Soul Mesh.
The
catastrophe began when Seven received the insistent tone in her ear informing
her that she had an emergency alert. For such a small time, she had been so
happy, so full of hope. But in a few hours she would wish that she had never
opened a window to receive the message. And in only a day from this moment,
when the first insistent chime began, she would consider ending her life, so
drastically had her very existence deviated from her hopes and dreams. But, if
she were honest with herself, she knew the catastrophe began prior to the
emergency alert—in reality, the catastrophe began the moment she lit into
Stacey, oh the things she had said to him! How could she have made such
accusations, called him such names, things she had never said before even to an
enemy, let alone to someone who initiated such desperate feelings within her
heart. She could only blame herself for the catastrophe. She could only blame
herself for losing Stacey.
She
covered her face with her hands. How could she? She had told him that he was
not real. She had said that. Spit it out, wanting to hurt him, desiring to
crush him.
Or,
was there someone else she could blame, perhaps the alien creature she met in
the hallway, just outside Stacey’s room—the insectile creature, Maulgraul—the
woman with the too-large eyes and the haughty mouth? Was not this being to
blame for the destruction of Seven’s very life? Truly, the catastrophe began
when the deceitful plotter had first lit eyes upon Stacey, when he lay
unconscious in Joshua’s arms, after the scorpion sting. Maulgraul was the true
scorpion, the true poisoner. She was evil personified.
Wasn’t
it Jack that declared that the woman who moved toward Stacey with such an
expression of lust, that she was the beginning of trouble?
Yes,
Maulgraul was the true enemy. She was the true serpent in the garden. Yes, the
Dragon Queen was the daughter of lies, and she was the devil that locked Seven
outside the garden, and now Seven was lost, pacing fruitlessly in her Inner
Sanctum, banished from High Vale.
And
for those tender few hours, after Stacey recovered, Seven’s life had seemed so
enchanted. She had been so close, on the very brink, she had almost achieved
the goal she had never even realized she so desperately desired. They had been
so close, closer than Seven had ever thought two people might draw together,
lounging so intimately in the sunshine, carelessly touching each other—she had
never been so familiar with another person, never in her twenty years of life.
Without thinking, she had pushed her fingers through Stacey’s hair, she had
touched his cheek, she had even taken his hand and held it, and he had looked
into her eyes and smiled with such tenderness. It almost killed her now,
remembering that small, that extremely tiny sliver of time.
Clutching
at her head, pacing in her Inner Sanctum, she berated herself—no, it was all
her own fault. She was the one that had initiated the catastrophe, when she had
spied upon Stacey and Jack, hiding in the bushes just above where they
exercised and chatted, she had listened to their idle banter about women,
burning with flares of anger, and what else? Yes, jealousy, she had burned with
jealousy, listening to the playboy Stacey describe all the varieties of women
he liked—sex, everything was sex with these savage men from an earlier time in
the world. All their culture was about sex and objectifying women, and she had
known that Stacey was that kind of man, the kind that seduced women, racking up
his points in the game of seduction. Filth!
Such
fury burned within her, she had actually desired him to die, right then and
there, and when the scorpion attacked, she could have ended the drama right at
the beginning, she should have struck immediately, for she had Jack’s bow, and
in this world she had all the necessary skills to slay the attacking creature,
almost instantly, but she had stayed her hand, she had watched as Stacey
battled the creature. Yes, this is when her catastrophe began, because it was
her lack of action that had led to Stacey receiving the scorpion sting. Truly,
when the stinger entered Stacey’s back, it was almost as if she were the one
that stabbed him. Because for just those few moments she had actually desired
his death, this traitorous, evil man, this defiler of women. She had heard him
admit what she had always known, that he had defiled women, many women—yes, he
was the worst of men, so opposite to Jack, the virgin, the pure light.
She
could have placed the arrow right in Stacey’s heart. Forget the scorpion. She
should have slain Stacey.
In
desiring her man’s death, she had killed herself.
She
had carried this guilt, when they struggled to save Stacey. The guilt pressed
down upon her, as they raced back to the manor. All through the night, while
everyone expected Stacey’s death, she had berated herself, tormented herself,
because she was guilty. If he died, she died. It was all her fault. No one else
was responsible. Only her. Forever, her. She was guilt personified.
