that me Clan may rest."


    "Who? Where?"


    "As he does not wear the shard, I canna'' tell, boy.  Just that he be near. Till then, the dead must walk, and continue ta'' live out their final moments till each dawn breaks. As wull the necks of any tartans here. As wull your neck, as I''ll walk with ya, and strangle you meself, an'' you do not return it and end this. A bit of extra ability gifted by my son, ages agone." The fey visage drew closer yet. "Unless ye be knowing some spell to put them back ta rest." Kurdle felt the scorch and prickle of the spirit wash him.


    Kurdle blanched whiter, if it were possible, and scrambled away, to gain his feet and make pell-mel for the lights of the clubhouse.


    ****


    MacDivot managed to slow the wheel of his legs and eyed the empty fifth warily. The granite-like gears in his head chunked stubbornly.


    "Good stuff," he noted to no one in particular. "Apparently better booze than I thought, at first. T''was a good value." Wouldna hurt ta stay in th'' keg another twenty year, but there''s a solid kick to it.


    His guests huddled together issuing sounds of fright and discontent. He wielded the empty bottle like a scepter. "Ignore alla that. Canna be rrreal ye pansies. Jus'' foxfire ''n liqueur, on a dark night, is all. We''ll keep offa the hills, an, wind around betwixt. Canna be verry farr. Stay together now, stay together!"


    Heads on swivels and eyes wide as saucers, it was an unnecessary instruction for the group. The gaggle bunched about MacDivot like sharks around chum. Blurry effigies on hill tops charged and swung cudgels at empty air. A vaporous moaning drifted across the sward.


    ****


    Most in the clubhouse had picked up the gist of the game, and began their own rubbers. Mild arguments broke out over the rules, which Greentooth made himself available to mediate. Over all, the grim pawl of gamers everywhere involved in winning, swept the room, weaving its own spell. The tables became islands of concentration, each a country unto itself. Time passed into a mode known otherwise only to practitioners of the dark arts.


    Snottle rolled on through the thickening air with a shuffling gait. He passed between the tables, like an ocean liner through a still sea, dolling tea, oblivious to the change. MoldenJaw kept his eyes on Pickles, who now seemed obsessed with the doors leading onto the greens. The two half-dead seemed the only ones to note the change, save for the mutt, whose agitation was hard to fathom.


    Pickles started to bark and bounce at the doors. In the distance, moaning and screams penetrated the room. The ruckus ended bursting through the entrance and onto the carpet, in the form of a frightened Kurdle, who tumbled onto the floor. Pickles, in typical good spirits, gave the man a thorough sniffing. Surprisingly, all of this had little effect on the preoccupied gamers.


    Only a few breached an inattentive glance, before returning concentration to their cards. The barbaric form of the clan chieftain followed, along with several semi-transparent warriors. The chieftain bent over the shaking Kurdle. "You''ve the evening to retrieve it. Dunna waste the time you are given. I''ll be wait''in here."


    Pickles pranced up to smell at the chieftain, sneezed, then retreated to sniff at its owner''s ankles. Gracie, lost in the players'' mystic concentration, halfheartedly nudged the dog away. The terrier whined and trotted off through the door and onto the greens.


    Greentooth pulled in the thickening air, and whispered to MoldenJaw through his slashed cheek "I don''t think them''s invited guests. Do we give ''em a plate anyways?"


    MoldenJaw frowned. "I don''t like this. The air''s all glowy like."


    An ominous flap of cards filled the room.


    The horde chieftain abandoned Kurdle. He seemed attracted to the bridge tables, and loomed over a few mesmerized, while the players continued to take tricks and play out their rubbers. He gravitated to Gracie''s table. Kurdle scrabbled off the floor and ran back onto the greens.


    Greentooth returned to the table, in time to be pushed out of the way by the giant apparition, who took his seat, picking up the cards there. The players paid little attention to the change, and continued to game. Snottle poured the apparition tea.


    "Don''t like it. Kinda Dojo-Voo thingy," muttered Greentooth, eying the tattered giant''s spattered club parked against the table.


    "That''s Deja Vu, and yeah, like, we been here before," noted Moldenjaw. "Not good." The other warriors too, waded slowly through the molasses atmosphere, to occupy open tables. Cards riffled.


    ****


    Pickles, nose poked into the turf, zig-zagged his way onto the green field,stopping behind one grassy hillock. He began to paw a hole in it. Soon, only the terrier''s hind feet and wagging tail showed above the greens.


    Kurdle pounded on in aimless fright through the darkened course, eventually smacking into MacDivot''s inward wandering gaggle, bowling him over. MacDivot glared up cross eyed at the intruder. Red faced, he pushed Kurdle away, and scrambled to his feet. "Watch where yer goin yer pike''n sod! Who are ya anyways? What''re ya doing out on me course?"


