Richard: Part III

304 Bleth

Chapter 1

Prologue

Sit there. Record every word I speak. I will review your work personally… yes, I read your foreign writing, Han scribe. And if there is one error, you will suffer.

These scrolls are for my own reference. I have lived long, I suspect longer than you can imagine. My memory, while still sharp, becomes overfull, bloated. There are things I must not forget.

When I was born, my people were a mere village. We farmed millet, hunted, sometimes fought others. We had our own stories of the Sun and her brother, the Wind, and at my birth I was declared a Child of the Sun. This was no surprise. My grandmother had been one as well.

And so I was dressed in finery, and the men carried me through the village at festival time on a mikoshi, letting me play in the mud of the fields to bring good crops, and the women pressed my infant hand against their bellies to bring healthy babes. I grew up like this, having no reason to doubt that I was holy and a conduit for great powers. It made me different, which I sometimes resented. But I knew it would all end when my body began to enter womanhood; after that I would be like the other girls. I did not know which life I preferred more.

I never had a chance to find out. For as I grew taller and the blood of life began to flow…ho! Do I shock you, foolish man? Do the vaunted heights to which your people climb cause you to have so little regard for your earthly origins? Like so many men in recent generations, do you regard the blood of the womb with horror? I see the answer is yes, though you fear to say so. And well you should regard the mysteries of woman with horror, little man. They are not for your kind.

When I began to grow into a woman, my duties as the Sun’s Child ended, but then the dreams began. I had always had intense dreams, but now they became something more. I was able to learn through them things that only the gods could know, things happening far away, or in the future, or the past. I was able to visit other lands, and enter others’ dreams, and speak with spirits and demons. Sorcerers in these dream lands taught me secrets, and I was a good student.

Some of my people feared me, saying I was possessed by a fox, but after I became shaman, they depended on me more than ever, and I was regarded highly. Still only a girl, not yet a woman, I was the most powerful person in my village. My powers in the waking world were nothing compared to those of dream, but I could foresee the best time for planting, the coming of the summer inasa storms, the most propitious days for marriage and for hunting. To a tiny village, these are not minor powers.

 

And so we prospered, and my people loved me. I became their leader in name as well as deed—barely old enough to marry and already I was their chief. Our numbers grew, and then a wandering tribe of fierce warriors asked to join us; I foresaw that they would benefit us, and so our strength increased further.

And then I foresaw disaster.

From the north they were coming. They worshipped an alien god, one that actively walked in this world, thriving in the northernmost lands where the ground was always hidden beneath ice and the wind flensed flesh like iron knives. This god of ice and wind was not the brother of the Sun, but many called him by that name, for they could not say his true name, and they did not want to believe that they followed evil. Their leader was a man from a far-off land of giant deer and white bears; he wore the shaggy coat of an animal long since extinct, an animal larger than a house, a beast he had slain himself. He had seen generations of men pass like leaves on a tree, budding, growing, thriving for a season, then shriveling and dropping to the ground, to be crushed underfoot without a thought. How could he live so long, you may ask? I could say it was because he commanded great magics, but while true, that was not the reason.

This man, this priest of an otherworldly god, was dead.

He had died in the heart of a winter storm, after slaying his own family and devouring them. Yet he walked, he spoke, and he led the living. His act of desecration pleased the demon-god he followed. And now he conquered in the name of his god, and he spread winter over the lands of the north. With sacrifice and ritual, he changed the flow of the rivers of warmth and cold in the sky and ocean. Already in the south, winter came earlier every year, and it was more bitter. I could see that long before the hordes arrived, we would begin to starve. And even unweakened, we could not withstand his army, composed as it was of the pitiful remnants of hundreds of villages, those who agreed to fight so as not to die, who were forced to devour their own, less cooperative kinfolk. Many of them had undergone a change similar to their leader’s, and they were also walking dead, with skin was hard as boiled leather, and teeth like obsidian shards.

I saw that we would be destroyed by them. We could band together all the tribes and villages of the south, and we would still lose. Worse, this priest was not the only one—there were others, all over the north, in other lands, marching south, bringing winter, bringing a new age of ice behind them. They would freeze the world if they could.

In my dream wanderings, I had learned of powerful magics that could warp the waking world as easily as the world of dream, but these magics came with a terrible price. I decided that I must pay the price, for my people. And so I approached one who could be called a wizard, or a god, one who wore robes of yellow and a pallid mask, who was served by the things we now call tengu. I learned from him, and I took the Oath, and bound myself to that unclean power.

On my return, my people looked on me in fear. But I paid them no mind, and journeyed north, across the inland sea, ever northwards. I was alone, for I needed no companions, nor did I wish to have any. For I had become a changed being.

You can feel it, can you not? Even now, so many lives later, it clings to my spirit. No matter how many times I am reborn…do you feel the worms crawling into your thoughts yet? The itch in your skull? The sensation of rot in your flesh? Keep writing! Worry not, little scribe—it will fade after you leave my presence. Imagine for a moment what it is like for me, feeling all that, my nose always full of rancid perfumes, my food tasting only of dust, my ears flinching at the endless whispered chittering, glimpses of diseased corpses dancing in the corners of my eyes. All that and a thousand times worse, every moment since I took the Oath, a young girl with no thought but to save her people.

So. I had the ability to do what needed to be done. But I lacked the raw power. So I journeyed north and east, to Ōyamato Toyoaki Tsushima. And I came upon our sacred mountain, Yahashira no Ōkami no Mine, the greatest place of power in these islands. And there I searched, and I found, the entrance to an ancient city beneath the mountain, a city designed for calling down power for the benefit of a race that inhabited these lands long ago. There I found what is now one of the Imperial Treasures, the stone. And I, a Daughter of the Sun, I called upon the power of Amaterasu… no, let me speak truthfully. It is a power beyond hers, at the heart of the sun, the stars, the universe. I called it down through myself and bottled it like a fiery liquor in that stone. And then I waited.

The calling of such power is never a quiet affair. It spilled over the landscape, devastating the forests around the mountain, slaying the animals and not a few people. Because of my connection with the Yellow Sorcerer, the flow of power through me called flocks of tengu to Yahashira no Ookami no Mine, so many they blackened the sky with their obscene, humming bodies. Oh, they are not winged, red-faced men, nor are they manlike crows. Those are stories people in the days since have told to comfort themselves after seeing something that drove them half mad with terror. Yes, I am responsible for bringing those mountain demons to these islands. Most have left by now, but a few remain, these tengu, these bya-gii, for reasons known only to themselves.

As I said, calling such power is not quiet, and my enemy knew of it the moment it happened. He knew that he could never hope to conquer the southwest without defeating me first, so he led his army to Yahashira no Ookami no Mine. He came on swiftly, his weaker warriors falling on the journey, providing fodder for the stronger. He took no time to recruit more along the way, simply letting his warriors devour all in their path.

Still, there were many thousands behind him when he arrived. I remember how he laughed when he saw me descending the slope to meet him. He called me a skinny girl, a mere reed, and I smiled, because that had been my childhood name.

“I am the Daughter of the Sun,” I said. “And you, the Son of the Wind. Today, you and I will take on the mantle of our parents—we will be the Sun and the Wind. And as the sun drives the wind at dawn and dusk, so shall I drive you from this world.”

He laughed again, but I only smiled, for I knew what the wind does to reeds. And I knew what it does to fire, also.

He called upon his god, and sent freezing winds against me. I fell battered and bloody, but I called on my power and stood again. Like a reed, I bent, but did not break. So he called upon his horde to rip me apart. As they touched me, their icy hearts melted, and I drank their souls to fuel my power. So like a flame fanned by the wind, I blazed brighter.

Enraged, he called upon his god, and his alien god entered him, and the priest became his god. He grew until he towered over me, higher than any tree, the winter winds howling around him, his face a thing of horror. Again, I smiled, even as he snatched me up in his freezing grip. He crushed me, dashed me to the ground, breaking my bones. Then lifting me again, he tossed me into his mouth. He chewed me, grinding me, ripping me in his iron teeth. And he swallowed me.

Yes. He ate me.

I died.

But I had known that would happen. He was a cannibal god, after all. And within his frozen, earthly body, the Daughter of the Sun became the Sun Herself.

Oh, how I blazed! I burned through him, destroying him utterly. And I continued to burn, blackening the already-destroyed landscape, cooking the last remnants of his army, and the sacred mountain erupted in sympathy. I rose, burning, into the sky, and around me circled the chittering flocks of bya-gii.

Did I really destroy a god? No, I was not quite that powerful. But I did banish him from this world for many lifetimes. Lately, I have heard tales in the far north…but that is not part of this tale. But by banishing the god, I also banished the power of the other priests, and so they were defeated in their distant lands.

I tell you this tale, and command you to write it, because it is true. The story has changed with time. There are those who say I am Amaterasu, and perhaps they are right. There are those who say my enemy was Susanoo, and perhaps, in a way, they are right. It is difficult to say, after so many lives.

And now I am the Empress Himiko. They say I am mad. They say I am cruel. They say I am a witch. They are right. But everything I did, I did for my people. With time, my people have expanded to cover the whole of the southwest. In the future, they will cover all these islands. I have come back again and again, never content to rest between lives, because I know I can lead my people to power—and with power comes safety.

But soon I will leave, not to return for a thousand years or more. The corruption of the Oath grows worse. I tried to flee it by death and rebirth, but it infects my spirit. If I stay, it will consume me completely, and I will be but a slave, a servant of alien gods, like my long-ago enemy. I will not allow that to happen. I go to seek release from this curse… but not relief, not rest. I go also to seek power. And when I have it, I shall return, and my people shall expand over the face of the Earth and beyond, and no alien god will be allowed to remain. This world shall be made pure, and safe.

The stories change, and even my memory grows confused. So I have this record made for my return. One day long hence there shall be another Empress, and I shall be born into her, and I shall need this to remind me of who I am and what I have done and shall do.

And then all will be well.

—From the Shōsō-in Himiko Makimono (Scroll of Himiko, Shōsō-in), found in the Shōsō-in Imperial Repository in Nara and now in the Imperial Household Agency Library. The author is unknown, and is reputed to have been put to death after the scroll was finished and sealed.

English translation © 2004 David Farnell

 

Wakeworld

It was cloudy again today, the sun vaguely bright behind the blanketing clouds. It was raining up in the mountains, I could see—they were partially hidden in a grayish mist that blended in with the darkening sky. The forested slopes would be thankful for the water, but the river would swell into rage again.

Sure hope we don’t get another flood.

I used to take Flossie down there and we’d play fetch or chase frogs on the riverbank.

Poor Flossie. I miss her… it’s been, what, four? Five years now since she passed?

Meg loved that dog so much.

Never understood why she doesn’t get a dog for her own kids to grow up with.

Maybe it was the right thing to do, though, since they both work. Be tough on the dog.

“Daddy? Everything OK out here?”

Meg stuck her head out of the screen door, looking to make sure I was still sitting in my porch rocker.

Sure as shit wasn’t going anywhere with only one leg! And even if I could drag myself to my wheelchair with half a body, I sure as hell wasn’t going down the porch steps in a wheelchair!

“Yeah, I’m fine, Meg,” I replied. “Just watching the rain coming in. Looks like we’re in for a drenching.”

Meg stepped out on to the porch. “Let me bring you inside before you get wet, Daddy.”

“No, I’m fine… no wind today and we’ve got a big porch to hide under.”

I kicked again, waking the rocker up into a gentle swing.

“What are the kids up to?”

“The usual for a COVID summer vacation: lounging, games, fighting, and snacks. I’ve got a bunch of cookies in the oven now that should quiet things down for a while. David’ll should be back in a couple hours, too, and at least we can have dinner together before I have to go in.”

“It’s great we all have our shots, but I’d really be a lot happier if you two didn’t work at the hospital these days.”

“Oh, Daddy. We’re very careful, and even if we do get a breakthrough it’s very mild,” she smiled. “Besides, it’s sorta like, you know, my job?”

I grunted.

Yeah, I’d been happy when she went to medical school and became a pediatrician. I’d been happy when she married a nurse at the same hospital—Dave’s a nice guy—but I really wish they could work somewhere else until this COVID stuff is under control.

Wonder what they’d do in the Dreamlands… not much in the way of Western medicine there, and goodness knows professional pediatrics and nursing would be literal lifesavers. The herbal and magic healers might be a bit miffed to lose market share, but even a few simple concepts could slash mortality, especially infant mortality, enormously. So many people dying unnecessarily…

“You ever dream about being something else, Meg?”

She smiled.

“Not anymore. I used to want to be a princess and have a tall, handsome prince carry me off to his castle, but my prince is a bit shorter than tall, and handsome only in a subjective sense, and then there’s the rugrats… I’ve everything I need right here, thanks.”

There was a loud patter on the roof.

“Here it comes!”

The patter grow to a clamor, and the heavens opened. Sheets of rain pounded the house and the yard—the mountains were gone, hidden behind the deluge. Gravel danced on the walkway.

“I hope the power doesn’t go out! My cookies aren’t done yet!”

The screen door slammed shut behind her.

It had been raining when the Tuscarora limped into Lhosk that day. Maybe not this hard, but we were in pretty bad shape after the attack by the night-gaunts. They’d almost taken Britomartis, and I just lay there without even a damn dagger.

Britomartis… I never saw her after that last time at Ryūzō-ji, after I told her she’d been dead, and I’d brought her back, somehow. Why did they force me to tell her?

She was in shock. No wonder.

Chuang told me later that Belphoebe was taking her back to Skala Eresou, in Celephaïs, to heal. It was some sort of walled city within the city, for women only. Sappho lived there.

I wish I could see her once more, and apologize for hurting her so badly.

I felt like weeping, but knew Meg would get all upset, and pushed it down deeper, strangling it into submission.

I’d been in shock, too, after Shingan told me the truth.

Shocked me right out of the Dreamlands back home, to a stroke.

Thank goodness Dave had been here. He said the kids had been screaming and he ran out to see me lying on the ground.

Left-side paralysis. Bum leg, bum arm, and half my face.

Rehab hurt like a bitch and never fucking ended. Every day, more torture trying to walk, trying to get my dead leg to fucking listen to me.

At least I still had my good right arm. The thought of having to rely on a nurse to feed me, bathe me, blow my nose. Uh-uh, no way.

Why couldn’t I just stay in the Dreamlands? I was young again there!

I sighed, and picked up my iPad again.

More terrible news: COVID, floods, forest fires, revolution, war, politicians arguing about meaningless things, the world spinning into a new extinction event…

Local news wasn’t much better.

A new bridge opened to replace the one washed out by the flood last year. That’ll help a lot of people get around easier.

More vaccinations, more COVID cases, more deaths, more arguments about masks.