There
had been a reprieve, when Stacey opened his eyes. And they were together. Her
guilt drew back. Even her despise of Stacey had abated, for that small while.
It had slipped her mind, the terrible things she had known, the terrible truth
he had admitted to Jack. She had always known Stacey was not pure, but for a
golden few moments, she had not allowed herself to remember. She had cared for
him and all seemed right in the world—at least in the fantasy world of High
Vale. The Gamer World—where had she
heard that? There was some distant memory of darkness, and a shadowed figure,
and Stacey arriving, taking her in his arms—was that all a dream? Hadn’t he
kissed her, and held her?
Then,
when he woke in the morning, reprieved from death, he had kissed her again, in
reality, and she had returned his kisses. So strange, that feeling, a human
mouth upon another human mouth. She had never experienced such a thing before,
in all her life. She had read about the practice, in history, and had always
thought the deed to be such a disgusting perversion, a thing of lower life
form, repulsive, and filthy.
Pacing
in her Inner Sanctum, she summoned coffee and banished it, untasted. She pulled
glasses of wine from the air, and then tossed them against the wall, to vanish.
She felt wild, dangerous, and filthy. Because the kisses yet burned upon her
mouth. She scrubbed her lips with the backs of her hands, and she wept, for she
wanted the experience again, and again, she wanted it forever. She wanted
Stacey, always, forever. She could still feel his hands upon her body.
Yes,
she was Stacey’s girl, she had always been...Stacey’s girl. She knew it, even in her childhood. Every time she
was scolded, the priestesses had rubbed the reality deeper into her soul—don’t be Stacey’s girl! You are such a bad
girl, Stacey’s girl. They had drummed it into her, and she had always known
it was true. She was Stacey’s girl. She was bad, defiled through and through
without a man ever touching her. Yes, his touch was under her skin. He was
inside her, he had always been inside her, living in her, Stacey, and she had
always been Stacey’s girl.
And
whatever else she did, she would always find her way back to him, to Stacey.
She would always be Stacey’s girl.
In
the hallway, just outside Stacey’s room, she had almost collided with the great
skulking insect, Maulgraul. Seven carried the large bottle of wine and the two
glasses, and these she almost dropped when they came face to face.
“Stay
away from him,” Maulgraul snarled. “Do not seek to inflict your insanity on
this good man.”
Seven,
flabbergasted, had only stared up at the towering woman.
“You
are not Stacey’s girl,” Maulgraul whispered, moving forward, her too-solid
tower of a body shoving Seven backward.
Enough
was enough. Seven shoved the bottle of wine against the woman, pushing her
back—only, Maulgraul was not moved, not even an inch. It was like pushing
against a brick wall.
“Little
thing, you are pathetic. The women from your world know nothing. You know
nothing of a man such as Stacey Colton. You worship the man of peace, Jack. But
Stacey Colton is a warrior,” Maulgraul whispered.
If
she had to do it all over again, Seven would smash the bottle over the woman’s
head.
Instead,
she tucked the bottle under her arm, and fled into Stacey’s room, and locked
the door, her heart slamming in her breast.
Stacey
reclined in the bed, drowsy, smiling at her. He had removed his clothes, and
now snuggled on his side, in only his clean undergarment. And he stole her
breath away. She couldn’t stop devouring the sight of him. Her breathing came
raggedly, and she felt faint.
He
moved on the bed, making room for her, and she stared down at him, her being
splintering into thousands of shards of confusion. They stared at each other,
for a long, pregnant moment. Seven listened—was the dark woman still lurking
outside the door? Perhaps chittering, like a monstrous bug, extending its
feelers into the cracks of the door, even now?
Stacey
reached and she automatically placed the bottle of wine in his hand. He worked
at the cork with his thumbs.
“I’m
still so weak,” he mumbled, and it was obvious, he was still so ill, exhausted,
but he managed to work the cork up and out of the bottle. She held the glasses
for him and he poured the wine.
She
sat on the edge of the bed and they sipped at their wine, Stacey propped up on
an elbow, his eyes never leaving hers.
