Annals of the Bandit Kings

City of the Dead, Part One

2006-05-23T23:50:00.000+02:00

I didn't make this story up. Well, a lot of it I made up. But the broad plot is based on an American Indian legend--it's Navajo, I think. Anyway, here it is--this probably represents about half of it. The other half is considerably darker, and it will come in time.

. . .

Who’s seen Jezebel? / She was gone before I ever got to say / “Lay here, my love / You’re the only shape I’ll pray to, Jezebel.” / . . . Who’s seen Jezebel? / She was certainly the spark for all I’ve done / Her window was wide / She could see the dogs come running / Singing: “Wait, we swear / We’ll love you more, and wholly / Jezebel, it’s we, we that you are for / Only.”
- Iron & Wine

This much is ours: to touch one another like this.
The Gods may bear upon us more fiercely—but that is a matter for Gods.

Might we not find somewhere secret—simple and decent
and human? Some strip of our own fertile ground
to lie between river and rock? . . .
- Rainer Maria Rilke

“She tried to tell me something—something about stories. I didn’t really get it at the time, but I think I do now. It was just what I needed to hear, and now I know that. See, when you’re in one, in a story, I mean—or enacting one—being one, I don’t know, the point is you’re locked in. Your course is already set. But that’s not right either, not at all. I’m sorry . . . Okay. It’s not that your actions are outside of your control, but it’s that you’re doing what you must do, all life being a story and stories following certain patterns that are there from the beginning, and in fact exist in all times, simultaneously and singly. Okay.”

He took a sip from his glass of Scotch. He set it back down on the bar, wincing. “Okay. So how many times has this happened?—given that time is linear, which let me tell you right now is a big goddamn assumption to make, but whatever. How many times . . . How many times has someone fallen in love, but not with a whole person, only a part of her. Him. Whichever. The part you see, the part they let you see, a certain facet of the crystal-face. And then, given time and pressure (enough of which, science tells us, can turn even coal into diamonds), you begin to realize some of the other facets. The other sides. And you realize you can’t live with these. That this person, this diamond you love is, in fact, worse than coal: a monster. Something monstrous. Something you can’t possibly live with. What do you do? Some people learn to love the monster. Some, if they’ re assertive enough, can chip away all the other facets until only the one they love remains . . . But then again, can you call a love for only one side of a person true love? Some manage to just walk away, slip out the back door and go. And then you have people like me, who are too trapped and sick at heart to do anything other than, eventually, fall back on death. Kill the one I love. The whole thing. But it’s what I have to do, because that’s the story. ‘All the world’s a stage, and we are but players.’ God—why didn’t they tell us what horrors there are in life?

“Do you know what Freud said about love?”

“No. What did he say?”

He lit a cigarette with hands that were shaking a little. “Happiness is transient. Okay? Right? That’s something we can all agree on, surely, something we can fit in with our picture of the world, such as it is. Happiness is transient. Much more so than, say, un-happiness, which seems to be our natural state. Unhappiness can last for a long time. Happiness, real happiness, a genuine feeling of joy, usually only lasts for about ten minutes. As soon as you notice ‘Hey, I’m happy!’—it’s gone. Basically the best we can hope for amounts to something vaguely like apathy, a sort of feeling of stressed-out drudgery, an inexplicable will to continue plodding. That’s what keeps us going. Not happiness, by any means. That’s clear, isn’t it?”

“What does this have to do with what Freud said about love?”

“Hold on. Bear with me. I’m getting to that.” He drank some more Scotch. On the stage, the band started a new song. “Given this unfortunate state of affairs, everyone—everyone alive—is forced to find some kind of method which can allow them to cope. Freud has a list; it’s really pretty comprehensive. I can only remember a few. Of the coping methods, I mean. Like you, for example, might choose religion.”

“I doubt that.”

“But people do, that’s the point. People find life more bearable if they feel they’re working for some kind of higher purpose, their conception of God or gods. Very similar are those who choose simply truth as their ultimate goal. A scientist can ignore his or her private unhappiness, if it’s accompanied by a sense of striving in the service of truth. Then, too, you might choose art, aesthetics, as your own personal survival tool. People do. Or, say, drugs, alcohol, anything that puts you in an altered state of mind so you don’t have to deal with this brute existence. These are all valid choices. But do you know what the most common choice is by far? Do you know how most people make it through this unhappy life without, I dunno, committing suicide at puberty?”

“I can guess,” taking a swallow of beer. “Love?”

“Right. Love. Or, to be more broad, other people. This includes all types of love: love for your family, for your friends, for your significant other. Different types of love, but all working for the same purpose, which is to keep you going, to keep you putting one foot in front of the other one until your feet won’t move anymore. Ha. So. But there is a caveat to choosing people as your means of survival, and it’s this: people let you down. People walk out on you. People die, and break your heart, and lose interest, and disappoint. Freud characterizes love as the most volatile of all the coping mechanisms, in that it can give you the greatest joys and also the greatest miseries. It’s a horribly unstable reason for living, because it’s based on other people, and people are inherently untrustworthy and generally selfish. Art won’t sneak out at night and leave a letter on the dresser. Truth won’t get drunk and slap you around. You’re not going to find drugs in bed with your best friend —sorry, buddy, just an example. The point is just that love hurts . . .”

“Isn’t that a Ray Orbison song?”

“. . . Or at least has the greatest potential to hurt. So that’s what Freud said about love.” He finished his glass of Scotch, noticed his cigarette had burnt down to the filter, and stubbed it out.

“So the solution is . . . what? Not to love? You’re not saying anything new there. Or rather, Freud wasn’t. I think every country and western singer since the beginning of time’s picked up on that before.”

"I know. But didn’t Freud find a pretty way to put it?” He half-laughed. “I just keep thinking about that poor cat . . . Its poor eye . . . I have to do this. I know it. But—oh, Jesus, look, my hands are shaking again.”

“They’ve been shaking for ten minutes, Isaiah.”

“And you didn’t say anything?”

“Didn’t see the point. It’s just nerves.”

“Yeah. Heh. It’s been a long week, y’know?”

“They’re coming,” said Keith, turning around on his bar stool. “Get ready. You ready?”

“I’m ready.”

“You really ready?”

“I’m ready.”

The door to the bar opened, and a line of people in black robes, men and women alike, walked in single file, ranging themselves on either side of the doorway. They all had masks, shaped like stylized animal faces, resting on the crowns of their heads. Boars, birds, and wolves, they trooped in; a few had cuts or bruises on their faces, and at least a couple walked with limps. Last through the door was a tall, dark man with tightly curled black hair and a panther mask. There were a few layers of athletic tape on his nose, which had evidently been broken. He walked between the two lines and over to the bar where Isaiah and Keith were sitting.

“Red Bird,” he said, nasally through the tape. His accent was vaguely Greek. “I told you this would happen. One can only desecrate so many rituals without punishment.” He turned slightly to acknowledge Keith. “I see you have brought along your goatish friend.”

“Fuck you, Tony,” said Keith pleasantly. On stage, the band started a new song.

“I am afraid not. You are naturally welcome to die with your friend, Mr. Sterling. The spirits have never complained when given extra blood.”

“Love the nose brace,” said Keith.

“You’re getting bold, Tony,” Isaiah told him. “Wearing the robes and masks and everything in the street?”

“Special occasion,” smiled panther-mask. “There were too many of us for anyone to dare cause trouble. And you’ll find us better-prepared than last time.” He sighed theatrically. “You never had a chance with her, Red Bird. You never could have realized that. You were only an affair: her true lover and spouse has always been power. When we put you on the altar she will be the one to cut your heart out.”

“Now you’re getting redundant about things,” Isaiah muttered. “Look, can we just get to it? Your last-minute speeches are getting damn old.”

Panther-mask raised his eyebrows. “Oh, I am sorry. Very well,” and from the folds of his robes he produced a sharp, wicked scythe, a blade as long as a man’s arm, and brought it flashing down.

The song sped up.

. . .

When they were twenty years old and feeling a hundred the three of them went to New York City, Capital of the World, Alphaville, City of the Dead. They had been across the country and back, in both directions. School had been spottily acquired here and there, family life was for lesser souls. “Vagabonds and highwaymen,” James had bragged. “Goddamn, boys, we’re the genuine article!” So they had taken the act to New York City, picked up jobs somehow, and found a terrible loft apartment in one of the worst parts of Queens. They had no ambition, other than the ambition to escape time. They were still young.

They could have stayed there forever, but something happened. They hit critical mass; the sun of their youth engulfed them. Like meteors they went spinning away, each in his own direction, at the mercy of merciless momentum, gravity at the wheel the way it has always been It would be years before they found one another again, before they were all in the same place for longer than a few days. New York City was meant to be a crucible, but in the end it was only a scourge that wounded them, possibly beyond repair.

Every pre-dawn they drank cheap Folger’s to rid themselves of early-morning stupor, occasionally joined by one or both of their neighbors—one a Puerto Rican with a wife and kid, the other a Korean with neither. There would be an argument over which record was the best to listen to on that particular morning, and why. (The old record player and stack of vinyls were the only items, aside from his guitar, that Keith had somehow managed to establish everywhere he had lived since the age of ten.) Breakfast, when they had food, was usually a couple pieces of plain toast, and it was eaten more to offset the coffee than as any kind of sustenance. Then it was out into the cold and waking New York streets, steam rising from manholes, tired motorists holding travel mugs, zealot joggers wearing gym shorts and sweatpants, bums just beginning to shuffle out of alleys, stairs, and benches. They would separate for their respective jobs: Keith as a mechanic in a Mexican chop shop, James as a cab driver, and Isaiah as a member of a construction crew on Staten Island. The grueling days usually ended in a seedy little bar down the street with live music—occasionally Keith and James would play on the stage. Nights were dreamless. Life could have been worse.

After the first two and a half months, each of them had switched jobs at least once. “The beauty of minimum wage,” Isaiah observed, “is that you really don’t have to give a shit.” The city always had room for a few more goalless derelicts who cared for nothing but food and a roof, even if the food was rotten and the roof was leaky. Isaiah, who had vague aspirations toward law, studied heavy books on free weekends while Keith and James practiced on their guitars, read, or scrawled in notebooks. It was enough, and that was the most important thing.
They had learned that aspirations come at too dear a price; they seemed always to be accompanied by disappointments, and that, they felt, was far too dear a price. The idea of having more was a little nauseating. How much easier to have a job which could be left at any time, where there was no need to climb any sort of ladder nor any ladders to climb, life a matter of simply eating and working and sleeping and surviving. They believed they were jaded. Nothing could surprise them anymore. They were each twenty, and felt a hundred.

. . .

Six months into the year Isaiah was feeling jaded while sitting in a coffee shop—the artsy kind in the West End that Keith could not bear to visit, and James only occasionally. He was scribbling aimlessly in a torn red notebook, nursing the last triple espresso he would be able to afford, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. A shadow fell over his table.

“Hello,” said the shadow’s owner. “I’m the wicked witch of Greenwich Village.”

Isaiah lifted his eyes. “Hello,” he said. “Are you really a witch?”

“Yes, I am. I came over here because I thought you might want to buy me a coffee.”

He studied her, and asked “Is this witch-style mind control? Are you going to brainwash me into wanting to buy you a coffee?”

“No,” she said cheerfully. “Not mind control. Just a hunch.”

Isaiah considered it for a moment. “It’s not that I don’t want to,” he decided, “but I can’t. See, I just spent the last of my money on this drink.” He gestured to it apologetically, as if to implicate

the espresso as the wrongdoer. “I’m poor, you see. Sorry.”

“That’s nothing to be sorry for. Everybody in here is poor.”

“Ah. But, you see—” he leaned forward, and dropped his voice to a mock-whisper—“I’m not a starving artist. Just starving.”

“No? Pity. I had you tagged as a brooding poet. You get a lot of those in this place.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“But, no. Unfortunately. I just do manual labor, or basically anything anyone’s willing to pay me for. What about you? What’s your chosen profession?”

“I write a theatre column in a little independent magazine.”

“Ah. Sort of a bottom feeder in the starving artist world, eh?”

“I prefer to think of myself as on the fringes.” She studied him for a second. “Well, can I buy you a coffee, then? Mr. Starving Whatever-You-Are?”

“Oh, uh—it’s Red Bird. My name, I mean. Isaiah Red Bird.”

“Indian, huh? The American kind.”

“Half,” he corrected. “Cheyenne. Never meant too much to me.”

“Sure.” She smiled, and her eyes crinkled. “I’ve known other Indians who said that. But isn’t that sort of like hearing someone say ‘I was raised Catholic, but it doesn’t mean much to me’? Or Jewish? I mean, you always know they’re lying at least a little bit.”

Isaiah smiled. “Good call, Ms. Wicked Witch.”

“Oh—it’s Raven, Raven Windslaw.”

“Nice to meet you, Ms. Windslaw.”

“Same to you, Mr. Red Bird.” They shook hands over the table. “It’s funny, isn’t it? You’re named after a red bird, and I’m named after a black one.”

“Can you turn into a raven? I mean, being a witch and all?”

“No,” she said. “It’s just a family name. But I can turn into a stone cold fox.”

He laughed, and she smiled. “Well,” she said, standing. “It was a pleasure. I hope I’ll see you here again.”

“Likewise,” he said to her back as she walked away.

He considered the encounter for a second or two, thinking of things he wished he had said, going through the standard self-examination before, semi-satisfied with himself, he returned to writing in his notebook. When he glanced up after a few minutes, Raven Windslaw was gone.

A moment later the tall ghoul barista leaned over him, and in a bassoon-voice (with a pronounced Brooklyn accent) said “You’re Mr. Red Bird, right, buddy?” When Isaiah nodded, he placed a second triple espresso on the table. “That’s from the girl what just left, man. The one that was talkin’ to ya. She said to make sure ya read the napkin before ya wipe your mouth with it.”

“Thanks,” said Isaiah, and the ghoul nodded and returned to the counter. He turned over the paper napkin that had come with the cup, and saw a phone number on the back, as well as a scribbled note: “how about we do more than hope?” He pocketed the napkin, rolled another celebratory cigarette, and started on the new cup of coffee. He began to ponder the advantages of having a telephone installed.

. . .

“I thought,” said James, “that part of the point of this place was not to have a phone. Did I make that up? Or are you just being a self-serving, waffling dick?”

“The second one,” said Isaiah.

“That’s what I thought.” James fished a beer out of a case near the door. He opened it and took a swig, then made a face. “Anyway, we can’t afford it. If we get enough money to install a phone, we have enough money to buy a fridge.”

“A fridge is an amenity,” Isaiah observed. “Some might argue that a telephone is a necessity.”

“I disagree. A refrigerator is a necessity, and I’ll tell you why: it’s ‘cause if I have to drink any more warm beer I. Am going . To snap. I swear to God.” He raised his voice. “Keith: fridge or phone?”

“Fridge,” said Keith sleepily from the couch. “No more warm beer.”

“Exactamundo,” said James. “Isaiah: call your new little girlfriend from a pay phone. Keith and I need cold beer more than you need your bone smooched.” Keith laughed.

“Okay,” said Isaiah, “fine. I’ll deal with it. But we digress from the real question, which is: what should I do about this girl? Should I call her at all?”

“Let’s review the facts,” said James, lighting a cigarette with pure relish. “Is she attractive?”

“I thought so. Redhead.”

“Redheads are a crapshoot,” called Keith from the sofa.

“Keith has a point, here. They always seem like they should be hotter than they are. How’s this one? Many freckles?”

“Well—yeah, I guess, a few. But it doesn’t make her any less attractive. Trust me, she has a pretty face. Dark eyes. Very round.”

James rolled his eyes. “‘Her eyes are very round,’” he laughed. “Keith, what’s the first thing you look for in a girl?”

“Round eyes. Love ‘em.”

“Okay, fuck you guys,” said Isaiah. “I’ll just sit here and think about her.” There was a moment of silence, then “She was really put together, you know? Really stylish. And I don’t notice that kind of shit in girls.”

“Few straight men do,” James said.

Isaiah ignored him. “She was funny, too,” he said. “I hardly ever really enjoy those opening conversations. This one I actually liked. It’s like we already knew one another . . .”

“You met this girl where, now?” James asked. “That pretentious little coffee shop you like so much?”

“Tom Waits says you don’t meet nice girls in coffee shops,” Keith interjected.

“I don’t care what Tom Waits says,” Isaiah told him. “I wanted you guys’ opinions, but you’re just too damn juvenile.” He fetched a beer, opened it. “But you know I think Waits may be right,” he said, “on second thought. That’s the main reason I don’t want to call her. She didn’t seem like, y’know, a ‘nice girl.’ She was pretty forward, actually, and I’m afraid she does this kind of thing all the time . . .”

“Juvenile, huh?” snorted James. “You’re the one who’s talking shit. Since when do you dig on nice girls? You’re too much of a bastard to hope for such a thing, and it’s not what you want, anyway. Let’s think.” He began counting on his fingers. “You find her attractive. She, for whatever reason, seems to find you attractive, even though she knows you’re poor. You like talking to her. She’s not a nice girl, which makes it more likely that she would be able to stand your sorry ass. And, and this is the most important thing—she bought you a coffee.” He tossed his hand into the air. “Isaiah,” he said. “To me, this sounds like your dream girl.”

Isaiah stared at his beer, then stood up slowly and drained it. “That’s it. It’s done,” he said. “I’m calling her tomorrow after work.”

Keith sat up and peered blearily over the back of the sofa at them. “So,” he said. “You’re going to be dating a wicked bitch? Well, won’t that be a nice change from your normal routine?”

“Wicked witch,” Isaiah corrected him.

“Oh,” said Keith. “And that’s better, is it?” He shook his head and lay back down. “I swear,” he said, “you kids never learn.”

. . .

On the second date, Isaiah told Raven about what Tom Waits had said. She laughed before observing “I don’t listen to that kind of music much, though.”

He stared at her. “This is something we’re going to have to work on. What do you listen to?”

“Umm—scores from musicals, mostly. Also international music. Music from all over. All over the world. I like songs best when I can’t understand the words.”

“To me that sounds crazy.”

“No, I like it. The words become part of the music—you’re not listening to what they mean anymore, just to how they sound.”

“That’s the best possible thing you could have said.”

Later they were walking down the sidewalk. “So what’s with the witch thing?” he asked her. “Do you have black robes and a tall, pointy hat?”

“And an attachable wart,” she laughed. “What the hell? You don’t know anything about witches, do you?

“Hardly anything,” he admitted. “Please educate me.”

“Well. I have black robes, but there’s definitely no hat. It’s earth-magic, animal-magic. A lot like what the American Indians do, actually.”

He frowned. “I’ve known a couple of medicine men, I guess. I was sort of under the impression that you had to be an Indian, though . . .”

“Not for this kind of magic,” she said quickly. “There’s no wand, either. And I can’t stand cats, let alone black ones.”

“I love them,” he told her. “My family raised cats. They could talk. Have you met any like that?” She nodded. “I left home when I was fourteen, but I had already seen three generations of these cats come and go. My parents had seen six. I saw them get born, get old, and eventually die. It’s interesting to be able to tell someone what their grandmother was like.” He thought about it. “I guess that, if I ever have a place of my own, I’ll see if I can get one of the kittens from my parents up north. Their dynasty’s tied up with my family, or that’s how I see it, and also how the cats see it. I can’t explain it too well, but it seems important. They’re more like family servants than pets. Anyway, that’s why I love cats.”

She smiled. “I understand that,” she said. “It’s sort of like my family’s house.”

“How do you mean?”

“My family’s from the north of the state; they’ve lived in Windslaw manor for almost two centuries. I’m the last heir.”

“Really?” Isaiah asked, interested. “I didn’t know that.”

“Well, why would you? Anyway, after my parents died I came to the city to take a job, but the manor’s still there. There are a couple of people who I pay to take care of it, and I send back money for the upkeep and other costs. Mortgages left over from my father’s debts, things like that.”

“Does anyone still live in it?”

“No. It’s been empty for ten years.”

“So—if it burnt down tomorrow, the only palpable difference for you would be you would stop paying bills on it?”

She stopped walking. “It won’t,” she said. “It won’t burn down. Don’t talk shit.”

“Sorry, uh . . .” Isaiah shrugged, sensing a darkness and trying to stave it off. “Sensitive territory, I guess. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

She looked cold for a second longer, then fixed a smile on her face, took his arm, and kept walking. “It’s okay,” she said. “But it’s very important to me. It’s why I got into witchery in the first place: to have enough power to keep my family’s house and stave off the debt-collectors. Like your cats. It means a lot. Don’t be sorry.”

But she was distant for the rest of the walk, and she did not linger on her goodbye, and for that Isaiah was very sorry.

His comment, he decided, had probably been along the lines of suggesting to a different woman the possible murder of her only treasured child. Everyone had their hang-ups. It was nothing he couldn’t work through. The next day he bought her a Tom Waits album that he could not really afford.

. . .

The first time they slept together, he made the mistake of calling what they had just done “making love.” She laughed at him. “Is that what you call it?” she asked, curled up with her head on his chest. “Baby, you really are a hopeless romantic posing as a cynic. How clever of you.”

“What?” He was a little hurt. “Sorry. What would you call it?”

“Fucking,” she said with finality. “Sex is fucking.”

“No, no. That’s what you do with somebody you don’t like that much. That’s what animals do.”

“This from the boy with the cat-obsession? I would think you’d be more respectful of animals. Some of them mate for life, you know, which is more than I can say for most people.”

“Okay, okay, I was wrong to be species-centric.”

“Some Indian you are.”

“Okay. Fine. Animals can make love, too. Happy? It doesn’t change the point, which is that sex can be the physical act of love. Ergo, lovemaking. Yes?”

“No,” she told him. “That’s just a pretty name we made up so we wouldn’t have to say ‘fucking.’”

“Jesus, Raven! Doesn’t that sound, I don’t know, impersonal to you? I mean, do you really feel like there’s no magic in sex at all?”

“Sure there’s magic in sex. It’s the most crucial step in many important rituals.”

“You know what I—”

“But!” she continued. “That magic is not love. It has nothing to do with love. It’s all chemicals and instincts, babe —it’s conducive to evolution. What we just did, sweetheart, is what people and animals and everything else with sex organs have been doing since the beginning of time. Which is: fuck.”

Her crassness was genuinely beginning to annoy him, and he sat up abruptly, pushing her head off his chest. “So sex is only good for magic rituals and reproduction, is it? Then what did we use that for?” pointing accusatively at a box of condoms.

“Are you saying that you wish we hadn’t? Are you saying —” her eyes widened—“that you want me to have your baby?”

“No,” he said coldly. “Stop making fun of me.”

She laughed. “It’s not just good for magic rituals and reproduction, sweetie. See, it also feels good. In this case,” running her fingernails along his ribs, “very, very good . . .” Sensing attempted manipulation, and determined not to be mollified, he kept quiet. She sighed and gave up. “I don’t know why you’re so sensitive about a little difference in terms, anyway.”

“Because it’s indicative of a broader worldview,” he told her. “To me, it sounds like you don’t believe in love, and that’s one of the few things I still do believe in.”

She ran her tongue along her teeth, looking at him speculatively. “Are you in love with me? Is that what this is about?”

“No!” Isaiah felt trapped at every turn. “But—well—maybe someday . . . I just don’t want to rule out the possibility, that’s all. I’m not trying to be a romantic ass or anything; I just believe it can happen, and if it does happen, well, that’ll be great, won’t it?”

“No,” she said seriously, all the laugh coming out of her eyes. “Isaiah, I need you to understand something. Okay? I—will never—fall in love with you. I don’t love, sweetheart. What we are doing is spending time with one another because we enjoy it. We can share a bed occasionally, or more often than that if it’s convenient, although if you insist on calling it ‘lovemaking’ you must expect me to laugh. You can even call me your girlfriend, if you want. But don’t fool yourself. And don’t try to trap me. If you ever, ever tell me honestly that you love me, you may not see me again. Okay?”

Isaiah stared at her for a few seconds, then swung his legs over the side of her bed and began to get dressed. “Where are you going,” she asked him wearily, no question in her voice.

“Home,” he said briefly. “I need to think about this. I’m not used to being the one who’s afraid of commitment.”

“Not afraid. Just smart.”

“Whatever,” he told her. “I’ll call you tomorrow, or the day after.”

“Whatever yourself,” she replied unconcernedly, rolling over in the bed so her back was to him. “Turn off the lights when you go.”

He looked at her bare back, and wondered how desire could turn so quickly to loathing. “Turn them off yourself,” he said petulantly, and stalked out. Things could have done without that parting comment, he decided on the way down the stairs, and he wished to God he had not said it, but there was no way he was going back.

He took the subway home, walked the last fifteen minutes or so, climbed the old dripping cement stairs, graffiti sprayed all over the cold gray brick walls, and unlocked the front door. James and Keith were already asleep—they both had work tomorrow, while he did not. He climbed onto his cot, wrapped himself in a quilt, and stared at the ceiling for about an hour. He wasn’t sure how he should feel.

The next morning he made a decision, and called Raven from the payphone at the corner. “I can live with your terms,” he told her when she answered.

“Wonderful,” she replied, and he could hear her smiling. “I really do like you, Isaiah. A lot. I was hoping I’d get to see you again.”

And just like that, he was in love. No warning. Goddammit, he thought, of all the goddamn times. Of all the goddamn people. “Is it okay,” he asked her in a voice that sounded thick to his ears, “if I sort of secretly feel for you—uh—an emotion that might be called love, as long as it’s only once in a while?”

“As long as you keep your mouth shut about it. And as long as it’s only once in a while. Now get off your stupid pay phone and come over here. You still have the day off, right?”

“Right.”

“Here. Now.” She hung up. Isaiah leaned on the side of the phone booth, breathing heavily as if he had just finished a run, and then, gently, he kissed the probably filthy mouthpiece before tenderly hanging it up.

. . .