Well, that was interesting. ”Local Hunter Found Dead—Bear Attack Suspected.” Hasn’t been a wild bear in these parts for over a century, or at least never been one reported. The mountains here are pretty low, crisscrossed with logging roads and firebreaks, and dotted with houses. Sure, there are deer and boar up there, but a bear?

I’d be surprised if there was enough food and acreage to support a bobcat, let alone a bear.

And no damage reported anywhere to crops or pets, either.

I looked at the article more closely.

…rifle was empty and had been fired…

…hunting alone, and had been known to hunt deer out of season for personal use…

…grieving wife, trailer home…

…sheriff warns to be careful…

Standard stuff, but still… a bear…?

I did a quick search on Twitter, and already there were a few threads.

Bears are dangerous. No, people are dangerous. People shouldn’t kill animals. Call the Army and shoot it!

No bear tracks were found at the scene, and the sheriff has brought in dogs to trace it.

No bear tracks?

A bear attacks someone and tears him to pieces, and doesn’t leave a track!?

“Daddy? Did you hear the news?”

Meg stuck her head out the porch door again.

“They’re saying there’s a bear loose up near Mt. Peabody and we should all be careful!”

“Yeah, I saw,” I answered. “It’s pretty safe down here, I think… lots of people, dogs, cars… if it comes down out of the woods it’ll be spotted pretty fast.”

She didn’t move.

“Maybe you should come inside…”

“I’m fine, Meg, relax. Hey, maybe you better look up the recipe for bear steaks!”

“Daddy! I’m serious!”

“Go watch your cookies, Meg. I’ll be fine.”

She managed to slam the screen door, flimsy as it was. Meg’s my kid, all right.

A moving van pulled up to the old Miller place down the road, empty since John passed last winter. The couple standing and pointing looked Asian, probably the new owners. I guess the kids sold it.

I wondered what they did for a living… they looked pretty young to want to live out here in the country surrounded by old white folk. Sure, they had fiber and sewerage and all that, but it was still at the tail end of nowhere.

Have to go over and say hi one of these days, I thought, rocking, then snorted. This old body isn’t going anywhere! Who am I kidding?

 

Dreamland

The rain in Skala Eresou blew in at an angle, cleverly cutting under the eaves of the buildings lining the street to make her day even worse. She’d forgotten to bring an umbrella, of course, and of course the threatening sky had decided to drop a cloudburst right on top of her at that exact moment.

It fit her mood perfectly.

Britomartis sighed and kept walking in spite of the downpour, feet squelching in her boots as she strode up the cobblestoned road to Eve’s Hangout. Poietria Audre. And maybe some others.

She really needed to talk to Audre.

Belphoebe was at home, either crying in rage or raging in sadness after their fight. She loved Belle, and she knew Belle loved her, but she just couldn’t anymore. Dealing with daily life, smiling at people, talking, being asked how she was doing by friends… it was just too hard. She smiled, and nodded, and laughed at their jokes, and told everyone she was so much better and thank you so much for caring, and she didn’t. Care.

She couldn’t.

She’d died.

She’d been dead, and she was dead inside, and the world was no longer what it had been.

Everything was gray, and impermanent in the mist, and drifting away from her.

Even Belle.

Poietria Audre was there, talking to Renée and Sidonie.

She stood in the entranceway silently, dripping, hesitant to join their group.

“Commander Britomartis! Come, join us!” called Audre, pointing at an empty chair. “You already know Renée and Sidonie, I believe?”

Britomartis hung her hat and cloak on pegs and squelched over, bobbing her head in greeting.

She smiled.

“Yes, how good to see you again, Poietria Renée, Poietria Sidonie. I trust you’re both well in spite of the dreadful weather?”

She sat, and waved at the serving girl.

“Shalla, do you have any Tang white today?”

The serving girl nodded.

“Yes, Commander. I’ll bring you a pot. One cup?”

Britomartis turned to look at the other three women.

“Anyone?”

“No, thank you,” said Renée, and the other two shook their heads in agreement.

“Just one, thank you.”

Audre grasped Britomartis’ hand, her black skin and red ruby rings bold contrast to the pale white skin under. She squeezed, gently.

“I hoped you would come today, Britomartis,” she said. “It’s good to talk with friends.”

“I….” Britomartis felt the grief and sadness welling up inside. “I… Thank you, Audre.”

“We were just telling Audre that Sylvia has invited us to join her for the birth of a new mare shortly,” said Renée. “Why don’t you come with us?”

“Oh, please do! I know Sylvia would be delighted to finally meet you!” added Sidonie.

“Poietria Sylvia!” Britomartis’ looked up, finally, eyes wide. “I love her work! I’d… I’d…”

Her shoulders slumped and her eyes wavered off to examine an empty wine bottle on a shelf across the room.

“She’d be delighted to go with you,” broke in Audre, squeezing her hand once more.

“…but surely she’d have no interest in a mere warrior. Spenser was a master, but I can hardly pen a rhyme to save my life…” she mumbled, thinking to herself as she spoke …if I had a life to save anymore…

“Oh, nonsense,” said Audre. “You’re a strong, independent woman and your tales are easily the equal of any scribbles I may write! By all means, I think it would be an excellent idea. And welcoming a new colt into the world is surely a wonderous thing.”

The door opened again and Belphoebe stepped in. She was folding one umbrella, with a second over her arm.

“Oh, thank goodness I found you,” she called out. “I knew you’d left without an umbrella… you must be soaked!”

She walked over to the table, greeting the other women with nods.

Audre pulled over an empty chair from an adjacent table, and waved her hand towards it in invitation.

“Please, join us.”

“Thank you, I shall.”

“We were just inviting Britomartis to come with us to visit Poietria Sylvia on Mt. Aran,” explained Sidonie. “Why don’t you come, too? We can make it an excursion!”

Belphoebe looked at Britomartis, eyebrow raised.

“Would you like to go?”

Britomartis looked down at her teacup, full of steaming Tang white.

“Yes,” she said quietly, “Yes, I think I would.”

“I’d like to come to, if I may,…” said Belphoebe, still looking at Britomartis.

“…yes… please come,” she replied softly, eyes fixed on the steam rise from her cup.

Belphoebe placed her hand lightly on Britomartis’ arm, providing support to balance the warm hand of Audre opposite.

“Thank you. I’d love to,” she said.

“Tomorrow morn, then. We leave at Matins,” said Renée. “Gather at the Boreas Gate of the Outer Wall.”

“Father Perrault will also join us,” added Sidonie.

“Do you need mounts?”

“We have our own steeds,” said Belphoebe. “And given how close Poietria Sylvia’s home is, we can travel light…”

“Excellent, than!” laughed Sidonie, clapping her hands. “A lovely idea! And Father Perrault can escort us!”

“We should really try to get him a pass,” said Audre. “He is an exquisite man, and his Chopin scores are simply breathtaking.”

“We would have to argue for him to the Council,” mused Renée. “I think it’s a splendid idea, though. One of the few men who deserve it.”

“A pass? To enter Skala Eresou, you mean?” asked Belphoebe. “I thought men were forbidden here.”

“No, not forbidden, just strongly discouraged,” explained Audre. “They are usually escorted out by the Guard, of course, but it is possible for a man to get a pass if thirteen women stand for him.”

“I think we could get thirteen without too much difficulty,” said Sidonie. “When they admitted Poietes Alfred I remember Letitia, Emily, Sonya, and Hō Shō all stood for him.”

“Hō Shō?”

“Poietria Akiko,” clarified Audre. “She’s been using her birthname of late.”

“I think it would be reasonable to assume that the Council would approve him, said Audre. “Speaking in my personal capacity, and not as a member of the Council, of course.”

“Oh, of course!” laughed Sidonie. “Let me mention it to Sylvia, and perhaps when we return we will ask her to accompany us, much as she dislikes the city.”

“Yes, an excellent idea,” agreed Audre. “Poietria Sidonie, Poietria Renée, thank you so much for saying hello. I’m sorry to have taken up so much of your time! Please have a safe journey on the morrow.”

They took the hint, and stood, collecting their belongings to leave.

“Tomorrow at Matins, then!”

“We’ll be there,” answered Belphoebe.

Audre turned to Britomartis.

“May I try some of that Tang white, Britomartis? It smells delicious…”

Britomartis nodded, and pushed the pot toward her.

Audre poured herself half a cup, and breathed in the aroma.

“My, it’s so fresh and clean… I see why you love it so much!”

Britomartis nodded.

Audrea put the cup down.

“Britomartis, Belphoebe would like to stay here with us, if she may. Do you mind?”

“Audre, I’m not…” started Belphoebe, but Audre shushed her with an upraised palm, still looking at Britomartis.

“…no, I don’t mind,…” mumbled Britomartis in response.

“Thank you, Britomartis. I’m so glad you came today; I wanted to sit with you and talk,” said Audre. “And sample this delicious tea!”

Silence.

“How are you, Britomartis? It must be hard dealing with it all.”

“…yes…”

“You’re upset because you were told you died.”

“…yes…”

“I think I understand, but can you help me understand better?”

“…I… I don’t…”

Britomartis struggled for a moment; a single tear skittered down her cheek.

“…I just can’t anymore!” she said, shaking the cup with the force of her explosion. “I died. I was dead. And then… I wasn’t anymore. And I can’t deal with it. Dead! A corpse! Rotting flesh, that’s all I am! And people looking at me all the time, and asking how I am, and tip-toeing around me as if some lich come to devour them, and it’s just too hard anymore!”

More tears followed the first, wiped away by the back of her hand to the sound of a sob.

Audre squeezed her hand even tighter, fingers interlaced with hers, and drew closer.

“But you are not dead, Britomartis. That was a story that was never written. That page was torn from the book, balled up and thrown away as a bad idea, and your story continues on a new page.

“You never were dead! You are Britomartis, heroine of the Dreamlands, King’s Champion, Savior of the Siege of Sinara, a respected warrior, a citizen of Skala Eresou, and partner of loving Belphoebe, bound in sacred matrimony by Sappho herself.

“You were born in the fullness of womanhood from the genius of Poietes Edmund, a glorious birth to rival that of Aphrodite herself, and you have never died.

“I have died. I was born, and achieved womanhood through years of growth, of pain, of wonder, of loss, of human experience. And after a good life, fighting for what I believed in, Britomartis, I died.

“But not you; you are as beautiful, as youthful, as eternal as you were when Poietes Edmund first dreamed you into existence.

“You were never dead. That was a future that never happened, a story within a dream.”

Britomartis sat silent, no longer crying.

She slowly nodded.

“Thank you, Poietria Audre, thank you. I… I think you’re right!”

She laughed, the sweet, beautiful laughter of joy, and hugged Audre.

“Belphoebe, forgive me! I was so caught up in myself I hurt you terribly. Can you, possibly?”

From the other side, Belphoebe raised her hand and kissed it.

“Britomartis, I can forgive you anything, my love. Anything but leaving me.”

Britomartis, now with tears of joy on her cheeks, turned to embrace Belphoebe, hugging her tight.

Audre smiled, head tilted slightly as she watched them.

Britomartis, still holding Belphoebe’s hands, looked to Audre.

“Poietria Audre, thank you. I don’t know what got into me… Thank you.”

“Of course, dear Britomartis, of course.”

“I feel alive again!” cried Britomartis, leaping to her feet.

Belphoebe leapt up as well, sharing her joy as they hugged once again.

Audre, sitting quietly in their shadow, kept her doubts to herself.

* * *

When Britomartis and Belphoebe arrived at the main gate just past Matins (or five o’clock, as Poietria Audre would say) the sky was already light though the sun lay hidden yet in the Tanarian Hills. A few tepid stars glittered through the patchy clouds, already hard to see in the pre-dawn light.

Sidonie and Renée were already there, talking to a fruit vendor who was setting up his stall just inside the gate.

“Good morning!” called Belphoebe, dismounting her roan.

Britomartis, astride her piebald stallion with the hilt of only a single scimitar protruding over her shoulder, echoed with a brilliant smile: “Good morning, Poietria.”

“Oh, and good morn to you, Mistress Belphoebe, Commander Britomartis,” replied Sidonie. “We’re still waiting for Father Perrault, but he should be along shortly.”

“He’s along right now,” came a gravelly man’s voice from the gate. “I’m not as spry as I once was and I’m afraid this cane is not designed for hobbling in a hurry.”

“Father, let me help you!” cried Renée, rushing to his aid. She helped him over to a black mare, and up into the saddle. “This is Onyx. She’s a little old but very smart; she’ll get you there and back safely.”

“Just like me, then!” laughed the Father. “Except for the smarts, maybe. I suspect I’m not as smart as I used to be, either…”

“Father Perrault! You’re not fooling any of us!” said Belphoebe. “We’re used to your tricks.”

“I suspect Father Perrault may be the humblest man in the Dreamlands!” added Sidonie. “And proud of it!”

They all laughed.

“I’ll keep an eye on the packhorse,” said Renée, “If you’ll watch the Father, Sidonie.”

“Of course!”

“Britomartis and I will make sure you get there safely, never fear,” promised Belphoebe. “Right, Bee?”

“Oh, of course,” said Britomartis, with another smile and energetic nod. “Killing is our job, after all.”

Belphoebe laughed to fill the sudden silence.

“Well, we don’t expect to run into any trouble on this trip, right, Britomartis?”

“Oh, no, of course not,” Britomartis agreed.

“Well, then… let’s get started. It’ll be a long day today.”

They passed through the gate along the Avenue of Boreas, running northwards toward Mt. Aran and the sea. This close to Celephaïs there was little worry about—the Watch patrolled the region regularly, and the villagers were, if not friendly, at least not unfriendly.

The stone road continued through the surrounding farming communities, with scattered homes dotting broad fields, crisscrossed by mountain-fed rivers and irrigation canals.

The well-tended fields gradually gave way to fields lying fallow, or wild, and the forest grew closer and closer. The road began to change as well, carefully fitted stone paving giving way to gravel, and eventually to packed dirt. Once they left the plains and starting up into the hilly terrain leading to Mt. Aran, they were in the wildwood, with only an occasional woodcutter’s hut or hunter’s shelter.

She lived alone in spite of the possible dangers, hunting, fishing, doing everything herself. The packhorse was laden with things she had wanted from the city, and some gifts for her. A publisher had asked them to deliver five copies of Sylvia’s latest book, a collection of poetry entitled Ariel’s Descent.

Released only a few weeks ago, it had already become one of Britomartis’ favorites, a copy in her pack even now. To be able to actually meet Poietria Sylvia! She had read one of its poems this morning, in fact, “Reflections in the Mere—Ariel’s Choice.” Trapped between love and hatred with only a single choice left, the waters closing over her head to wash her tears away… the last lines reverberated in her head, etching ever deeper:

Talons of molten iron rend:

Love, hate, fear,

Desire, anger, regret,

Bleeding gobbets of memory.