“What’s
wrong,” he queried, placing a hand upon her thigh. “Did something happen, just
now?”
“That
woman,” she breathed.
“What
woman?”
She
didn’t speak, but scooted away on the bed so that his hand slipped away from
her thigh.
He
set his glass upon the nightstand, and then he reached and took her glass from
her limp hands, and set it against his glass. She stared at the glasses,
together. Her glass was almost empty, his full. He took her hand and pulled her
toward him, and she resisted, listening, her heart thumping, but finally she
lay down near him, her back against his front. He snuggled up against and
around her and she was too conscious of him—conscious of all of him.
Seven
was fully dressed, still in her boots. She wore her tight buckskin breeches,
and a silk top, and nothing else, and his hands lightly explored her body. Why
was he doing that? He shouldn’t be touching her, not like that.
She
thought of the other women he had admitted to being with—had he touched them,
even as he now touched her?
“It’s
okay,” he breathed into her ear. “Just be here, with me. Just relax.”
“The
women,” she said.
“Mmmm,”
he breathed, obviously near sleep. “The women...”
She
elbowed him, harder than she intended. He grunted and moved away from her.
“Seven?”
he said, as she turned about to look at him, pushing herself up into a sitting
position.
“Your...other...women, how many have there been? Hundreds?”
He
blinked at her.
“What
in the world?”
“Your...conquests, how many?”
“No,
Seven, no, I was never that kind of guy, I was never after conquests,” he
began.
“I
don’t want to hear that. Just tell me,” she whispered, but she was suddenly
furious, and she was surprised at herself that she wasn’t screaming into his
face, because that’s exactly what she wanted to do.
“Well,
it’s embarrassing,” he said, chuckling. “I’ve always been more like a woman, I
guess, you know, in that department. I’ve always been the one looking for
love—true love.”
“Is
that what you call it?” she snarled.
“Look,
Seven. Sandy. There haven’t been many, okay? I think five, tops, and they were
all of them mistakes,” he said, closing his eyes, bringing up his hands to rub
his temples with his palms. “Do you feel that? A hum?”
Five.
He said five. But what she heard was...five
hundred. Five thousand.
No,
five million!
He
reached to place a hand on her back but she slapped the hand away.
“I
always knew it, forever, I mean it was in school, in the textbooks, the
humiliation of it all, it’s actually written in the history books. Jack’s
Casanova, that’s what they called you. The Saint and his Sinner. You are
filthy, one of the filthy men. Disgusting, perverted. They warned me. And I
knew it. Jack was the one I was supposed to study, not you.”
“Jack?
What’s Jack got to do with it?”
“He
was lucky, you know, very fortunate, that you died. If you had lived, you would
have broken his heart,” Seven said, gasping, tears flooding her eyes. She had
to remember, none of this was real, this man in the bed, he was not real, he
was just a memory, or the recreation of a memory. It was absurd that she feel
something that wasn’t even real, something that was a thing, a creation, code,
flashing numbers, ones and zeroes. She had actually been snuggling here, in
this sleazy adult fantasy world. A Gamer World! What was wrong with her? What
had she been thinking? She wasn’t in love with this...thing.
“You
see, none of that makes any kind of sense,” Stacey said, flailing his hands
like a child. “If I lived...but if I
didn’t live, how could I be any kind of...Don
Juan—”
“Casanova! Jack’s Casanova, the Sinner
from the Saint. That was you, Stacey Colton. But you know what, it doesn’t
matter, because you...are...not...real.
And I’m not Stacey’s girl, do you understand that? I’m not Stacey’s girl, and I’ve
never been Stacey’s girl. I don’t want any part of you, and I have never wanted
anything to do with you.”
“Hey,”
he said, putting his arms around her, “shhhh, just quiet down. It’s okay, I’m
here. It’s me, Stacey. I’m here. I’m real. See, I’m real, Sandy.”
She
tried to shrug out of his embrace, but he was very strong. She struggled a
moment, breathing raggedly. Then she went still. And she smiled. She
head-butted him, catching him full on the nose. He fell back, his hands at his
gushing nose, so much blood, so quickly, just like that—for a moment, just for
a moment everything had been wonderful, glorious, and now, blood. Stacey
groaned.