The first time Raven saw the loft apartment, she was appalled. “This can’t be how you live,” she kept saying. “It can’t be.”

Isaiah was tired from a long day; he had James’ old cab-driving job, and had been ferrying people across the city for almost forty-eight hours. He had not expected Raven to come and visit. “I’m afraid it is,” he said. “Now, Raven, I really need some goddamn sleep, if that’s okay with you . . .”

“What is that?” she asked, leveling her finger.

He followed the direction in which she was pointing. “That? That’s the trash corner,” he said.

“See, it’s a corner where we put our trash . . .”

“I understand the principle. I just think it’s disgusting. Don’t you have a trash can?”

“Yeah. It’s somewhere in the trash corner.”

“Buried?”

“Yeah.”

She shook her head despairingly. “And look at all these beer bottles! Do you and your friends really drink this much beer?”

“I’m afraid so. But keep in mind that it’s usually a couple of weeks before we throw them all into the trash corner . . .”

“There must be hundreds,” she said, cutting him off. “Maybe even thousands.”

“Look, Raven, we’re bachelors. We’re twenty-year-old bachelors who live together in one of the shittiest buildings in Queens. Okay?”

“Speaking of which, why isn’t this place condemned?”

“I think it is, actually. The city hasn’t gotten around to tearing it down yet. Anyhow, the point is, this is a bachelor pad. You’re not even meant to like it. Something would be very wrong if you did.”

“I’ve seen bachelor pads before,” said Raven with finality, “and they didn’t look like this. There has not been an apartment like this in history, probably.”

“Look, do you want a seat or something?”

“Yuck. No.”

He laughed. “I think it’s funny that my place just merited a ‘yuck’ from someone,” he told her.

“Trust me, it deserves it. How can you live like this? No one lives like this.”

“You’d be surprised. People do live like this: poor people who don’t care enough to buy things like drapes, or new furniture, or silverware, or . . .”

“A cushion for your chair?” she asked frostily, nodding at the exposed springs of an armchair.

“How can you sit on that thing?”

“We don’t. We just use it as a convenient surface on which to put cases of beer, and also ashtrays. Isn’t that obvious?”

“All too obvious. Look, baby,” she said, “I can’t stand to be here. I’m afraid of the germs in this place; they must have evolved consciousness. And not everyone has the natural defenses you and your friends have acquired from living in squalor.”

He laughed again. “Why do you think we use your place after dates? Why do you think I never invited you over here? I knew how you’d act.”

She was already halfway out the door. “Call me when you wake up,” she said.

He grinned and climbed onto his cot.

. . .

One week later, against all odds, Isaiah had a full-time job that brought him more than ten dollars an hour. “Ridiculous!” James cried. “How’d you get it?”

“That old guy in the bar two nights ago. He started talking to me, and out of the blue he offered me this job stocking shelves at his warehouse. I didn’t have to wheedle him or anything. He just named a salary, and asked me to come by and take a look.”

“A girlfriend, now a good job,” grumbled Keith. “Some guys have all the luck. It’s just not fair.”

“Speaking of girlfriends, guess what else?”

“What?”

“Raven found me an apartment I can afford. The rent is dirt-cheap, just a few hundred per
month, and it’s already furnished.”

“You’re moving out?” James frowned. “That’s no good. We moved to New York to live here, in this place. All together.”

“It’s just a ten-minute walk away. And the way I see it, it’s more like expanding our resources. See, now we will collectively own two apartments instead of one.”

“Bullshit,” Keith observed. “Raven found you that apartment so she can move in with you. It’s obvious.”

“Why would she want to do that?”

“It’s almost the end of August. Her lease has probably expired, and she’d rather live with you than by herself. C’mon, it’s obvious. You two spend every waking moment together.”

“That’s not true. I’m with you guys all the time. Hell, I’m with you now, aren’t I?”

“Well, whatever. I just don’t think there’s much chance of us getting to use your nice new apartment. Not with Raven around.”

“Have you seen it yet?” James asked.

“No. Uh—actually, Raven wanted to look at it with me Saturday afternoon.” James and Keith exchanged significant glances. “Jesus, guys, stop being so suspicious.”

“Another one bites the dust,” James sang softly. “And then there were two.”

Within a month, Keith had the opportunity to gloat. It happened just as he had predicted. Raven’s lease expired and she did not renew it. She moved into the new apartment with Isaiah, which was cramped but nothing they couldn’t handle. She bought their food, while Isaiah paid the rent—and, guiltily, continued to pay his third of rent and food costs for James and Keith’s place. His new job had steady hours, and was nowhere near as exhausting as the others he had worked so far. The lump of cash he kept stashed under his mattress continued to grow. Things were looking up.

. . .

“Don’t worry,” Raven said cheerfully as she pulled on a white tanktop (one that had belonged to Isaiah before she appropriated it). “It will be fun.”

“I am worried,” said Isaiah, smoking a cigarette in bed, the ashtray on his bare stomach. “It will not be fun. It will be awful.”

“Come on, darling,” she said, bending over and kissing his forehead lightly. “This place needs a good housewarming party, anyway. And now that we’re living together, my friends want to meet you. And I want to meet your friends. It will be perfect.”

“You’ve met my friends,” he complained. “Lots of times.”

“Oh, sure. ‘Hi, James! Hi, Keith!’ Then a couple of ‘Hey, Raven’s. And then the three of you go to a bar, or to play pool, or whatever it is you do together, and I don’t see you again until you crawl into bed with me at three A.M. with booze on your breath.”

“Hey,” he said, frowning.

She padded toward the bathroom. “Oh, don’t be so hurt, little boy,” she called over her shoulder. “I don’t mind. I want you to have fun with your friends. I just want to know them.” She stuck her head around the door, pointing a toothbrush accusingly. “Unless you’re ashamed of me.”

“God, no,” he said. “I’m proud of you.”

“Ashamed of them?”

“Well . . .” He thought about it. “Maybe. Not ashamed, per se, but they can be pretty, uh, intense. Especially if they’re drunk. Believe it or not, I’m pretty civilized in comparison. I mean, I know you can handle them, but I don’t know about your friends, that’s all . . .”

“It’ll be fine,” she said, disappearing again.

Isaiah set the ashtray on the bedside table. “Stop being so optimistic,” he called, looking glumly out the window. “Trust me, I understand this shit. It always ends in tears. This will be so awkward. Jesus! What is it with girls, anyway? What in the hell would possibly possess you to make you think this is a good idea? It’s a terrible idea. My friends—and your friends—in an apartment together—probably sober—trying to make goddamned smalltalk?” He shuddered violently and swung his legs over the side of the bed, snatching a bathrobe. “Seriously, how could you think this would work? Do you know what this is? Do you? This is fulfillment of a goddamn social obligation, is what this is. What’s so bad about the status quo, anyway, that’s what I want to know. You have your friends, I have mine, and ne’er the twain shall meet. Right? Why pretend to be interested? Why should you be friends with my friends, and especially vice-versa?”

“Thank you,” she mumbled around toothpaste.

“I’ll tell you why,” he continued, pacing. “Because you feel—like—you should. I mean, what unbelievable shit we go through just because we feel like we should. Weddings for people we hate—Christmas cards to distant relatives we hardly know—idiotic chit-chat at the office—“Hey, how you doin’?” “Fine, how ‘bout you?” My God! That’s what I’ve been trying my whole life to escape! Who the hell sits and invents this loathsome bunk we’re all expected to do? I swear, love, I feel as if I’ll go mad if I have to take one more day of this societally conditioned, banal-ass bullshit!”

Raven was in the shower. “It was a beautiful tirade, dear,” she called. “One of your best. Please pass me a washcloth.”

Isaiah sat sulkily on the edge of the toilet, deflating like a balloon. “I don’t have any washcloths,” he muttered.

“Of course you do. I bought some last week. Under the sink.” Her pale dripping arm emerged from the steam, open-handed and expectant.

He grimaced as he passed her a cloth. “Royal blue, no less,” he sniffed. “Never in my whole life have I ever owned a washcloth, let alone a stack of washcloths. Let alone a stack of royal blue washcloths. None of my friends own washcloths. They are totally superfluous.”

“Actually, they’re quite necessary. And anyway, that’s what we like to call ‘compromise’ around here, sweetie. Part of being in something called a ‘relationship.’ For you, compromise is owning washcloths. Can James and Keith be here next week? Tuesday?”

“I’ll check,” he mumbled.

She leaned precariously around the shower curtain. “Don’t be grumpy, please. I think it’s awfully sweet when you lecture. Kiss me.” He stood up and did so. Her damp hand ran around the back of his neck, sending droplets trickling down his spine. She broke away, smiled brightly, and vanished behind the curtain again. “Thanks for being a good sport, Isaiah.”

“We’d better get a bottle or three,” he said morosely, plodding out of the bathroom. “More, if your friends want to drink, too. All I know is, I can’t do this sober.”

. . .

Isaiah could see he would soon die, and that his death would be long and excruciating. He had known it as soon as he answered the door and saw the first of Raven’s friends: a young woman with long, straight, shining blonde hair and eyes that seemed half-closed. Perfect body. Perfect make-up. Perfectly white shirt. Perfectly white pants that looked as though they had been painted on. She could have been a model. Isaiah hated her the moment he saw her. “Isaiah?” she asked, looking him up and down.

“Uh—yes. Yes, that’s me. And you must be, um, LaSheena?” He extended his hand. Her grip was limp.

“Yesss,” she said. “Very pleased to meet you. Hi.” She smiled meaninglessly. “Am I early?”

“No. No. We were just about to open a bottle of wine, I’m glad you got here when you did. So where do you—”

But she had already breezed past him, depositing her jacket in his arms. “Where are you, Raven, dear?” she called. “Raven?”

Isaiah hung up the coat and went into the living room—the two women were embracing, and they pecked one another on each cheek before separating. “What a sweet apartment!”
LaSheena was enthusing. “It’s a little like mine, but smaller, of course.”

“I think it’s about the same size,” said Raven.

“No, this one is a little smaller, dear.”

“You met Isaiah?”

LaSheena glanced over her shoulder. “Oh, yes. I’m not sure what I think about the two of you yet. I guess I’ll see tonight!” She laughed.

“What do you mean, you don’t know what you think yet?” Isaiah asked.

“Well, don’t be offended, dear, but I don’t think anyone could be more perfect for our little Raven than Jackson was.” Isaiah stiffened. He had heard the name of Jackson —Raven’s last boyfriend—mentioned before in passing. He was some kind of semi-professional singer and dancer on Broadway, and Isaiah had been simultaneously impressed and threatened by the man’s good looks in a couple of photographs Raven had kept.

“Jackson was a long time ago, LaSheena,” said Raven, giving Isaiah a soothing look.

“Oh, I know, but wasn’t he unforgettable?” She turned to Isaiah. “He picked up extra money as a tantric instructor at NYU, you know. The stories I heard!” She laughed again, loudly.

Isaiah thanked every god he had ever heard of when a knock came at the door. “I’ll get it,” he said, leaving quickly. He stopped in the hall, out of the women’s sight, to tear at his hair dramatically for a moment. “Tantra, eh?” he whispered. “Well, fuck you, Jackson!” He took a moment to compose himself, then opened the door.

A tall, sallow-looking, bald man stood in the doorway, his suit hanging baggily off his gaunt frame. He smiled shyly. “Hi,” he said. “This is for you,” and he held out a little box tied with a ribbon.

“You must be Gus, huh?” Isaiah took the box. “Wow, thanks, man. I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you—together maybe we can break up the all-girl party, huh?”

“You can—you can open that,” said Gus, gesturing at the box. “It’s for you.”

“Oh. Uh—okay. He untied the bow, opened the box, and took out a small snow globe with a grinning snowman inside. “Jeez. Thanks Gus, it’s, uh, really great.”

Gus shuffled his feet. “It’s stupid, I guess, but new apartments are so bare, and you need little things to set on shelves and tables and, and things . . .”

“Bric-a-brac,” said Isaiah encouragingly. “Decoration.”

“Right, right!” said Gus, brightening. “Decoration!”

“You’re absolutely right. This place is bare as hell. Thanks, buddy.”

“Is that Gus?” LaSheena called. Isaiah felt his teeth clench involuntarily. “Get in here, Gus!”

Obediently, Gus trotted into the living room. The two women were seated, holding glasses of wine. “Oh, God, Gus!” said LaSheena, “look how rumpled you are! When are you going to trade your stupid bike for a car?”

“I like the bike,” Gus mumbled, half-waving. “Hi, Raven.”

“Hi, Gus,” Raven smiled.

“Personally, I’ve got nothing but love for the rumpled look, Gus,” said Isaiah.

“We can tell.” LaSheena model-smiled at him, and he forced himself to grin back rather than, say, throwing the snow globe at her head.

“I call Isaiah the genius vagabond,” said Raven. “His mind’s on other things.”

“Well,” said Isaiah, still trying to be nice, “if I had your sense of style, LaSheena, I’d dress up, too.”

“Don’t try,” said LaSheena. “What are you holding, anyway? Is that a snow globe?”

“Gus’s housewarming present,” said Isaiah, holding it up and shaking it before placing it on a table.

“Gus, that’s the stupidest present I’ve ever seen,” said LaSheena cuttingly. “A snow globe in September? Where’d you buy that, at a dollar store?”

Gus’s face fell. “It’s decoration,” he muttered, tugging at his hands. Isaiah stared at LaSheena in horror and disgust. Raven looked embarrassed.

LaSheena turned to Isaiah and laughed her loud laugh. “That’s Gus for you,” she said gaily. “A real character.”

“Want some wine, Gus?” Isaiah asked tightly. “I need some, too. And you—LaSheena? More wine? ”

“We just finished what was left of the bottle,” Raven told him. “You’ll have to open a new one.”

Isaiah picked up a fresh bottle of wine and a corkscrew—he pulled out the cork easily, and “Look how quickly he did that,” trilled LaSheena. “Raven, dear, I see why you keep him around.”

“That’s one of the reasons,” Raven smiled.

“Oh, is he good in bed, too? Not better than Jackson, I bet!” Again the laugh. Isaiah settled down onto the couch with his glass of wine, as did Gus. He checked the clock, a little desperately. Quarter after seven. At least four hours to go.

He wondered if he would make it.

. . .

After ten eternal minutes of listening to LaSheena’s voice, Keith and James finally arrived, accompanied by the girl Keith was seeing: Lila. They were obviously already drunk. Keith was still wearing his blue work shirt with his name patch over the pocket. James had a long streak of tar on his cheek from his day job as a shingler. “Isaiah,” James slurred, “Keith is going to embarrass you. He won’t stop talking about Lila’s thighs.”

“Aren’t they great thighs, though?” Keith asked, squeezing one lasciviously. “Don’t you think she has great thighs?”

“Stop! God!” giggled Lila. She was a short, plump girl, originally from Mexico, and eminently likable. She was also the only one of the three who had made any effort at dressing up: she wore a flower-patterned dress that had been hemmed along the skirtline, clearly by hand. “Hi, Isaiah.”

“Hi, Lila, thanks for coming. Listen, guys,” dropping his voice, “there’s a ninja bitch in my living room. I have no idea how Raven can be friends with this girl. You’ve got to help me.”

“This sounds like a job for the great and knowledgeable McMullen!” hooted James. “Hey-hey-hey, it’s a party, bitches!” He leapt forward and into the living room. Isaiah followed and found him shaking hands with everyone enthusiastically. “Pleased to meetcha,” he was saying, “pleased to meetcha. Call me James. I’m half-demon. The other half is Irish. That’s the bottom half—lucky for you ladies.” He winked hugely and laughed. Gus smiled, a little, obviously not sure what to say. LaSheena looked at him icily.

“James, Keith, Lila, meet LaSheena and Gus,” said Isaiah dutifully. “You all know Raven.”

“Hi, Raven!” chorused Keith and Lila. “We seem,” noted Keith, “to have overestimated how drunk everyone would be, but better safe than sorry, I always say!” Lila giggled and waved.

“Once Antonio gets here we can eat,” said Raven.

James had crouched beside LaSheena’s chair. “Those pants are great,” he said enthusiastically. “Where did you get them?”

“A clothing store,” she muttered.

“Yeah? No shit?” He laughed. “What store, though? Maybe I’ve been there.”

“I doubt it,” she said, smiling. “They wouldn’t let you through the door.”

“LaSheena, come on,” murmured Raven.

James’ eyes widened, and he stood up, stung. Then he laughed again, but this time it wasn’t friendly. “Wellll,” he drawled, “that may be. They wouldn’t let me in to a bar in California, once. I must have one of those faces that seems—”

“Poor?” LaSheena suggested with the model-smile.

He smiled back, flashing his sharp teeth. “Yeah. Yeah. That must be it. I’d tell you what I did to this bar, but it’s not a story for little girls. Might give you nightmares.”

“I doubt it,” she said. “I’m not scared of nightmares.”

“You are one,” said James, and strolled casually over to the couch to chat with Gus. LaSheena looked after him poisonously. Raven looked stricken, but did not rise to the other woman’s defense.

Keith leaned toward Isaiah. “This is already a disaster, isn’t it?” he asked cheerfully. Isaiah nodded.

. . .

At seven-thirty, a final knock came at the door. The atmosphere had been stiflingly tense; James had tried to chat with Gus, while Raven, the conscientious hostess, attempted to direct LaSheena’s attention away from James. Keith kept whispering to Lila, making her laugh. Isaiah had done his best at cultivating the twin virtues of patience and invisibility, and was failing. When he heard the knock he sprang to his feet. “I’ll get it,” he said, and sprang into the hallway.

LaSheena’s voice rang behind him: “That must be Antonio! Fashionably late, as always! Now this party might go somewhere!” Isaiah dreaded this person, to whom he would soon have to grant entry to his home. Anyone that made LaSheena that happy, he reasoned, had to be bad news for him.

He opened the door to a man in an expensive suit, about his own height, well-built, with tightly-curled black hair, almond eyes, and an obnoxiously firm jaw line. Isaiah stroked his own chin self-consciously on seeing him. “You’re Antonio? Hi, I’m Isaiah. Welcome.”

“Antonio is what other coven-members call me,” said the man smoothly, with a slight accent that could only, Isaiah guessed, make him more attractive. “You may call me Tony.” He shook hands firmly. “My deepest apologies for being late. Business matters required my urgent attention.”

“Oh, that’s all right. It’s no problem. Everyone’s been getting drunk, is all.”

“That can sometimes be a very good thing,” Tony smiled, “when dealing with new company.”

“Or a very bad thing,” said Isaiah, beginning to warm to the man despite himself. “Depending on the nature of the company. You’ll have to judge for yourself.”

“And so I shall. Is there a place I should put my coat?” he asked, stepping out of a long, pricey-looking black trench coat.

“Let me take it.” Isaiah guided Tony into the sitting room. Raven, LaSheena, and Gus all stood up when he entered. Isaiah’s friends looked at him questioningly, then followed suit. Isaiah handled the introductions quickly, while Tony went around shaking hands and smiling. Lila’s hand he kissed, making her giggle. Then he turned to Gus.

“There is a bottle of wine in my car,” he told him, handing him a set of keys. “Go get it and bring it up here. Passenger’s seat.” Gus nodded and loped out of the room. Tony turned on a thousand-watt smile and advanced on Raven and LaSheena. “You both look lovely,” he said.
Raven smiled and turned her eyes downward. LaSheena simpered. Keith looked at Isaiah with an expression that clearly said What the hell? Isaiah shrugged. “Have you been behaving yourself, LaSheena?” asked Tony.

“Oh, of course,” she laughed.

“Hmm. When Isaiah answered the door, he had the look of desperation on his face that you are so often responsible for. Remember you are a guest.”

LaSheena looked embarrassed. “Yes, Antonio.”

“Now, then.” Tony turned the smile on everyone. “Shall we eat?”

“Yes, Antonio,” said Raven. “Let me just get the table. Isaiah, will you help me?”

“’Scuse me for a second, I have to talk to Isaiah,” said Keith, seizing his elbow and guiding him into the hall. “About work. And stuff. James will help with the table.” He shut the sliding door, turned to Isaiah, and lowered his voice. “What’s this bouncing boy’s story? Huh? He comes in and starts seducing every woman he sees, giving orders like it’s his house. I mean, what the hell? Who does he think he is? He dresses like Calvin Klein and talks like the evil secret agent from a Cold War movie.”

“I don’t know,” Isaiah told him, “but if he can keep LaSheena on a leash, he’s okay in my book.”

“You weren’t kidding about her being a bitch, huh?”

“I certainly wasn’t. Now come on. Let’s hope Tony can keep things under control.”

. . .

The eight of them sat on cushions around a low table, munching on ethnic cuisine that James and Keith never would have touched except out of politeness. But they seemed to be enjoying it all the same, Isaiah noted. More importantly, it was sobering them up. Lila was not a danger and never had been, unless she got somehow drawn into the chaos spawned by one or both of her escorts. LaSheena had kept her mouth shut since Tony arrived. Gus was just nodding and smiling a lot, and obeying with alacrity any orders given by Tony or LaSheena.

Tony had held everyone’s attention since dinner started, telling diverting stories, complimenting Raven on the food, asking who had decorated which portions of the apartment, listening attentively to every question directed to him and answering fully and eloquently. Isaiah would have hated him on principle, were it not for the fact that he was stemming a greater evil. He began to believe he might escape with his life.

“The food’s damn good, Raven,” said Keith, munching. “Did you make all of it?”

“I did. Glad you like it, Keith.”

“I chopped vegetables,” Isaiah noted.

“Yes, Isaiah helped a little.”

“Credit where credit’s due.”

Tony turned to Isaiah. “So what do you do for a living? Not chop vegetables, surely.” He smiled. “I have to know what my Raven’s getting herself into,” squeezing her elbow.

Isaiah noted the elbow-squeeze with disapproval, and ignored a poke in the side from James (who had apparently also noted it). “I stock shelves, these days,” he said. “At a warehouse in Manhattan. It pays pretty well, comparably, so I can actually afford this place. You should have seen where I was living before.”

“Hey, I still call it home sweet home,” said James.

“You seem educated,” said Tony.

“Well, yeah, I went to school here and there. Most of what I know my mom taught me before I left home—I haven’t had too much structured education since the age of fourteen. And you need a diploma in this world to get a job better than shelf-stocking.”

“Was your mother an Indian?”

“No, she’s white.”

“Did your father teach you much about the old ways?”

“Not much,” Isaiah shrugged. “I was born Christian, for what it’s worth. Raised that way, too. But I actually wanted to ask you something, if that’s okay. The four of you—you’re in the same coven, right? Well, Raven’s told me a little about what you do . . .”

“Really?” asked Tony, glancing sharply at Raven.

“Not much,” said Raven quickly.

“Not much, no,” Isaiah amended. “Which is fine, it’s cool, but the way it sounds, you’re tapping into some kind of ancient earth-magic, and it all sounds, well, very Indian. But I was under the impression that you need to have Indian blood to practice that kind of magic. Am I wrong?”

Tony leaned back on his cushion comfortably. “I am glad you asked. There are, you see, different kinds of magic. What we use is drawn from Amerindian sources and knowledge, yes. But it is not the same as the primitive animism—if you’ll excuse my bluntness—used by your average village medicine man. Even before Europeans arrived on this continent, certain—exceptional individuals had mastered an altogether different, and more remarkable, source of power. That is what we have kept alive in our coven and others like it, with modern variations, of course.”

“I see,” said Isaiah, though he didn’t, really.

“Here’s what I wanna know,” interjected James. “If she’s a witch, what are you? A warlock?”

“We are all witches, Mr. McMullen,” smiled Tony. “Men and women alike. All the coven-members.”

“You look like you live comfortably, Tony,” said Lila. “What do you do for a living?”

“Well,” Tony explained, “as head of the coven, I have no need to rely on an extra source of income. One of the perks, you might say. I can focus entirely on my magic and be a witch, nothing more. Though I do dabble in photography.” He smiled at her. Keith looked disgusted.

“What do you do?” asked LaSheena suddenly. Isaiah had noticed that she was drinking much more wine that anyone else, and eating much less. Apparently her drunkenness and natural bitchiness had overridden her respect for Tony’s earlier chastisement. “If you stock shelves,” leveling a finger at Isaiah, “and you work—where? For an auto mechanic?” Keith nodded. “And you get your face dirty . . .”

“I’m a shingler,” James muttered. He had tried to avoid responding to anything LaSheena said since their initial encounter, and it was clearly becoming a strain. “I lay shingles.”

“. . . . Then what do you do? Lola?”

“It’s, uh, Lila,” she said, smiling uncertainly. “And I’m a waitress.”

LaSheena laughed, and it sounded like a whinny. James visibly gritted his teeth. “Oh, that explains the dress, then!”

Please say something, Tony, Isaiah begged in his mind. Stop this. But Tony was eating again, and made no move to curb LaSheena’s tongue.

“So you waitress for a living,” she continued, scorn dripping from her voice. “So when are the four of you going to get real jobs?”

“What?” asked Lila, still trying to understand. “What do you mean?”

“Well, come on. These are, like, summer jobs. Jobs students work before between semesters. Or are you going to be a career waitress?” Again the laugh. Lila’s mouth dropped open. Tears sprang into her eyes.

“Jesus Christ, LaSheena,” said Raven. “I’m sorry, Lila.”

Keith leaned forward slowly. “Excuse me. Are you saying that waitressing isn’t a real job? Is that what you’re saying? I just want to be clear on this.”

“Well, let’s face it, satyr,” smiled LaSheena. “Even being a mechanic is a little more respectable than that.”

“I see,” said Keith. “Well, then—bitch—let me tell you something.” His voice was rising. This was not a drunken rage. This was much more cold and murderous. Isaiah wished he could sink into the floor. “Are you listening? Huh? Because I want to be quite fucking clear on this, and to only say it once. So I want to be sure that you’re going to listen.” He paused. “Well? Say ‘I’m listening.’ Say it now, or I swear to God you’ll wish you had.”