Sweet, cool Lethe.

Britomartis brought up the rear of the group, with Belphoebe on point. They didn’t expect any trouble, but old habits die hard. She was always quick with a joke or comment when one of the women spoke to her, but Belphoebe noticed that she never started a conversation, and seemed occupied with her thoughts far more often than safe for a rearguard. She’s fine, she told herself, she’s coming out of it. Give her a chance… Look how she smiles!

They stopped for lunch at Lace Falls, women and horses both enjoying the freezing cold water after a long ride. The Falls were a constant murmur of delightful sound, water burbling down a long, gradual incline to create a multitude of tiny falls and rapids, white foam swirling and leaping. The pool at the base was deeper than they could see, and the water clean and delicious.

Sweet, cool Lethe.

The sweetfish looked delicious, too, but they had to forgo that pleasure to reach Poietria Sylvia by nightfall.

While the others were resting, Belphoebe slipped into the woods with her bow, returning in about twenty minutes with a brace of rabbits: “A little present for Poietria Sylvia,” she explained, tying them to the packhorse.

After they were all fed and the horses rested, they mounted up again for the afternoon’s ride. They had to climb a bit higher up the mountain’s flank, then circle around to the far side before descending again through the forest to reach Poietria Sylvia’s home. She lived on the north coast, raising her own goats and chickens, sometimes descending the narrow, twisting path down the cliffs to the sea to fish. Britomartis knew all the details, had listened to all the gossip, understood why Silvia had forsaken the noise and crowding of the city for her solitude, no matter the burden.

The heat of the day was beginning to fade, and the shadows slowly lengthened. A cool breeze was blowing down the path, and the drowsiness of the afternoon began to set in. All was quiet, save for muted birdsong and the muffled thuds of the horses.

Even Sidonie’s energy had finally succumbed to fatigue, as they continued on and one with only sporadic conversation now and again, pointing out a beautiful flower or offering a drink.

Britomartis pulled the book from her pack and leafed through it, trusting her stallion to follow the others.

Bleeding gobbets of memory.

She closed her eyes, trying to think of nothing.

“Bee? Are you all right?”

Belphoebe’s voice startled her back.

She sat up straight in the saddle again, and stowed the book away safely.

“I’m fine, Belle! Just got a bit drowsy. I’ve spent too much time moping in Celephaïs and not enough on the road!”

She beamed a smile.

“I’m awake now, sorry. I’m fine!”

Belphoebe touched her arm.

“You’re sure? Oh, Bee, I’ve been so worried about you… please, please tell me if you need something!”

“I was just a little drowsy, you worrywart!” laughed Britomartis. “You want me to take point for a while?”

“No problem, Bee, I just wanted to check on you.”

Belphoebe snapped her reins and trotted back to the front of the group.

“No worry, just a quick consult on the way!” she said to the others with a smile.

They continued on their way, riding now around the flank of the mountain instead of uphill. The horses seemed to appreciate the easier ride, too, as the pace picked up a bit.

Even so, Belphoebe looked back every so often to check on Britomartis.

They stopped again, briefly, when the sea came into view ahead. Looking down on it from the mountainside, over the treetops, it looked surprisingly close, but they had yet another hour of travel—downhill this time—to reach Sylvia’s home.

Sweet, cool Lethe.

A noise from behind snapped Britomartis back to alertness. A snapping twig.

She spun to her feet, hand automatically reaching to her scimitar, ready to draw and swing.

A few dozen meters up the road, just past the last bend, three women stood. Two armed, supporting a third who seemed injured.

Their hands were open, weapons within reach but sheathed.

“We come in peace,” called the taller woman. Her cloak, dark blue with yellow lining, hid much of her body, but Britomartis could still see her long blonde hair, styled into a long plait down her back, and appreciate the well-used black leather armor, and the steel chest plate dented from battle. A warrior, then.

She shifted to the shorter, black-haired woman, in leather armor dyed blue from head to toe, and a black, cowled robe. She seemed unarmed, but perhaps she was a mage, judging from her attire and lack of weapons. She had her hands full supporting the third… Britomartis couldn’t make out her face, but she was wearing a ratty-looking shift that clearly wasn’t designed for trips through the woods. It was ragged and torn, pine needles and dirt hanging in its frayed hem. It looked like it might once have had embroidery around the neck, but it was hard to tell now.

“I am Ansell, a free lance.”

“Britomartis of Celephaïs and party.” Britomartis sheathed her scimitar again, and noticed Belphoebe turning the shaft on her bowstring to point at the ground instead of the unexpected trio.

The four women assessed each other, and judged each other worthy.

“Are you hurt?” asked Britomartis, stepping forward.

Ansell pointed at the raven-haired woman. “Tamara and I found this poor woman earlier, and were resting in the forest just a little ways up the road. I saw you had stopped for a rest, and since you have horses and are obviously not brigands…”

“What’s wrong with her?” asked Belphoebe, walking up. “Belphoebe, also of Celephaïs.”

“We don’t know… she doesn’t appear to be hurt, just disoriented. Do you have a healer in your party?”

Father Perrault stepped up.

“I am not a healer but I do have some experience in such matters. Father Perrault, once of Luxembourg, now of Celephaïs. May I?”

“Please,” said the mage, helping the woman sit down. “Tamara, free lance. She said her name was Ricarda, but keeps drifting off. We found her just lying on the road, with two mountain lions.”

“Mountain lions!? But she’s not injured, you say.”

“No… they certainly were not tame, yet they were licking her hands. They obviously feared us, yet stayed by her side until we were almost within striking distance. When they backed away from us they were ready to kill.”

“You’re sure they were wild?” asked Belphoebe.

“I can’t imagine any other explanation,” said Ansell. “But why they should fawn at her feet while threatening us is beyond me.”

“Strange indeed,” mused the Father, running his hands over the woman’s body quickly. “She has no obvious hurt, and no bruising or pain that would suggest internal injury. She is clearly disoriented, though, and I note that the pupil of one eye is clearly larger than the other. Perhaps some head injury?”

He leaned closer to better look into her eyes, tilted her head up, and suddenly Richarda grabbed his head in her hands and pulled him close.

Ansell and Tamara jumped to rescue him, but it was too late… she’d already let him go again, with the juicy smack of a kiss echoing. He lost his balance, sprawling back onto his ass in astonishment.

Ricarda laughed.

“I haven’t kissed a Father in so long! And I suspect you haven’t kissed a woman of late, either!”

She laughed again, a beautiful, elegant peal of laughter that soothed.

“I’ve kissed a Father, Oh! What a bother, I’ve kissed a Father!”

She stood, spinning as she sang, like a young girl singing a lullaby.

Everyone just stood watching, frozen, not understanding what they were seeing.

Father Perrault wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stood, then reached out and grasped one of her outstretched hands.

“Ricarda! Stop it!”

And she did.

She slowed, turned to face the Father, and stood, head tilted, smiling, eyes bright.

“Yes, Father.”

Father Perrault, holding her hand like a lover, walked her forward toward the horses.

“I think Mistress Ricarda should ride. How far it is from here?”

“Not far,” said Belphoebe. “Especially if we hurry a bit.”

“Where are you headed?” asked Ansell.

“Poietria Sidonie of Celephaïs,” said Sidonie, nodding in greeting. “Are you familiar with Poietria Sylvia? She lives down the road, on the coast, and we are on the way to visit her. Let us take Ricarda with us and help her.”

“We are on foot,” replied Ansell. “Shall we leave her in your care, then?”

“You are welcome to join us. Poietria Sylvia is a most gracious host, and I will stand for you,” said Belphoebe.

“No, we cannot intrude. If you will stand for Ricarda, though, I would be in your debt.”

“I do stand for Ricarda,” said Belphoebe.

“And I,” added Britomartis, though she was not sure why she said it.

“Thank you. Then let us be on our way. Tamara, we have many kilometers yet before we rest.”

Tamara nodded, the medallion on her breast swinging to catch the fading light.

Ansell paused, then turned once more.

“Sinara, right? That Britomartis?”

“Yes.”

Ansell nodded in respect, then shouldered their packs and trudged back up the road.

Britomartis and Belphoebe looked at each other.

“Ricarda, can you ride?”

Ricarda smiled and skipped once.

“Oh, of course I can ride Onyx.”

Britomartis stopped in surprise.

“How did you know the horse’s name?”

“Oh, she just looks like an Onyx, don’t you think?” laughed Ricarda, mounting the horse in a single fluid motion. She stretched her arm forward to scratch Onyx’ nose; the mare whinnied in pleasure.

Father Perrault rode the packhorse, and they redistributed its load between them.

“Well, our party has grown by one, it seems,” said Renée. “The day is fading; let us be off.”

Just a few kilometers down the road there was a wooden sign nailed to a tree, large enough that it couldn’t possibly be overlooked.

RING MY CHIMES, BABY

There was no bell.

Britomartis studied the sign for a moment before finally turning to Renée.

“What in the world…?”

Renée laughed.

“She put it up years ago. For some reason she finds it hilarious, but I haven’t a clue why.”

“She just wants us to announce ourselves,” explained Sidonie. “I actually went and bought a bell to ring for her, and of course she found that hilarious, too.”

She took a large bronze bell out of her horse’s pannier and struck it half a dozen times with the hilt of her dagger.

It was answered by a cacophony of barks from down the hill.

They continued down the road, Renée “ringing her chimes” every so often, and eventually the road curved a bit to reveal a wide, grassy expanse with a small house surrounded by barking dogs, a few horses, curious goats, wandering chickens, and plots of herbs and flowers.

A middle-aged, perfectly ordinary-looking woman stood in front of the open door, hand shielding her eyes from the rays of the setting sun as she looked toward us.

“Poietria Sylvia! We’re here!” announced Renée.

“It’s so good to see you again, Renée! And Sidonie, and Father, welcome, welcome,” said Sylvia, walking to greet them while shushing the dogs out from underfoot.

“And I see you’ve brought some other guests as well…”

“Belphoebe of Celephaïs.”

“Britomartis of Celephaïs.”

“Sylvia of Boston,” replied their host. “Although I’m not at all sure where Boston might be by now.”

She turned to the last rider, one eyebrow raised.

“And this is…?”

Father Perrault helped the last member of their group off Onyx, and introduced her.

“This is Ricarda, a woman in distress we encountered along the way.”

“Mistress Ricarda, welcome.”

“Delighted to be here, I’m sure,” answered Ricarda. “You never did see your Pulitzer, did you?”

Sylvia froze, face white.

“My what? How did you…?”

Ricarda spun in a circle, Sylvia and her confusion apparently forgotten.

“Oh, look! More horsies!” and she ran off to the fence where they had lined up, whinnying eagerly to greet her.

“Poietria Sylvia? Are you all right?” asked Father Perrault. “What is a ‘pyulitz’?”

“Nothing, nothing,” said Sylvia, staring at Ricarda’s back. The dogs and goats had approached her as well, gathering to receive her favor like suitors to a princess.

“Please, settle your horses. They will be safe in the corral with mine; the dogs watch over them all.”

She turned to Renée.

“Who is that woman?”

“We know nothing of her. Two free lances we met on the road—Ansell and Tamara—said they found her, and as they were on foot and Ricarda seemed unable to walk easily, we brought her here on horseback. She seems… strange…”

“Yes, indeed she does,” said Sylvia.

“Here, these will surely be of use tonight, with our unexpected company,” broke in Belphoebe, holding up the brace of rabbits. “Shall I prepare them for you?”

“Wild rabbits! Lovely, thank you!” said Sylvia, her face lighting up with a smile. “Yes, please. Could you save the pelts for me? Winter’s coming and I need them for my sofa.”

“Of course, but… what is a ‘sofa’?”

Belphoebe looked at Britomartis, then Renée, but they both merely shrugged.

Britomartis and Belphoebe did most of the work taking off the tack and making sure the horses were fed and watered, and had suffered no injuries during the journey. There was no stable, but a study lean-to provided shelter from wind and rain as needed.

Several meters beyond the fence on the other side of the corral, a cliff plunged down to the waves below. It was already dim, with the dark red sun hanging low in the Western sky and a half-moon rising in the east.

Renée, Sidonie and the Father followed Sylvia inside, carrying the various bags and baskets of goods that Sylvia has requested. Ricarda walked behind, and the dogs took up positions guarding the door. A strange place for guard-dogs, though Britomartis. They should be roaming the borders to better protect the chickens, and even the goats from night predators.

Sylvia’s home was a simple clapboard house with thatched roof. The walls had numerous windows to allow light and air free passage, but with strong shutters that could be closed at need.

“C’mon in, make yourselves at home!” called Sylvia.

Britomartis felt a little uneasy at the casual nature of her invitation, but Sidonie assured her it was just Poietria Sylvia’s manner of speech. She wondered if she should remove her boots, as was custom in most homes in Celephaïs, but noticed that Sidonie and Renée—and Sylvia herself!—had just walked right in.

She glanced at Belphoebe, who shrugged, and entered, boots and all.

Helplessly, Britomartis followed suit.

Inside was a strange conglomeration of styles, with the colorful, geometric patterns of Thraa generation rugs on the floor contrasting with stark calligraphy hanging on the wall, and the stunning sea-blue curtain marking off the sleeping room.

The floor was strewn with pillows of all sorts and sizes surrounding a sunken firepit in the center of the room. The square stone frame, like a well, rose some thirty centimeters above the wood floor, and it was filled with stones and ash. An iron hook hung down from the ceiling, holding a black teapot above the hot coals. The ceiling sloped upwards here, carrying the smoke—what little there was—up and away cleanly.

In front of a large window was an enormous puffy chair. Maybe a throne of some kind? It was covered in cloth and pelts, with huge cushions on top. Britomartis had never seen anything like it before.

Father Perrault was sitting on it with obvious pleasure, leaning back into the cushions with one arm on the raised bit on the side, and his feet up atop a little island cushion in front of the thing.

“This is the sofa,” he explained. “And it’s heavenly to sit on one again!”

Sylvia was already pouring tea for them, a fragrant blend that Britomartis could not immediately identify. No teacups—instead she offered each of them a large mug, almost the size of a small ale mug, obviously hand-thrown and fired.

“Make yourselves at home. Kitchen’s through there, help yourself. If you want to freshen up there’s a shower and toilet out back, through that door. No hot water, though, I’m afraid.”

She was holding a third mug, and looked around. “Where’s Ricarda? I thought she was with you?”

“Oh, I’ll take my tea in here, please!” came Ricarda’s voice from the sleeping room.