She
was glad that she had hurt him. Yes she was. She was glad that he bled. She was
glad that it was—she that had produced
that blood. She had blasted out, finally, for all the women he had hurt
throughout his depraved adventures. She would make him pay.
He
looked at her with bloodshot eyes, woozy, blinking.
“Men
like you ruined the world,” she shouted, standing. She glanced to his
shillelagh against the wall. For a moment—a fleeting moment—she considered
taking up the weapon, swinging it, and smashing out his brains. Like chopping
wood. Just swing it, bring it down, smoothly, she could picture the whole
procedure. It would be so easy. No, but no, she wouldn’t be like him—a warrior—no, she was from Jack, a woman
of peace from a man of peace. The Man
of Peace.
“That
humming,” he said, holding his gushing nose. “Ah, that’s breaking my head. Don’t
you feel that? Someone’s shooting rays into my head. I feel it, frequencies,
like cell phones.”
He
was babbling. She stood, staring at him, almost reaching for the shillelagh.
“Seven,
I think you broke my nose,” he said, rapidly blinking his eyes. And he laughed.
“Do you know, in years of boxing, getting punched in the face, and I never got
my nose busted? It really hurts, almost as much as my head.”
Without
thinking she snatched up his full glass of wine.
“Here,
let me help you, Stacey,” she said, teeth set hard together in a rictus grin.
And she dashed the full glass of wine in his face.
Dripping,
he stared up at her for a few moments. “It might have seemed like a good idea.
But no, that didn’t seem to help too much. Maybe it was kind of refreshing.”
Then
she was fumbling at the door, unable to work the latch, until finally she got
it free and dashed from the room, slamming the door with all her might. She
fled through the quiet house. She hardly realized that other people were here,
probably a hundred of them, visitors, Six and his wife, Jack, Joshua and
Michael—it all seemed foolish now. She should have never come here, to this
stupid, absurd Gaming World.
She
was outside, running. She saw men—the strange tattooed Dragon Warriors—turning
to watch her flight. But she had to get out of here. She had to escape this
place of illusions. She had to get back to the real world.
The
warning chime sounded. She stopped, breathing hard, eyes unseeing. For a moment
she forgot how to access the system. Then she thought of Old Ben. She slapped
at her left shoulder and felt the tingle. She pulled open a window and saw the
flashing signal, an incoming message. An emergency. She clicked on it.
Her
mother’s face appeared before her in a perfect translucent hologram.
“Sandra,
you must come quickly. Please do not delay. I am afraid I have terrible news.
Please come now, daughter.”
And
Seven stood in her Inner Sanctum, in her black sweats and footsie socks. For
just a moment, she felt cold, out of that other world. She felt her hips,
missing the tight, shiny buckskin. Surely, those had been the most repulsive
clothes. But she had to admit, they had felt good on her body. And Stacey sure
had liked the way she looked, that had been more than obvious. She could yet
feel one of his hands clutching her. She might scream, at any second, and her
head would explode. Was she crazy? Focus.
She
called up a window to contact her mother.
Stacey
leaned forward, pinching his nostrils shut. The bridge of his nose was a flare
of piercing white light that just would not go away. He snickered. He used to
brag about the fact that he had never had his nose broken, and now just look at
who went and sucker-punched him in the face. The girl had actually broken his
nose! High marks, there, the girl had skills.
He
heard the door open, and close. Ah, she was back to finish the job. Well, let
her. She could put him out of his misery. He heard the lock engage.
“You
poor thing,” an unfamiliar voice with a strange accent spoke. Someone large sat
next to him on the bed. “Let me see what that little girl did to you.”
And
competent hands took his face and turned his head up. He tried to peer through
the white light but could only discern very large eyes peering at him.
“Just
a broken nose—I was way overdue,” Stacey said, gagging a bit as blood washed
down the back of his throat.
“Shhh,”
she said, soothing her fingers along his nose—oooh, it felt wonderful. Such
hands. “This should never have happened to you, Beloved. Maully is here,
Beloved, Maully is here now.”