“Keith . . .” Isaiah muttered warningly.

“Mr. Sterling, she’s a little drunk,” said Tony soothingly, “and I’m sure she didn’t—”

Keith didn’t divert his eyes from LaSheena, but his finger moved to point at Tony. “Did I say anything to you? Did I?”

“Well, no, but I feel that . . .”

“Then why don’t you keep your goddamn mouth shut?” Tony stiffened. Raven gasped. “That’s better. You seem like a nice enough guy, Tony. Stay out of this. My business is with your loud-mouthed friend here. Now. LaSheena—is that really your fucking name? That can’t be what your parents named you. What was it really? Doris?”

“You—” she spat, but Keith was not about to give up the floor yet.

“Doris,” he continued, “we’ll say it’s Doris. So, Doris. You don’t think waitresses have real jobs? Well, guess what? My mother worked as a waitress in a shitty little truck stop in Arkansas for fifteen years. That’s how she paid for my food when I was a little kid. She came home every night with blisters all over her feet and red streaks on her arms from carrying plates fresh out of the dishwasher. She worked herself to the bone on that fucking job. And now you try to undermine that? How dare you? Just because it was a job she didn’t have to go to college to do? I’ve seen you, by the way. On magazine covers. Photo shoots. All right, I’ll admit it: you may even be one of the ten thousand or so models I’ve fantasized about. It’s all very impressive. You’re used to guys eating out of your fucking hand in exchange for a smile. Right? All you have to do is spend eight hours every day on your makeup, get regular injections of silicone, and stay close enough to the edge of starvation that you’ll keep your precious, narrow, bony little ass just the way it is now. That and swallow enough rich-man cum to populate Antarctica. Well, guess what? I’m not one of those guys you can win over with a smile and a wink. Hell, I’d turn down a blow job from you even if you offered it to me. And that is because you are a frigid, loveless, pathetic cunt. And yes, I’m poor, but I’ll stick with my waitresses, thank you very much. Maybe it’s a dead-end job. But their lives, and our lives, are more real than yours will ever be. So I’ll thank you, next time, to keep your mouth shut, unless you want it busted for you. Normally I don’t hit women. But for you, madam, I will most definitely make an exception.” He leaned back again. “There. That’s my piece.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” said Lila. She was crying.

LaSheena took a deep breath. Her eyes were glittering. Isaiah got the feeling that this was the moment she had been waiting for. “That’s your piece, is it? Do you want to hear my piece? I think you owe it to me to listen . . .”

“Excuse me,” said James suddenly. “I want some more wine, so I can really enjoy this.” He leaned over, grabbed at the open bottle of wine, and suddenly seemed to lose control of it. It slipped out of his hand like a fish—falling, tumbling, and landing on the lap of LaSheena’s perfectly white pants, which would obviously never be white again.

She screamed. “Oh, shit!” said James. “God, I’m sorry, let me help you!” And then, as he leaned over, his glass slipped out of his fingers, spilling down the front of her shirt. “Jesus! I am so sorry, I don’t know why I’m so clumsy—here, let me wipe that up for you . . .” He leered at her as he seized a napkin and began scrubbing at her chest industriously. “See, it’ll be good as new, just give me a minute or two . . .”

“Get away from me!” she screamed, leaping up from the table and backing away. “Get the fuck away from me!”

“I was just trying to help,” said James, sounding hurt.

“Do you know what this outfit cost?” she shrieked. “Do you have any idea? It was worth more than you are!”

“Wow!” His eyes got wide. “That is a really expensive outfit, huh?”

“It’s ruined! Oh, my God!”

“Well,” said James virtuously, “at the risk of sounding preachy, I guess that just goes to show you what happens when you invest too much in material things.”

“Oh, my God! Stay away from me, all of you! You—you—you disgusting, poor, dirty creatures!” LaSheena was waving her hands in the air, her face contorted with rage. Raven had run to the bathroom to wet a towel. Gus and Tony watched the proceedings, one aghast, the other coldly.

“I may be dirty, but I’m not the one with wine all over me,” said James.

Keith was laughing. “Well, anyway, LaSheena,” he told her, “it looks better on you than it did in the bottle.”

“You little prick!” she hissed. “I’ll see you both burn for this!” She turned to Raven, who had just re-entered the room with wet towels. “What good will those do, you stupid bitch?” she demanded hysterically. “Give me some of your clothes! I have to take these somewhere they can be cleaned! Right away!”

“My clothes?” Raven asked incredulously. “What good will that do? LaSheena, your legs are a foot longer than mine, and your breasts are about three sizes bigger.” James snickered.

“Well, do something!” LaSheena bellowed. There was nothing even remotely attractive about her anymore. She looked like a monster. “Do something!” She turned to Tony. “Antonio! What are you going to do about this? Protect me!”

Tony sighed and stood. “Gus,” he said, “you’re tall enough. Take off your suit. Give it to LaSheena.”

“What?” she screamed.

“What?” demanded Keith and James, together.

“I’m not wearing Gus’s clothes, damn it!”

“Gus, don’t you dare take off your clothes!” said James vehemently. Gus had already started to unbuckle his belt, but now he froze in the act.

“LaSheena, you have no choice. Gus, what are you doing? Take off your suit right now!”

“You can’t make that poor guy take off his clothes!” shouted Keith. Everyone was on their feet now. “What will he wear?”

“Look, Sterling,” snarled Tony—his charm had dropped by several kilowatts. “I wouldn’t tell you how to treat your dog. Do not presume to order me about.”

Gus was out of his clothes, and he stood there shivering slightly in his boxers, looking more gaunt and pitiful than ever. He passed the suit to LaSheena, who seized it and stalked toward the bathroom. Raven stood indecisively for a second, but ultimately she was unable to take her eyes off the showdown between Keith, James, and Tony. Her eyes were filled with something like horror.

“People like you don’t deserve to own dogs,” snapped James, “and anyway, Gus is not a dog. He’s a man!”

“Gus, you’re a dog,” said Tony, taking a step toward James. “Aren’t you, Gus?” Gus was silent for a moment. “Gus, what are you? Answer me!”

“Whatever you say I am,” he finally mumbled.

“And I say you are?”

“A dog.”

“What?” Keith was shocked. Lila was tugging on his sleeve, trying to calm him, but he shook her off. “What is that? Gus, you’re two feet taller than this guy, why do you let him talk to you that way?”

“Because I am his master,” said Tony, smiling coldly. “Besides, Gus doesn’t mind standing around here in his underwear, do you, Gus? He enjoys it, don’t you, Gus?” He turned to the rest of them, and “Gus is a faggot,” he explained, smiling cruelly. “He likes men, don’t you, Gus?” Gus didn’t answer. “Don’t you, Gus? Didn’t I find you in bed with that new, handsome young witch?”

“He likes me,” Gus managed. He had turned crimson. “We—like each other.”

Keith and James stared at Tony in disgust. “Fuck you, Tony,” said James. “Fuck you. Gus is the only one of you who’s worth a damn. Gus, remember that. Don’t let this sick shit boss you around.”

“How dare you insult me?” snapped Tony. “Do it again and your life is mine.”

James stepped forward, until he and Tony were face-to-face. “Let me tell you something, pal,” he growled. “I told this story earlier, but I didn’t get to the ending, and it’s my favorite part. Once, somebody wouldn’t let me into where I wanted to be. Somebody threatened me. Somebody insulted me. Know what I did?” Tony raised an eyebrow. “I burnt this place down. While this somebody was inside. I didn’t go in and pull him out until he had almost burnt to a cinder. He was in the hospital for a year. So . . .” James raised his thumb to Tony’s eye-level, and then, suddenly, ignited a flame from under his thumbnail. Tony jerked back as it singed his foremost curl. “. . . Next time you feel like playing ball . . . Well, come find me. I’m half-demon and half-Irishman. I’m not scared of anything. Come near me, or any of my friends, and I’ll take out one of your goddamn kidneys and feed it to you. You can live with just one, you know. My father did, at least for a while.” He smiled toothily.

Tony stared at James with loathing, but made no motion to fight him. “I won’t dishonor my acolyte’s home,” he said at last, “with your death. But trust me: you will pay. I will not be satisfied until the streets have tasted your blood. All of it.”

“Talk is cheap. Whiskey costs money.”

Tony turned away abruptly. “Come, Gus,” he said. “We are leaving this place.” He stalked out, and slammed the door behind him. There were sounds in the hall as LaSheena emerged from the bathroom and followed him.

Gus poked at the floor with one toe for a second, rubbing his arm. Then, “Sorry, Raven,” he muttered. “Thanks for the dinner. It was very nice to meet everyone.” He hurried out after the other two.

Silence reigned for a moment. “That was awful,” said Isaiah. “Thanks a lot, guys. Goddamn.”

Keith, James, and Lila slowly began shuffling out. “Sorry, Raven,” murmured Lila, “for wrecking your party,” and “Yeah, sorry,” chorused Keith and James.

“Please, just leave,” said Raven. Her hands were shaking. The door closed quietly, and Isaiah and Raven remained, staring at one another over the wreckage of dinner.

“Well,” said Isaiah. “Well.” Then, realizing he had nothing to follow it with, he said “Well?” He fished a half-smoked cigarette out of the ashtray and lit it.

“Everything is ruined,” she said slowly. “Everything. What am I going to do?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “You saw me. I tried to be nice.”

She paid him no attention. “This is the worst thing that could happen,” she said. “Antonio’s furious with me.”

At hearing the name, his anger came back in a rush. “Who the hell cares what Antonio thinks?” he demanded. “I mean, okay, James and Keith were really, really rude, but they had a point, right?”

“That has nothing to do with the problem at hand,” she said levelly, “which is what to do about Antonio.”

“No, the problem at hand is: Who are those people, anyway? And also: How can you call them your friends? They’re not your friends. How can you call that friendship?” His voice was rising, and he wanted to stop it, but he couldn’t. “That’s a goddamn hierarchy, Raven! Friendship is people who like each other, and take care of each other when they can—that’s a pecking order, with fucking Tony at the top, you and that bitch in the middle, and everyone shitting on poor Gus at the bottom! If LaSheena heard you say anything wrong, anything at all, she’d run straight to Tony, wouldn’t she? Rise a couple of steps on the ladder, right? Knock you down a couple of pegs, huh? Admit it, isn’t that how it works? Admit it!”

Her eyes focused on him at last. “What the fuck do you think just happened here tonight, Isaiah?” she hissed.

Recognition, then; a dawning light. “This—tonight—this whole thing was Tony’s idea, wasn’t it?”

“He suggested the guest list,” she whispered. “He wanted to meet you.”

“Why? Does Tony have to approve of our relationship?”

“That’s how it works,” she said distantly. Her eyes had gone out of focus again, as if she was listening to someone else talk, maybe in her head. “We all made the vow. We all sealed it in blood.” She shook her head, back, forth, violently. “I can hear him. He’s sending me a message. He’s very displeased . . .”

Isaiah kicked the table aside, knocking a couple of plates to the floor, where they broke. He leapt across the room and seized her shoulders, shaking her. “What is it between you?” he shouted. “How does he own you? Have you slept with him?” It was not the question he had meant to ask, but it slipped out.

“Yes,” she said steadily. “Yes, I have.”

He released her as if he had been electrocuted, staggering backwards. He stared at her.
“LaSheena?” he asked hoarsely. “What about—has she done it, too?”

“Of course she has. And so has Gus. We all have. It was part of the price. Isaiah, you don’t know anything about this.”

“No,” he said. “No. And I don’t know you.” His heart was breaking. He could feel it breaking.

“You and your friends are in great danger,” she continued slowly. “Antonio is furious, and so is LaSheena. You have no idea what these people are like.” She moved to a chair, picked up her coat, and began to pull it on.

“Where are you going?” he demanded.

“To find Antonio. I have to speak with him in person. I have to know what he’s going to do.”

“No!” he cried. “Stay away from him!”

She fixed her eyes on him. “Isaiah,” she said, slowly, clearly. “If I don’t speak to him, then you and maybe me, and certainly Keith and James, will all be dead by morning.”

“You’d be surprised,” he snapped. “Let him come! I’m ready for it.”

“Enough.” She waved her hand wearily. “Enough. None of the macho bullshit. Please. It’s cute sometimes, but not now, Isaiah. Not now.”

“Don’t sleep with him!” he shouted. “Don’t you dare sleep with him!”

“Isaiah, calm down. I’m not going to sleep with him, I’m just going to talk to him. And you’re going to wait. Right. Here.” She turned, marched out the door, and slammed it behind her.

Isaiah swayed on his feet. “Fuck,” he whispered, and then, “Fuck!” he screamed. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck this! Fuck!” He picked up an empty wine bottle and threw it at the wall, shattering it. He did it again. Then a plate. Then a glass. Then he sank into a chair, trembling violently. He found a half-full bottle of wine, tipped it back, and guzzled until it was gone. He lit a cigarette. After a while, he turned off the light.

Halfway into the third bottle, he began to worry dimly that someone might get cut on all the broken glass, so he got up and cleaned it, cutting his own hand deeply in the process. He wrapped it with a washcloth—“Royal blue,” he whispered, and felt like crying—then returned to his bottle and his cigarettes. Eventually he fell asleep in the armchair with the bottle still in his bandaged hand.

. . .

He woke to find Raven taking the bottle from him, kissing his damaged hand gently. “Go ‘way,” he muttered, pushing at her ineffectually. “Go ‘long ‘way. Don’ wanna kiss. Go kiss Tony.”

“Shut up,” she said tenderly. “Shut up. Keith and James are safe. Do you hear me? They’re safe. Here.” She pressed something against his chest. “I made you something. It will keep you safe. See? It’s a necklace. You have to wear it, okay, baby? Promise me you’ll wear it all the time. Will you promise me that?”

“What izzit? A necklace?” He peered at it closely.

“It will protect you from witchery. Mine and everyone else’s. Antonio mustn’t know I’m giving it to you. Promise me, Isaiah. Promise me you’ll wear it.” He was startled to see she was crying. He had never seen her cry before.

“Hey-hey, Raven. Don’ cry. Hey. Okay. I’ll promise. See? I’m wearing it now. Don’ cry, hey. Don’ cry, Raven.” He wrapped his arms around her, pulled her to him. She curled up on his lap, her shoulders shaking with violent, silent sobs. She put one hand on the back of his neck, pulling his head down to her, and entwined the other hand in the necklace. Her fingers clutched at it.
“Don’ cry,” he mumbled. “Makes me sad, too. I’m sorry for shouting.”

“What will we do now?” she gasped. “Where can we go now? Where can we go, Isaiah?”

“We’ll go ‘way,” he said drunkenly. “Far ‘way. We can go to Mexico. Me-hee-co.”

“Can we?” She smiled at him tearfully. “Tell me about Mexico. Can you do that?”

“It’s bright,” he said. “Diff’ren’ kinda air. Diff’ren’ kinda people. Much more sun, y’see, more sun in th’ air. More sun in th’ people.”

“Does it ever rain?” she asked, laughing a little, tremulously.

“Oh, yeah, rains sometimes. Better kinda rain. Firs’ th’ sun comes through the clouds in big, long rays. Then th’ clouds get together and dance for a while. Then they celebrate wit’ th’ rain. Lots of it. Warmer.”

“Can we dance in it?”

“Sure. Sure we can. Dance in th’ sun, dance in th’ rain. Dance all th’ time. That’s all they do in Me-hee-co, is dance. Dance everywhere.”

“It sounds wonderful,” she whispered.

“Yeah. Won’erful. Hey, you stopped crying.”

“Yeah, I guess I did,” she said, curling into a tighter ball.

“Raven?”

“Yes?”

“I love you, Raven.” She didn’t answer, and he hurried on: “I know I’m not s’posed to say that, but I’m really drunk, so I figured maybe it doesn’t count or somethin’, I dunno, but I just love you so much . . . Sorry. Sorry. Don’ go. Don’ go ‘way.”

“I’m still here,” she whispered.

“I’ll take you to Mexico. I’ll take you—to Mexico. I’ll take you ever’where, anywhere you wanna go. Don’ think I’ve ever loved anyone like this. Where do you wanna go? I’ll take you anywhere. Where do you wanna go?”

“I want to go to bed, Isaiah. Can we do that?”

“Sure. Sure. Bed’s good. Prolly couldn’t make it to Me-hee-co tonight, anyhow—too drunk, I guess . . .” He kept talking as she stood, took him by the hand, and guided him into the bedroom. She sat him down and helped him take his shoes off. “See,” he continued to mutter, “now I’ve gone an’ fucked up everythin’, an’ tomorrow you’ll leave, ‘cause you said you’d leave if I said that, an’ I don’ know why I did. So fucked up. Everything is—so fucked up. Please don’ leave. At leas’—gimme a chance to try to explain when I’m sober. God. Don’ remin’ me about this tomorrow. Please?” He was lying on his back in the bed, and she was climbing into it beside him.
“Don’ care that you slept wit’ Tony. Don’ care. Long time ago, prolly. Don’ care that you’re a witch. Don’ care about your friends. Jus’ wanna be with you. So fucked up. So—fucked up.”

“Shh,” she whispered. “I’m here. I’m still here. Sleep, okay? Just sleep.”

“Okay. Good idea. Jus’—sleep. Talk tomorrow. Sleep tonight. Good. Smart.” He kept his arms wrapped around her, tightly, and she did the same. They were both fully clothed, but they clung as tightly to one another as they ever had, and that was how they fell asleep, and how they woke up again the next morning.

The Invisible World Is Here

2006-04-27T23:07:00.000+02:00

I'm almost finished reading a pretty spectacular series of graphic novels by Grant Morrison: "The Invisibles." I don't even know how to begin to describe this stuff. This site does a pretty good job, though: http://www.rotten.com/library/culture/the-invisibles/

Anyway. The series confirms my belief that the best kind of book/graphic novel/song/play/film/whatever is almost always about, well, everything. It's a sort of post-modernist thing, eighteenth-century masterpieces like "Moby Dick" notwithstanding . . . It also solidifies a number of artistic aspirations of my own. I don't feel paralyzed by the idea of writing about everything. Not at all. Quite the opposite. Because, you see, you contain everything within you. Do you understand? In your head, in mine, is all that has been and could be. We have universes there, and room for so much more. The microcosm mirrors the macrocosm . . . "Like an astrophysicist mesmerized by the tiny lives in a tidal pool," to quote myself (easily the most obnoxious thing a writer can do).

For you gratification and edification, some quotes from "The Invisibles," though to get the full effect you need to see the artwork, too:

TOM O'BEDLAM (A wizard/London street bum): "When we met first I promised you a secret to keep in your pocket, didn't I? A fine and shiny secret, passed from hand to hand through the years, master to pupil. Didn't I say I'd tell you what cities are? Listen, then, for I'll not tell it a second time. Here it is as I was told it once, old but new-minted with each fresh telling. Our world is sick, boy. Very sick. A virus got in a long time ago and we've got so used to its effects, we've forgotten what it was like before we became ill. I'm talking about cities, see? Human cultures were originally homeostatic; they existed in a self-sustaining equilibrium, with no notions of time and progress, like we've got. Then the city-virus got in. No one's really sure where it came from or who brought it to us, but like all viral organisms, its one directive is to use up all available resources in producing copies of itself. More and more copies until there's no raw material left and the host body, overwhelmed, can only die. The cities want us to become good builders. Eventually, we'll build rockets and carry the virus to other worlds. Cities have their own way of talking to you; catch sight of the reflection of a neon sign and it'll spell out a magic word that summons strange dreams. Have you never seen the word 'IXAT' glowing in the night? That's one of the holy names. Or make recordings of traffic noise and listen to them at night. You'll hear the voices of the city coming through, telling you things, showing you pictures. Sometimes they'll show you where they came from. . . . In waking dreams I've seen cemetery planets circling abandoned stars. Like mausoleums, silent and dead, every building a headstone. That's what cities do. But those of us who know the secret learn ways to unlock the power in cities. We make a pact with them, and they give us gifts in return."

JOLLY ROGER (A lesbian/freedom fighter, on entering a government base she has broken into before and seeing yellow CAUTION tape criss-crossing a door): "They haven't fixed that shit yet? Jesus Christ. Right here in the heart of it all."
KING MOB (A pulp adventure author/James Bond/anarchist): "That's what I love about chaos. It always finds a way in. You can wire the whole world with cameras, but you can't stop the technicians in the control room from masturbating in front of the screens or playing 'Doom III' for the fiftieth time."

THE MARQUIS DESADE: "I tried to show them where it would all lead. The hypocrisy of the Enlightenment. These are the monsters bred by the God of Reason. Idealists and reformers all become executioners in their turn. The road to Utopia ends with the steps of the scaffold, the endless moment of the guillotine. Sixteen years in prison with only my pen and paper and my imagination. I wanted revenge! I wanted to wreck the world and shit in the ruins! I built a door made of words, escaped through it. I wished blackness and annihilation on my captors, my family, God and humanity. I went into the pit. I showed the rotten face of corruption behind the painted mask of the state. Alone in my cell, I unmade civilization. I let the beast out of the cave to devour a 'moral universe' conceived by liars and dissemblers. I exposed the monsters who govern us and make pretty speeches while dining on the entrails of children!"

LORD FANNY (A Brazilian shaman/transvestite/prostitute): "Tlazolteotl, the Eater of Dung, Goddess of Lust and Shame, is my patroness. For her I walk the streets at night. In her name, I sell my body for a few cruzeiros. But this . . .
"And in that moment of death, I hear the sound of a butterfly's wings at the window, and Tlazolteotl says 'I have made you strong, and wise, and incorruptible. I have shown you the worst there is, and made you free.' Tlazolteotl, who mated with a jaguar and brought forth Quetzalcoatl, who seduced the virtuous hermit into sin. You who are mystery and redemption. You who teach witchcraft and forgive all who fall. I will crawl through shit. I will take all the filth of the world and turn it into the purest gold. I will rise from darkness, shining like the morning star. Illuminated woman am I."

Wow . . . Anyhoo. Check it out. "The Invisibles."

The Second Hellswar, Part Four of Four

2006-02-20T18:25:00.000+01:00

Well, here it is, folks. Finally put the finishing touches on it . . . And it is--dare I say it?--yes--it's freakin' EPIC. Includes a surprise cameo on the part of the author, and a whole lot of stuff that you weren't expecting. Thanks to Tom Waits for being a king among men.

. . .

On the crumbling stone embarkment crouched the shadow, just another stone gargoyle, unmoving, part of the architecture. Far below, nine or ten stories below, the Consecration Ceremony proceeded in all its ornateness and pomp.

"In this angel-blood I consecrate you," intoned the High Prelate of Hell, "In the terror of the Great Mystery, I consecrate you. In the torment of the damned, I consecrate you. In the name of Lucifer, he who first tapped the secrets of the Outer Void, I consecrate you. In the spirit of hell and of our eternal war with heaven, I consecrate you. In this angel-blood I consecrate you. Go now and fight bravely—show no succor, and ask for none." As he spoke he moved up and down the rows of waiting soldiers, who stood silent and still, and tossed the golden blood on them with his fingers. The ceremony was nearing its end, after which the cathedral would empty and fill again with more soldiers; not the rank-and-file, who received no consecration, but the elite, the zealots, the most ferverent and dangerous of Satan’s army.

The shadow, on his perch, stirred and chuckled. He mimicked an underhanded tossing gesture, as if throwing a grenade, and "Boom," he whispered. If only it could be so easy. But it would accomplish nothing. No—more silent methods for him, more critical targets. He was only there to watch the show. He, a spectator, would do nothing to disturb it. Let them take solace in their mysticism, their religious magic.

"Chumps," he whispered. "Bunch of chumps." He turned as the prelate returned to his station at the dark altar, and exited through a missing piece of stained-glass window.

The ledge outside, spanning the front of the cathedral, was lined with his hand-chosen troops, all of them battle-hardened and deadly. The narrow dagger, the sniper rifle and silenced pistol, the garroting wire, the throwing star—these were their weapons. Black was their color. They had each elevated murder to a sort of perfection, each in their own way. Twenty strong, they had been a terror to their enemies since the war started. They would appear from nowhere, and disappear to the same place. Zones of influence, battle lines, security . . . These things seemed to mean nothing to them.

Of course, those things meant more than nothing, he reflected. Considerably more than nothing. His team was simply better at dodging them. It was their job, after all. It was what they did for a living, and often what they did simply to live. He considered it a point of pride that none of them had died yet. Some minor wounds here and there, but nothing that kept their performance below optimum. It was a tribute to his leadership, and to their individual skills.

"Anything interesting going on in there, Commander Kohaku?" asked one of his silent killers, a young Filipino woman named Epo (specialty: disguise and thrown blades). She did not speak aloud, of course—they had developed a crude system of sign language in the beginning of the war, one which became more sophisticated as the days passed. Also, they were all adept lip-readers. It was another stock job skill, nothing special.

"No," he told her. "Just the standard shit."

The ledge on which they all stood or crouched was far above one of the main thoroughfares of hell’s capital, called (logically enough) Hellscenter. Below, countless demons churned about their jobs, hastening from one place to the next. The cathedral was the only pre-modern building in sight, all that was left of the old medieval Hellscenter, a remnant of the days when hell had actually been housed below the surface of the earth, rather than on another plane in its own right. Most of the old city had been mercilessly torn down in the custom of hell’s planners, replaced by newer buildings, and then buildings that were newer still. The main street of Hellscenter’s current incarnation could have been in the financial district of any major capital on earth: skyscrapers, with glassy walls, were the dominant theme. The cathedral had been considered useful for indoctrination purposes, and so it had remained, and now it provided a far better (and more comfortable) waypoint for the commando team than any of the more modern buildings could have. Its ornate architecture and the absence of lights far up, towards its roof, allowed them to hide in relative peace.