Sylvia spun around, almost spilling the tea, and stared. She set the tea down on the lip of the firepit and strode over, whipping open the blue curtain separating the rooms.

She must have slipped in one of the windows with nobody noticing, but there she was, lying in the middle of Poietria Sylvia’s sleeping area, feet up on a high pillow, looking for all the world like she owned the place and had asked the maid to bring her refreshments.

“And just what the hell are you doing in my bedroom, Ricarda?” said Sylvia, in a voice that would not have been out of place in a morning drill.

She reached out to grab Ricarda’s shift and somehow missed, her hand grabbing the cushion behind her instead. She almost lost her balance, caught herself, and reached to grab the other woman’s arm instead.

With perfect timing, Ricarda stood and let Sylvia’s hand swish through empty space behind her, striding forward into the room where we all watched incredulously.

“I think I shall drink it here and keep you all company!”

She picked up the mug Sylvia had prepared, and sat down on a convenient cushion to take a sip.

“Oh, my, this is delicious!” she said, apparently unaware of Sylvia furious behind her. “Selarn broadleaf with Baharna green and just a hint of cherry! Very nice!”

Sylvia just stood, astonished, as her anger drained away.

“I… Please don’t go in there, Ricarda,” she said finally. “That’s my space, not yours.”

“Oh, my most sincere apologies, Poietria Sylvia! I didn’t know!”

Britomartis couldn’t fault her apology, but also couldn’t shake the feeling that Ricarda was playing with them all.

Father Perrault asked Ricarda to lie down, and carefully examined her for injury, finding none. Sylvia provided her with a new dress of quite unusual design… Britomartis had never seen such a pattern of brilliant yellow daisies before, but had to admit it was quite eye-catching. Ricarda seemed to enjoy it, twirling in it every so often as she roamed the dwelling, spinning the hem out like a dancer.

The meal was a communal affair, with everyone chipping in. Sylvia had wrung and plucked a chicken, and was roasting it in her wood-fired oven—a monstrous construction of brick and adobe built into a wall and up the hill almost to the forest, simultaneously serving to separate the goats from the garden. She explained it was actually used for making pottery, but she could also use the front-most chamber for cooking—chickens, for example. It turned out that Father Perrault was an expert in herbs and spices, and after a short trip to the garden the chicken soon began emitting a heavenly aroma that had stomachs rumbling.

Peeling potatoes, collecting greens for a goat-cheese salad, and carrying water from the stream that cut through the farm were simple chores that went quickly as they worked together while talking.

Britomartis kept an eye on Ricarda, not quite able to bring herself to dismiss the woman as a simpleton. Ricarda skipped around from chore to chore, somehow managing to be everywhere at once and look very busy, but never actually accomplishing anything.

She did immediately notice the trapdoor under a carpet, and inquired innocently of Sylvia what was under it. “Full of wine, eh?”

Sylvia stopped what she was doing and looked at her again.

“Yes, in fact, that is where I put my wine, among other things…”

Ricarda danced away without reacting, pointing to a horseshoe nailed to the wall and exclaiming “Oh, look! A lucky horseshoe!”

Britomartis had no idea what might be lucky about a horseshoe, or why it was nailed to the wall. Two nails, so it was pointing up, instead of the easier one-nail method that would let it swing and naturally point down. Strange, but then again Sylvia was a strange poet.

Sylvia opened up the hidden trapdoor—which was not really hidden, considering how the bulk of the door was obvious even with a rug on top—and pulled out a reddish-brown ceramic jug, sealed with a wooden plug and beeswax.

“Wine,” she said. “I made it a few years ago with local grapes and it’s been down there since, waiting for guests to enjoy it with. And tonight’s the night!”

She used a wooden spoon to fill their mugs with a slug of wine each—even some for Ricarda, who had eaten little but had at least stopped dancing around making bizarre comments. It was a heady red wine, rich in tannin and spice, and Britomartis thought it was outstanding.

“In addition to penning excellent poetry, you also make excellent wine,” she commented, holding her mug out for seconds.

“So glad you like it! It took me a few years to stop making vinegar, but I can usually drink what I make now,” she said, pouring another healthy slug for Britomartis and one for herself. “Anyone else? Sid? Belphoebe?”

Sidonie held out her own mug with a big smile, but everyone else demurred.

“Have you read my work, Britomartis?” asked Sylvia. “Seems an unlikely pleasure for a warrior such as yourself.”

“I’ve not read much,” she answered, “but I received a copy of your latest collection and you speak to my heart. I am deeply honored to be able to meet you.”

“Oh, shush with all that fancy talk. Nice to meet you too, dear,” laughed Sylvia. “So what did you like about it?”

“Ariel’s Choice…”

Sylvia looked at her quickly.

“I wrote that poem a long time ago to help me get past some troubles,” she said. “I hope it can help you get past your own.”

“I am used to chivalry and honor and knights worshipping fair beauty from afar… your poems are so strong, so fearless! They shake me.”

“If a poem doesn’t move you, Britomartis, it’s a failure,” said Sylvia, taking a sip of wine. “Who gave you the book, may I ask? Belphoebe?”

“No, I don’t think so. At least, she denied it, didn’t you?”

“Not I, Bee. Neither of us had much interest in poetry before. I still don’t have much use for it…”

“I still don’t know who might have given it to me. It was just lying on my pack one day, inside our home in Celephaïs. I mean, the doors aren’t locked or anything, but someone would have had to walk in and put it there… and I haven’t a clue who it might have been!”

“Curiouser and curiouser,” murmured Sylvia.

Ricarda looked up from the rug she was apparently examining—or sniffing?—and giggled. “My, Sylvia, have you quite forgot how to speak good English?”

Sylvia stopped, mug to her lips, and stared at Ricarda. She slowly lowered the mug, and carefully set it down.

“Ricarda, who are you? And why do you know Alice?”

“This carpet was made in Oonai, you know. Certainly not in Daresbury!” said Ricarda, looking up at Sylvia. “Alice who?”

“I’ve been to Oonai,” said Renée. “Lovely city, especially if you like dancing. Sidonie, remember that pearled lute I brought back from Oonai?”

“Whatever happened to that, I wonder,…” mused Sidonie. “Did we give it to someone?”

“I don’t remember seeing it for years and years,” said Renée. “I guess we must have…”

“I’m afraid I don’t dance as well as I once used to,” said the Father, “but good music is always a gift. You have no piano, Poietria Sylvia, or I would play for you all this night.”

“Thank you, Father. I had the pleasure of hearing you play years ago when I visited Celephaïs,” said Sylvia. “I’d love one, but they’re a little tough to lug over the mountain.”

“Perhaps we can find some way to make that happen,” said Sidonie. “Let me talk to the Poietria Audre and see if we can’t work it out somehow.”

Sylvia stood.

“I have to tend to the animals. Britomartis, Belphoebe, would you give me a hand?”

She picked up the remains of the chicken, mostly bone by now, and walked out the front door into the moonlight.

Britomartis and Belphoebe followed her, eyes adjusting quickly to the darkness.

The dogs were waiting at the doorway, eager for their unexpected treat.

Seeing Sylvia pulling at the carcass, Britomartis took out her dagger.

“Let me do it, Poietria. It’s easier with a dagger.”

Sylvia handed it over and the dagger made short work of it… she handed each dog a hunk of chicken bones, and shortly the sounds of the night crickets were joined by a chorus of snuffling and the cracks of bones breaking.

“I walk the perimeter every night,” said Sylvia. “C’mon.”

They fell in behind her as she strode off down the well-worn path running around the corral and the vegetable garden. As Sylvia walked she checked the fence, locked the gate on the road, patted a curious horse on the cheek, and then, when the path was close to the woods and at the farthest point from the house, stopped.

“I don’t trust our unexpected guest,” she said. “She knows things she shouldn’t know, she evades questions, and in spite of being weak and disoriented earlier—or so she seemed—she certainly isn‘t now.”

“I have no reason to distrust the women who brought her, Ansell and Tamara, they seemed honest people, but Ricarda herself is… strange…” said Britomartis.

Belphoebe nodded. “I’ve been watching her myself. She is watching us as well, and not at all a simpleton, I fear.”

“Would you two keep an eye on her tonight?”

“We had already planned to,” said Britomartis. “Perhaps tomorrow we can find a better solution.”

Sylvia placed her hand on Britomartis’ shoulder, saying “Thank you.”

She turned to Belphoebe and nodded. “And thank you, Belphoebe. I am in your debt.”

The conversation turned to horses and bears and stars as they finished walking the perimeter, and as they approached the house after completing the circuit, a voice spoke up from the shadows.

“It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it Poietria Sylvia?”

It was Ricarda.

Britomartis responded smoothly, “Yes, beautiful, isn’t it?” without revealing her surprise, or that she was wondering how long Ricarda had been listening in the shadows, and what she had heard.

* * *

The next morning everyone was up before dawn, watering horses, milking goats, collecting eggs, and generally helping Sylvia run her little farm. Later, after the animals were taken care of and they had a breakfast of fresh bread and eggs—plus a little of the yellow Ambroli cheese they had brought with them from Celephaïs— Sylvia suggested they take the path down to the sea and see what drift had washed up.

Father Perrault decided the steep path was a little too dangerous, and suggested he’d stay and watch the horses for a while, but the rest of them agreed it would be a wonderful idea. The coastline around Celephaïs was always picked clean, but who knows what they might find here?

Sylvia took the lead, helping them stay on the path as they descended. It twisted and turned down the sheer cliff, marked only by small stakes driven into the rock here and there for support, and Sylvia’s guidance… a misstep meant death.

Britomartis was last again, trailing Ricarda by a few meters.

She looked out over the sea, illuminated with the light of the early morning from the east, whitecaps flashing here and there, a flurry of wings as some feathered denizen of the cliffs scolded them for approaching its nest. The water was dark blue, cool and distant. Beckoning.

Ricarda stopped to look as well, a few meters down the path. She looked up into the sky, and then turned to Britomartis.

“It’s beautiful isn’t it, dear Britomartis? Sweet, cool Lethe…” she said, clearly, but low that only Britomartis could hear her.

Britomartis closed her eyes.

Bleeding gobbets of memory.

Sweet, cool Lethe.

She turned her serene face to the sky, arms open as if welcoming a lover, and stepped forward into the air.

She never heard Belphoebe scream her name.

 

Wakeworld

I was flying.

I knew it was a dream, and I’d been here many times… I flew automatically, stretching my arms out to soar, flapless, or waving them back and forth like treading water to hover. I was high in the morning sun, looking over a huge forest toward the sea.

There was a small homestead on the cliff there, and I drifted over for a closer look.

I didn’t know why; dreams often pulled you to do something.

There were horses, and dogs, and goats, and there, on the cliff, was a handful of people slowly climbing down to the tiny thread of beach below.

Why, that was Belphoebe! I’d recognize that mass of brilliant blond hair anywhere. Which meant… yes! And there was Britomartis, at the tail end.

I didn’t recognize any of the other women.

The woman just in front of Britomartis, wearing a yellow dress, turned and looked straight into my eyes.

“Hello, Richard,” she said, and then Britomartis closed her eyes and stepped off the cliffside path and into the air.

I woke, the sound of Belphoebe screaming her name still ringing in my ears.

* * *

I lay in the dark for a moment, collecting my thoughts and slowly remembering where I was. I was home, in my bed, my son-in-law and grandchildren asleep. Meg should be at the hospital for the night shift this week.

Was that just a horrible dream?

I was in my bed, I could be sure of that much, but had anything changed?

My God! The grandchildren!

I yanked the walker over, struggling to my feet in a panic, and started thumping across the floor toward the door. I had to hurry…!

The door opened before I got there, and Dave looked in.

“Dad? You OK?”

He was wearing pajamas and a concerned look.

“Everything alright? Can I help you to the bathroom or something?”

I stopped, breathing heavily.

“No, I… Uh, no, yes, that is… the bathroom.”

I knew I sounded like a confused old man, but I couldn’t very well tell Dave I’d been frightened out of my wits by a dream and thought it might be real!

Dave helped me to the bathroom, and shut the door.

“You just call me if you need help, OK, Dad? I’ll be right back; just gonna check on the kids.”

He went back upstairs as I sat on the toilet and caught my breath.

What to do?

What could I do, trapped here in this decaying body and unable to return to the Dreamlands. Britomartis, my Britomartis…. God, I hope that was just a dream.

After I had relaxed a bit I flushed just to sound convincing, and clumped my way back to my room. If I took very small steps the walker made almost no noise, but of course that meant it took me twice as long to get there.

I felt bad about waking Dave, though, and wanted to avoid bothering him again if I could avoid it.

My good arm got tired pretty fast, though.

I collapsed onto my bed and closed my eyes, straining to leave Wakeworld and awaken in the Dreamlands, but dawn came first.

I listened to the birds and the paperboy, and finally the sound of Dave’s alarm clock, followed by a loud bang as he cut it off, and mumbled complaints. Shuffling noises, sink, toilet, closet doors, and finally footsteps coming down the stairs.

“Good morning, Dave,” I called out from my room—the door was open, of course. “Sorry about last night.”

“Hey, no problem, Dad,” he said. Stopping. “I’m gonna get breakfast and the coffee started before I roust the kids… You wanna come sit in the kitchen?”

“Thanks, Dave. That’d be great.”

He helped me get to the kitchen, taking most of the weight of the walker, and supporting me to make it easier. I collapsed into my chair at the kitchen table, and he came back in a minute with the morning paper.

“Here you go… hang on a few and I’ll get some coffee into you.”

As Dave was bustling around prepping the coffee maker, peeling fruit, and getting the bacon started, I opened the paper. Local rag, the Daily Times.

I ran my eyes over the front page, seeing that while the world was continuing to fall to pieces, it was still pretty much the same as yesterday. Local news was inside.

No more news about that bear. Good, I guess.

“They’re tearing down Brown’s Store, down on the corner of Main and Thurford,” I said. “The kids still go there anymore?”

Dave set a coffee mug down on the table in front of him.

“Nope. They used to love the nickel candy and stuff, but they’re pretty much past all that now. Pity to see it go, though… it’s one of the last old buildings still in decent shape.”

A loud thumping on the stairs announced the arrival of eight-year old Tom, followed by a fractionally quieter ten-year old Gracie. Gracie pecked me on the cheek and said good morning; Tom headed straight for his cereal.

“Good morning, Tom,” I reminded him.

“Good morning, Grandpa!” he returned. “Sorry, in a hurry! I gotta be at Craig’s place by eight thirty! Mr. Nelson just got a big pool, and he said if we help him build it, he’ll let us use it all day!”

Dave slapped a plate of bacon and eggs down in front of him.

“You’ll pedal faster with some food in you. Eat.”