    Kurdle made incoherent noises, and pointed back in the direction of the clubhouse. Moans like rushing wind mounted around them. Kurdle gibbered and ran off.


    Macdivot brushed himself down peremptorily and squinted in the direction Kurdle had pointed. "Well, Seems we''re headed the right way. Onward, Lads!


    The terrier''s hole was half filled with muddy water by the time it pulled free and shook itself. It clenched a chord in its teeth, knotted to a shard of iron. Beneath the loam, the underground rivulet had become a torrent, carrying away vast amounts of silt to some unknown reservoir. A cavern grew beneath the downs.


    *


    MoldenJaw passed out a few more plates of finger-wiches then returned to Greentooth, who had ceased giving advice, and stood bewildered. "Never saw a bunch a folks catch onta'' the game so fast. Ain''t natural."


    "Sumpthun about the intensity of alla em'', powering up th'' place. Dunno. How long does this game take?"


    Greentooth shugged. "Sposta play just three rounds, fer th'' evening. But some O th'' new players offa th'' greens, started late."


    MoldenJaw swiveled his head around, taking in the glowy rotted aspects of cairn spirits eerily held to the gaming tables in unsettling single-mindedness, along with the rest. "We''re gonna get fired again, aren''t we."


    The tables now radiated with a soft blue lambency.


    "We didn''t do nuttun"


    "Never do, but doesn''t seem to matter, most times."


    Snottle, like some implacable automation, went on pouring tea.


    ****


    Pickles ran back through the door, amulet bouncing in its jaws. The terrier made a bee line for its mistress, jumping into her lap. Gracie''s eyes lost some of their cloudy sheen. She dropped a hand to her lap and took the amulet from the dog. The glow of the room dropped a noticeable amount.


    Snottle stopped his rounds and lifted the teapot to eye it warily.


    The players became more animated, some a bit unsettled at the presence of the new players, but attentive to their hands and scores, soldiered on.


    The grizzled Clan chief rose his eyes from the hand he played, focusing on Gracie. "You be the one then. It is you, my great, great granddaughter. You are the Feydyom."


    Gracie Tubers pulled back a little. "My mother''s maiden name was Feydyom."


    "We have much to talk of, then."


    The boisterous MacDivot and his members made the patio outside the clubhouse just in time to miss a thunderous rumble from the course.


    They turned, and watched, as the greens roared and slumped, to vanish into a bottomless hole. Somewhere within the din, a thin shriek rang out, to be cut off rather suddenly.


    Macdivot''s eyes bugged out. His hands clenched. "Naw, naw naw, it canna be! Me greens!"


    One of the alcohol numbed guests raised an eyebrow. "Unplayable, it would appear."


    MacDivoit slumped, and trod leaden footed into the clubhouse, along with his cadre. People were occupying every table, some glowed, but the place was full. "Snottle! What''s all this then?"


    Snottle, having recovered some of his senses, was listening carefully to the table talk where Gracie and the horror that was her forebear sat. He jerked as erect as his hump allowed and scurried forward. Around the room some players were finishing up their games, and likewise becoming progressively more animated.


    Snottle nodded his head. "Thir?"


    MacDivot waved hands at the room. "Well?"


    One of the erstwhile course inspectors tapped him on the shoulder. "Sorry, MacDivot, but as you''ve no longer a course to play..."


    "A moment, Robert."


    Snottle looked around. "It theems, thir, that thumb complicated card game has overtaken the place. Almost, a spell-like obsession. The gentleman behind me thinkths iths a combination of thpellhs cast on the downth to raise the dead, and the abthsurd concentration of the playerth here. I think the energy calls to many of the...incorporeal warriorth and holds them to the game ath well, thir."


    MacDivot squinched his eyes, thinking. So then, a guaranteed full house? He counted the tables, calculating, then turned to Roberts.


    "Yer wife seems ta have found a new pass-time here at the club. As has most a yer friend''s dates. T''would seem a shame ta be denying em, eh? I''ll change the membership dues a bit, O course, but ye might want to consider the benefits, course or no. Outside, I''d say there''ll be a jolly lake ,come th spring. What d ye think? Do Ya Sail?"


    The clubhouse atmosphere had lightened considerably. Everyone was chatting and laughter sprinkled the room. Cards were being put away, and some of the barrow dead began to fade.


    "Perhaps you''re right, if you can stem the drain from the sinkhole..."


    "O course I''m right."


    Moldenjaw offered Robert a plate. Snottle poured him a tea. Roberts stared at the plate.


    "So,"whispered MacDivot, "whose idea was alla this?"


    Snottle bowed his head to MacDivot and mumbled, "The new caddieth came up with it, sthir."


    MacDivot nodded, eyes bright. "The new caddies what we no longer need, bein'' as there''s no course?"


    Snottle smiled. "I''ll take care of it, thir."