Neko longed for a cigarette, though. He could not risk it, for very obvious reasons . . . Damn. So much of his line of work was composed of waiting. It was true for all hunters in the shadows, of course. There was nothing glamorous in the waiting—very little in the stalking. It was only the rare moments of intense action that would carry any excitement for an outsider, and even those were horribly brutal and over quickly. There was no place for honor or glory. If you could stab a man in the back, or slit his throat, or better still simply poison his food—then that was what you did. As few frontal assaults as possible. Keep exposure to a minimum. If possible, never let those you kill know that they have died, not even at the very last moment. So much for honor. So much for glory. Cold-bloodedness was the highest virtue an assassin could cultivate. Any emotion, especially ambition, should be suppressed at all costs.

Epo touched his arm, and he turned to her. "Abhinev wants you to know, Commander Kohaku," she signed, "that we should be ready to move at any moment."

He nodded. The Indian Abhinev, their resident technician and communications expert, crouched about halfway down the line, his head bowed, his eyes closed. On his lap was a complicated keyboard, and in his hand was a small satellite dish, trained on the building across the street. His other hand was constantly dancing over the keys, fine-tuning, zooming, cutting distortion. He would move the dish infinitesimally every now and then, picking up the radio messages in some other room, all of which went into the headphones covering his ears. His eyes were closed because, in his head, he was making a map of the building—every room, and every demon in them, would be accounted for before they crossed. Abhinev was more than half the reason they had made it so far, in fact. The man was magical when united with his equipment.

Neko made a few quick hand-movements: "Make sure everyone knows." The message went down the line, communicated silently. Everyone began to work stiffened joints, check blades and guns, tighten the straps that held their tools to them. Almost time. They had been on their precarious perch for over three hours; now, at last, they would be able to go to work.

A large bat swooped low over Neko’s head, and he ducked involuntarily. It settled down on an upraised fist toward the end of the line, and he grimaced. Iris—the vampire. Like most of the team, Neko had a hard time trusting vampires, even though Ben Red Bird had vouched for this one personally. Abhinev somehow sensed the bat’s arrival and broke from his concentration long enough to train an unfriendly gaze on Iris. The blood-drinker’s messenger bats had rendered an important part of his job—communication with the home base—obsolete, and he was resentful of it. It made good sense to use the bats, of course. Radio messages could be intercepted. No one noticed another bat flying high over the battlefield.

The contents of the bat’s package were relayed down to Neko from Iris: "Your next target is the main barracks. Find it in the Jagged Canyon, seventy kilometers south of your current location. Assignment: detonate officer’s quarters. Find supplies at the following coordinates," and then a series of numbers, which Neko memorized.

The bastards, he thought. That’s what we get for being successful: a goddamn suicide mission. He shrugged. They would handle it when the time came, or do their best.

A sharp tug at his sleeve from Epo—he turned to see Abhinev looking up at him, nodding urgently, holding up eight fingers, then all ten, then seven. Eighth story, tenth window from the left. Seven minutes to do it in.

Robbie, the American commando, looked at Neko, got a nod. He raised what looked like a rifle to his shoulder, peered into the sight, and fired. A cylindrical device the size of a fist shot out with a soft explosion of air, cable hissing behind it, through the great expanse of shadow which separated the two buildings. It latched onto the narrow steel girder that separated the eighth and nine story windows, and stayed there. A near-invisible cord connected the buildings, the other end of which Robbie removed from the cartridge of his special rifle and tied tightly to a particularly solid stone gargoyle.

Neko moved quickly. As commander, it was his job to clear the way, and everyone understood that. They pressed back against the wall, letting him pass before them, a few quick strides. When he had reached the cord he pulled on it sharply, testing its strength, and nodded his approval at Robbie. He took an instrument from his belt and unfolded it. A small wheel, with a clasp and leather handholds hanging on either side, it looked vaguely like it had come from a miniature bicycle. He fitted the wheel onto the cord, slid it back and forth a couple of times, flipped the clasps closed, seized the leather straps tightly, and launched himself.

A cloud of bats emerged, rustling and squeaking, from the roof of the cathedral and surrounded him as he whirred along the cord. Called up by Iris, their purpose was to obscure him from the eyes of anyone walking the streets below. He did his best to ignore the little wings beating at his face, the plump bat-bodies bouncing off his body like heavy fruits, the fluttering shapes on all sides of him. Likewise, he ignored the pavement eight stories below, and the breathtaking gap of air that separated him from it. He kept his hands tight, gritted his teeth and squinted into the wind—a tear welled from his eye into the cold air and was swept off his face—concentrating completely on the approaching skyscraper, his feet raised and ready, until it filled his vision and his heels hit the girder hard. He bounced back about six feet, rolled down again more slowly, and this time he stayed there, mostly horizontal, his feet braced and his hands clenching the leather.

He went to work instantly. Thanks to Abhinev, he knew there was no one in the room on the other side of the tinted glass. No need for quiet. He let go with one hand, and hurriedly attached his belt to a hook hanging from a small chain, which hung in turn from the harness he had ridden down. When he was secure, he released himself completely and hung in space for a second. He used his feet to push off, and his body described a quick half-circle, until his hands were planted on the girder. He took what looked like a boxcutter from his belt—in fact it was a boxcutter, more or less, except for the blade, which was made of diamond and was razor-sharp. First he cut a small circle in the window, put his hand in that. Then he started a much larger circle, five feet across, spinning upside-down to form the lower part (he tilted his head backwards, there, just for the sheer hell of it, and looked straight down on the street and the tiny bodies which walked it). The glass tipped inwards as he made the last cut, but he kept his hand tightly wedged into the small circle, and he pushed it into the building rather than letting it fall all eight stories to the street. It landed on soft carpet, and did not break.

Through the new hole in the window, Neko could see an office—cubicles, desks, computers, some flourescent lights above which were switched off. He slid the top half of his body through the hole, reached up to his harness and, without fumbling, flipped up the clasps that released the wheel. As it fell off the steely cord-bridge he twisted his body like a snake, carrying it and him through the hole. He hit the carpet, somersaulted silently, and came up in a crouch, eyes scanning automatically for trouble.

He saw none, and leapt to drag the glass he had just cut out of the way. No sooner had he done
so than the rest of the team came hissing down the cord, each with their own cloud of bats, detatching at the last minute and letting their momentum carry them feet-first onto the carpet. One-two-three-four-five they came, just like that, barely two seconds between them, just enough time to roll out of the way for the next. It made Neko’s heart swell to see such professionalism. He did what he always did in moments of great emotion: he fingered the hilt of his katana, which was slung, as ever, on his back. "Good work," he muttered to people as they came through—the ban on speech was lifted as long as they were inside a safe room.

Robbie, as soon as he was inside, took out a pack of cigarettes and made to light one. Neko slapped it out of his hands. "What the fuck?" Robbie hissed, then added, quickly, "sir."

"No smoking until we’re safe," Neko whispered sternly. "Until the job’s over. Don’t be an idiot."

"We were on that ledge for hours. I need a cigarette."

"Me, too. Let’s finish this quickly."

Robbie looked reluctant to push it, but equally reluctant to let it go. "When, then, Commander Kohaku?"

"When the job’s over, I said. Or—" he favored Robbie with a sharp flash of teeth—"when things get so completely, utterly fucked there’s nothing else we can do but smoke."

The soldier half-smiled. "How will I know when that is?"

"I’ll tell you. Now, get ready. All of you, get ready. We’re moving."

Iris had been the last one through the hole, flying with the rest of the bats, his cloak billowing, his fangs bared, carrying the other end of the cord and coiling it as he went. When he was standing in the room with everyone else he handed the neatly-spooled thing to Robbie with an ironic bow. Robbie nodded thanks. Then the vampire seemed to become insubstantial, smokier. He went to the door, opened it silently, and slipped out, the trailblazer, the disabler of sensors that could not detect him, the breaker of hidden cameras, invisible as he was to anyone watching on the other end.

Neko was just behind him. Everyone knew the building’s layout—there had been plenty of time for that, on the ledge. Everyone knew their duties. A few went to take out strategic security outposts—others to cut wires, here and there—and Epo went with Neko and Iris, as well as Mbawe (an amazingly tall African hunter) and Vaslav (a wiry, red-headed Russian thief).

Quietly they crept down a deserted hall. There were lights here but no guards, not just yet. Abhinev had done his job well. At a certain corner Neko stopped, took a small mirror from a pouch, and used it to look down the next hall—there, just where they were supposed to be, were four hulking, hardened demon-guards at attention.

Patiently, Neko waited. He had given Abhinev’s team thirty seconds—after twenty-five, all the lights in the next hall went out. A wire had been cut, somewhere, leaving a tiny portion of the building in darkness.

Neko spun around the corner, began to run as he raised a silenced pistol. The second guard was his—the first Epo took with a thrown knife. The third went to one of Mbawe’s arrows (who was just as skilled with his people’s older, silent weapons as he was with a hunting rifle). The last, who had barely time to utter a strangled cry, was decapitated by a swift horizontal sweep that Neko passed through his neck effortlessly.

Iris floated up to Neko’s side, looking mildly displeased, even in the dimness. "Leave me some lifeblood," he whispered, "next time."

"Kill faster, then," Neko offered, wiping his katana on a guard’s uniform before sheathing it. Vaslav had already scampered to the guards and was searching their pockets for a door key. "We don’t have time to wait on people."

Iris eyed him darkly. "Anyway," Neko continued, "since when do vampires drink demon-blood?"

"It can be done."

"But not by choice. I thought you preferred humans."

"I have acquired a taste for these infernal creatures," Iris admitted. "They are different. More—fiery." He smiled sharply, coldly, then barked a humorless laugh. "Like good Indian food."

The other three members of the team edged away from Iris, eyeing him distastefully. "I see," said Neko. "Well, at least you’re getting something out of all this. Anyhow. You’ll have plenty of opportunity in a second, here. Vaslav, how about that door?"

"Da. I have found the proper key." The Russian fit a key-card in a slot in the door, then paused. "Ready?"

"Ready," said Neko.

The door opened with a hiss onto the headquarters of CICH—the Central Infernal Communications Hub. Computers covered the walls, humming softly. Dim lights glowed overhead, while powerful cooling units hissed and fans buzzed. On two rows of chairs, each spanning a wall, sat hell’s top technicians, peering into screens, tapping on keys, murmuring softly, receiving calls, transferring calls, monitoring calls. Unlike the soldiers in the field, these demons looked soft, rounded, somewhat slimy, and uniformly pale. Each had more fingers than was natural, larger eyes—a few had extra hands, or pseudopods, or tentacles.

The opposite end of the rectangular room was a composite of hundreds of images—countless screens forming one seething mass of colors and shapes: the Eyes of the Chief Communicator.

An enormous bulk rested before these screens, a sickening, white, grubby mass of a demon, like a hideously enlarged version of the grubs and larvae that burrow frantically into the darkness of soil when their logs are overturned. The thing was eighteen feet long, and at least that big around, shapeless and grotesque; it rested ensconsed in a harness, surrounded by a circle of keyboards. It had no legs, but fifty chitinous limbs flickered continually over the thousands of keys, so quickly as to be a blur, and each limb was endowed with any number of sharp, slender fingers.

The communication technicians looked up in alarm at the dark, lanky shape emerging from the darkness—other shadows behind him, moving with horrible purpose. At the opposite end of the room, the Chief Communicator twisted its body with a squelching noise: hundreds of small, dark, circular eyes surrounded a mass of waving orange tentacles, which in turn surrounded a round hole, large as a man’s head. None of the technicians said anything. They all seemed frozen, shocked at the sheer impossibility of it. Enemies in CICH? It could not be. Neko walked to the nearest technician, smiling beatifically at the staring devil-faces before him. "Hello," he said, "and good night."

He brushed the nearest one’s head off in a flash of metal, and Iris came swooping through the gush, fangs bared, homing in on the most conspicuous throat.

. . .

Of course it was over in seconds. Neko eyed the carnage dolefully. "That was supposed to be the hard part, too," he said. "Damn, I get sick of everything being so easy."

Iris was licking his hands clean like a cat. "I don’t," he said. "Mmm."

The Chief Communicator was the only one left alive. Its "face" had no expression Neko could read, but its mouth-tentacles were seething agitatedly, its arms were waving and flickering over the keyboards more quickly than ever, and its body ululated in what seemed an instinctive desire to slither away. Neko walked over to it.

"You," he said, "are possibly the most nauseating thing I have ever seen in my life. It will be a pleasure to kill you."

The creature did not speak, but it tapped a large button and the images it had been monitoring dissolved—replaced by a composite of a giant mouth that filled all its screens, a mouth twice as wide as a man, though it was like a human’s. As it typed out its message, the image of the giant mouth moved, and a well-modulated computerized voice came from the enormous speakers.

"You will all die before I will," said the mouth/the speakers/the Chief Communicator. "I have activated every alarm available to me. Hell’s response will be immediate. Moreover, do you imagine this room does not have cameras? Every motion we make here is monitored in a hundred different places. The Dark Lord Himself is said to train an eye on the Central Infernal Communications Hub. Your lives are worth less than the filth in which you live, Outsiders."

"Please," scoffed Neko. "If we were professional enough to get in here, do you really think we haven’t considered these possibilities? Do you really think I’d be chatting with you right now, if my life was in that much danger? You insult my professional nature. You haven’t sent a single goddamn alarm. Trust me. We cut all those circuits a few minutes ago, just before we killed your guards." He smiled. "If anyone knows how possible that is, you do. So don’t you dare tell me I’m lying."

The Chief Communicator was silent. "As far as the cameras go," Neko continued. "Why don’t you check them yourself?"

Slowly, almost unwillingly, one of the arms typed out a few commands. The top line of screens switched from the mouth-image to a number of different angles of the CICH. According to the images on the screen, all the devils were still alive and going about their work, there were no intruders, and the Chief Communicator itself was still tranquilly at its station, all its eyes trained on the screens before it. The real-life Central Communicator convulsed involuntarily, a sharp, shuddery spasm that sent ripples throughout its fleshy body, and tapped a key. The camera images disappeared again, and the mouth said one word: "How?"

"I’ve got a damn good hacker, that’s how. Don’t you worry. We’ll have enough time for a nice chat, you and me. Enough time for the rest of my team to get here. When that happens, would you like to know what we’ll do?" He waited for an answer, then continued: "We’ll simply open up one of those ducts you’ve got there, and crawl out, single-file. We already know the way. It’s awfully convenient: all these computers, all this electrical equipment, you need big air ducts to keep the cool air flowing. Make sure they don’t overheat. Like a ready-made escape route."

"Am I expected to beg for my life?" asked the Chief Communicator.

"Actually," said Neko, "no. Unless that sounds like the sort of thing you’d like to do."

"It does not."

"No, then. I don’t really give a flying fuck what you do right now. I just thought we might exchange a couple words while I wait for my team to get here" He leaned against a bank of computers. "A few minutes ago I told you it would be a pleasure to kill you. Don’t you want to know why?" No response. "Well, there’s no real pleasure in killing, y’see. Not exactly. I mean, sure, the adrenaline, the danger, all of that’s nice. But the taking of a life? Not a joy. You, though. You are the heart of the rot of this place. You are the pulpy mass that lives in hell’s core. You’re responsible for the whole place’s nervous system. You sort of represent everything I came here to destroy. It’s going to be a fabulously symbolic act, killing you. I’ll enjoy the hell out of it."

The arms began to move again. "You disgust me," said the Chief Communicator. "You weak, bone-filled, hairy, stupid creature. You move through the dirt and filthiness of the Outside . . . It has tainted you. If you intend to kill me, do it now, that I may no longer look at your face."

"Soon enough," said Neko.

The doors opened, and the second team filed in. Robbie was at the back of the line. "We’re still waiting for Abhinev and the rest," said Neko. "They should be here soon."

The new arrivals eyed the Chief Communicator with mingled fascination and horror. "Damn, it’s ugly," Neko heard someone mutter.

A red light began to flash on and off, rhythmically, over the bank of screens. "What’s that?" Neko asked the Chief Communicator distrustfully. "Tell me what that is."

"It is not my doing," said the Chief Communicator. "Someone is sending a message over all available frequencies in hell. A top-priority message."

"Is that so? Find out where it’s coming from. I’ll think about making your death an easy one—by the blade, say."

"What is the alternative?"

"The painful death?"

"Yes."

"Fire."

The Chief Communicator sat frozen for a half-second, then touched a few keys. "The message is coming from the Dark Prophet’s Tall Tower."

"What?" Neko leapt forward, seizing a handful of the creature’s mouth tentacles and dragging its awful face close to his. "If you’re lying, I swear no one will ever understand the pain you will endure at my hands."

The speed with which it typed had an air of the frantic, though of course the voice that came from the speakers was as calm as ever. "I am not lying. Strange things have been happening there, if the communications of the last quarter-hour are to be trusted."

"The Tall Tower . . .?" muttered Epo. "Commander, isn’t that where McMullen is being housed?"

"Show me the communication," Neko ordered. "Right now."

The screens filled with an old demon’s gnarled face. ". . . is the final war indeed. All soldiers, all servants of the Cleansing Fire, all those who remember Typhera or serve her at heart: heed my words. I have uttered the forbidden name. I welcome the consequences, e’en the second damning, for Typhera’s son has come to us. Her son has come to us! He is called the McMullen, and I swear he shall lead us to the true freedom, to our rightful authority at last, and Lucifer, plagues on his name, shall be toppled from his throne of callousness and arrogance!

"My name is Ardish—I am a one-time follower of Queen Typhera—still do I serve her, and hold her memory most dear. I do not lie." He spun for a moment, placing his upper back in view, and Neko saw a white scar on each shoulderblade, where wings once might have been. He turned back. "Let the brand of my ancient pain confirm the truth of my words. Like you, I lost my wings for the cause. I would have given up more. The war begins again."

The old demon’s face was replaced by another, a familiar one, and Neko gasped. Mutters went around the room, as Keith Sterling began to speak.

"Hey," he said. "Okay. Listen: it’s true. Many of you may know me, by reputation at least. I’m Keith Sterling, one of the leaders of the army that’s attacking you right now. But our quarrel isn’t with you, it’s with Lucifer." He stopped, seeming to listen to someone off-camera. "Yeah. Curses be on his name. Anyway, we’re on your side. I can promise you that, if you fight for us, we will leave as soon as Lucifer is dethroned, and then you can govern hell however you damn well please. It’ll be yours. Anyone who turns on Lucifer now, anyone who follows Jay—uh—the McMullen will be spared. Hell, you’ll be rewarded most generously, and all that. But help us. We’re trapped in the Tall Tower right now, along with the McMullen, and unless you come to our aid right now we’ll all die here. I’m begging you: if you’re hearing this, help us. Uh—that’s it." The screens went dark, then were replaced once again by the mouth.

Neko released a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. A chattering rose up all around the room. "Quiet!" he shouted. "I need to think!" The voices died off immediately, all except for one.

"No!" the Chief Communicator was saying, over and over. "No! It cannot be! It cannot be! No! The war is over! Typhera’s followers are all scattered and broken! It . . ."

Almost absently, Neko pulled his katana from its sheath and plunged it into the hole in the middle of the thing’s face. Its tentacles convulsed around the blade as he slid it in up to his wrist, once, twice, thrice, then they relaxed slowly, and its insect-arms fell limp. The mass of pale, slimy body sagged in its harness. "Thanks for your help," Neko muttered.

"Commander," someone murmured, "what now? What happens now?"

Neko considered this question for a few moments, then he sighed. Slowly, almost casually, he pulled a pack of Camels from his pocket and tapped one out. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "smoke ‘em if you got ‘em." He lit the cigarette with a battered Zippo, and smiled. "Goddamn," he said. "I always wanted to say that."

. . .

Hell is a country of marshes, cindery plains, burned cities, diseased brothels, tangled forests, and bestial dens: and no two devils are of the same shape and appearance, some having limbs too many, some limbs too few, others with limbs misplaced or the heads of animals, or having no faces, or faces like those long dead, or the faces of those whom they hate so that when they see themselves reflected they detest the image. But all of them believe themselves handsome and, at least compared to the others, good. And murderers and their victims, if they were both evil, become at death one devil.

- John Morryster, Marvells of Science, 1736

. . . A good deal of which is, of course, bullshit. No one becomes a devil after they die, for starters, anymore than they become angels. The physical descriptions in Mr. Morryster’s book are accurate enough, but the moral judgements are ridiculous, rank with the foolish prejudice people of our sort have always had for demons, seeing them as wicked tormentors. Even if their main duty is to torment dead souls, what of it? So many of us work our whole lives at jobs that deal in the death and pain of others, directly or indirectly, and we hardly ever think twice about it. In fact, the inhabitants of hell are very much like you or me—more so than most angels, in fact. They are born, just like us. Just like us, they have children, homes, lives, loves, passions, sorrows, and deaths. They make their way as best they can through this world and sometimes, just like us, they do all right. In fact, if there is one overriding feature common to all demons, it is only this: they are suckers for lost causes. Let go of your stupid biases. Try to see things from someone else’s perspective for a change.

Listen: Once upon a time there was a powerful king He was usually just, but was also distant and not always kind. His many subjects feared him, respected him, stood in awe of him, but there was only one they all loved: the king’s majordomo and top general, who was very beautiful and full of genuine understanding. This prince was an artist, a diplomat, and a warrior, a sage and a poet, with a fertile mind. Among his many duties was to present the grievances of the king’s subjects to the king. His was a precarious position, but his wit was so quick and his speech so pleasing that he maintained the love of both ruled and ruler, who, it was said, cherished this prince and his counsel even above his own son.

But it had to end. When the king turned too much attention to a new domain, in another land, his original subjects cried for help, and the prince’s heart was much pained. He went before the king and begged him to be prudent: "Your people feel you have cast your gaze too far abroad—keep your heart with us, lord, your first followers! For we are still young and foolish, and need your tender guidance! I fear for us if you become too enamored of these new holdings." But the king turned a cold eye upon his general, saying "I will do as I so choose, for am I not the king? And am I not great? My orders are my guidance. Those should suffice. I will slay traitors, so let me hear no more of them."

The prince was deeply troubled, for it seemed to him that his king, though powerful, was little more than a child, easily distracted and petulant. This disturbed him to the core. Softly, he asked, "But do worthy servants not deserve some explanation of their orders, lord?"

"They do not," the king answered briefly. "Now begone."

Then the prince’s loyalty turned to hatred, and he abandoned the side of the king and went out and raised him up an army of those who felt as he did. Three out of every four subjects remained with the king, some out of fear, some out of blind, stupid loyalty, some for more obscure reasons. But one of every turned, and followed the prince into a war where they did great damage to the king, but were eventually defeated. There had never been any doubt of this outcome, but they marched for a lost cause. And though some call it wicked, others might call it brave.

When the war was over the king banished the prince—who begged for death—to a barren, failed place, along with all his follower who still lived, and cursed them so that they would forever be physically warped. He could have destroyed the rebels, and this is indeed what they expected and desired, but he had a dim idea that he would use them to test, trouble, and thus strengthen his new subjects, the ones who interested him so much. His ex-prince at first fell into this role out of hatred for those upstarts who had won his lord’s favor, though he deeply resented his continued usefulness to the king. As he consolidated power in the new place, though, and the king’s new subjects proved more susceptible to temptation than the king himself had anticipated, the ex-prince began to make plans for a second war. As centuries passed, and then millenia, he lost all his ideals, and his fellow rebels and their descendants lost much love for him, and in the end he was as tyrannical and full of pride as the old king himself.

. . .

Well, I learned the trade from Piggy Knowles
Sing, sing, Tommy Shea
God used me as his hammer, boys,
To beat his weary drum today
Sun is up, the world is flat
Damn good address for a rat
The smell of blood and drone of flies
You know what to do when the baby cries.

Well, we stick our fingers in the ground
Heave and turn the world around.
Smoke is blacking out the sun
At night I pray and clean my gun.
The cracked bell rings as the
Ghost bird sings, and the
Gods go begging here.
So just open fire when you hit the shore
All is fair in love and war.

Hoist that rag!
Hoist that rag, hoist that rag!

- Traditional Demon Marching Song

Velkia took pride in his new role: he was Carrier of the McMullen, the Warrior’s Squire, Shield-Bearer of Typhera’s Line. The titles ran through his mind, strengthening him as he supported McMullen with an arm under his shoulders, down, down, down the stairs, to the mouth of the tunnel along which ten thousand enemy soldiers marched.

Demons do not judge the worth of their lives by duration. Nor do they study the whole shape of a life. The old impulses apply, of course: like all things, they might cherish wealth and peace and a full stomach when they grow old. But these are meaningless without those days or hours—maybe only one or two in an entire lifetime—by which all the rest are defined. We’ve all had them. You, too. Think for a few moments: you’ll know when they were. They were the times (of heartache, of joy, of danger, of love) when every word, every second, was crucial and eternal, and you have never lost them, and never will. It might have been a kiss, for you. Or the day someone died. Or when you cried so hard that your whole body wept. Or when, just once, you were wholly at the mercy of your art, and saw it all whole and terrible there in front of you. Whatever it was, you still remember it perfectly, and the memory is a brand on your inside places, as deep as you go. It is a composite of those crucial days or hours or minutes that make up a life, or so demons believe. Everything else is just filler. Most importantly, you cannot seek them—they find you. In part it was this philosophy that, so many thousands of years ago, made a faction of angels susceptible to what Lucifer was selling, to the point that they were willing to risk everything, even damnation, on one roll of the dice, one war, with the odds stacked so far against them it was insanity. It is this philosophy that has endured in hell ever since. Say what you will about devils: they understand passion.

Velkia was having one of those life-defining times, with his arm around the McMullen, going to face the enemy. He felt incredible. He was full of a ruthless, unreasoning joy. He was about to die, and he could not have given less of a damn. If he had put his thoughts into words, they might have been something like: "It is enough. It is enough, that I have seen all this!"