“Grandpa, why don’t you ever eat bacon and eggs?” asked Gracie.

“I used to love bacon and eggs, Gracie,” I replied. “Especially Canadian bacon!”

“What’s Canadian bacon?”

“Real salty. You know those Egg McMuffin things? That’s almost Canadian bacon.”

Dave snorted. “I wouldn’t dignify that as meat, let alone Canadian bacon!”

“But my doctor said I have to stop eating bacon and eggs and all sorts of good food, or I’ll never get better,” I continued.

“But you’re gonna get better right, Grandpa?”

“I’m sure gonna try, sweetheart,” I said, blowing her a kiss.

Tom dropped his empty cup and plate into the sink and was out the door with a hurried “Bye!”

“Don’t forget your towel! And call me when you get there!” shouted Dave to the screen door as it banged shut. He took another sip of coffee. “Meg should be home soon. Thank God.”

* * *

I sat out on the porch watching the birds fly and trees wave, with an occasional car driving by for excitement. I noticed a couple walking my walk down the sidewalk—looked Asian, I guessed the people who bought the old Miller place.

They strolled along admiring trees and flowers, pointing things out to each other, and eventually noticed me on the porch, rocking. He had a fancy Canon or Nikon, and had a big tripod on his back. She just had a smartphone.

“Good morning, sir. A beautiful day, isn’t it?”

“Sure is,” I said. Scintillating repartee.

“We just moved here,” said the man. “I’m Shintarō Yamada, and this is my wife Kana.”

“Welcome to the neighborhood,” I said. “Sorry I can’t get up to welcome you properly…”

“No problem,” he said.

His English was stone perfect.

“Unusual to see outsiders moving into the community here,” I mused.

“Well, I’m a visiting professor over at the university, and we thought we’d prefer a quiet country home to the city. Too much city in Japan.”

“You’re from Japan, then?”

“Yes, Kobe. It’s in about in the middle of the country, near Osaka.”

“What do you teach?”

“I teach Japanese language; Kana is a professor of Japanese history, but isn’t teaching here in the US.”

“This is my daughter’s house. Dave’s inside—her husband—let me call him.”

“No hurry,” said the woman. “We’ll be around.”

They both bowed very slightly, and continued their walk.

The husband turned his head to look me in the eyes and say quietly, “Shingan sends his regards.”

They were out of easy speaking range by the time I recovered from my astonishment.

Shingan!?

And they knew him—maybe came from him?

From the Dreamlands!

Maybe they could get me back there!

Should I call them back?

No, they were obviously here for a reason, and I had to assume the reason was me. I’d have to trust them.

Britomartis!

It must have something to do with my dream last night!

Oh my God!

Maybe I somehow saw what really happened, and it wasn’t just a bad dream!

The sound of sirens in the distance brought me back to this world, and wondered what had happened. “Dave? What’s up?”

He stuck his head out the door.

“Dunno. Why?”

“Nothing… don’t hear a lot of sirens out here much. I just wondered…”

“Check Twitter,” he said, and ducked back inside.

He was probably doing the laundry and cleaning before Meg got back and he had to leave for work.

Twitter said they’d found a dead dog—a German Shepherd—torn to pieces over near the river.

That was a lot closer than Mt. Peabody!

“Hey, Dave?” I called. “Looks like that bear is still around.”

“What bear?” he asked from inside, voice a little muffled.

“Somebody got killed by a bear up on Peabody yesterday, and now a German Shepherd was killed down by the river.”

He opened the window onto the porch.

“A bear? Around here?”

“That’s what they say. The sheriff’s hunting it now.”

“Nelson’s place is a long way from there, but still… let me check.”

He ducked back inside at just about the same time Meg pulled into the driveway.

She got out and unloaded two bags of groceries from the back seat.

“Hi, Daddy.”

“Hi, Meg. How was it today?”

“Much the same. Maybe a bit quieter than usual… I actually got some reading done.”

“You mean catching up on your journals, don’t you? That’s hardly reading.”

She laughed.

“Guilty as charged.”

She hooked the screen door with a finger, and pried it open the rest of the way with her foot.

“Where are the kids?”

Dave answered from the kitchen.

“Tom’s over at Craig Nelson’s with the rest of the gang. I called to check, and George says he’s got everything under control. He invited us over tonight for a barbeque. I said I’d see. That bear’s still around, too.”

“They haven’t shot it yet? A barbeque… I’ll see if I feel human again later. I’m exhausted right now,” said Meg. “I won’t be able to drink anything, but you should go and enjoy yourself! Show the kids how to carbonize marshmallows.”

“Oh, Daddy, can we go?” begged Gracie. “I like marshmallows, too!”

“Sure, muffin. Why not? Let me call Craig’s dad back and see if you can bring a friend, too.”

“Oh, I’m gonna call Jess!” answered Gracie excitedly, racing back upstairs.

“I’m just finishing up down here. There’s a bowl of fruit salad for you in the fridge, the coffee’s ready, and the laundry should be done in another ten or fifteen minutes.”

“Drive carefully, Dave. Love you!”

“Love you too, babe. See you tonight!” said Dave as he closed the door and walked down to the car. “Dad, you wanna come to the barbeque, too? I can drive us over.”

“Ask me again later when I’m older and wiser,” I said. “I’m happy just sitting here and watching the cars go by.”

“OK. You’re always welcome, though.”

“Thanks, Dave. See you tonight.”

Dave backed out into the street, and drove off to work. He was a nurse at the same hospital Meg was a doctor at; that’s where they’d met. Nice guy, except maybe that he drinks wine instead of beer. Whatever. He made Meg and the kids happy, that was enough.

Gracie and Meg were talking about something in the kitchen.

A parcel delivery truck pulled up.

That “bear.” That dream. Britomartis. The Yamadas. Shingan!

I closed my eyes, concentrating on the Dreamlands and willing myself to go back.

I could almost see the minarets of Celephaïs, glittering in the sun…

I felt myself slipping away from here once again, and leaned into it, ecstatic with hope.

 

Wakeworld and n-space

I opened my eyes… this wasn’t any part of Celephaïs I’d ever seen!

I was in an enormous hall, stone columns soaring up to a distant ceiling I could barely make out. The floor and columns were all made of the same gray stone, no decorations, no dust, no sign of life, just massive, perfectly fitted stone blocks stretching into the distance.

I felt like a bug on the wall.

A breeze blew, and I looked up… a woman was standing in front of me, not more than a few meters distant, staring at me as if I were indeed a bug on the wall.

She was dressed in an ornate, heavy robe of red and white, and from the long, flowing sleeves I could see that it was composed of many layers, each beautifully embroidered with geometric patterns. The outer robe was a deep red, and the inner robes of various shades of red, or brilliant white.

He face was framed by a mass of raven-black hair gathered into three buns, sort of a Princess Leia look, and adorned by a gold headpiece set with jewels. It had an emblem of the sun on top, flanked by flowers and birds, and tiny bells dangling here and there.

She looked Asian. Royalty, judging from the haughty expression. And not very friendly.

“Man, I am Ashi. I have been known Ōhirume-no-Muchi-no-Kami, as Amaterasu, and many more. You know me as Reed.”

Reed!

“You are Re…”

“Do not interrupt me,” she interrupted, voice still low, beautiful, serene. She gave me the command with the confidence that I—and every other person—would obey instantly.

Figuring silence was the better part of valor in this instance, I shut up and listened.

“You are a fledgling Dreamer of potentially great power, man. You have birthed a number of machines from your realm in the Dreamlands. And you have even managed to turn time back upon itself to take a different path into the future.

“You are trapped in your own realm and dying.”

Yup, couldn’t argue with any of that.

“Your beloved Britomartis leaped off a cliff in search of solace.”

“How did you…!”

“You will be silent or you will cease, man.”

Serene, quiet voice. Not at all angry, or threatening, or even irritated. Just factual. I didn’t know what she meant by “cease” but I could only think of one possible meaning, and it didn’t sound promising.

“Assist me in completing my present tasks, and I will return you to the Dreamlands as you so fervently desire. You may speak.”

“I… What tasks?”

She waved her hand and the room faded to black.

We were floating in space, and I could see the earth, the moon, and the sun near at hand. We began speeding away from them at an incredible speed, and I watch them shrink to near invisibility as the lens of the galaxy grew brighter and brighter, and still we soared, on and on, the galaxy shrinking, Andromeda coming into view, and shrinking apace. We accelerated and I could see the superclusters of galaxies, and even the distribution of dark matter and dark energy throughout the universe.

Still we sped, and the universe shrank yet again, revealing the galaxy filaments that defined it, stretching like threads throughout all creation. I had been an astrophysicist for decades, and I could sense, somehow, the vast structures we had theorized and probed. I wanted desperately to stop and study what I saw before me, but Ashi dragged me onward.

“Your mind is already trained to understand this in two, and even partially in three dimensions, but you are far too immature to comprehend the totality of the universe in its multi-dimensional existence. This is a four-dimensional bubble of space-time, the realm that you call Wakeworld.”

We sped on, and Wakeworld—the entire universe, to me—shrank until it was merely a bubble, a tiny bit of froth in an n-dimensional void, surrounded by uncountable other bubbles, strings of filaments, raw quantum foam.

Our bubble of reality was adjoined by a host of smaller bubbles; I knew instantly that one of them was the Dreamlands. There were far more than I could count, or even perceive, with my limited senses, but I knew they were there.

And outside of this cluster of bubbles, this local family of universes, or realities, Reed was building a new, larger shell of filament to encompass them all. It was a structure larger than all of existence, in humanity’s terms, and the construction would take longer than all eternity if measured, but in this place beyond the limits of human space and time, it would be immeasurably long, or short.

Infinity in the palm of your hand

And Eternity in an hour

“This is the Churn, the stuff of which all realities are made of. And the shell I am birthing will protect Wakeworld, and Dreamworld, and all the realms you have never known, from the dangers of the Churn, the greater reality. You shall help me birth it.”

I floated in awe at what I was seeing, mind racing as I tried to understand what I saw, and explain it with my knowledge of decades of astrophysics. This was beyond astrophysics, beyond even metaphysics. This was raw reality, the abode of Gods…

I looked “up,” beyond the earth and its cluster of bubbles, and sensed a steady stream of tiny bubbles emerging into view, some growing in size as they floated, others merging, or being engulfed, constantly changing and combining into new groupings.

I looked up that stream of bubbles, following the flow up, up to its source, to find an entity larger than my mind could comprehend. It had no face, no solidity, just a constantly mutating collection of orbs of light in colors I could not describe, and from those spheres a constant mist of tiny, almost invisible bubbles—new realms of reality, perhaps of different physical laws that my own—bled like the strings of pearls in a champagne glass, speeding away into the void on currents unknown.

“Yog-Sothoth, the creator of the greater reality,” came Ashi’s voice. “Each of those bubbles is a universe, created by the eternal creative impulse of an unknowing Yog-Sothoth. And all of this multitude of realities could be destroyed, could be unmade even before it was ever created, should Yog-Sothoth so decide. It is beyond time, and space, and our knowing.

“The shell I am birthing will protect our universe and its family of interwoven realms from further collisions with other realms, and from the denizens of the Churn.”

“Is Yog-Sothoth aware of us?”

“Are you aware of the motions of blood cells coursing through your body, or the atoms they are composed of, or the electrons circling those atoms?”

“Is it self-aware?”

“We cannot know; it is beyond even I.”

“And would your protective shell protect us against it?”

“Never. Our reality, even this multi-dimensional space we see around us, exists only by happenstance, and could be unmade before it was ever created at any time. Yog-Sothoth is outside of time and space, outside reality as we understand it, outside our comprehension.”

“How much time do we have to complete the shell?”

“Millenia, or a nanosecond. We are outside time here, and what will be, is.”

“So you already know it will be completed, then?”

“The future is fixed and we cannot change it, man, but we do not know which future it is to be. Unless we work to complete the shell it will certainly never be completed.”

“I will help you, Ashi. What can I do?”

We were back in that shadowed room of gray stone. There was no sense of movement, no noise, we were simply there.

“I will show you,” said Ashi inside my head. “First I will repair your damaged mind.”

I saw lights, felt gravity slip out from under me, and tried to move a muscle to catch myself from falling.

I was frozen, and I could feel her icy fingertips moving stealthily through my brain, my thoughts.

* * *

I was sitting in an old armchair, a crackling fire in the fireplace in front of me. Chester was lying in front—good old Chester, my Labrador retriever! He saw me looking, and banged his tail against the floor, eyes reflecting the red flames of the fire.

I reached forward and scritched his head.

Wait… Chester died decades ago… what!?

“Master Richard, forgive me for bringing you here,” said a man’s voice.

I glanced over to the other armchair—where had that come from? It hadn’t been there a second ago! And Chester was gone now…

“I thought we might be able to have a little chat while Ashi is busy,” he continued. “She’s really surprisingly competent. For a human being.”

“Ashi is… who are you?”

“Like Ashi, I have had many names over the years. Unlike Ashi, I have lived longer than this realm, however, and will surely live after it is long gone.”

He was wearing a crisp, dark-blue three-piece suit, obviously custom-tailored to his tall, lean body, and probably costing more than I ever made in a year. Black leather shoes, polished until they seemed to be afire themselves with reflection of the dancing flames. Bright blue silk handkerchief precisely folded in his breast pocket. White shirt, maroon tie, brilliant gemstone tiepin. Even I had to admit he was unbelievably handsome, and I confess to being a straight cis man and happy with it.

“Is this real?”

“You have heard of Descartes?”

“Of course. I think any competent human being is familiar with Descartes,” I replied, wondering where this was going.

He laughed. “It’s highly inappropriate to use ‘competent’ to modify ‘human being.’ I’m sure every monkey peeling a banana is confident that it is supremely intelligent, but really…” He chuckled. “In answer to your question, if I may borrow from Descartes, ‘You think it is, therefore it is.’

“And now, if I may continue? Ashi’s explanations, combined with your glimmering of astrophysics, have provided you with a very basic understanding of reality. For a short-lived three-dimensional entity only one tiny evolutionary step above an ape, that is. And you will help her complete her shell.

“What she neglected to mention is that her power can only be fully wielded in her own realm, and by completing a new shell she will encompass your realm and all of its attendant realms within her own. She will become, for all intents and purposes, an omnipotent god, able to create and destroy at whim, and eternal. As far as your species understands eternity, at any rate.

“Unfortunately, monkeys can’t be allowed to run about playing with such things, however crudely, and so, Master Richard, you will work with Ashi to complete her shell, but at the same time you will complete a second shell outside of hers—I will show you how to utilize her own power to accomplish it. And when she returns you to the Dreamlands, as she will, I will ensure that Britomartis, alive and well, will be there to greet you.”

He reached forward and tapped me on the forehead, and a rush of information blossomed inside my brain. I understood how to manipulate the galaxy filaments, how to weave them together, how to draw on the raw quantum foam to create dark matter, dark energy, and the filaments need to encapsulate the universe.

I could see the problems with the techniques Ashi used to birth her shell, and saw how to accomplish the same thing with vastly less energy. I also saw that her crude technique was interfering with the balance between the various realms, and one of the causes of the leakage—the “melting,” as Chóng had called it.

I knew now how to utilize the eddy currents created by the construction of Ashi’s shell to draw in more quantum foam, creating a second shell outside the first, invisible yet potent, from the energy Ashi currently wasted through her inefficient, self-taught technique.

“That will be all,” said the man, and waved me away with a languid wave of his hand.

* * *

“That should do it,” said Ashi. “You can utilize my technique now, and assist me in birthing the shell.”

I could sense her peering into my mind, pushing and prodding here and there. As she examined me and inspected her work, I began to see flashes of imagery, sound, bits and pieces of memories leaking from her to me.

Thousands of people kneeling around her, foreheads to the ground.

A dozen men and women tied to stakes, writhing and screaming in the flames rising from the faggots at their feet.

Mt. Fuji in the dawn, glorious and awesome in the reddish tinge of dawn.

Ashi deep under Mt. Fuji in a chamber of incredible antiquity and power.

Ashi pressing the cover down on a ceramic jar full of radiance, so bright it could only have been nuclear.

A host of warriors turning to steam and ash under that terrible fire.

A massive temple complex, and a woman in ornate kimono and headdress walking ever so slowly down a hardwood floor as hundreds of people pressed their faces to the ground in awe.

A rush of Japanese soldiers spilling into the city—Chinese?—shooting, pillaging, raping at will.

Ashi, a rictus of ecstasy etched into her face as she absorbed the fear and the death and the energy of the Little Boy as it burned Hiroshima with nuclear fire.

Nagasaki was next, and she was charged, almost ready. More death, more of Azathoth’s energy!

Tokyo, the third and final city… it would yield hundreds of thousands of deaths in atomic incineration, powering her ascension to Godhood!

Rage.

The end of the War.

The failure of her plan.

A new plan, and nuclear weapons proliferated.

Hunger.

Tokyo would burn once again.

“You will begin at once,” said Ashi, pulling out of my mind and ending the invading memories.

And I was back on the porch, and the parcel delivery guy was just opening his door, getting out and rummaging around in the back to find something, and walking up to me, and I just sat there, unable to speak or move with the terrible knowledge that had flooded into me.

 

N-space

The days and nights flew past.

To the family my condition had worsened: I slept more, I was less responsive, my pulse was unusually rapid. They hauled me to the hospital for a consultation, but the doctor had little to offer. “I guess his mind and body both are just getting tired,” was his feeling, as the tests revealed no change in my condition…

And he was quite right, because there was no significant change in my condition. My mind was just getting as tired as my decrepit body. I was busy.

While my body lay in bed, my mind soared to the limits of our universe and beyond, using my newfound skills to birth filament from quantum foam, creating structures larger than entire universes from nothingness. I could not comprehend the energies I wielded or even the size of the structure I was helping create… Ashi was with me, working in unison at times, or birthing a separate structure by herself to later be joined to the rest.

Thanks to my immaculately dressed visitor I was able to easily keep pace with Ashi. I worked slower than I could, deliberately, both to lull any suspicions she might have, and to have enough energy and time left over to shepherd my own, hidden scaffolding, coming slowly into existence outside her shell.

Why did I do as the mysterious man had commanded? Because I had no choice… I literally could not stop myself from doing exactly as he had told me, try as I might. And I did try, numerous times to no avail.

Ashi’s techniques were so wasteful, so… yes, so primitive… that it was a simple matter to redirect the eddy currents she left in her wake and weave them into that new shell, outside her own and almost indistinguishable from it. Once I set the equations up—what earlier generations would have called spells instead of the constants and “natural laws” that governed our universe—they operated almost by themselves, so I merely needed to check and make minor corrections.

As far as I could tell, Ashi didn’t suspect a thing.

And I had no second contact from “Mr. Handsome,” as I’d taken to thinking of him.

In the attoseconds between wake and sleep, as I traveled from my bed to my post outside the universe, I saw our own galaxy in depth, sampled its diversity of stars and nebulas, soaring past planets fascinating and terrible at speeds immeasurably fast. I understood the distribution of dark matter and dark energy, the four-dimensional structure of the galaxy filaments, the wondrous pattern that the galaxies of our bubble universe showed when viewed from outside the curvature of our own space-time… and I could tell no-one.

My colleagues could never believe the ramblings of a stroke-stricken old man with a tale of Dreamlands, immortal Japanese witches, a monster composed of orbs of light emitting bubbles that were entire universes as we might sweat, or a tree breathe… I could hardly believe them myself.

No matter what I’d heard or seen of Ashi—of Reed—I had no choice. I wasn’t sure how much of what she said was true, or even how much she believed was true. They could have both been lying to me for their own reasons. But one day I saw something that convinced me to at least help her.

She called my attention, pointing to a distant group of bubbles “overhead.”

It was impossible to tell how far away it might be, since dimensions here were unknown and unknowable, but it looked like two very large bubble universes, each with a couple dozen smaller bubbles attached, and a froth of tiny “champagne bubbles” scattered around. Pretty similar to what my own family of universes looked like, in fact.

To the left of it something was shimmering. It looked sort of like confetti swirling, sort of like an aurora, sort of like a long snake, or dragon, approaching that grouping from somewhere else. It swirled over them, through them, surrounding them in a semi-transparent cloud that sparkled in countless colors… and through the cloud, I could see the bubbles melting, breaking into clumps of reality, smaller and ever smaller, vanishing into that cloud.

It was feeding.

Feeding on dozens of realms, of entire universes!

How many people—thinking, feeling, living entities, whatever form they took—were snuffed in an instant? How many people, nations, worlds, stars… galaxies… entire universes, drained dry and consumed like so much breakfast cereal…

I reeled at the thought, unable to fully process the enormity, the horror, of what I was seeing.

“And that’s why we must complete this shell,” came Ashi’s voice. “Until our shell is complete we cannot be safe, only hope that the universe-eater chooses another.”

When I woke the next morning, the sheets were covered in sweat, and my hands were still shaking.

But as powerful as Ashi was, Mr. Handsome was above her, manipulating the situation without even her knowledge. Someone as far above her as she was above me. Probably far, far higher… above Cthulhu? Just whose side was he on, and who wouldn’t “permit monkeys” such as ourselves to build this shell?

Unable to leave my bed, I sifted my memories, especially the memories of the Mythos stories I had read, in search of clues to who Mr. Handsome might be. Above Cthulhu. Interfering with human events. Tall and handsome.

I could find no definite answer in Lovecraft’s work, only more questions, and had no way to visit the library or access the internet.

Furious with fate, trapped between two unknowable forces, I struggled on.

* * *

Weeks passed in Wakeworld. I had no way of knowing how much time passed in n-space, outside our convenient references of time and space.

I sensed a ripple propagating through the developing shell. Ashi sensed it simultaneously, and we both turned out attention to it.

“The Hounds,” said Ashi, standing taller and looking “down” at the rippling shell with disdain. “The Hounds have scented my work, and come to feed.”

“The Hounds? But they move through the corners, the intersection of three dimensions, surely not here!?”

“Fool. Wakeworld has only four dimensions, so that is sufficient for their purposes, but here the very concept of dimension is meaningless. There are no dimensions, or an infinitude, or both at once, and the Hounds move as they wish.”

“What can we do?”

“Fight. Or cease,” she replied, calmly. “One cannot flee the Hounds.”

“How?”

She ignored me and closed her eyes, hands loosely clasped in front of her breast. Gradually the space around her began to glow, and I could make out the ghostly lines of a room… ornate columns, a gold-encrusted throne behind her, a sea of a thousand heads bowed in homage, stretching off into the darkness.

Her headdress began to shine, brighter and brighter, the disc of the sun atop it so brilliant I could not bear to look at it directly. The light doubled in brilliance, and again, and again, until there was nothing but pure light, shining through me and all of infinity.

And in spite of the sheer power of that light, shadows appeared, distortions with long, pointed proboscises, a multitude of eyes, bodies coated with a blue ichor that writhed hideously. The Hounds…!

They slowed as they approached, pressing against that actinic light, driving forward as if into molasses, slower and slower. Their proboscises twitched, claws scrabbled, and they drew ever closer.

“I am Amaterasu, Goddess of the Sun! Flee, filth, from my light!”

Ashi opened her hands, palms out toward the Hounds, and they burst with an energy beyond comprehension. The Hounds had been blindingly illuminated in that actinic light before, but now even that light seemed feeble and gray as this new energy exploded, a nuclear shockwave that blew into, and through, the Hounds. Their silhouettes wavered, abraded down a little at a time in that fire, slowly disintegrating into dust, flaring into nothingness.

“Amazing little ape!” came a quiet voice deep in my mind. “Wielding a fragment of Azathoth and believing that she controls its power.”

Mr. Handsome!

Azathoth! The blind idiot god at the center of creation, the ultimate energy—or the ultimate black hole!

And Ashi had a piece of it!

“Man! Your strength, now, give it to me, or cease!”

“Oh, by all means, little ape!” came the sardonic voice deep in my mind. “Go for it!”

I strained, pouring all of my energy into Ashi, almost blacking out as vitality drained away.

My body grew heavier and heavier, and the dark silhouettes became thinner and thinner, and finally exploded into dust and were gone.

I had the merest glimpse of Ashi, hands falling to her sides, head drooping with exhaustion, and then I was gone.

* * *

When I opened my eyes the brilliance speared through into my brain, and I groaned, squinting. Gradually my eyes adjusted, until I could see through the tears. I was in the ICU. Again.

That blurry figure moving around must be a doctor or nurse.

I groaned again.

“Well, welcome back, Dr. Saxton,” came a warm voice, and a face swam up into my field of view. Bearded, young, rimless specs. “Hold on a second… let me clean that up.”

He peered into my eyes, then dribbled some liquid into them and wiped away the excess.

“There, that should be better.”

It was. I could see much more clearly now, and tell that Dr. Salmani—that was what his nametag said—was maybe in his forties, quite well-fed, and apparently my physician.

I groaned, tried to speak.

“You’ve got some tubes in there,” said Salmani. “Let me get you something to write on.”

He left my view for a minute, coming back with an iPad or something and a stylus.

“Here, can you use this?”

My arms were weak, and it was difficult to lift the iPad so I could see it.

Salmani held it for me with one hand, supporting my right hand—the one holding the stylus—with the other.

He answered the questions I wrote.

“You had another stroke yesterday. It’s strange—you showed all the signs of a massive hemorrhagic stroke, but imaging reveals normal flow and no artifacts that we can find. Judging from the shape your brain is in, it was actually something else—we’re still trying to figure out what—and have it marked down as a cryptogenic ischemic stroke.

“No, I can’t really say, but since bloodflow is normal and there is no sign of prior or existing blood clots, you could be out of here and back home very quickly. Just a few more tests, until we can get a better understanding of what happened.”

I knew what had happened. It might have been a stroke here, but it was actually Ashi, drawing away my power to fry the Hounds.

I let my hand sag, and closed my eyes.

Sleep.

The next time I opened my eyes I was out of the ICU and in a regular hospital room. A double, I guessed, since there was a white curtain next to my bed.

Meg was snoozing in a chair next to the bed.

I moved my tongue around—no more tubes.

“Good morning, sweets. How ya doin’?”

She sat up instantly, eyes wide.

“Oh, Daddy! You’re back!”

She reached out and gripped my hand in her own.

“You had us scared there!”

I gave a weak chuckle.

“Yeah, I thought I’d see if you were really paying attention or not.”

She wiped a tear off with the back of her hand.

“Oh, Daddy. I always pay attention to you!”

“Huh. Never did when you were in school.”

She smiled, still wiping tears from her cheeks.

“It’s good to have you back, Daddy.”

“It’s good to be back, Meg.”

“Don’t do that again, OK?”

“I’ll try, but… did Dr. Salmani ever figure out what happened?”

She smiled a little.

“Nope, not a clue. You’re actually not much different from last month, in fact… he was surprised to see that you hadn’t had a stroke after all, in spite of your symptoms, and astonished to see that you seemed to be even recovering from the last one,” she said. “He said that unless some test reveals something new, you’re going home tomorrow.”

“That’s good! You know I hate hospital food.”

“You haven’t had any hospital food this time, Daddy. IVs don’t have taste.”

“I have many unusual aptitudes, my dear. Hospital IVs taste terrible. Please take my advice and make sure you never need one.”

She gave a little laugh. “OK, Daddy, I’ll do my best.”

Then she was gone, and Ashi looked down at me with her usual serene haughtiness.

“The Hounds are gone, but the shell has been damaged. Repair it. I must rest.”

And she went somewhere else, leaving me hanging in the void, looking down at the shell we had been building.

It was of unknowable size, containing entire universes wrapped up in dimensional bubbles. Our own bubble—Wakeworld—was twenty or twenty-five trillion light-years in diameter, and it was only one of the cluster of bubbles inside this shell. Millions of trillions of light years? Trillions of trillions? How could you even begin to quantify it?

The leading edge of the structure, a film with zero thickness that only existed as a boundary between inside and outside, was melted like a slice of cheese in the toaster… gobbets dripped in strange directions under the pull of unknown forces, holes stretched in its fabric like tears in a stocking, one section crumpled into a ragged wasteland of ridges and shadow.

I carefully excised the damaged portions, returning them to quantum foam, then reshaping it to rebuild the shining membranes: Ashi’s shell had been damaged, but so had my own, and both must be repaired.

Still exhausted from the battle, I pushed ahead, pouring my faltering strength into the task until, finally, repairs were complete. The shell was yet unfinished, but the portion done was dully shining without a blemish, ready for the new construction a new day would bring.

Ashi was suddenly next to me. She nodded once. “You have done well, man. I will reward you by repairing your failing body. You may go.”

I collapsed into the blackness.

“Daddy?”

Somebody was shaking me.

“Daddy? Doctor, help! Something’s wrong!”

It was Meg.

I heard people running, voices, felt hands touching me, somebody pried open an eye and shined a flashlight in.

“Hey, that’s hurts!” I said, twisting away from the light and sitting up.

Meg was staring at me, eyes wide.

“Daddy?”

Dr. Salmani and the nurse were standing next to my bed. He was holding a penlight, mouth open, the nurse was holding my wrist, finger on my pulse, frozen.