"Almost there, mi’lord," he muttered. McMullen’s eyelids were fluttering like broken shades, like a camera’s shutter when it’s jammed. Sterling had given his black parachute to McMullen to use as a blanket; it enveloped his body and dragged far behind them, like the train of a mighty robe. "Almost there," he repeated.

"Keith," McMullen managed, stumbling. "Keith . . ."

"Your friend is above us, Lord. He and the others are using the radio to call upon our allies for help. Hell will be in an uproar."

"Isaiah—Neko . . ."

"I do not know these names, Lord."

McMullen seemed to regain his wits, a little. "No one," he said, and smiled a little. "Just a couple of death-gods I know."

"Yes, Lord."

"I am very tired."

"Yes, Lord."

"I am so tired, Velkia."

"Yes, Lord." The stairs went down flight after flight, doubling back and forth again. Velkia and his father had just marched up them a few days before. Now he carried his crippled King down them, to face his former allies and either cut them down or be cut down. Things had changed.

"Velkia . . ." he coughed. "Do you intend to die with me?"

"I intend," said Velkia, "to live on, and you with me."

"I—I don’t think I’m strong enough to spit the fire again. I don’t think I can. I’m all dry inside."

"You will not die," said Velkia fiercely, forcing himself to believe. "You will live, and I will carry you." He paused, then said, quite seriously, "They bring a doom to shatter you, but it will shatter on your back, and return to visit those who sent it." McMullen, though, seemed to have relapsed, his feet barely making stepping motions anymore. He let them slap heavily on stair after stair as they descended. They finished the rest of the journey in silence.

The last step of the last flight faded into the living stone of the tunnel, which stretched ahead into darkness—but a bright glow was on the wall, advancing, somewhere around a corner about fifty yards away. The army, which stretched ten miles straight into the earth, had almost arrived. Their countless feet boomed under the earth.

Velkia laid McMullen down. He moaned and drew the black folds of the parachute more tightly around his shoulders. He hunched there on the stone, surveying the tunnel, a waif in winter, perhaps dying. Velkia stood beside him, waiting, facing down the marching army. His heart was singing like a star.

The commander of the ranks rounded the corner first, and his face registered surprise at what he saw: two figures, one standing, one sitting, at the foot of the steps. The first row was right behind him, and another after them, and so on. They did not stop until the commander was about ten yards from McMullen, at which point he raised a fist and cried "Halt!" The army ceased to march, and the echoes faded away slowly. The commander fingered his sword, uncertain.

McMullen rose slowly to his feet, pulling his robe tight around his throat.

. . .

An Excerpt from the BOOK of VELKIA, Part of the Infernal Tome:

CHAPTER TWELVE, VERSES THREE TO EIGHTEEN

3. AND the armies of HELL came to the path’s end, and LO, before them rose the MCMULLEN, whose mother was TYPHERA, and beside stood his humble SQUIRE.
4. And MCMULLEN spake, saying GO from here, for this TOWER is held by TYPHERA’S followers, and mine, and we shall not suffer you here.
5. SO spake MCMULLEN, though the torches of his enemies stretched before him for ONE HUNDRED LEAGUES, as far and farther, in that PLACE under the ground.
6. HELL’S GENERAL, who stood in the fore, said That NAME is forbidden, to which MCMULLEN answered: IT is redeemed.
7. And HELL’S GENERAL said, WHO are you, HALFBLOOD, and how is it you dare to OPPOSE me, I who have HELL’S greatest ARMY behind me? Thus spoke HELL’S GENERAL.
8. And MCMULLEN said, I am your PRINCE. I have set my WILL against that of the DARK LORD and his PROPHET’S, and THEIRS has broken on MINE. Do you hope to surpass them, your MASTERS?
9. And HELL’S GENERAL spoke, saying You are a PRISONER of WAR. You must be taken in for questioning.
10. And MCMULLEN said, THEY have already QUESTIONED me, and tortured me unto DEATH. And HE stepped forward,
11. And HE stooped, and traced a FIERY LINE upon the stone with his finger, from WALL to WALL.
12. And HE spoke again, saying Any who cross this LINE will be CONSUMED.
13. Then HELL’S GENERAL drew his gun from his side, and FIRED at MCMULLEN’S HEART, and as the bullet crossed over the FIERY LINE it burst into flames, and the ball of flame hit MCMULLEN’S chest, and burst, and HE was UNHARMED, for the FIRE was HIS.
14. So HELL’S GENERAL cursed HIM, and drew his SWORD, and leapt across the LINE, and was likewise CONSUMED, just as MCMULLEN had spoken it.
15. There was great FEAR among HELL’S RANKS, then, and the SOLDIERS muttered, saying SURELY this is TYPHERA’S SON, and a PRINCE of HELL.
16. Then MCMULLEN spake again, saying GO from here, and MARCH to the place from which you CAME. I spare you. And HE told them also, If any wish to show me GRATITUDE for my MERCY, then turn on the DARK LORD, for his time is drawing to its CLOSE. Then he sank to his KNEES, and his SQUIRE seized him and carried him up the stairs away from that PLACE, but the FIERY LINE remained.
17. So HELL’S ARMY turned, and MARCHED back the way it had COME, and many of them followed MCMULLEN from that day forward; yea, even many of those who had fought TYPHERA in her day. For it was said that MCMULLEN was greater even than TYPHERA, for he had shown MERCY.
18. And they SPOKE among THEMSELVES, saying TYHPERA’S OFFSPRING is mighty indeed. And others said, HE is as LUCIFER was once, and he shall be called PRINCE.

Anyway, that’s the official version of what happened. That’s how they talk about it now. Some others say that James McMullen cut the commander a deal, and that was why they marched back—others that they fought a duel for command of the army, and that McMullen won. There are still other stories in which the magic the half-demon summoned was even more spectacular than a barrier line drawn in stone. The truth of the matter, what words were spoken and what deeds were done there, deep under the ground, is a matter of much conjecture. But the account above is what Velkia always swore by, and McMullen never denied it, though he never denied any of the other accounts, either. Who can say? It was to become the stuff of legend, that confrontation, and the nature of legend is that it defies any final form. What is certain is that a day later the army burst out of the tunnel through the place they had entered, and the majority of them did, indeed, turn on their former masters. Moreover, from that moment on the McMullen was called Prince of Hell, even by his enemies.

. . .

Velkia dragged McMullen up the final step of their ascent. The Son of Typhera looked bad. His eyes were somehow loose, prone to rolling in different directions. Soot, burns and cuts covered his body—he was utterly unable to walk without help, and slipped in and out of consciousness. Under his hand, Velkia could feel ribs shifting in a worrying way. It occurred to Velkia that he was looking at the ultimate in pain and exhaustion, taken past the limits of tolerance and almost the point of death. This can’t go on, thought Velkia, and he was horrified by the thought. They must not, must not lose the McMullen. Not after what had just happened. He would have to think of something.

In the tower’s ground floor he found Rook and a few others dragging heavy rocks to barricade the door. When they saw Velkia and McMullen they exclaimed with joy and ran to them. "He spat the fire!" cried Rook.

"No," said Velkia. "But he sent the army back. They will not trouble us—though they might trouble the Dark Lord, curses on him."

"We feared you would be lost," said Rook. "We will not ask him to go alone again."

"I was with him," said Velkia, and Rook clapped his shoulder and looked to burst with pride.

"Is the McMullen awake?" asked one of the other demons.

"He is greatly weakened," Velkia told him. "It is our turn to protect him; I fear he can no longer care for himself." He began to carry his prince to the stairs, with an idea to lay him down.

Rook followed, flashing him a humorless grin. "I bought us some time, earlier, with my little speech. And it’s run out." A heavy thud reverberated through the room, and the door buckled somewhat.

"How many?" Velkia asked.

"Enough. Plenty. Not as many as there were."

"Our allies outside are all fallen, then?"

"If they had not," Rook chided him, "if even one still lived, our enemies would not lay a hand on this door. But they have fallen. And worse, those in the radio room above tell us that McMullen’s allies on the edges of hell's army, the ones we were waiting to fight before, son, are also slain."

"How did that happen?"

"Hell has thrown all its aerial forces against this tower. This tower’s auto-weapons have kept them from us, but the other forces were all wiped out. So we are truly alone."

Velkia stretched McMullen out on one of the stairs, halfway up to the next level. "We will stand around him," he said, "and protect him for as long as we can."

"Yes," said Rook.

Sterling and the rest of the demons came hastening downwards at that moment. A whole arsenal of blades and guns hung from their shoulders, belts, and backs, which they began to distribute. "We sent the message," puffed Sterling, "and scoured this damn place for any kind of weapon we could. But I don’t know how much good it’ll do. I looked outside again—there must be about a tenth of the army left."

"Our people did well," said one of the demons proudly.

"Big fucking deal. We’re still proper fucked now, aren’t we?" asked Sterling. He glanced at McMullen anxiously. "How is he?"

"Poorly," said Velkia, "but he has stemmed the tide below. His work is done. Ours begins."

Sterling jerked a thumb over his shoulder at a woman in white, with a golden breastplate, who was descending the steps at the back of the group. "In the top floor we found Athena, here. She apparently stitched up McMullen’s wings before he pulled his little stunt dive."

"You are welcome at our side, man-goddess," Rook told her solemnly.

"Thank you," she said, all dignity. "I can fight." She patted a sword at her side. "I have talents aside from stitching. Still, my powers are weak, here. I could have done better at another time, in another place. But I will do my best."

"So will we all," said Rook.

"Shit!" said Sterling. The door continued to tremble, as the battering ram continued its steady thudding. "We can’t win this fight."

"We have done well," said Velkia. "No one can accuse us of failure."

"Goddamn fatalists," said Sterling, unslinging his tommygun. "All right. Let’s do it. Let’s go. Give James a weapon."

The devils all glanced dubiously at the figure lying limp as a rag doll on the step. "He cannot stand," one pointed out.

"Trust me. He’d want a gun."

One of them shrugged, bent over, and put a pistol in McMullen’s hand. His fingers did not close over the stock, but "Good," said Sterling. "That’s good." He took a deep breath. "Okay. Let’s get in position."

Velkia and a few of the other demons stood on the stairs around McMullen, as did Sterling. Rook and the rest went to either side of the staircase, along with Athena. They all trained their weapons on the door, which seemed about to collapse.

"Hold your ground to the last," called Rook. "We have the position of strength. We shall take many with us."

Sterling tightened his grip on his gun. "Right," he muttered. "Right."

One of the heavy hinges burst off the doorframe. There was a pause in the battering. "They’re forming efficient ranks," Rook informed them. "Maybe two more blows. Maybe."

A terrible moment, a long silence, as the little group on the stairs held their hands as steadily as possible. Velkia glanced down, over the railing, at where the elderly devil stood—in a heightened state of awareness, he let his eyes trace slowly along the fine web of wrinkles and scars on top of the devil’s head. One ear twitched, almost imperceptibly. Sensing Velkia’s gaze, the old creature looked up and, slowly, solemnly, winked one round yellow eye at him.

Then the door burst in, in a blast of splinters and shards.

The room was flooded with the red dying-day light of the sky outside, and behind it came the army all at a rush, six or seven abreast. The first line fell instantly under a hail of bullets, and they were followed by another. When he had to reload, Velkia knew, he would be done for. He wished he could have not failed his prince. He saw the demon who had winked at him shot through the head, and saw another sink down clutching at an arrow in his belly.

The wind hit their faces, then: cold, stale, and odorless, and the demons rushing through the door disappeared in a swirling cloud of gray dust that stung everyone’s eyes and poisoned their nostrils; and through the dust came a hurrying figure, the unearthly red light outlining it, tattered robes a-swirl.

The tower’s defenders did not stop firing, but they shifted their focus to the new target. The bullets had no effect. Then Sterling tossed a grenade, bellowing like an animal. It landed between the hurrying figure’s feet, and the man stopped, flinging his arms wide, spreading his cloak. The grenade detonated in a flash, the shrapnel tearing long strips out of the cloak and blasting it full of holes. (Velkia noted, irrationally, the way new beams of red light shone through these holes, so that the figure’s long shadow on the floor was riddled with spots of light.)
Incredibly, there seemed no damage done to anything but the cloak, and he kept advancing. Velkia found his hands were numb from firing his gun, controlling its sharp upward kicks, and that it had been clicking ineffectually for the past couple of seconds; his clip was empty.

"Isaiah?" cried Sterling.

The figure gestured, and Velkia fell backwards as a searing pain went through his body. The other demons did the same, and two crumpled as if dead. "Isaiah, no!" shouted Sterling. "We have James! They’re protecting him!"

The Avatar—for it was him—lowered his arms. His eyes were as fathomless as space. "Where?" he rasped.

Sterling pointed with a trembling finger, and the Avatar moved up the stairs. Rook and the other demons at the foot of the stairs curled as he passed them, moaning, clutching at their bellies. Athena had backed against the wall, her eyes filled with terror. The Avatar spared no one a glance, and everyone but Velkia pulled away from McMullen—Sterling, too. "Kid," he hissed, "stay back."

Velkia stood tall for as long as he could, facing down the oncoming spectre, his knees shaking, until his vision blacked out and he toppled over the railing, landing on his back on the floor. It knocked the breath out of him but shocked him back into wakefulness. He felt much better on the floor, a little farther away as it was from the Avatar.

Sterling shook his head. "Jesus Christ, Isaiah. Jesus Christ."

The Avatar reached McMullen where he laid on the step, and reached down for him. McMullen came awake all of a sudden, his hand closing tightly around the pistol, his eyes flying open but still unseeing. He brought the gun up with a jerk and an incoherent cry, and fired directly between the Avatar’s eyes.

The Avatar jerked his head back, and absently rubbed a sooty streak from his forehead. It was the closest a bullet had come to him since the beginning of the war. He reached down almost tenderly, wrapping his fist around the barrel of the pistol and taking it from McMullen’s hand. He tossed it away as it transformed into a handful of dust. He bent again, seemed about to touch the half-demon’s face, but he checked himself and retracted his hand. McMullen had dropped back into unconsciousness. "He lives," murmured the Avatar.

"Yeah," said Sterling. "Holy fucking God, Isaiah. You have no fucking clue how close we all were to—hell, you don’t know how glad I am you got here."

"I saw him fall," said the Avatar distantly, "from a high hill. It—it did not seem right that he should fall. I came as quickly as I could. I have left a trail of great ruin in my wake." He passed a hand over his face, looking tired. "I took down a mountain that was in my path, and dropped a great host of dragons from the sky outside this tower. It has—exhausted me." He turned his blank eyes to Sterling. "Keith Sterling, this one is nigh unto death. We must carry him from this place."

"Right," said Sterling. "Right." He put his fingers over his eyes and began to laugh hysterically, then, until he could no longer stand and sank onto one of the steps. "Oh, God," he said. "Oh, God. I thought we were goners." He shook with laughter, helplessly. "God, Isaiah, I’d hug you if it wouldn’t kill me."

The Avatar eyed him blankly. "That will not be necessary," he said. "But we must carry James McMullen. Who will do this thing?"

Velkia raised a hand, timidly, and the Avatar cast his gaze over him. He felt his aches throb more intensely as it happened, but he did not fall again. "I am his squire," said Velkia firmly. "I will carry him."

"Good," said the Avatar. "He needs a squire." He turned and strode back towards the door. "Follow me," he said over his shoulder.

Velkia was too weak to carry McMullen by himself, so he and Sterling both took one of his arms, and Athena (once she had found her courage again) took his feet. Together, the three of them walked through the dust and out into the harsh red day, while the rest of the living followed them, single-file, and the Avatar walked far in the fore. They went slowly, for they were all weary and half-dead, but the way seemed charmed before them, and they made it to safety not long after night fell and the long crimson day ended at last.

. . .

Isaiah Red Bird was sitting in a greasy-spoon diner, somewhere in mid-Western America, judging from what he could see outside, and he was drinking cup after cup of black coffee and filling an ashtray. He was enjoying the smoke and the coffee, since he had tasted neither in what felt like a long while. It didn’t matter that there was nothing to do, nor that the diner was empty even of a staff. The coffeepot was really quite enormous, and seemed in no danger of running dry anytime soon. Just to sit at peace was enough.

It was snowing outside, and he enjoyed watching that, as well. The snow came down heavy and thick, in the way it does when it has no intention of stopping until everything is buried. That was what made him think he was in the mid-West, though he had no memory of arriving, nor of how long he had been there. Somehow, the snow just looked the way he remembered it looking in, say, Illinois, or Ohio. He hoped he had not driven a car, because if he had then he was quickly becoming marooned. The roads looked very bad. There had to be at least a foot of snow already. Even walking would be unpleasant.

Other than the weather, the scenery was nothing to speak of. A traffic light at an intersection (no cars driving, obviously), some telephone poles and wires, a doughnut shop across the street on one side, a used auto dealership on the other. No one in sight. All the details were being obliterated by the white purity of the snow. He enjoyed thinking about that as much as he enjoyed watching it happen, as much as he was enjoying the smoke and the coffee. Life was good. He was sitting on a red stool at the bar of the diner. He slowly shredded a napkin, letting his thoughts wander. The traffic light outside continued to pointlessly shift from green to yellow to red to green again, like someone reading a script out loud in outer space. He continued to sit. The clock on the wall said it was five in the afternoon.

He was surprised when someone came around a corner from the other part of the diner, the non-smoking section. He had been sure he was alone. Then he saw who it was.

"Oh," he said. "Hi. It’s you."

His twin smiled and took a stool, lit a cigarette of his own, and poured a cup of coffee from Isaiah’s pot. "In the flesh," he said. "Well—sort of."

"You shouldn’t be here. You’ve been dead for a long, long time. And the dead shouldn’t bother the living."

"Who made that rule? Sounds fishy to me. Don’t you know you’re half-Indian? You should pay attention to spirits."

"That’s the spirits of ancestors, not of dead brothers. And anyway, I left all that behind a long while ago."

"Well, I’m here, anyway. As much as anything can be ‘here.’ Shit, even you’re not ‘here.’ Not really. Your body’s asleep in a tent in hell, asleep for the first time in a couple weeks. It’s not a normal sleep. I called you here, what there was left to call. Thought we should chat and catch up." He looked around, sipping on his coffee. "So this is our soul, now," he said. "I can remember when it was a tree."

Isaiah poured another cup for himself. "I have a question. How come every time I see you, you’re the same age as me?"

"We’re twins, stupid."

"Yeah, but you died when you were a baby. How do you keep getting older?"

"Time passes where I’m at, too. Not as spectacularly, but it does pass. It’s too complicated to explain easily. Not in the kind of time we’ve got."

"I don’t get it. What do we need to talk about?"

"Shoes, ships, sealing-wax—the usual." He chuckled, then began to cough. "Sorry," he said when he was done. "Smoked a pack yesterday. What do we need to talk about? Come on, what do you think? Don’t you remember what’s been going on?"

"Well—" said Isaiah slowly. "Maybe. Oh. Oh, yeah. It’s starting to come back to me. Oh. Oh, damn."

"Yeah, there it is. I can see it in your face. You’re starting to get it."

Isaiah stood up. "I’m sorry, John, but I need to go. James is in trouble. He’s hurt bad."

"Sit down. Shut up. That’s all past now, he’s fine. Our younger brother's got things under control. You’ll go see him when you wake up. You’re the one that’s in trouble now."

Isaiah sat down again. "What do you mean?"

John frowned at his brother. "Isaiah, kid, you’re disappearing. You know that? You’re getting swallowed alive. You’re becoming something other than you. You know it’s happening. Do you know that that’s what you want? ‘Cause you better think carefully before you say yes."

"It’s necessary. For a greater good."

"It was a sacrifice," John conceded. "But the time for that’s done now. It was stupid, but you’re half-right: it was necessary. You have to know when to call it quits, though."

"I can’t call it quits. I don’t know how."

"It will take some doing." He lit another cigarette off the butt of the first before putting it out in the ashtray. "Listen, Isaiah. Listen carefully. Okay? There’s two kind of stories. There’s the ones that are already told, and there’s the ones that aren’t done yet. Your story’s telling. My story’s told. The thing is, the story doesn’t have a full shape until it’s done, and you can’t judge the beginning until you hear the end. You have to figure out how to make an ending for yourself that’ll justify all the shit that went on before—justify it the way you want it. You have to do that before you talk about ‘greater goods.’ If you don’t end things right then everything between the start and the finish will have a very, very different meaning."

"That’s what you had to tell me?"

"Pretty much. I wanted you to remember, at least a little bit. Thought it might do some good in the real world if I made you think about it here, where you’re still you. This is pretty much it, you know. The rest of you is—the other thing."

"I don’t get it. Your story’s told? You mean ‘cause you’re dead? I thought you said you were still aging, that time was still going where you’re at."

"You picked up on that? Sharp. What I really meant is that my part in your story’s all told. You see, this is the last time we’ll speak. At least as far as I can tell."

Isaiah stared at him. "What? You mean you’re leaving me?"

"I don’t have any choice about it. It’s just the way things have to be."

Isaiah felt a tight, piercing pain somewhere in the area of his chest. "No," he said. "No, John. Please. Come on. You can’t—you can’t go. I need you here. I want you here. Not with me all the time, but—around."

"You need me here, you want me here, and what the hell kind of difference does it make? You know that’s not how it works."

"Brother," Isaiah said, and he started to cry. Unexpectedly, suddenly, in a way that had only happened once or twice to him before, and not for years: his face screwed up tightly, and he heard himself wail, felt tears hot and sharp pierce through his eyes like needles into the air. "No," he said. "Oh, no, no, no. I can’t, John, please, please, oh oh God. Don’t go. Don’t go."

John looked at him sadly, put a hand over his. "Shut up," he said tenderly. "That’s no way for an avatar to behave. You’re tough as nails, buddy. Tougher. Come on, now. Come on, man." He wrapped an arm around Isaiah’s shoulders. "Come on. You’re way more bad-ass than me and you know it. You don't need me. Just—don’t, okay?"

"How can you leave me?" Isaiah demanded, shaking, lurching. "How can you just leave me alone? I’m all alone now."

John spat on the floor, then seized the back of Isaiah’s neck and brought their foreheads together. "Listen, brother," he said, violently. "If you really believe that, then there’s nothing I can do for you. Who the fuck do you think you are, to say you’re alone? Fuck you. You’re the most dangerous living creature in the whole world, you kill and ruin everything you touch, and you’re still not alone. Who the fuck do you think you took out of that tower? Who the fuck were those people? Huh?" He shook Isaiah’s neck. "Don’t you ever say that again. Never. Never, never, never. You’re as alone as you always were, as alone as people have ever been, and somehow they still bring themselves to go on, and even more than that. You know what’s true."

He looked Isaiah dead in the eyes, a few inches apart, their foreheads touching, each with an arm around the other’s head. "I would have held you on the edge of the world, brother," he said. "I would have held you through anything. I’ve loved you to the last goddamn filthy scrap of love there is."

Isaiah sobbed, and could not answer. He felt like he was being stabbed. "I cried like this," he managed to choke out, "when you died, even though I was too young to know anything. I remember it, too. I felt—like I was being torn in half. I wept because you were dead."

"I wept, too," said John. "I wept to die. And because I never wanted to leave you."

"Aw, John."

"And I don’t want to now. But we only do what we can, Isaiah—so far, and no farther."

His touch faded, and so did his neck, held in the crook of Isaiah’s arm. His face had already been blurred by tears, but it blurred further, and then everything was as white as the snow, and then it wasn’t anymore at all.

The Avatar woke, dry-eyed. He was not bathed in sweat—it seemed he did not sweat anymore, no more than he cried. He was covered in a thick carpet of ash—what remained of his bedding. The tent, which had been whole when he entered, was tattered, flapping in the hot, dry wind, collapsed on one side.

He longed to sleep again, but he was as wide awake as ever. That, he realized, may have been the last time he would ever dream . . . He stood, and with a gesture he brought the remains of the tent down around him. He hated to leave a job half-finished. Ash billowed off his naked body. He plucked his robe and hat off a rock, put them on quickly, and pulled his cloak around himself as he hurried down the jagged slope.

He homed in on James McMullen, sensing his presence in the camp, and found his way to the big medical tent. People turned their eyes away as he passed, conversations dropped to a whisper. The tent had a cluster of demons and other hangers-on outside, hoping to catch a glimpse of James, or some word of his condition. He walked straight between the guards, and they made no move toward him. The dream, if he remembered it at all, was already like something that had happened to someone else, someone like everyone: weak, and easily fragmented.

. . .

"Athena did a good job," Ben Red Bird told James where he laid face-down on the rough wooden table. "I can’t see any stitches I’d take out . . . or add. How about you? Are you in pain?"

"Always a little. Not as much anymore, though."

"The nerves are as dead as they’re going to get. The pain you feel in your wings right now is the pain you’ll always have. Unless, of course, you decide you want to amputate."

"No. Never, Ben."

"I understand. Would you like to know what your condition was when they dragged you in here, when you were unconscious?"

"Bad?"

"Worse. Five broken ribs, two more cracked, a sprained left wrist, a dislocated hip, a twisted ankle, three missing teeth, two broken fingers, two broken toes, and more cuts, bruises, electrical burns, and small lacerations than I could count." Ben shook his head. "Your physical report would have read like a medical textbook. If anyone can take pain, you can."

"I feel all right now," said James, experimentally raising his head and lowering it again, wriggling his toes and fingers. "You must have done a good job."

Ben smiled. "Not me. Not really. You’ve been out for three days, but in that time the entire army came together behind you. Most of the gods offered to give you a piece of their essence. We had every major miracle healer and doctor in the camp look at you. I’ve never seen this place so united. You’re a real hero, James—they’re saying you’re the reason this war’s about to end."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. What really did it, though, was the vampire blood." He patted James’ back. "As soon as it started running through your veins, you started to heal up."

James glanced up. "I didn’t think the vampires ever gave their blood to mortals, unless it was to change them into vampires."

"They don’t," said Ben. "They made a special case out of you. The first in history, as far as I know."

James peered into Ben’s face. "Why do I feel like you were partly responsible for that, Ben?"