“You’re… OK?” asked Dr. Salmani haltingly. “I saw you just now. You collapsed, your eyes rolled up, and the monitor started beeping. Your pulse and BP were through the roof, look at that display!”

“They seem perfectly normal now, doctor,” said the nurse, matter-of-factly.

“…Yes, they do, don’t they…” he mused. “What in the world…?”

“Not sure what your machine thinks, but I feel just fine, doctor.”

“Daddy, I saw you! You fell back, your eyes rolled up into your head, and your body was jerking all over the place!”

“I think you had better stick around another day or two,” said Dr. Salmani. “I don’t know what happened, and until I find out you’re staying where I can keep an eye on you!”

He turned to the nurse.

“I want a complete blood panel, and another MRI scan of his head. Dr. Saxton, how do you feel?”

“I feel fine, doctor. Great, in fact!”

I tried moving my bum left arm and leg, and they moved. Sluggishly, but they moved.

“I can move again. No pain.”

Dr. Salmani gripped my left hand. “Squeeze.”

I did, and he winced.

“That is the fastest recovery I have ever heard of!” he said. “Do it again!”

I did, and he shook his head in disbelief.

“You’ve been in a wheelchair for months, and now, after another apparent stroke, you’re all fine again!?”

Holding onto my hand still, he pulled me up.

“Stand up; let me see you walk.”

I swayed a bit when I stood up, but it passed almost immediately. No dizziness, no weakness in my legs, no nothing!

I took a walk, hands out to catch myself because I expected to fall. Dr. Salmani and the nurse has their arms out, too… Meg was just watching, eyes wide, hands over her mouth.

And I walked. Slowly, one step, then another, and a third… and I spun in place and did a squat thrust, jumping up to tap the ceiling with the fingertips of both hands.

“Hot damn! I can walk!”

Ashi had kept her word.

“I am not a religious man, Dr. Saxton, but I have to admit that as a physician I’m having trouble thinking of any other explanation.” He walked out of the room, still shaking his head. “Get those blood results and the MRI to me, nurse.”

“Oh, Daddy! That’s wonderful!”

The ice finally broke and Meg ran to give me a big hug.

“You can really walk again!?”

“Certainly looks that way,” I said, lifting her off her feet with a bearhug and walking a few steps.

“Daddy! Stop it! You’ll relapse!”

“Somehow I don’t think so, but I’ll sit down anyway,” I said. “You’re too big to lug around anymore.”

I sat on the hospital bed, Meg next to me.

The nurse asked for my arm and drew some blood for testing, and scurried off with it into the depths of the hospital.

“So, where are we going for dinner tonight to celebrate?” I asked.

“Oh, Daddy!” she laughed, head on my shoulder, wiping her tears.

* * *

Two days later I was home again, without the walker and without any meds.

Dr. Salmani had been unable to find any reason to keep me in the hospital any longer, and had discharged me on the promise that I would come back a few more times for follow-ups, because he still wanted to figure out how I had suddenly recovered.

Work continued apace on Ashi’s shell, but now that I had finally gotten the hang of it—and a faster technique, thanks to Mr. Handsome—I could handle most of it while my body slept… my mind never slept anymore, whether in Wakeworld or n-space.

I enjoyed my changed situation, eating and drinking tastier things than I’d suffered in recent months, playing with the grandkids, sitting in the rocker on the porch as always, and walking the neighborhood.

I had always loved walking and now that autumn was here and the leaves were beginning to turn it was more beautiful than ever. The wooded mountains, largely covered with conifers, sported brilliant splotches of maple or sumac, and the nights were getting brisk. And it was a delight to just walk, no cane or walker needed.

It seemed the Yamadas enjoyed the deepening autumn, too. I often saw them walking, or ran into them on the riverside path. Quite naturally, we began to talk to each other when it happened.

I was eager to know more about why they were here, and Shingan, and the Dreamlands, and so much more, but they were quite reticent. They said they had been asked to move here to “provide support as needed,” but when I asked what they thought might happen, they hemmed and hawed.

Finally, I got tired of chasing them around the same bush time and time again.

“You mean, you expect another attack from Cthulhu or someone, right?”

He blinked.

“Um, yes,” he finally answered, after a long pause. “Or Amaterasu.”

“No worry about her,” I replied. “I’m working with her now.”

Both of them took a step back, eyes widening.

“With Amaterasu?”

“Things are a little more complicated that they seem in the Dreamlands, I’m afraid,” I said. “Yes, she almost killed me at least once, but I don’t think it was on purpose.”

I sat down on one of the benches conveniently located every so often along the path.

“I should explain. Do you have time?”

“Of course,” he said, and sat at the far end of the bench, warily. Mrs. Yamada continued standing, watching me and the path simultaneously.

I started to explain what Amaterasu was doing, and why it would stop Cthulhu. When I tried to tell him about Mr. Handsome, though, my mouth shut of its own accord… I tried to move my arm, tried to speak, tried to even open my eyes in surprise, and nothing happened. I continued to smile blandly, as if naturally pausing after saying something.

A voice spoke in my head.

“That’s between us, Master Richard,” said Mr. Handsome. “Please do try to stay on subject here.”

I was able to describe the “universe-eater” or whatever it was, although words were totally insufficient to convey the incomprehensible scales involved.

He listened carefully, nodding every so often.

I started to tell him about the memories I had gained from Ashi, and when I mentioned the third atomic bomb destined for Tokyo, he held up his hand. “Wait a minute, please…”

He walked away, one hand on his ear and the other over his mouth… He had an earpiece and mike! He had been broadcasting the whole thing, and was talking to someone about it!

“Someone would like to meet with you, Dr. Saxton.”

“Sure, when?”

“Someone is flying over from Japan, and unless something unforeseen happens, he’ll be here Wednesday.”

“From Japan!? Just to talk to me about Amaterasu!?”

“Yes, especially you, and especially about Amaterasu.”

“May I ask who?”

“Abbot Nyōgen of Ryūzō-ji Temple.”

“Not Shingan?”

“Shingan passed away in the ninth century, I’m afraid.”

“Yes, but we both know he’s alive and well in the Dreamlands. I’ve met him!”

“For any other discussion that might be possible, but if Amaterasu is involved I’m afraid any communication through the Dreamlands is simply impossible. And we’d prefer to avoid electronic communication for other reasons.”

“Who are you people?”

“Until a few minutes ago I thought we were on the same side,…” he said. “Until we hear differently our mission is unchanged—to protect you—but if you’re working with Amaterasu…”

He shrugged.

“Meet with the Abbot, and we shall see.”

* * *

A few days later—astonishingly quickly, considering the Abbot had to make arrangements and fly over from Japan without warning—Mr. Yamada was showing his “father-in-law” around the neighborhood, and we happened to run into each other on the riverside path. I noticed there were a few more people out walking than usual, several of whom seemed to find interesting things to look at within watching distance.

Abbot Nyōgen was very old. He was a lot shorter than I, bald, and mostly wrinkles. Mr. Yamada introduced him, and then stood some distance apart as the two of us sat on the bench together.

“Shingan Oshō has told me much about you, Master Richard,” he said quietly. He spoke with a British accent, and his eyes were almost entirely hidden in wrinkles. “He believes you to be a good man.”

“I believe I am.”

“He also told me of your various encounters, including with Amaterasu, or Reed, as you may prefer, and that you discussed the butterfly effect.”

“He knows far more of those encounters than I, I suspect. And probably more of my involvement.”

“But Yamada-kun tells me that you are working with Amaterasu… and this presents certain… problems… for us.”

I gave him a detailed recounting, and he stopped me time and time again to clarify a point, forcing me to pry out as much detail as possible.

“That would be Queen Himiko,” he explained after I detailed one image. “Second or third century; we already knew she was an avatar. ”

When I was done he fell silent in thought.

“…an eater of entire universes… Now I understand why you work with her, regardless of her other schemes.” He sighed. “We are at the mercy of forces beyond our comprehension, and though Amaterasu claims to understand them, she, too, was once human.”

He straightened, suddenly speaking in a sharper tone.

“What can you tell me about the nuclear attack on Tokyo?”

“It was just a flash, mostly emotion and not imagery, but…” I concentrated, trying to pull up a fuller recollection. “It was an airplane, a jumbo… I can’t see the writing on it, because it flying toward me—toward Tokyo—from the sun. Rising or setting? I don’t know, but it’s over water. Clear skies.”

“Describe the plane.”

“It’s got a bulge in front, I’d guess it’s a 747. Uh, two engines. Two under each wing, that is. The wingtips point up at the ends. No windows.

“No windows? You’re sure?”

“Yes, very. The sunlight is shining off the body.”

“So it’s a cargo plane. Can you tell what time of year it is?”

“No, nothing, just the plane flying toward Tokyo—I’m in the air near Tokyo, I’m sure—over water.”

“Can you tell how far away Tokyo is?”

“Oh, very close. I can’t see it, but I know it’s very close.”

“It’s flying in out of the rising sun, then.”

“Anything on the weapon itself?”

“No, nothing. Just the plane. Oh, wait a second.” I noticed something in my memory, something I had missed at first. “Belem. It’s coming from Belem, Brazil!”

“Excellent! All we need now is the date.”

He stood.

“Thank you, Dr. Saxton! Hopefully this will be enough to stop her.”

I stood as well.

“Why does she want to destroy Tokyo? I thought she was Japanese?”

“She was, or is, of course. A third nuclear detonation in Japan, and the incineration of over a million people, would provide the energy needed to complete her magic, and to achieve her goal. Without that boost of energy it would take her centuries longer to finish by herself.”

“Then stop her, by all means. How can I contact you if I get something more?”

He smiled.

“Just walk down this path, as you always do, and blow your nose… Yamada-kun will be there.”

“I will. Oh, I just realized, the attack will happen when the shell is finished. I don’t think the shell itself needs that energy, but she does, to complete whatever she started during World War II.”

“Become a god in truth,” he whispered. “How long until the shell is finished?”

“Time is tough. Not for some time yet, but when? I can’t say. Yet. Weeks, at least.”

“We need as much warning as possible, Dr. Saxton. Please, please, let us know the second you get anything. If it’s an emergency, blow your nose on the porch, and someone will be there!”

“Abbot,” I said, hesitantly, “if it’s not impolite, may I ask how old you are?”

He smiled. “I was born in 1920, in Shanghai. Your immigration people were quite surprised, too.”

“They probably don’t get many visitors over a century old,” I said. “but I suspect they’d be rather more surprised if Shingan visited.”

“I suspect you’re right,” he replied, and bowed.

We shook, and he walked away down the path with his “daughter” and “son-in-law.”

* * *

I ran into Mr. Yamada every so often, but I never needed to blow my nose.

A week or two later, I stopped to admire an old, particularly beautiful maple down by the river. The hiking path followed the curve of the river, mostly atop the old dyke built about a century ago after the big floods. It was paved now, in rough asphalt, but off-limits to cars. Weekdays in the late morning were pretty empty, only an occasional jogger or cyclist passing by, and I had plenty of time to think, and to enjoy the scenery.

I wondered if I should pick up photography again… I’d dabbled in it when I was at the university and still had my old Nikon somewhere. Probably won’t work after all these years, and nobody makes 35mm film anymore anyway, I thought.

But that tree really deserved to have its picture taken, I was thinking, when the river water suddenly splashed open and three man-shaped figures emerged. They were about as tall as I was when they stood, mostly a greyish-green, but with whitish bellies. Bulging eyes. Long talons with webbing, like they were wearing SCUBA flippers as mittens.

I’d seen them before, on Captain Klot’s ship that night, when they almost dragged me away.

This time I was alone, with no sword, no Britomartis, no Cornelius… I looked about hurriedly for something I could use as a weapon. Three to one… I had no chance.

Suddenly a green form flashed through the air, touching briefly on the back of the Deep One on the right, just as a second form landed in front of it, sword flashing in the sunlight.

The Deep Ones bayed, a terrible croaking voice that brought back memories of that night in the rainstorm, but one ended in a gurgle. The Deep One collapsed, head and body falling in different directions as the two green figures—a man and women, I could see now—landed lightly on the path between me and the creatures.

The Yamadas!

His sword still outstretched toward the advancing Deep Ones, Mr. Yamada reached up and took another sword from the “tripod case” on his back, holding it to me hilt-first without looking to check where I was. I grabbed it.

His attention remained focused on the attackers. The woman—his wife, surely—crouched at his left. It looked like the next fight was going to be a pair of one-on-ones.

The Deep Ones approached slowly, wary of the swords and apparently not eager to fight. They were clearly trying to get to me, though… no matter how they weaved or shuffled, their eyes always checked my position, and they always tried to move toward me.

A noise to my right… I instantly rolled left, springing up into a crouch, sword in defensive pose. There was a fourth Deep One, walking toward me with arms outstretched.

I lifted my sword—a slightly curved cavalry sword, it looked like, not the longsword I preferred—to a neutral position, ready to strike or defend, and crouched a little. I heard the Yamadas fighting, but couldn’t spare the time to look.

The Deep One slowed, staring at my sword as if debating something, then suddenly leapt toward me. I stepped back and rotated my body, swinging my sword outward. The Deep One’s arm swung through the place I’d been standing with an audible swoosh, and I stepped forward into it, my sword slamming down onto the arm.

The blade cut into the ridges on the back of the thing’s forearm, then stuck, and it gave a grunt of pain as it pulled back, damn near pulling the sword from my grasp. There was blood on the blade, but its arm was still flexing. I needed a heavier blade and better aim.

It stepped forward again, feinted with its injured left, and raked its right through the air, just tipping the edge of my sword. By some incredible luck I managed to hang onto it but I wasn’t gripping it securely… if I swung with it now it would slip out of my hand.

Damn. No dagger.

I really needed one right now for my other hand.

No choice.

I flung myself backwards, trusting to my feet to find purchase, and wriggled my fingers on the hilt to get a better grip.

The Deep One followed me, almost within my defensive circle, hands raised to bat my sword.

Why was it trying to disarm me!?

It could have disemboweled me, and instead tried to knock the sword out of my hand!

They were trying to kidnap me again!

In that case…

I braced, and then pushed forward right into the monster’s face, sword first. As I had thought, it made no effort to kill me, and tried to deflect my sword. And failed.

The point ran through its chest as its hands batted helplessly on the blade, and it sagged.

I yanked the sword out and stepped back to see what was happening.

It looked like we’d all won our individual battles. All three Deep Ones were down, although one squirmed a little bit until Mrs. Yamada drove her sword through its chest like a spike.

Mr. Yamada had a long gash across his chest, blood dripping through the rents in his body armor—I hadn’t even noticed the vest until now. Mrs. Yamada sprayed something on it and ran a quick ribbon of cloth around him. Wincing as she pulled it tight, he spoke quietly into a headset.