"Well, of course I would have pulled every string and favor I have with them—which doesn’t amount to that much, really—but it wouldn’t have done any good. No, they made this decision on their own. I was completely shocked. Like I said, it’s unprecedented." Ben jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Do you want to see Velkia? The demon who brought you here?"

James raised his head again. "Velkia? He’s here?"

"Damn right he's here. He didn't rest or leave your side for two and a half days, and he was half-dead himself when he carried you in. I made him go into the next room finally and get some sleep, when it was clear you were going to be all right. He’s decided to be your personal bodyguard. What do you think of that?" James half-smiled. "Apparently you’ve made a new best friend. And speaking of friends: Frankie really, really wants to see you, when you feel up to it. He’s across camp in the Irish District, holding court. He’ll be pissed when he finds out that he missed your waking up."

Ben moved to pick up a cup of water from the table, glanced inside it, and "Ugh," he said. "How is this so foul already? I just drew it."

James glanced into the cup, seemingly unsurprised at the green stagnant scum that covered it. "Isaiah?" he said. "Come on out."

The Avatar stepped into the room. Ben took an involuntary step back. "Oh," he said, dumping the cup. "That’s why."

"Isaiah," said James.

"James McMullen," said the Avatar.

"I’m getting more water," said Ben coldly. "Do not harm my patient." He walked to the opening, skirting the Avatar widely.

"It’s your brother, Ben," said James wearily.

Ben stopped but did not turn. "That is not my brother," he said, and walked out.

James sighed. "He’s right," the Avatar noted. "I’m not."

"You are as far as I’m concerned," said James. "And, from what they tell me, you saved my life. You saved all our lives. I’m sorry I shot at you."

The Avatar looked at him blankly. "You could not have harmed me," he said.

"No. I guess not. But thank you."

"Do not thank me," said the Avatar. "I am not sure anymore why I came to you. I saw you fall, and it was as though something else drew me to where you were. Not my own will. I fail to comprehend it."

"I comprehend it, though," said James. "I know why you came. I know what part of you did it. And that’s the part I’m thanking." He sighed. "The war’s over, Isaiah. Well, not quite over yet—there’s still fighting, and it’s pretty nasty in some places—but it’s as good as over. It ended in that tower. We’ve had word from Neko: he and his team have been holed up in Hellscentre for a while now. It’s too chaotic to sneak out safely anymore, and anyway they couldn’t do any more damage than our new demon allies are doing on their own, following that message of Keith’s. He says the entire infrastructure of hell is collapsing in fire and riots. Either Lucifer will be killed by someone, or he’ll escape. Either way, victory is ours."

"He will escape," said the Avatar. "No man or demon living could slay him."

"Even you?"

"Perhaps with great difficulty. But it would kill me, too. It may come to that."

"No. Stay here. Once it’s over, we’ll figure out what to do about Lucifer, and then we’ll turn our eyes to heaven. No one could have ever foreseen how great this victory would be. We’re going to take a lot of this place intact, and we’ll have a whole new demon army on our side when it’s over."

"I am pleased to hear it," said the Avatar, "And to see you so well. Now I must return to my hill, lest my presence harm you further." He turned without another word, and swept out.

James sighed. "Isaiah," he said sadly, "what’s happening to you?" What price had this victory come at? he wondered. Had he lost his friend already?

He should have been full of joy, but it had turned to bitterness when he saw Isaiah’s face. He climbed slowly off the table, testing his feet, and finding to his surprise that they were able to carry him. He spread his wings, grimacing at the invisible tattoo of pain that throbbed inside them. In some ways, it pleased him that he would feel that pain for the rest of his life: it was the price he had paid, and he would shoulder the burden with all the gladness in his great royal heart. His only misery came from the knowledge that, though he had kept the wings, he would never fly again.

He dressed slowly in the black robes that were waiting for him. Head erect, he moved out from the tent, ready to greet his well-wishers and devotees. After that, he would go to see Frankie, his brother, King of Ireland, and they would embrace one another as those who had met on the other side of the grave. They would drink wine and rejoice, as two kings together.

He stopped before he reached the exit of the tent, then turned back for Velkia, his squire. The demon was sleeping soundly, exhausted, but he would feel betrayed if he woke and found that his lord had left his side. It was beginning to become apparent to James McMullen what it meant to be a king, what burdens and responsibilities were involved. From now on, he would deal in royal joys and agonies, and his heart would rise and fall with that of his infernal nation.

EPILOGUE

Keith checked his watch, pacing tightly. "Damn," he muttered, and "Where the hell?" He paced in a small circle, with a radius of exactly 3.14 feet—he had measured it himself before drawing it—traced in the sand of a high plateau, the highest he could find, and one with a view of the tower where he had almost made his last stand. He could not have known that he was standing in the precise place the Avatar had stood when he watched James throw himself from the tower. That gave it some power.

The war had been over for a week. The demons had already begun the work of rebuilding their newly-liberated home. Lucifer had not been taken, but had fled in the end with about an eighth of his army still intact. It was rumored that he had gone to heaven itself, to seek refuge with his former master. It must have hurt his pride deeply to do so, but it was the safest place for him—and anyway, Jehovah must be nervous at what had transpired in his opposite number’s realm. He would welcome any help he could get. In the end their mutual desire to maintain power over humanity surpassed even their hatred for one another.

Hell was devastated. The cities lay in ruins. Millions of corpses befouled the air, until the infernal dragons (now with new riders) began criss-crossing the former battlefields, purifying and consuming the putrefication with fire. Wreckage clogged the waterways. The remaining demons composed barely two percent of hell’s former population. It would take a century to fully rebuild—and the tyrant Lucifer still lived.

Nevertheless, the night before had seen a wild celebration. Demons and invaders shared drinks, danced arm-in-arm. The unfortunates who had been elected to stay sober and keep order had their hands full. Keith, for his part, had been at his drunkest. In the midst of the festivities, he wandered off with a half-formed idea to find Isaiah.

It had been easy. Isaiah was at the site of his old tent in the hills, not reading or smoking or sleeping, but simply standing, looking down the slope at the lights and the noise far below. He had watched Keith struggle upwards, but had not called to him. "Isaiah!" Keith shouted when he spotted him.

"Keith Sterling," he answered in a deep, hollow voice, scarcely recognizable.

"I’ve come to see you, man! Been a long time!"

"Two weeks. We have not spoken since the tower. You and James McMullen exchanged words about me, and you decided that you feared to come here."

"Uh—yeah," said Keith, uncomfortably. He had forgotten about that. "Well . . ."

"In fact," Isaiah continued, staring into the distance, "I am quite certain that you would not be here now, but for the fact that you are drunk and have very little idea what you are doing."

"’M’not that drunk," Keith countered automatically, then felt foolish as the blank eyes turned to him. "Sorry, though," he muttered. "Should’ve come up to say hi earlier. Really busy, y’know—part of winning a war and all that . . ."

"I am not offended," said the Avatar. "Everyone is afraid of me. You are the first person I have seen since the war ended."

"Just been—sitting up here by yourself, then?"

"Yes."

"Oh. Uh . . ." Keith tried to frame his thoughts into words, then he realized there was something odd about his friend’s appearance. "Hey—your hair is white!" he exclaimed. It was: stark white, whiter than fresh paper. "You don’t look much older except for that, though. Your eyes are bigger, too. Rounder."

"Doubtless. I am becoming something new. A dream forewarned me of this—now it is almost done."

"What are you becoming, Isaiah?" he asked, nervously. "Uh, a god? Or a monster?"

"One cannot take the power of a god without being changed—perhaps into a monster."

"What happens when you give the power back?"

"Even if I knew how to do that," said Isaiah, "I would likely die." There was no emotion in his voice.

"Isaiah . . ." Keith reached out his hand as if to touch his friend’s shoulder, there were he stood all the way across the clearing. "What if you just—keep it?"

"That will also kill me. Another week, maybe. A human body is not designed to house this kind of power. It is far too much for flesh to endure."

"Damn, boy. Goddamn."

"In a way."

"So—like, where the’s the cutoff? If you knew how to give it back, and gave it back tonight, would you get better? Or would you still die?"

"I do not know. I may have already passed the crucial point." He turned away abruptly. "Go down to the camp again, Keith Sterling. Make merry. Leave me here in the hills." He strode into the twisted pine trees, and was lost to sight. After a moment or two of motionlessness, Keith had turned and begun to wind his way back down the slope. He had been deeply sobered by the encounter. There would be no more revelry for him that night.

The next morning he woke up with a terrible hangover and a very clear memory of the conversation, and he had decided that he would be damned—damned!—if he would let it happen. And Neko, when he found him, had agreed to meet him on the high plateau.

Keith finally saw the tall, narrow figure picking its way across the ashes of that place, and he waited impatiently until Neko reached the circle. "Hey," he said. "What took you so long?"

"I had trouble finding the place," said Neko sarcastically. "What do you think? It wasn’t easy climbing up this fucker. I didn’t give myself enough time for it."

"Well, whatever. Did you bring anything?"

"Some incense," said Neko, taking some from a pouch at his side. "And I thought it might work better if we cut ourselves or something."

"Good, good thinking," said Keith enthusiastically. "That’s great."

"Maybe draw a—a pentagram, or something, on the ground with our blood? Right in the middle of the circle?"

"Right, perfect. That’s perfect. Do you have a knife?"

"Right here." Neko sliced the tip of one of his fingers, then held it over the sand and dribbled some blood in a vague pentagram. He handed the knife to Keith, who did the same, filling in a few of the gaps in the shape. "That looks good," said Neko, wrapping a little piece of rag around his finger and handing one to Keith.

"You’re damn right it does. Okay. I’ve got some candles right here. How many do you think we should set up?"

"Umm—seven and three are supposed to be holy numbers."

"True. I brought a lot of candles, though. How about seven times three?"

"Twenty-one? Oh, that’s good."

"Right around the edge of the circle, here. Help me set them up." They spaced the candles evenly on the circle in the dust, lighting them as they went. The flames burned feebly in the daylight. "We should have waited till dusk," complained Keith. "We’ll try again if it doesn’t work. Hey, this may interest you: this circle has a radius of three point one four. Pi, y’know? It’s s’posed to have some kind of power, I guess."

He lit the last candle. "That is interesting," said Neko. "Now what?"

"I guess we—kneel." They did so. "And now we pray. Hard. Or I’ll do it, while you, uh—sing."

"Sing? Sing what?"

"Jesus Christ, Neko, I don’t know. We’re making this up as we go, aren’t we? So make something up!"

After a moment or two of hesitation, Neko began to sing "Don’t Fear the Reaper." Keith clasped his hands tightly, closed his eyes and bowed his head, the way they had taught him as a boy in church, and began to pray: "Eldest—uh—hark me, or something . . . I mean, I come to you, a humble petitioner . . . Shit." He wiped his forehead.

Neko stopped singing. "Sounds good so far," he snickered.

"Will you shut the fuck up? I said sing, goddammit, this is serious!" He bowed his head again, as Neko resumed the song. "Sorry," he said, "if you can hear me. I don’t know how to do this, because as far as I know nobody’s ever spoken to you—like this—before. You don’t have any priests we could talk to; Isaiah might have had some idea, but he can’t know what we’re doing. So if we got something wrong, or if you don’t like something we did, we’re very sorry." He opened his eyes long enough to sneak a glance around, see if anything had changed, but the plateau looked the same as ever. The candles continued to burn. He closed his eyes again. "Just—look. We know that we couldn’t have won this war without your help, and we’re very grateful and all that. Nobody could be more grateful than we are for what you did. Hell, Isaiah saved my life with the power you gave him, and James’ life, too. But see, here’s the thing: Isaiah tells us it’s going to kill him now. And even though it was damn decent of you to do what you did—we just want our friend back, sir."

Still there was no effect, and this time he kept his eyes open, tilting his head back beseechingly. "He can’t live with your kind of strength, and we can’t get close to him! It’s getting bad. He doesn’t even really look the same anymore, and it’s like he’s a different person. He doesn’t even seem to remember us, except as friends of someone else, someone he used to know, maybe. I can’t take that, y’know? It hurts too much. And as far as the dying thing goes—you didn’t tell him he had that to look forward to. It’s not fair! And I know I have no right to talk about what’s fair and what isn’t, life’s not fair, people dying every day, blah blah blah, I’ve heard all that before, and frankly, I’m in no mood. I think you could take back your power if you wanted. And I think you could do it so Isaiah doesn’t die. And I think that’s what you should do, because—well, you know there’s nothing I can promise you! But just do it, huh? Just do it! Give us our friend back!"

Neko’s voice had begun to grow louder, stronger, more full, as Keith’s voice raised. "See, I know you! I know you as well as anybody does, and I’m not impressed, not a bit! I’ve watched people die, people I know and people I love, and I’m just as afraid of getting old and passing away as anyone else is, but still, it’s all you can do, isn’t it? Just take things away. Maybe it’s your job, and then again, maybe you’re just a bitter old bastard who’s got a jones for fucking over everybody and everything! Is that it? Huh? Answer me, goddammit!"

Still there was no answer, and "Oh!" Keith shouted, coming to his feet and staring, eyes like guns, at the mad stippled sky. "Do you know what we will do to you? Do you know what I can do? Tickle us and we will strike back. You old, blinking owl! You time-thief! You ghost! You take from us, you make our lives a wasteland, you steal our hymns! But look, old thing! We have gone to the uttermost depths, we have toppled the Prince of Darkness! And after this we will topple God himself if he dares to scorn us. We can do these things! We have power, too! We forget our power, but I will tell you. Our power is: to make. Our power is: to fill our minutes even as you steal them. Our power is: to burgeon and grow in the filthy waste of your derelict spirit. You have ash, but we have fire—you have gray, and we have green. You have the touch of decay. We have bright blood. You crumble; we build.

"And know this, night-thief Eldest: our power is as eternal as yours. When we pass, in time, you will have nothing left to crumble but beasts, rock, and brute stars. Will you be satisfied with that? You will not. I know you. I know you, you bastard! You have the advantage of time; so. But we can make a week last an eternity. We can pour into three minutes a song that has more strength and beauty and grace than you will ever know, in all your long aeons. There is our eternity. In the exultant time of composition, you do not exist, and never can, and those are your wounds, the ragged swaths cut in your gray, featureless perfection. Do you see? I have understood you best. Our bodies are worm-meat, true, part of your realm, beneath your hand, but what of the body in such moments? What of the body that creates? It has a power beyond your control, beyond your reach.

"Live on, then, spirit of entropy. Live on and keep our friend, if you refuse his redemption. But call me your enemy forevermore, and call me your doom. I will wound you with every moment given me, now and forevermore. And Death shall be no more! Death—thou shalt die!"

His voice died away as he sank down again, exhausted, and Neko’s voice also faded. "Nothing," Neko muttered sadly. "We don’t even know that he heard you."

"Shit," said Keith. "Shit. I was so sure—shit!" he picked up a rock from the ground and threw it at one of the candles, toppling it. The line was smudged and broken by the fallen candle, and the flame went out.

The change was instantaneous. The world outside their circle, above, below, and on all sides, seemed suddenly full of darkness and a great, rushing wind, and at that moment the darkness gathered itself and flooded into their circle through the gap where the candle had fallen. All the rest of the little flames blinked out, and then they stood or floated in a total inky black.

"You got it wrong," said the Eldest’s voice, coldly, from the void. "I’m not in the holy circle. I am everything outside of it."

Keith was trembling violently, cold to the bone. Neko could manage only a moan.

"So, a satyr and a mortal warrior," continued the ancient voice, "on the precipice of hell, seeking an audience—with me, the Eldest. The ludicrousness would be amusing if it were not so . . . presumptuous." He hissed, terrifyingly. "Not so full of fire and brimstone now, are you satyr? No songs for the moment, warrior? There is an adage you may know: Take care when knocking on the Devil’s door, for he may answer. Well, I see you’ve faced down the Devil already—congratulations. But know that he is nothing, and less than nothing, when compared to me. You’ve knocked on the oldest and coldest door there is. I answered. Now, I guess, you have nothing to say? Too frightened? Very wise."

Keith found his voice where it was hiding somewhere inside his chest. "Fuck you," he croaked. It was the only spell he knew.

"Well," said the Eldest. "There is that. Isn't there."

Neko had been emboldened by Keith’s defiance, and he, too, managed to speak. "You know what we want," he said. "You know why we’re here. Take the power from Isaiah Red Bird. We’ve had enough of it."

"He asked me for it," the Eldest pointed out. "His hastiness and lack of foresight is not my responsibility, is it? I did him a great honor. I made him the first and last of my avatars. Death is a small price to pay."

"He’d pay it willingly, and you know it," said Neko. "He’d never go to you and make this request. That’s why we’re making it on his behalf."

Cold, cold: "Know this, warrior Kohaku. I know nothing of mercy, nor of humor, nor of whim. Nothing of life as you understand it can have the slightest effect on me."

"Look," said Neko, in his most reasonable voice. "It won’t hurt you to take the power back. And for us it would mean so much. Why not do it?"

"It is no longer that easy," said the Eldest. "Certain—conditions must be met, now, before this thing is done. My power was not given lightly, and it cannot be taken back with a word."

"Okay," said Keith suddenly. "Tell us what you want. Let’s do business. Name your price for saving Isaiah Red Bird."

"That is the proper question. Very well. To get him back, you will pay double. Present me with two lives, and I will grant him his."

"I give you mine," said Keith promptly.

"And mine," said Neko. "No one else’s is mine to give."

There was no change in the Eldest’s voice. "That quickly?" he asked. "No need to consider your choice? I would give you time to do so, you know."

"Just do it, you fucking shit," snapped Keith. "Jesus! You may have an eternity to chat—I don’t. Get it over with." He closed his eyes, tightly.

"Watch your tone, satyr," said the Eldest ominously. "I will do as I see fit, and when I see fit. You would do well to remember that."

He paused, considering. "There is nothing older than I," he finally said, slowly, "but there are powers as great. The power of sacrifice, for example." He considered again. "Very well," he said. "It is done. Now, begone from me, for already I am bored by our conversation."

"Wait—what’s done?" asked Neko.

"Your friend has been spared. The power has left him. He will need someone to take care of him now; I recommend you go do this thing."

"Don’t you want us, though?" asked Keith. "Don’t you want our lives?"

"No. I do not want your lives. Why would I want them? They are mine, anyway, in due time. But the sacrifice had to be made, or at least offered, for there are rules to this sort of thing. You have done what you had to. A brief span of years remains to you; go back and do whatever work you like best with them. Do not bother me again."

They stood, contrite, for a few seconds. Then, "Thank you," said Neko, and "Yeah," said Keith.

"I told you you were boring me. I have been bored ever since your speech ended, satyr. That, I liked."

Keith’s mouth twitched. "I was right, wasn’t I?" he asked.

"You were right," said the Eldest simply, and then the darkness vanished in less time than none, without a sound, and they were standing on the plateau again, in the broken circle of candles.

. . .

The Avatar had not slept since the night of his dream, a week before, so when he found himself sinking into unconsciousness as he sat on his stone, he was distantly surprised. He hardly knew it, though, when it happened.

He fell asleep in age; he woke to dusk. In hell there was no sun, but the fierce red light suffused the landscape for twelve hours every "day." When Isaiah opened his eyes, that light had spread over the jagged peaks like the last sinking sun before the day of the Apocalypse (it might have been just that), and he blinked. He was still sitting upright on his rock, and he was surprised when he moved his limbs and cried out from pain. He was stiff. The light hurt his eyes; he shaded them with one hand, shivering uncontrollably.

Clumsily, Isaiah tried to stand, and his knees buckled. Curling on the ground, he realized he had lost it. Somehow, he had lost it. The power had been plucked from him as easily as a veil. His hair, he could see as it fell about his face, was still stark-white—but he felt the cold again, and his limbs were stiff, and he knew that he could take a man’s hand, carry a child, or make love. He could do these things, and though they would be of no use in the coming war, he knew that to do them was a power—this, too, was a power.

His heart cracked and bled like the sky, then. He drew his knees to his chest and wailed; then his tears turned to joy, and he laughed and coughed and rubbed great handfuls of solid earth on his chest, his face, his arms, like a madman at the mercy of his madness, like a child exulting in the dark mud of a newborn spring.

What's On Their iPods?: LOTR Edition

2005-12-13T02:02:00.000+01:00

This is being written at 3 in the morning, on a Tuesday. A paper is due at ten this morning, as well as two tests--I haven't written a word nor studied a whit--but still I will post. I'm going to take a brief sabbatical from the Hellswar, since I know that Mark is catching up on the past posts. In the meanwhile, here's something that might become a regular feature on this blogger:

WHAT'S ON THEIR iPODS?

The concept occurred to me the other day as I listened to that most evocative but confusing of Led Zeppelin songs, "Ramble On." (If you don't know the song, that's fine too, but you should probably listen to more music--to paraphrase Tony Wilson and quote Ryan Leng. Lord, the myriad complications that eternally burgeon in my fertile mind!) There's a line that goes something like: "'Twas in the darkest depths of Mordor/I met a girl so fair/But Gollum, the evil one/Crept up and slipped away with her-her, her-her, her-her." Something like that.

This got me thinking. Apparently, Robert Plant (or whomever penned those lines) is comparing himself to none other than Frodo Baggins, the Ringbearer. Or maybe Samwise . . . But Frodo makes more sense to me. And this made me query, what the hell? There's no way Frodo deserves that--he probably wouldn't even listen to Led Zeppelin! And that in turn got me to thinking: What would Frodo listen to? My money's on Belle and Sebastian, The Postal Service, and Moby. I proceeded to make similar lists for the other members of the Fellowship, which I present here:

SAMWISE GAMGEE: Samwise is a simple guy, who likes simple pleasures. He asks nothing more from life than a garden, a family (bouncing babies on his knee), and of course to be by Frodo's side come hell or high water. I think he'd be attracted to slow, pleasant tunes with nice words . . . Simon and Garfunkel, definitely. Also Art Garfunkel's solo work (but not Paul Simon's). He is especially partial to the song "Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme," though he sometimes has trouble understanding what the singers are saying. He also likes Van Morrison (esp. "Tupelo Honey" and everything off Astral Weeks), The Jesus & Mary Chain, and (though he would never admit it to the other members of the Fellowship) Paul McCartney's solo work.

PEREGRIN TOOK: Pippin is quite a guy. He loves a good pipe full of Longbottom Leaf--but then who doesn't?--and a tankard brimming with ale. He was apparently quite the mischief-maker as a young hobbit. So what does he jam out to? I posit: Phish (but not the later, commercial stuff), Manu Chao, and the Grateful Dead. I mean, let's face it, he is a stoner after all. He also probably watches Adult Swim every night, and eats way too many cookies while doing so.

MERIADOC BRANDYBUCK: Merry is a lot like Pippin, but probably smarter, and certainly better leadership material. At least he's more levelheaded. He spurns Phish, for example; their lyrics are far too dumb, and nothing Pippin or other Phish-heads say can convince him otherwise. He's more into Pink Floyd (his prefers The Wall to Dark Side of the Moon) . . . A little bit more highbrow, as far as stoner music goes. At least he thinks so, and most of us are inclined to agree with him. He also digs on Bob Marley and the Wailers and Modest Mouse, and occasionally he will smoke a bowl, put Coldplay's A Rush of Blood to the Head on repeat, close his eyes, and just, like, drift away, man.

GIMLI: Gimli is a dwarf, though you probably didn't need a reminder about that, but just because he's a dwarf doesn't mean he doesn't rock the hell out. He does. Of course like most dwarves he's a big Rolling Stones man--can't beat that for my money, either, to tell you the truth. He thinks they're way better than those pansy Beatles, especially that sissy-ass McCartney fella. He also loves Muddy Waters, Howlin' Wolf, and the rest of the great names in blues--also The Who, Jimi Hendrix (but not his clothes), and Iggy Pop. But don't think he's a stick-in-the-mud, or out-of-date, 'cause you'd be wrong about that, too. He loves the Von Bondies--even says they sound like a modern-day Rolling Stones, and that's high praise. "Revenge," by Whiskeytown, is currently his favorite tune.

LEGOLAS: This elf looks like a wussy pretty boy, the kind you'd like to whip in the face with a chain, but he fights like a maestro. Part Bruce Lee, part Rodney Mullin, part Robin Hood, entirely deadly. Unfortunately, his musical tastes reflect his appearance. In this case, you can judge a book by its cover! I'm not talking Hanson here, but still pretty bad. He and Frodo occasionally trade CDs, if that tells you anything. Some of his favorites: Michael Jackson (he likes to dance to "Billy Jean"), Stevie Wonder, U2 (not the good stuff, but the stuff off the new CD--the bleeding-heart, overly-PC stuff), and, naturally, Enya. Redeemingly, he also loves Radiohead. Somewhat less redeemingly, he has been to at least five Dave Matthews Band concerts, once driving cross-country with a bunch of his pretty elven friends to get there. Also a huge collection of classical music, but that's probably just for show, since he never seems to listen to any of it. He claims to be a Beatles-o-phile, especially of the early stuff (c. "Love Me Do"). That may just be to annoy the dwarf, though.

BOROMIR: A pretty solid guy, all told, although he's susceptible to the temptations of the One Ring. That's pretty much a given for everyone, though, especially if you had the poor luck to be born a human rather than an elf, dwarf, eagle, or some other, cooler race (don't think hobbits make that list. They don't). He's got some damn good speeches, and the orcs make a pincushion out of him while he defends Merry and Pippin, so I'm partial to him as a character. His musical tastes reflect his inherent awesomeness. Interestingly, he indulges himself in quieter fare: Beck, Springsteen, Elliot Smith, Damien Rice, Jackson Browne, and so on. This may be because his life is so full of war; he needs something to chill out to, and if you can't find that in music, you can't find that anywhere. On the other hand, it may be a part of the well-documented phenomenon known as "punk burnout," wherein a former punk devotee switches to markedly mellow music later in life. That's right, Boromir was once a fan of such immortals as The Clash, the Ramones, the Sex Pistols, and so on. We're talking the real deal, no maybe about it. He eventually became disillusioned with the whole scene, though, and gave all his CDs to his younger and less cool brother Faramir, who tried to follow in his brother's footsteps but, characteristically, never quite pulled it off. Many was the day little Faramir came home in tears after being cruelly labelled "a poser," whereupon his father Denethor would comfort him with tender words: "You are not my son." (As a side note, Faramir also talks freely about the time his older brother beat him up for stealing CDs from his, Boromir's, Beach Boys collection, but it's obvious that Boromir is too cool to have ever listened to such an overrated and obnoxious band. Chances are good that Faramir is lying out of jealousy.)