I sat there just catching my breath.

Certainly never expected to see Deep Ones around here! I guessed there hadn’t been a bear in the area after all. There might be more Deep Ones lurking, though. If they had attacked me at home, Meg and the kids…!

I had to get the sheriff over here! He’d have to believe me if he sees these bodies!

“Mr. Yamada,” I called. “Thank you. You saved my life.”

His wife turned. “That’s why we’re here, Master Richard. Shingan said you might be in danger.”

“Is he here? From the Dreamlands?”

“No, no, just us. We’re just flew over from Japan; no Dreamlands at all.”

“Japan? So Shingan is still active here—I mean, in this realm—too?”

“There is a Ryūzō-ji Temple in Japan, Master Richard,” she smiled. “If you’re feeling better you might consider visiting it one day.”

A large truck screeched to a halt on the nearby road. The embankment was higher than the roadway, so the truck couldn’t get any closer, but it pulled up onto the grass. Four men dressed in random, everyday clothes jumped out and ran up to begin collecting bodies and washing away ichor. They were sanitizing the area!

“Hey! Don’t!” I cried. “I need to show all that to the sheriff!”

Mr. Yamada stood, partially supported by his wife. “Can’t happen, I’m afraid. Too many questions.”

In a surprisingly short time there was no trace of the Deep Ones left… the grass was trampled, and everything was sopping wet, but nobody would guess there had been a life-or-death combat here minutes ago.

One of them took my sword, too, and put it in the truck with everything else.

“Nobody saw any of this?”

“We were able to set up a glamour just in time,” said Mrs. Yamada, buttoning her shirt. They’d both stripped off their ichor-stained—and in his case, blood-stained—outer clothing and changed into new shirts and pants. My jacket was gone, too… a victim of the fight. “It will fade in another five minutes or so, by which time we’ll be all done here.”

“Chóng mentioned a glamour, too… a spell of some sort?”

“Yes. Anyone thinking of coming this way suddenly thought of some reason to go elsewhere. It’s quite handy in our line of work.”

“Your line of work… which is?”

“Mostly,” said Mr. Yamada, “we kill things.”

I chewed on that for a bit.

The four-man team made a final sweep through the area, then piled back into the truck and roared off. I wondered where they were going. They didn’t look especially Japanese, so I guess they could have been some American agency, but who knows? And whether they were or not they certainly weren’t going to discuss it with me!

“You know about Reed’s plan for Tokyo?” I asked, figuring that if they were here to protect me they were probably on the same side in all this.

“Amaterasu, yes,” Mr. Yamada said. “The immolation of Tokyo. We’re working on it.”

“What does this,” I said, waving my hand at the mess around us, “have to do with that?”

“We don’t know. Do you?”

“…No…”

The sunlight flickered, like the shadow of an airplane has passed over.

“The glamour is failing,” he said. “So nice to run into you again, Dr. Saxton!”

And he and his wife strolled away from me, admiring the foliage and conversing in low tones. She pulled her phone out to snap a photo; he smiled and made a V sign with his fingers.

There was a bench just a little bit up the path, and I trudged over to sit down and think.

So… Shingan, wherever he was, had arranged for the Yamadas—and whoever was in that truck—to keep him under surveillance, and protect him as needed. They might have been ninja, for all that they were wearing jeans and flannel shirts. Swords, because guns made a lot of noise. Glamour, because if you can use magic, why not?

Deep Ones… why Deep Ones again? And why were they all trying to get to me? They weren’t trying to fight the Yamadas, they tried to get around them, to me. I walked back home, watching the trees around me so intently for attackers that I almost walked into someone taking a photo right in front of me.

If the Yamadas were right there at the drop of a hat, and that truck and the guys showed up so fast, there must be a lot more people watching me. I never noticed any of them. I mean, I was in the regular Army, not Delta or anything fancy, but it was still a little weird I’d never seen anything unusual.

I guessed they were pretty good at their jobs, whoever they were.

The Yamadas said they were from Japan, but they’d have a tough time mounting a big operation like this had to be in a cozy country town like this… unless they had local help. And none of those four guys from the truck looked especially Asian.

When I got back home I gulped a can of soda water and sat on the porch for a bit.

I had another appointment with Dr. Salmani next week.

Maybe I’d drop by the gun shop and see if I could buy a pistol “for personal protection.” I was a vet, clean record, long-term resident, and as far as anyone knew compos mentis; shouldn’t be a problem. I’d have to take care that Meg didn’t find it and get me locked up as a wacko, and make damn sure the grandkids never saw it, but I had one of those on me for many years and I’d feel a little happier if I had one now. More stopping power than a sword, and from farther away.

* * *

As the nurse drew another blood sample, Dr. Salmani sat looking through my medical chart. My brain MRIs were up on the screen.

He was not happy, and the pen he was chewing on was getting downright mangled.

“You know, Dr. Saxton,” he said, “if I didn’t have your records right here in front of me, I would swear you were about forty, forty-five years old and in excellent health…”

I laughed. “Thanks, Dr. Salmani. That’s quite a compliment for a man my age!”

“It’s not supposed to be a compliment, damn it! You’re not in your forties, and you were in here a little while ago with a massive stroke, apparently, and now you’re walking around like it was nothing! Have you started dyeing your hair?”

“My hair!?” I touched the top of my head in surprise. “No, never. Why, all of a sudden?”

“Because the roots are dark, and they should be grey or white like the rest of your hair. If you’re not dyeing it somehow, then why are you suddenly getting younger?”

“Younger?” To say I was surprised would be an understatement. I didn’t know why I felt better recently, but… younger?

“Are you serious?”

“Well, I meant it as a joke when I said it, but to be honest… yeah, I guess I am serious. It’s the only thing I can think of that explains the changes I’m seeing. Your pulse is slower and stronger than it has been for years, respiration excellent, reflexes, bloodwork, MRI… everything is far better than it has been for a long time. And now your hair seems to be coming back!”

I felt again… yeah, I guess it did feel a bit thicker than before, but…

“Is it really?”

“Maybe I’m just projecting, but it sure seems that way… and all your other stats are getting healthier, too. Even your muscle tone is improving. Have you been working out?”

“No, nothing unusual,” I said, figuring I probably shouldn’t mention sword-fighting.

“Well, I really don’t have anything to say, medically. You’re fine, you don’t need a prescription, and I honestly don’t see any reason to ask you to come back in a week. Will you at least let me know if anything changes?”

“Of course. And if you discover anything in the latest blood sample, let me know? I’m a bit curious myself.”

I left the doctor’s office and settled up my bill downstairs.

That night, after the kids were in bed, I was back at work on the shells with Ashi, as I had every night.

Her memories continued to leak, strengthening my suspicion that she was planning on destroying Tokyo with a nuclear bomb of some sort, finishing what she had started in World War II.

Work proceeded apace.

Both shells were almost done, and Ashi still had not noticed the second shell outside her own. She almost always stayed on the inside, her attention focused on the shell she was birthing whereas I always preferred the outside: as an astrophysicist I wanted to see as much as possible and understand this structure of my universe… and others.

I blew my nose during my morning walk and just “happened” to run into Mr. Yamada and his wife a few minutes later. I warned him that it was almost time. He thanked me, and assured me they’d be ready.

Ashi had already warned me that I would perceive this multi-dimensional space in two or three dimensions, incapable of understanding its true nature, but as I studied it I began to understand—and be able to “see,” somehow—how it all worked. I couldn’t explain it in English, but I could tell that this affected that, and was beginning to understand why.

Ashi called me inside the shell, and birthed the final section herself.

The newborn shell shimmered, wavering like a soap bubble in the breeze, but it was done. I knew that the second shell would also be done momentarily, my equations powering it to completion.

With the shell’s completion, Ashi ignored me, and around her I saw that misty throne room appear once more, her seated on the throne surrounded by thousands of subjects. Worshippers? Her headdress flamed once more.

She turned her attention to the bubble universes, including Wakeworld and the Dreamlands and so many more, and reached out to one to grasp it… and her fingers slipped through it, insubstantial.

She stopped in shock, and tried to grasp a second one. The same thing happened.

A third, and a fourth… her headpiece flared brighter and brighter as she began to panic, flailing but having no effect on any of the bubbles.

“Thank you, Master Richard, very efficient of you. I’ll handle it from here.”

It was Mr. Handsome, speaking deep in his mind.

The shell Ashi and I had so carefully birthed began to shrink, slowly at first then accelerating. I looked about in alarm but it was too late… it passed over me, and I found myself on the outside. It shrank faster and faster, shrinking around Ashi. She struggled wildly against it, her headdress burning brighter and brighter, to no avail.

And shortly I could see that a new bubble had joined all the others: Ashi, in her own bubble universe complete with palace and worshippers, adjoined many of the others, including Wakeworld and Dreamworld.

Her bubble was no longer outside all the others, and controlling them, but simply another bubble realm just like the rest. Trapped.

And all our universes were now contained in that second, outer shell I had birthed at the request of Mr. Handsome! I searched for it, and it was still there, untouched, but it was no longer a thin soap film… it was infinitely hard and impenetrable.

All of our realms had been isolated from the rest of n-space, walled off. Sealing us all on the inside.

Mr. Handsome poured me a glass of brandy. Chester thumped his tail. The log snapped in the flame. “Brandy?”

Speechless, I took it, sipped.

The TV was on… a small black-and-white TV, just like the one I’d watched in this very room over half a century ago…

“Rescue services from Japan and the United States have initiated a massive air and sea search for American Air Cargo flight 346 from Belem, Brazil to Narita, Japan, which is missing over the Pacific Ocean. Experts suggest that the sheer size of the search area will make it difficult to locate survivors, if there are any.

“Police and security forces in fourteen nations in Asia, the Americas, and Europe today made simultaneous arrests of a global terrorism organization, arresting over two hundred terrorists and seizing numerous properties, weapons, and close to two billion dollars in cash…

“In local news, police have asked for assistance in identifying the person or persons responsible for a series of explosions in the upper reaches of the Missalanga River, and an abandoned silver mine near Mt. Peabody. Anyone with information is requested to contact the sheriff’s office or state police…”

“That all worked out rather well, I’d say. All I had to do was nudge you in the right direction and you took care of everything. It would have been most inconvenient to do it all myself, after all.”

“I… Who are you?”

“Tush, tush… you know who I am, you silly monkey.”

“No, I don’t. What is going on?”

“This is a sandbox. A playpen, if you will. Young Cthulhu needs to learn how things work, and creating universes and experimenting with life forms, evolution, gods, and such is just part of the process. Wakeworld, as you so homocentrically call it, is as ephemeral as all the rest, and when Cthulhu is tired of it, it will all vanish like a television turned off, and a new experiment will start. Eventually, after a billion or trillion attempts, Cthulhu will begin to create realms with meaning and purpose, and be ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“This really is excellent brandy, isn’t it?”

And I was standing at the top of a cliff looking out over the sea.

“Bee! No!”

Belphoebe screamed as Britomartis stepped off the path into the air, arms held wide as if to welcome a lover. She was only meters from me; I was frozen in shock, unable to move.

The woman in the yellow dress just stood silent, watching.

Britomartis fell.

Time slowed.

I could see her falling, arms still outstretched, plummeting down, down, to the narrow beach below.

She lay, crumpled into a ragdoll, in the screen at the cliff’s edge, one foot lapped by the waves.

“Bee!”

Belphoebe screamed again, leaping down the rest of the path with reckless abandon, eyes fixed on Britomartis, feet somehow finding purchase blindly.

She raced to her body, cradled her head, wept, screamed in rage and sorrow at the sky… and saw me descending the path in her footsteps.

“You! You killed her, again!”

She leapt to her feet, drawing her dagger and running toward me, face monstrous with hatred.

“Oh, my. Slipped my mind in all the excitement,” came a calm voice from behind. Mr. Handsome! But it was Ricarda speaking…

Time stopped.

Britomartis rose silently from the rocky shore, shattered leg straightening, and ascended into the sky, up, up, back to the top of the cliff.

The other women slowly walked backwards back up the path.

Belphoebe stood immobile, face still twisted with hate, but eyes following Britomartis in her flight.

Britomartis reached the top of the cliff, and smiled.

And time started again.

Britomartis began walking down the path, smiling.

“Belle! Wait up!” she called, voice slight and sweet.

Belphoebe slowed, dagger point sagging.

“What…? Britomartis!”

She backed away from me, sheathed her dagger, and carefully walked around me to the path, where Britomartis and the other women were just stepping onto the beach.

Britomartis ran to Belphoebe and hugged her.

“Oh, Belle! It’s such a beautiful day today; the sea is gorgeous!”

“Bee? You’re happy!”

“Of course I’m happy, Belle! I’m with you and it’s wonderful to be alive!”

She twirled around happily, and saw me for the first time

“Master Richard! How did you get here?”

She ran over to give me a hug, too. “We’ve missed you! I wish you could have come with us yesterday! We had a delightful ride through the forest.” She turned to wave at the others.

“Let me introduce you to Poietria Sylvia and everyone!”

Still holding my hand, she introduced me to the three women—none of them had ever heard of me—and explained that Father Perrault was waiting above.

Belphoebe looked around, a frown on her face.

“Where’s Ricarda?”

Britomartis cocked her head.

“Who?”

“Ricarda. The woman who joined us in the woods, when we met Ansell and Tamara.”

Britomartis looked confused.

“There was no other woman with Ansell and Tamara; just the two of them passing by,” said Poietria Sidonie.

Belphoebe started to reply, then thought better of it and just said “Never mind.” Her jaw tightened.

Britomartis shrugged it off. She was as happy as a young child who just got a puppy for Christmas. After the introductions and another hug for me, she scampered down to the water’s edge to hunt for shells.

Belphoebe looked at her in disbelief, then at me.

She walked over to me, dagger sheathed but hand close to hilt.

“You did that, Master Richard, just like before.”

“No, I didn’t. It was the handsome man… Uh, that woman! The woman who was with you!”

“Ricarda,” she said. “Her name was Ricarda.”

She walked closer, staring into my eyes.

“It occurs to me that Ricarda is not much different from Richard,” she said. “And the instant you appear, she vanishes, and Britomartis dies. Again.”

“I… I’m sorry, Belphoebe. It wasn’t me. I’ve been… elsewhere…”

“And now you’re back, and you killed her again!”

“No, I didn’t kill her, and she didn’t die, and she’s back!”

“And if she finds out again?”

“There are only two people who know what happened, and both of us love her. Please, don’t tell her!”

Belphoebe clenched her teeth in frustration, hand clenched on the hilt of her dagger.

“Belle! Come look at what I’ve found!” same a shout from Britomartis.

Belphoebe gave me one last angry look and turned to join her wife, leaving me alone.

END