GANDALF: You can't say much good or ill about Gandalf's tastes. I mean, let's face it: On the outside, he's a gruff, graying wizard with a big nose and a long beard, but in reality he's a physical embodiment of good, an angelic figure who's tens of thousands of years old, posessed of wisdom and knowledge beyond the ken of mortal men. You can't rise to that, face it. Still, it may come as something of a surprise to know that his favorites include T. Rex, They Might Be Giants, and--weirdly--Cyndi Lauper. Maybe he knows something we don't. Nothing, however, can excuse his fondness for a genre known as "gangsta rap." Gandalf: there's odd tastes, and then there's just plain wrong. There's T. Rex, and then there's Nas. There's semi-crappy '80s music like Cyndi Lauper, and there's goddamn Kool G & DJ Polo. Put down the gangsta rap, Gandalf. If you want people to take you seriously, you'll put it down and walk away from it--you're too old and wise for that stuff. Except for the 2Pac. That you can keep, because everyone likes 2Pac.

ARAGORN: In fact, Aragorn doesn't technically belong on this list, because like me he's too bad-ass to own an iPod. He prefers to sing to himself, either old elven ballads or compositions of his own, usually alone, often while doing something manly like sharpening his knife or skinning a freshly-killed deer. That's the kind of guy he is. But being the true king of men, he's not ignorant of music; in fact, he's probably forgotten more than you'll ever know. That said, he leans toward the melancholy, the simple, and the brooding. I'm thinking: Nick Cave, Tom Waits, Johnny Cash (not "A Boy Named Sue" or anything of that nature, obviously, though he may chuckle at the lyrics), and a healthy dose of Lou Reed's quieter stuff. He likes stuff he can sing along with, or sing by himself in his spare time. Bob Dylan is a staple in his diet . . . He has "Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands" and "A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall" memorized word-for-word, a feat which is well-known to be impossible, since both of these songs run upwards of 45 minutes in length. For the King of Men, though, it's a cinch.

Well, I hope that was enlightening and satisfying. I guarantee all the facts presented above are 100% true to the best of my knowledge. Please forward this list to any band thinking of including Lord of the Rings references in an upcoming song--they should know who their target audience will be before they choose which character to give a nod.

In an interesting final note, Smeagol was a huge Led Zeppelin fan. After the Ring messed him up, though, he switched from rock to mainstream country music--just like every other washed up, slimy has-been with crooked teeth.

The Second Hellswar, Part Three of Four

2005-12-11T01:05:00.000+01:00

Keith had been shouting orders at his pilots for so long that his voice was hoarse. "Drop back! Drop back! And down, down, down you fucker!" "Go in, I’m going to strafe! Go in!" "Fire, fire, fire, fireball! To the right! Steer clear!" "Oh, my God, look at the size of that dragon! Stay away, let the bombers handle him!" "Just give me a clear shot, just one clear shot, for the love of Christ!" Every few hours they would leave the field to refuel at the nearest base, and to exchange an exhausted pilot for a fresh one. Then it was to the air again, back into the fray. Since he had no piloting experience, Keith had volunteered to serve as a machine-gunner, and he had been working as a machine-gunner for the past thirty hours; his desperate hope was that, eventually, they would take out enough of the tower’s weapons systems that he could fly close and rescue James.

The prospect was turning bleaker and bleaker as time passed. The ground had innumerable demons, tens of thousands, must be an entire army, and though they continually ran strafing runs on the tightly-packed foot-soldiers, it seemed their ranks always closed together afterwards and remained completely undamaged. Though a couple of the major weapons on the tower had been taken out by brave pilots, such achievements always seemed to claim at least one badly-needed plane in the process. The dragons and the demons they carried were always a hazard. He wasn’t even sure where James was, though he suspected that top floor . . . His eyes were full of grit, his throat ached, his thumbs were blistered from pressing the triggers, and his muscles had been tense for so long that they screamed. He wore earplugs, but was beginning to worry that the incessant blatting of the guns, so loud and so close to him, would damage his hearing permanently. And there was no end in sight. He needed sleep. He felt half-dead.

Still, he soldiered on, defiant and stubborn as ever. There were minor triumphs, minor setbacks, nothing that added up to anything conclusive, but they helped to keep him going. Like when the ten planes working together brought down that huge enemy manticore—that had been good. And it had fallen right into the demons’ ranks, probably killing at least a hundred. Also the perfectly-executed attack on the massive AA gun near the top of the tower, crippling it. Of course, there were two more guns just like it, on that goddamned side alone, so it was nothing really to brag about . . . And immediately afterwards a cloud of new, fresh devils, flying in from the east, had destroyed at least six planes . . .

Sooner or later, he guessed, he would be killed, or would die from exhaustion. But all would not be lost, even if they were shot down. He had a parachute, after all. Nowhere really to land with it, but still, the thought was a comfort . . .

He could hardly believe it when he heard his new pilot (a nice boy from England, who was so skilled he might have been born in a cockpit) say: "My—God. Sterling, is that your lad up there?"

He twisted around so hard it hurt his neck. There, sure enough. Up there. James, large as life, larger, with wings and all, about sixty yards above them and a hundred yards away. And he was going to jump, looked like . . .

"Go!" Keith screamed. "He’s jumping, catch him!"

The pilot responded instantly, sending the plane careening in an upside-down dive that left Keith’s stomach, despite being so used to aerial maneuvers by now, somewhere around the ceiling. He swallowed and forced his eyes to stay open. They spiraled, then pulled out of it with a scream of protesting metal and bolts. Keith glanced around, panicked. Sure enough—they were on a direct intersect! "Good show!" he bellowed, but could not be sure if his pilot heard him. There was James, falling, just bounced off a plane, looked like, and what the hell was this huge motherfucking dragon? Where did that come from?

By the time the thought was formed, he was moving. The beast was coming straight for them, eyes fixed on the plane, mouth opening wide, and Keith shouted "Eject!" as he raked the beast’s open maw with wild bullets. No way out of this, he realized distantly—no way he could bring it down. Have to jump, catch as catch can, what was James going to do? Could his wings hold him? Could he fly away? Wish I could . . .

He pulled the lever, and the hatch burst open, his seat went soaring, and him with it, just like a carnival ride except here there was no safety net. He glanced down, saw that his pilot hadn’t made it in time, watched the dragon’s mouth close around the plane with a sickening crunch. Stupid creature would pierce the fuel tanks, he thought, and then who knows, it should have breathed fire at us instead but it’s too damn hungry . . . Sure enough, there was an explosion underneath and behind him which, if there was any justice in the world, would take the thing’s motherloving head off . . .

He had problems of his own. The parachute opened fine, no problem, and jerked him out of free fall like he was some kind of marionette. But now what? Now a whole lot of trouble, mister, that’s what. He looked around for James as he unslung his tommygun from his back—no sign. Hard to spot things in this chaos. And just where the hell was he going? Oh, yes, straight towards the tower. Well, ladies and gentlemen, ain’t that just like life?

Pointers from the crash course Keith had been given on maneuvering with a parachute came back to him. Don’t panic—grasp the strings firmly, and pull in the direction you want to go, but don’t jerk—keep your eye fixed on your target, make minor adjustments as you go along, keep your hands steady—not easy in an airy battlefield, with fire gushing and bullets ack-acking and gas steaming out of the very place you’re headed for. He kept scanning the sky, but everyone seemed otherwise occupied, no time for a parachuter who would doubtless die in a few seconds anyway, no point of rescuing or killing him, is there? The tower will take care of the poor/worthless bastard, choose your adjective based on which side you’re on . . .

But, ah-ha. The tower, it seemed, was not going to kill him, at least not yet, and he was very close to it, getting closer. None of the unseen gunners in there had noticed him either, thank God this was a black parachute, white’d stick out like a sore thumb right now. His target, the place he kept his eyes, the place his "minor adjustments" of the strings were taking him, was a tall narrow window, between a third and halfway up the tower. No way of knowing what’s on the other side. Just stay hopeful. Keep your head in the game, and your eye on the ball, or window. Closer it was coming, closer—shit, he was moving faster than he thought he was—better slow down—no way to slow down—if he missed the window, he would smack the smooth stone like a bird hitting glass, and if he was lucky he’d break his neck instantly or crush his skull on one of those protrubences—my God, I hope I make it through that window, it looks like I’m on target, but what if there’s a gust of wind?—

There was no gust of wind. He came through the window perfectly, hardly even had to duck, barely brushed his shoulders on the edges of the stone frame. His hooves touched down on the floor of the room within like a goaty Peter Pan touching down in Wendy’s bedroom, Peter Pan with a tommygun and a beard and bloodshot eyes and a whole lot of rage.

It seemed to be some kind of storage closet, only one door on the far wall. Shelves of strange, technical equipment all over the place, as well as some brooms and mops and bottles. There was one other person in the room—a small, ugly demon who had his back to the window, rooting through a box of something-or-other. Keith came through so perfectly and silently that the thing didn’t even turn around until his hooves clip-clopped on the stone floor, and when it did turn, with a squeak of surprise, he was already running. He got to it before it had time to shout, despite the weight of his parachute which had been behind him and was still draped over the sill, clipped it good under its chin, a blow that lifted it clean off the ground. It was out cold when it hit the floor, but he kicked it a couple of times to make sure. He considered tossing it out the window. Settled for tying and gagging it with a number of ropes and cloths that lay strewn about. No point in drawing the attention of those outside to this particular window. He pulled the rest of his parachute inside, stuffed it into its pack again, found a shadowy corner, and sat down to think.

He didn’t even know what the enemy had in here, besides a lot of guns and, of course, James. But not anymore. Damn, I hope he survived that fall, Keith thought. Damn. Damn, damn, damn. That was James all the way. You come to rescue him, put your heart and soul into it, and then he steals your thunder by jumping out a window, for fuck’s sake. He had been falling pretty quickly the last time Keith saw him, but he wasn’t suicidal—surely he had some tricks up his sleeve. Please, let him have had some tricks up his sleeve.

What if he hadn’t? What if he was dead, after all? Keith put this thought out of his mind. If James was dead then he, Keith, would know, somehow. Irrational, perhaps, but he could not bring himself to believe otherwise, even if he had wanted to. If James was dead then he would know. That was plain. No, he would operate under the assumptions that James was a) alive, and b) probably captured again. How could he have escaped that army below? They probably wouldn’t kill him, since they had already gone to all that trouble keeping him alive and imprisoned. Would they put him back in the tower? Maybe make sure he couldn’t try the same thing again? Seemed reasonable.

Keith estimated it had been maybe five minutes since he had entered the room. No one seemed interested in coming after the trussed-up devil, who he guessed worked on maintainance and repair. Possibly a janitor. He crawled over to the window and raised his eyes over the sill, to see what he could see below.

What he saw took his breath away.

The demon army was churning—at first he thought with panic, but then he realized they were actually fighting one another. He could not make out sides, no apparent structure of alliances, but then they were very far below. This was unheard-of. Moreover, the fight was spreading, visibly, from its center around the tower out to the very edges, the turmoil radiating outwards like waves from something dropped in a pond. "Very weird," he muttered to himself, and "What the hell?" But there was no way to answer that question. He reasoned, though, that it had to be a good development for his side. What could be better? Demons fighting one another? Top-notch.

A sneaking suspicion, familiar to him since childhood, stole over him: James must have something to do with this. Again, no way to prove it, of course, no one to ask.

He decided to go get some goddamned answers.

Moving back to the door, he opened it a crack and peeked out. Nothing, so far as he could see. Just an empty hallway. He crept down it as carefully as he could, gun ready, but none of the doors opened, no one came around any sudden corners. He passed a door that looked more official than the others, some kind of important-looking lettering on it, anyway, urgent voices on the other side, and he decided to investigate. He peeked through the barred window set near its top.

A communications center—that much was clear. Infernal technicians sitting at chairs, monitoring things, barking into headgear. What looked like a guard on either side of the door, both of them at rigid attention. And—what’s this? Why, what’s this in the center of the room? A tall, impeccably-dressed person, quite a handsome figure really, back turned, talking to some kind of official. The tall form shimmered slightly, and Keith guessed it to be some kind of hologram or enchanted projection. The voice was familiar. He knew it. This would be a perfect place to get answers, not to mention pick one hell of a fight.

He kicked the door hard enough to break the latch and lock, but it turned out there was no need—it was not locked. The force of the blow sent it slamming into one of the guards, knocking him off his feet, and the other fell under the first barrage from Keith’s tommygun. He entered firing, raking the stream of bullets across the room, not one wasted, everyone caught by surprise. The bullets passed right through the figure in the center (who had spun around as he came in, confirming his suspicions as to its identity), but he had expected no less. When they were all dead, he walked over to where the official had been standing, kicking the body unceremoniously out of the way. "Hello, you detestable shithead," he said. "This where I stand? Or more to the right-like? It matter?"

"Why, of course not," smiled Lucifer, or Lucifer’s projection, anyway, regaining his composure as quickly as ever. "You may stand wherever you’re most comfortable, naturally. Well, Mr. Sterling. I haven’t seen you in person since you played guitar at that delightful dinner party—seven years ago? Has it really been so long?"

"’Fraid so." Keith found his pack. "You mind? Oh, of course not, you’re not really here, are you?" He lit one. "Mmm. I’ve found," he said, talking around the clouds of smoke, "that one of the biggest problems of a war—on a personal level, you understand—is finding a spare moment to light up. Let me tell you, you get one mean nic fit after a while. I’ve been forced to cut back. If I spent enough time in a war like this one, I’m pretty sure I could bring myself to quit. Maybe. Then again, it’s pretty stressful, too, y’know what I’m saying?"

Satan, on the other end, lit a long, thin cigarette of his own. "I understand," he said, nodding. "Then again, you can hardly blame me, can you? After all, you’re the one who brought this little fiasco to my doorstep—you and your friends."

"I s’pose that’s a fair point," Keith nodded. "Point to you. Good work. We take full responsibility."

"That’s very mature of you, Mr. Sterling. Now." He exhaled a thick cloud. "If you could tell me what you’re doing in my tower?"

"Dragon got my plane. Parachuted in here. Actually, it was easier than I thought it would be. You might think about a better security system—I know this guy who could help you out, there."

"Certainly, I’ll look into it." Satan chuckled. "Ah, Keith, Keith, Keith Sterling. My caustic satyr. Flying, were you? That explains the get-up. The scarf, the goggles, the whole—aviator look. I must say it suits you. Much better than the cowboy ensemble you had before."

"You should see me with my parachute," Keith told him.

"I don’t doubt it. I’m a little bit perturbed by you, to tell you the truth. I’m not happy at all, though I may seem calm and merry. Alas, it is merely a mask I wear, while inside I am seething with fury. To put it simply: I’m miffed, Mr. Sterling. Miffed that you killed my communication crew. Miffed at this war. Why don’t you tell me what you want? What do you hope to accomplish?"

"Ah. What’s puzzling you is just the nature of my game, huh?"

"Yes, I see. Ha, ha. Very clever. Yes, why don’t you tell me?"

"Well, to be honest, I came here to ask you a couple of questions. You may have heard by now that my good friend James McMullen—he was imprisoned at the top of this tower, don’t you know—has jumped from his casement window, apparently to his death."

"Word has reached me of that unfortunate development," Lucifer conceded. "Just now, in fact. Sorry to hear it. But he is a tricky character, and might have survived, you know."

"I hope that’s true, for your sake. Actually, that’s a lie, ‘cause whether he’s dead or alive, you’re still toast. That’s not what I’m wondering about, though. You see, I happened to poke my head out the window just after I got here—just after he fell—and I couldn’t help but notice something very odd going on outside."

"Oh?"

"Yup. It may sound hard to believe, but I swear, it looked like your armies around this tower were fighting amongst themselves. Weird , huh? Why do you think they’d do something like that?"

Satan didn’t answer, but his back stiffened.

"Now, I’ve got a theory. It’s rough, but let me try it out on you: I think it has something to do with James. It just seems too neat, too convenient: he falls, you get a sort of civil uprising on your hands. A mutiny, if y’like. Coincidence? I wonder. And, well, I guess I just wanted to see if you could straighten me out on the whys and wherefores of all this." He puffed peacefully, watching Satan’s face, which seemed to be showing some cracks in its composure.

"Impossible," he said. "You’re lying, of course."

"If you like. You’ll find out soon enough, anyway. Why? Do you know something I don’t? You look a bit antsy."

"You’re dead, Keith Sterling. The tower you’re standing in is directly connected, by tunnel, to my main barracks. There’ll be a whole army on your back before you know what’s hit you."

"Could be. But what if this internal unrest spreads? What if it spreads to your barracks? Stop me when I get too far out in left field."

"You’re dead," he repeated. "I’ll make sure you die slowly. I’ll show you your liver before I eat it."

"That the best you can do?"

"The flesh will be stripped from your bones, slowly. I will drive red-hot needles under your fingernails. I will shatter your teeth one by one. You will beg for mercy, betray everything and everyone you know, but no information will save you. I will take your soul out and toss it to the hellhounds. I will gouge out your eyes and castrate you."

"Pretty typical fare, I must say. Poor show. I expected something a little more creative, but you’re under a lot of stress, I s’pose."

"It will take a hundred years for you to die, Keith Sterling. And even after that, your torment will last for an eternity."

"Neat trick. Okay, I’m going now, but you take care. How do you turn this thing off? Oh, it doesn’t matter, I guess I’ll just leave the room, huh? Keep talking as long as you want."

"Never will a mortal suffer the way you have suffered."

"Bye, now." Keith went to the door. "Oh, and by the way, you were right: I’m lying. All just a little joke, ha, ha. You sucker." He pulled the shut behind him, gently, and chuckled on the other side. Oh, it was rich. It was worth a hundred years of torture, easily worth it. He was certain now. Something big was happening.

" ‘The devil,’" he quoted to himself, " ‘being a proud spirit, cannot bear to be mocked.’" Then he set off again.

The spiral staircase was not hard to find. He expected to be swarmed within minutes, expected that Lucifer would contact the tower’s gun crews at least, send people to find him, but there was nothing. The threats of torture had just been blustering, then: the Prince of Darkness had bigger fish to fry. He was a little hurt by the slight, but it helped to confirm his suspicions. Once on the stair he hesitated—down or up?—and eventually decided down would be best. If these tunnels were a reality, there might be some way to block them before the cavalry showed up to capture him and start his century of torture. So he descended flight after flight, taking the steps three at a time, dizzy from the constant circular motion of the staircase, until he reached the first floor and drew up short.

A cluster of demons, one of them with wings, were dressing themselves. It seemed bizarre, and he watched for a second or two, noting the bodies on the ground. What was this? Then he recognized the winged devil, and his heart leapt into his mouth. So: Keith Sterling got to play the rescuer, after all.

"James!" he shouted. "Step away from him, you bastards, or by God I’ll plug you!"

The Second Hellswar, Part Two of Four

2005-12-09T15:13:00.000+01:00

James judged about half a mile between himself and the ground, which was packed full of enemies for a great distance. He hardly hesitated ("Never hesitate," he told himself firmly) before flinging himself forward, headfirst, activating one of his most spectacular parlor tricks. Behind him Athena, caught off her dignity for once, screamed. The scream vanished in a second as he fell.

He feared the wind would tear his newly-patched wings apart again, leaving him to sink like a stone, but when he spread them they held. Though they were too ragged to fly, his fall was slowed perceptibly. He caught a bat in midair as he dived, twisted its head off, and poured its blood into his mouth. Renewed energy poured through him instantly. He angled his wings to fall at an intersect with a small plane, the outside of which was covered in attacking demons. He hit the cockpit (pilot’s scared face, visible through the glass for a flash) and bounced off, seizing one of the devils in his arms. He cut its throat with its own dagger (falling, falling), took its pistol from its holster, and shoved its body away.

Re-armed now—good. Immediately afterwards, he was thrust aside by the mighty wind of a passing dragon, a true colossus, a hundred demons on its back. Like a whale swimming past a small fish, it did not notice him, but a flick of its cedar-like tail sent him tumbling against the side of the tower. He bounced against it, twice (it knocked the breath from his body, what little the fall had left him), before he got his bearings and pushed off. A mighty devil, twice his size, had spotted him from its perch on the dragon’s back—it charged toward him, mighty wings beating, mouth set in a fierce grin, brandishing a flaming sword. He shot it twice before it reached him, both times in the face, and caught its wrist as it died. There was a pistol, obviously stolen, thrust into its belt. He flipped upside-down, took it at his second grab, and turned toward the ground once more.

He was two-thirds of the way down. He began firing with both hands into the masses below. His flames had gone out as his concentration failed, so he re-ignited. Too fast, too fast . . . He was going too fast. The quick repair job on his wings had failed to slow him as much as he had hoped. Like a comet he fell, and he could see the terrified roiling of bodies in and around his destination. He opened his mouth and screamed.

He knew there was only one trick: to live. He knew there was only one way to do that, which was: to use your last reserve of strength, to tap your final ounce, to push yourself beyond the point of total exhaustion, and not just once, but over and over again, and then once more. Always: just once more.

So he emptied one gun, then the other a second later, he tossed them aside, and then he opened his screaming mouth wider still, set his insides ablaze, drew all his fire, every last bit of it, to his core.

Then he spat it out.

The inferno fell like a tremendous wave, a huge fireball which burst onto those below and incinerated many of the closely-packed demons instantly. He took a deep breath, and spat again. Then again—though he felt utterly emptied. The ground, which had been rushing to greet him, was enveloped by a burgeoning, rushing, blossoming garden of flames. Everything below was on fire, and he was coming into it, oh so quickly, at a shattering speed in fact . . .

In the end he tucked his chin to his chest. He curled up a fetal position, ending his life the same way it had begun, and he wrapped his wings closely around his body to shut out the sound of the wind.

The fire was soft as fur, soft as a breeze, soft as the womb. His body struck the top of the inferno, was tossed high by it, then struck it again before he sank through like water and came to rest, gently, on solid ground at last.

. . .

The 1005th Hell-Army had been ordered to hold their ground beside and around the tower for almost a week. They had no need of sleep, of course—evil never sleeps—but it does eat, and there was no food. They were hungry and restless. Moreover, their numbers were continually worn away, layer by layer, by the attackers who surrounded their shrinking circle. Morale was very low; there was discontented grumbling directed toward the war’s leadership. Occasional strafing runs, mounted by enemy planes and dragons, were a source of constant terror. The soldiers were packed too tightly together to move much in any direction. In the fifth day, it occurred to Infernal Footsoldier Velkia that this might have been planned by hell’s decision-makers: he and his comrades were forced to stand in one place and fire on their aerial enemies from the ground rather than turning tail and running for shelter. Forced bravery—suicidal valor. The only possible choice. Almost certainly most would have fled, given the chance, but there was nowhere to go and no way to get there.

"Packed together like flies," a soldier beside Velkia kept muttering. "Dark Lord’s sake, we’re packed together like flies." He was shaking uncontrollably. "Like flies," he kept saying.

"Have courage, dark brother!" chattered another, the light of fanaticism sparkling in his eyes. "We will destroy these invaders most cruelly! We will tear the flesh from their bones! We will offer their heads as trophies of war to the Dark Lord, and he will reward us, his loyal servants!"

Those around the zealot stared at him glumly—despite being right next to the tower, the last line, the prospect of conflict weighed heavily on their minds. The trembling soldier seemed not to notice the words of dubious comfort. He rocked back and forth, eyes focused on the sky. "Flies," he said. "That’s us: flies."

Velkia’s father, an old veteran named Rook, sat on his heels, unperturbedly drawing patterns in the dust with the tip of his dagger and smoking a clay pipe. Since their arrival on the field five days before, he and Velkia had taken turns sitting down. They had also chewed, secretly, on bits of tough jerky-like meat his father had cannily taken along, tucked into a pouch which hung over his chest. "Okay, da?" he asked.

His father smiled crookedly, showing gaps between his sharp teeth, memorials to his long-ago imprisonment. "Look a bit scared, don’t they?" he commented. Velkia nodded. "You, son? You scared?" His yellow eyes flickered upwards.

"A bit, da," he admitted. "They keep pounding away at the army on all sides like this, eventually they’ll get to us, and the Tower. There’s not enough room to do any decent fighting, neither."

"They’ll get to us. Us, sure," Rook said. "Not the tower." He sniffed. "It’s not hard to see what they’re doing." Pointing to the top of the tower, he announced: "There’s something valuable up there. We’re here as a buffer—armor for the tower, eh? Those boys keep advancing, knocking out layers of that armor, and the brass’ll send more troops up through the tunnels under the tower."

"They’ve got to leave those tunnels open," Velkia argued. "Open for a retreat, if it comes to that. They said."

"Oh, aye," his father chuckled mirthlessly. "They said." He grinned again. "They’re cutting off our escape route, son. They’ll keep the soldiers coming, and we’ll keep dying." He spat on the ground between his feet, and a thin wisp of smoke came up from the glob of saliva. "We’ll get to the front in another day at this rate, if the twice-damned planes don’t get us first."

The shaking soldier had stopped moaning long enough to listen, and now he wailed. "We’re all going to die!" he shouted. "No retreat—cut off!"

"Die in layers," Rook nodded. "Like a skin."

The zealot elbowed his way forward and glared down at where the old veteran squatted. "You betray our leadership!" he snarled. "They would not leave us to perish!"

"Here’s some news: They have, boy-o. Think you can get out of here?"

"I would not do so!" he declared. "If what you say is true, I will gladly offer my life as a martyr for my lord!"

"Here’s your chance, then. Eh?" Rook stood, stretched, and looked down at the furious zealout. "I’m an old soldier. You never will be. Martyrs never make it that far. Anyway, you’ll change your tune when it’s our turn to die."

"Traitor!" the zealot shouted, flushing a deeper shade of red. "Doomsayer! You should be punished for your lack of faith, your, your—complacence!" To emphasize the point, he drew his sword. The onlookers broke into chatter, some egging the man on, excited at a break in the tedium, others urging him to be calm.

Velkia drew his dagger and poked it into the small of the devil’s back. "I’ll bleed you like a pig before you ‘punish’ my da," he promised earnestly. The zealot froze, and for a second the tableau stook like that: the small wiry one with an unsheathed blade clenched in his hand, the point of Velkia’s dagger pressed against the base of his spine, the veteran grinning at him.

It was disturbed by a shout, and Velkia looked up just in time to see a distant, falling figure spread its wings and glow with sudden flames. Exclamations, cries of terror—whatever or whoever it was was descending rapidly, and right towards them. Glancing at his father, he saw Rook’s eyes filled with a sort of awe he had never seen on the old devil’s seamed, grizzled face. "Da?" he asked.

"It can’t be," Rook muttered. "Couldn’t be her . . ."

The fiery spectre was creating a great deal of consternation on the ground. A few panicked shots were fired upwards, but the main goal seemed to be to get out of the way. They pushed, they shoved, but they were too close together. Velkia’s father stayed still, so he did the same.

They watched the descending figure bounce off a passing plane; they watched a dragon toss him into the tower, and they watched him shoot a mighty demon. By the time his plan became clear, as his unearthly scream reached them across the distance, he was already shooting into the upturned faes. The frightened soldier died first, and instantly: drilled precisely between the eyes. The prospect—an apparently suicidal devil, ablaze, shooting straight down as he fell, was too unreal. No one really responded. One bullet kicked up dust inches to the side of Velkia’s foot.

There was a roar after the shots stopped, and the fireball came, rushing downward like a dragon’s blast. There was simply no time to dive out of the way, not even time to bring hands to cover faces. Velkia was right in the center of its path, and the force of it knocked him down face-first—but it did not kill him.

Two more blasts, full on him, driving him further into the ground—his nostrils filled with the ashes of those who had been incinerated. When he raised his head at last, he saw that the fire was burning all around him, over him, under him. He laid on glowing embers—the clothes on his back had ignited. The flames roared, deafeningly.

Like all demons, Velkia was fire-resistant, but not to the point of lying in the middle of a white-hot blaze. Anyway, it had killed the rest of the soldiers caught beneath it. I should be dead, he realized distantly. Beside him, he heard his father coughing. "I don’t believe it," the old devil said hoarsely. "The Cleansing Fire."

"Da!" He crawled over to Rook, taking his hand. They were covered in the ashes that had been their clothing and fellow soldiers. Dimly, through the blaze, he could see other shapes moving about a few yards away, on hands and knees.

Then, just in front of him, wings unfurled. Slowly the one who had fallen stood, rising from the glow, surrounded by flames. His skin glowed a dull red. He wrapped his wings close to his naked body, protectively, as a cloak, and stared at the two demons who lay prone before him.

"You live," he said, in surprise. "And so do I."

"Master!" Velkia was shocked to see his father crawl to the winged one’s feet and remain there, hunched over on his knees. "You are of Queen Typhera’s blood! You must be!"

"Typhera? She was my mother," he muttered. "Who are you?"

"My name is Rook. I served with her in the Furnaces of Cleansing Fire. I served with her later, in the Hellswar. Didn’t she ever speak of her faithful Rook?"

"I never knew her. How is it you are alive, Rook?"

"The Cleansing Fire can never kill your mother’s servants, those who once worked in the Furnaces."

He touched the two white stubs on Rook’s back. "You had wings?"

"As did all who served her. As did my son, before they cut them off at his birth. The price," he said bitterly, "that hell demanded if we wished to remain live, and sane. But in my heart, I never faltered! I was ever loyal to Queen Typhera."

The eyes of Typhera’s son moved to Velkia, and back. Other demons, the shapes he had seen earlier, were moving toward their little group through the blaze, all with amputated white stubs clearly visible on their naked backs. The older ones followed Rook’s lead, kneeling and exclaiming in wonder. The younger ones held back, looking confused.

"By what name shall we call you, master?" one of the kneelers shouted.

"James," he said. "James McMullen."

"James McMullen," Rook said with quiet intensity, "son of our dead queen Typhera: our oaths are renewed. We will serve you in life and death." A murmur of assent followed his words.

McMullen looked torn between utter exhaustion, bemusement, and deep emotion. His eyes glowed strangely. He looked at Velkia and the other three who hung back. "And you?" he asked.

Velkia did not hesitate a second longer, but moved to his father’s side and bowed his head. The others followed suit. "Long has my mother led me in prayers for this day," one of the younger demons muttered, his voice shaking.

"Forgive us, master," said one who seemed to be the eldest, older even than Rook. "Had we known you were imprisoned in the top of this high tower, we would have surely stormed it and set you free."

McMullen looked around. "Eight of you?" he asked. "You would risk the hammerfall of Lucifer with an army of eight demons?"

"There are more," the eldest demon answered proudly. "Many more. And Lucifer will not have forgotten the fashion in which we acquit ourselves." He looked up into McMullen’s face and smiled, tightly. "He cannot help but remember."

"We should find a safer place," said Rook. "The fires are dying."

McMullen took a breath. "We must go to the tower."

They moved through the flames, which had sunk to about eight feet through a lack of fuel. Velkia wondered how far the flames extended—once they were gone, the innumerable soldiers who still remained would move in on the blasted area. At the moment, though, they were invisible to anyone outside the blaze. They reached the doors to the tower, which were made of some dark, heavy metal, and bound with iron from the other side. The fire was so hot, it had actually begun to melt the hinges and the bars—they were fused together. "There are guards on the other side," Velkia offered. "They might be able to open it."

Rook moved forward and hammered on the door as hard as he could. "Let us in!" he bellowed. "Survivors! Save us from this blaze!" Then in a lower voice: "Stay with the McMullen, son. We’ll take care of this."

There was a pause, and then the sound of bars being taken down, heavy clanking as chains were drawn through hooks. Voices on the other side. The door began to open, heavily and with great difficulty, the damaged hinges buckling and twisting.

As soon as the door was open wide enough to admit a single figure, Rook slid through, and the other six demons followed him. Velkia stayed behind, reluctantly. He noticed that McMullen seemed to be swaying on his feet. "Would you like my shoulder, master?" he asked hesitantly, hoping it was not impudence.

He nodded wearily. Velkia draped McMullen’s arm over his shoulders, put his own arm around McMullen’s waist. "Thanks," he said. "What’s your name?"

"Velkia, master."

"Will they be all right in there? For all we know it’s full of guards."

"They will fight with valor," said Velkia ferverently.

"Jesus," McMullen muttered. "What do you know? Looks like I’m the de facto leader of a jihad." He turned his eyes up the tower, seeming to notice the outside for the first time. "What’s in this place? What do we do when we’re inside?"

"There is a tunnel underneath which leads directly to the Main Barracks. It’s how the armies came here. The upper levels are full of weapons and communications equipment."

"What kind of weapons?"

"Directed towards air-borne enemies. Nozzles which release poison gas, machines that spout huge gouts of flame, anti-aircraft cannons. The top levels contain, it is said, equipment of torture, and at the very top is a prison."

"That part I know," McMullen muttered.

"It is the Dark Prophet’s personal interrogation area."

"You don’t say."

"The fires are dying," Velkia observed, and it was true. The flames might have extended across the entire face of hell, for all they could see through them before—now the edge of the inferno was visible, about thirty yards away. Dark, hazy figures moved about, advancing as the flames retreated. "Do you think they can see us, master?"

"Probably. We can see them." The question was answered with a hiss, as an arrow—which had ignited in its passage through the fire—glanced off the side of the tower. "Shit, here they come."
Velkia moved to interpose his body between McMullen’s and any likely archers. At that moment Rook, blood trickling from a cut over his eye, stuck a head out of the door, grinning.

"Come on, then!" he said. "It’s all arranged on this side!"

Quickly, Velkia moved McMullen through the door. On the other side was the first level of the tower, a massive, pillared affair, dark and smooth, a spiral staircase rising from the center of the hall. About twenty bodies of guards lay stretched on the ground; all those who had entered were still alive, though some sported minor injuries, and they moved among the corpses taking weapons and stripping armor. "They can see us, da," Velkia said as Rook ushered them in.
"Won’t be long before they break down these doors."

"See us, can they?" said Rook. "Think they can hear us, then?" He stuck his head out the door again, cupping his hands to his mouth, and bellowed at the top of his lungs, his voice amazingly strong: "Oi! This is Rook, servant of the fallen queen Typhera, she whose name has been forbidden, who some of you may remember yet! Hear this: The queen’s offspring has come to lead us to freedom! Any among you who remain loyal, keep the armies out of this tower! You will be honored in death, and rewarded in life, should you survive!" This was quite a long speech, but it was obvious that the demons on the outskirts of the subsiding fire had heard every word. The arrows had ceased as he spoke—he put his shoulder against the door and slammed it shut before they could begin firing again, throwing bolts and bars into place.

McMullen pulled away from Velkia and advanced, furious, on Rook. He seized the old demon by his shoulders. "What the hell do you think you’re doing?"

"Buying us time, master," Rook answered. "And announcing the rebirth of our war for freedom."

"How many out there will be on our side? One in five?"

"One in ten, I should imagine. I know only those closeby could have heard me, master, but word will spread like wildfire . . ."

"One in ten? If they choose to fight the other demons, they’ll all be killed!"

Rook stared into McMullen’s eyes, uncomprehending. "They will fight bravely."

"And die bravely?"

"Of course. For your sake, master. And they will take a dear toll before they fall."

"On the word of a soldier they don’t know?"

"They saw you fall, master. They saw you spit the Cleansing Fire, just as your mother once did. I spoke her name, which is forbidden. They will believe me."

McMullen staggered backwards, closing his eyes, and Velkia caught him about the shoulders. Rook looked worried. "Did I do wrong, master? I only bought us time we needed."

"You did what you thought best, Rook," said McMullen. He opened his eyes and smiled wanly at Velkia, who held him tightly. "Velkia. Could you please find me something to cover my body? I am very cold." The rest of the demons sprang into action—Velkia readjusted his grip, so he might hold McMullen upright more easily.

Rook still looked concerned. "You must understand, master," he said. "You have been away for so long—and if you never knew Typhera—those of us out there, the loyal ones, will welcome death for your sake. For them, it will seem the greatest kindness. They will bless my name and yours as they perish, for giving them that chance. They remember the days of the war, the days they served under your mother, as the happiest of their lives. We had honor. We had a cause."

"I never wanted martyrs," McMullen muttered.

Rook grinned. "I berated an aspiring martyr, not but a few minutes ago. But in truth, it would be honor to die fighting for such a thing as this." He bowed his head. "Understand, master: those soldiers love you, though they have never met you. They would follow you into the jaws of death itself—yea, even unto the second damning."

McMullen took a deep breath. "I was wrong to shout at you, Rook. I did not understand. But still, I would prefer the martyrs remain alive whenever possible."

"Yes. As would I. As would they. I want to live, to see the new homeland you will claim for us, and to see my son raise sons of his own." He stepped forward. "But in war, master, lives are lost. Better they fall for this, honoring themselves in their own hearts and minds, then for Lucifer, curses on his name, he whom they despise." He spat on the ground.

The other demons came forward and placed a tunic over McMullen’s head, helped him to step into a fallen demon officer’s leggings, placed boots on his feet. Though they were naked yet they clothed him, gently as if he had been a child, their eyes full. When they finished, they began to pull on armor themselves, strap swords onto their waists, slip daggers into sheaths, put helmets over their heads.

And then came a croaking voice Velkia did not know, from behind and above them: "James! Step away from him, you bastards, or by God I’ll plug you!"

The Second Hellswar, Part One of Four

2005-12-07T19:57:00.000+01:00

Like the title says, this is part one of four parts. Count 'em: four. And yes, to you smart-asses out there, all four parts have been written, over the past two days as a matter of fact, mostly in-class, as a sort of therapy to deal with exams. But I want to keep you all in suspense, so the rule is: once I get at least one comment, I'll post again immediately. It's all up to you . . .

. . .

Sewing, weaving, unraveling, snipping, Athena moved across the leathery tatters. She cut off bits of membrane. She reunited ragged, lightning-shaped tears with close, neat seams. She filled in holes as best she could with quickly-woven pieces of rough cloth. She drew her materials out of the air—it was one of her Powers, though one which was often forgotten, a minor endowment. It had been overlooked when hell had designed the prison-web which lay over the Tall Tower. She had used the weaving-gift once in a competition ages ago with the upstart Arachne, the girl whose loom and spindle seemed magical, though the magic was in her fingers. That contest had been to teach a mortal a lesson, keep her in her place, eradicate blasphemy, and in the end, petty and insulted, the goddess had punished the young woman with a horrible transformation.

This time, the mortal under her hands was her hope. A flash of pride: the gods, forgotten, still held some strength. Let the Morning Star know this! Let him know her part in the downfall of the arrogant angel-prince! She longed to see his beautiful face twisted in fury. She would die laughing, as befitted her station!

McMullen had settled into a steady shivering. Every now and then he grunted. "Can you feel any of this?" she asked him.

"All of it," he ground out, and after that she kept quiet.

. . .

The war raged on.

They had entered the ninth day.

Both armies had been cut by a quarter: over three million casualties on each side.

All the Princes of Hell had joined the conflict, and all the gods. A fog of locusts, flies, and bats—released to confound the attackers—hung hazy over hell’s surface. Their humming was deafening. Keith had organized a fleet of small planes which swept back and forth, blasting pesticides into the endless cloud. Ninety percent had been shot down or fallen, their engines clogged with insects. Enough had directed their fall into the enemy ranks, however, that hell’s generals had become more cautious. The remaining planes, numbering about five hundred, were left more or less alone. They were occasionally attacked by groups of winged demons who would tear out pilots bodily and hijack the planes.

Invisible heroics were taking place everywhere. Stolen hell-boats, immune to magma’s heat and filled with soldiers, assaulted the Lake of Fire itself; the central island, where it was rumored Lucifer himself held council, saw some of the worst of the fighting. This unnatural fleet had been led by the giants and the Norse jotuns in their age-old, enchanted ship of toe- and fingernail clippings. They had meant to use it against the Aesir, one day, but plans change. Loki stood in the prow, firing arrows and laughing.

A guerilla war had developed in the mountain ranges: a war of attrition, led on the attackers’ side by old mountain folk from Central Asia, the Scottish Highlands, Switzerland and Albania, the Appalachians, the Andes. They were in their element.

The endless caves and tunnels which riddled the surface were full of carnage. One long, straight burrow had seen a continuous back-and-forth motion since the beginning, each exhausted side pushing forward and being repelled in turn for days. Since the tunnel was only wide enough to allow forty to walk abreast, they advanced over massive piles of corpses. 100,000 dead in that hole alone, until a botched dynamiting job—no one knew by whose hand—buried almost everyone inside.

Disease and plagues, released by both sides onto the other, claimed almost as many lives as the fighting. The Black Death, in a horribly accelerated form, decimated men and beasts alike on the attackers’ side in a matter of hours. Their response—parasites which preyed only on hell-spawn—had been unleashed en masse against the demons. These would eat the devils from the inside. Doctors and surgeons, Ben Red Bird among them, were busy and exhausted, and had no time for those who fell victim to sickness. They were taken to isolated caves and left there to recover or (more likely) to perish.

Dragons and other flying beasts (gryphons, winged horses, eagles), not to mention the planes, fought epic aerial battles that usually went unnoticed by those on the ground, who had problems of their own. Every now and then one of the beasts would plunge to earth, torn and broken, the sometimes-living rider clinging tightly and whispering words of comfort until the smashup.

Neko Kohaku and others like him, stealth-warriors, mounted raids on various installations and key positions. Some of these they claimed and defended with their lives, setting up explosives at the bases of gun turrets. When the doors were breached they detonated the bombs, taking enemies, equipment, and their own lives in the explosion. Neko himself hand-picked an assassination squad, which became notorious among the demons within hours. They spent most of the war behind enemy lines, hiding and killing.

The most horrific monsters stayed close together. Though supposedly allies of the rest of the attackers, they were still far too dangerous to be friendly. Even the vampires stayed away. The medusae, who would turn ordinary mortals to stone on sight . . . The manticores, with their human heads and lion bodies, who were too savage and mindless to be allowed near any potential victims . . . Moshanyana and Kholomodumo, ravenous enough, the Sotho tribes say, to devour all living things in the world . . . The basilisks, who burnt or petrified everything, whose breath withered vegetation and shattered stones, who would die of fright if they so much as saw their own reflection in a mirror . . . The last remaining anaye spirits (Theelgeth, Tshanahale, the Binaye Ahani twins, Yeitso, Delgeth), unnatural monsters born to Navajo witch-virgins to plague the Earth . . . Surma, guardian of the far northern underworld, embodiment of true and sudden death . . . The two Hecatonchires, sons of Earth, who had one hundred heads and two hundred hands between them, each of which carried a weapon . . . And many more, too many to count, flesh-eaters, monsters too dark for the light of day, too terrifying for anyone’s company but their own. They moved across the plains, the worst nightmares living, and the oldest, and they demolished hell's newer and less worthy evil wherever they found it.

By the end of the third day, the armies of both sides had already spread across half of hell’s surface, millions of square miles enveloped by innumerable smaller battles. The endless, bleak prisons, filled with condemned souls, were opened wide, and these joined the cause, continually renewing the ranks of the attackers.

Krakens, sea monsters, yofune-nushi from the Sea of Japan, giant squids and sea turtles and serpents—these were released in the long, stinking oceans to wreak havoc on coastside installations and on boats carrying supplies. They were tended by the merpeople and others like them. Long, snakish necks, ancient reptiles, would rear up ten miles off the coast, covered in brine and dripping with the old filth of sea-bottoms, to do battle and wreck devil-ships. They were well-contented by their job; they were only doing what they had been made for. Pickings had not been so plentiful in the earth’s oceans for centuries. They ate the bodies as they sank, snapping them cleanly in half amidst eddies of bubbles.

Ancient, ancestral enemies died in one another’s arms in the end—elves with trolls, werewolves with hunters, vampires with priests, sirens with sailors, knights with all manner of monsters—a bleak testimony at last to the force we call, for lack of a better word, love.

It was like the legendary wars of old. It was new legend. It was utterly vast, and terrifying, and complete.

. . .

The Avatar had been busy with his work. Under fire, his powers had grown, matured—there was no longer any separation between his person and his function: to Crumble.

He was almost always alone. He was always in the thickest part of the fighting, but he was never in any danger. Bullets fell into sooty dust before they hit him. Swords rusted and broke before they touched him. He moved through extremes of temperature without discomfort. He raised his hands and all those near him would shrivel and die, instantly. Fear followed him: he was pestilence, age, weather, and death. He was the end of every story.

If he could have moved about more quickly, he might have single-handedly ended the war. But there his powers failed him, or proved too much. Vehicles corroded and broke down as he drove them. Horses died under him. (All power must have its limits.) Even his allies could feel the seep of his presence when they were nearby—their livers ached, if they were drinkers; their lungs burned, if they were smokers; to a man, their joints would stiffen, their eyesight grow dim. Thus he walked alone, patiently plodding from place to place, fulfilling his function: to Crumble.

He had lost much. The friends and lovers of his old life, their faces and names, were vanishing. His emotions, always so excessive and full, were becoming shadows, then less than shadows. Sometimes he caught himself trying to remember his own name.

Much more of this, he realized distantly, and I’ll cease to be. Something else will replace me. But who is "me," now?

And then: Perhaps the Eldest was right, when he first refused me this gift.

But after all, there was Crumbling to be done.

He was crossing a high, smoking wasteland. He had lost all track of time. There was always time, it seemed, at least for him. The war had come and gone, in the place he had found himself—wounded on both sides died as he passed, his ragged coat touching their agonized faces and leaving them white and stiff, a Christ in negative. Kiss my cloak; die.

At last he came to the edge of the plateau. Approximately level with him, dragons, planes, and gryphons swooped back and forth in an aerial ballet of fire and noise. Below them was the thick of the fight. In the middle of a wide valley: a tower, incredibly high, from which sheets of lightning and dark, stinking clouds emerged. Surrounding the tower, for three miles in any direction: tightly-packed legions of enemies, tens of thousands of them. Around the demon army: a much thinner, bedraggled ring of those he dimly recognized as his allies, pressing forward constantly, evidently trying to reach the tower.

He decided to topple the tower, knock it down, though it was perhaps five miles away from the outcropping upon which he stood. He had never tried Crumbling anything so far away, and the challenge pleased him on a cold, intellectual level. He would take it at the base, then watch it fall like a rotting tree. Something familiar about that edifice . . . No matter. Part of an earlier life. He raised his hands.

And—a shape in the highest window. His senses had become terribly acute. Across the distance he watched whoever it was climb onto the sill, stand there for a moment. Then it spread leathery, tattered wings, and even so far away he could feel the man’s pain.

It was . . . familiar, this pain . . . Wings . . .

It came in an illuminating flash, and a submerged Isaiah Red Bird burst to the surface of his mind, displacing the cobwebs of interminable age and the cold water of mercilessness. He knew.

"James!" he screamed.

The figure threw itself from the window, bursting into flames.

Danish (dansk) and Denmark (Danmark) from the Perspective of an American Skipping Stone

2005-10-06T15:47:00.000+02:00

The world turns in its bloodless cycle--days pass and slip through my fingers like gold coins, like a tipping spoon of molten silver. What have I done here in Copenhagen, which is called København, the old shipstop, the haven of the Baltic? I live in a bare room on the outskirts of the city, trains running by my window day and night, keeping me awake under down comforters. It rains often. I eat eggs, fish, and homemade bread, and I smoke filtered Lucky Strikes at 31 kroner a pack. I visit bars, and clubs with thumping music (where I might dance, if I've had enough to drink)--I walk, with friends, to Christiania, the city's famous criminal and hippie's quarter, and buy hashish from dealers behind bushes, with scales and crooked teeth, who bite pieces off their brown Moroccan bricks to sell at outrageously cheap prices. I stare out of the train window every morning as it glides into the city, running over Danish words in my head: "Eftermiddagen. Brød. Jeg hedder Jonathan. Kaffe. Ryge. Jeg kommer fra terræn. Hjem. Læser. År. Jeg bor på himmel. Sover. Søndag. Kæreste. Elsker."

I buy a cup of fresh coffee (en kop frisk kaffe) every morning (om morgenen) from the same turbaned gentleman; he smiles at me in a tired way and pours before I even ask for it. "Tak," I say. "Vi ses." I watch the swans circling on the lake in the afternoons, plunging their snakey necks into the murky water. They are huge--as big as I am. I thumb through a book on literary theory, loaned to me recently, and wish I had a lit. class this semester. I memorize names in Danish history, loaded names, important names, Viking names: King Gorm the Old, who unified Denmark . . . Bluetooth, the Christian convert . . . Sweyn Forkbeard, conqueror of England . . . Harald Fairhair, prince of Norway. I see the descendants of these men sometimes on the metro or the streets: colossally large men, pale and blond, with big hands and rambling limbs, wearing suits and carrying briefcases, looking weary and impatient. They no longer build ships with carved animal's heads in the bow, no longer steal cattle and horses, nor kidnap slave women, dragging them off by the hair. They are too tired.

I pace cobblestones. I have music in my ear. I hear languages. I live without piousness and free of moderation. I have seen cities, towns, schools, crumbling fortresses, castles, statues, fountains, fields, and the place where the North and Baltic seas meet and collide. No forests, no mountains . . . Not in this flat, cultivated land, which looks eerily like mid-Michigan in terms of natural landscape.

Before October is over, I will visit the following cities: Amsterdam. Paris. Hamburg. Prague. Possibly Berlin. Probably Zurich. What will I do there? I wonder if it is possible to know a city, let alone a country, unless you spend a lifetime there. I don't have a lifetime to offer any city, any country. Still--I am content with the hand that has been dealt to me. It is enough, that I have seen all this!

I could skip like a stone forever, lightly landing and flung forward again. I do not have enough weight to penetrate the surface. This lightness carries me on, and provides me the shield I need to remain unaffected, at ease, and self-fulfilled. But still, I have some weight in my head and on my back. You are my weight. You are my heaviness. I have no other luggage--only yours. I will carry you with me. If you are reading this, then I carry you with me. And, if I sink and settle at last, it will be with you, my ballast.

Still Unforgiven, Unrepentant

2005-10-04T15:23:00.000+02:00

Yes, indeed, Mr. Leng. Much more aesthetically pleasing. Okay, I'm sold. I can live here quite comfortably.

That's right, Sirs and Madams. I have slipped out of the constrictive, soiled, and aging skin of Xanga like a snake, and have emerged fully-grown in this new form. Further up and further in. One might almost say that I foresaw the recent Xanga Exodus, in that I eliminated all vestiges of myself before jumping ship. Everything was purged, packed, or forgotten. I will not leave myself spread sebaceously over the web like a spilled pail of tallow, dripping here, pooling there. I carry my home on my back. These are the Annals of the Bandit Kings. Welcome, you!

There's a number of things I'd like to do, here. I'm going to enlist the help of some of my friends with digital cameras, and post some pictures of this kollegium. Keep your eyes open.

It's good to be back.