That
was odd, Maully—he didn’t know who the hell she was, but there was something
familiar about her, something utterly peaceful. Yes, the white light of pain in
his nose receded, and the pounding in his head abated. He felt like something
important, right now, had just occurred, one of those life-changing moments. He
struggled to see her face through the pain but he was practically blind.
“Lie
back, Beloved, I can fix this. This is no trouble,” the soothing voice with the
odd accent whispered.
Stacey
fell back, exhausted. He had yet to recover from his recent poisoning, and now,
this trauma of Seven’s outburst, and he was done in. The broken snout didn’t
help, not such a very much. Oh yeah, he wasn’t going to survive this. Just let
him die, please, just let me die. Die, monster, die!
“Maully
is here for you Stacey, Beloved,” she breathed, bodily moving him about on the
bed, easily stretching him out. And then she covered his body with hers.
What the hell kind of
nurse was this?
He
opened his eyes, startled, and was overwhelmed by the closeness of her face,
the strangest and most beautiful face he had ever seen, all cheekbones and
eyes. She placed her mouth upon his mouth and he opened it to object, but then
she was kissing him, and he felt his whole body was absorbed into her body, his
entire being collected inside her. Underwater, outer space, floating in a
vacuum, he expanded and contracted, moving in and out, hardly there at all.
Light
filled him. He spun up high in the air, twirling about, his stomach remaining
far below and he gasped, spiraling, higher and higher, colors flooding his
vision—no, not his eyes—colors he had never seen before pervaded his entire
soul, he washed, flooding, crying out, turning inside-out, outside-in,
contracting and expanding, and rising, ever rising. Wind blew, loud, and
louder, a maelstrom of screaming, shrieking winds. He spun through a wall of
red, red deep and immersive, ruby, crimson, and then he tumbled into orange,
pumpkins and sunsets and sherbet, and yellow, the sun, corn, childhood candy,
his body alongside someone else, they gripped and held, and they whirled into a
cyan, and then blue, deepest blue, and finally purple, darker and darker
purples. He was riding the rainbow.
He was a little boy, and
Maully was there, the little girl with the long face, and the black hair that
cascaded about her body. Her big eyes, always watching him. They played, and
chased each other. He knew Maully, his best friend, for years, and years, they
adventured, gossiped, and planned. Wolf told her stories, and she listened,
enthralled. You tell the best stories, Beloved, she ever told him. She was so
serious, and he was the one always trying to loosen her up, make her laugh,
because her laughter was so rich, it thrilled him, fingers drawn across the
piano strings of his soul, her laughter, her sparkling eyes.
When they were older Wolf
realized how beautiful she was, and for a time he was embarrassed around her,
awkward whenever he looked at her, but she was always Maully, ever drawing him
out of himself, like no one else could. They were best friends, and he ached to
tell her that he loved her, had always loved her, and would ever love her. She
was his Maully, but he knew that to her, he was just the orphan boy, her best
friend, her playmate from childhood. The commoner who told stories and
protected her from the Lordlings.
He was the orphan boy,
passed from household to household, bestest friends with the Dragon Princess, his
own dear friend Maully. She never treated him as a lowly one, beneath her, but
always as her equal. He was a nobody, and she was everything, the highest of
the highest, the future Dragon Queen. And he was the boy that was good with his
fists, competing in contests with much older boys, and then men.
He saved her life, more
than once, because she was too daring, always sneaking about the dragon pens,
always leaping from the highest cliff into the smallest stream. She was the
brave one, the daring one, and he was ever her protector, pulling her back from
the very edge.
And when they were older
Wolf watched through the palace windows as she danced with the Dragon Lords,
the thin men with their oiled moustaches, whirling her about in her shimmering,
close-fitting gown. The young Lords gathering about her, preening in their
military whites, full of medals, yearning to dazzle the future Dragon Queen,
seeking to impress her, smiling at her words, complimenting her, fawning.
Wolf raged, stalking. He
would smash them all, with his fists, for was he not the Pugilist? They all
respected him, they all feared him, and yet they all looked down upon him, for
he was not highborn. He could only look at the sun of his life, his Maully, but
never touch her, lest he be consumed.
And then she was with
him, soothing him—those foppish men, they mean nothing to me, Wolf. It is only
you. Yes, Beloved, it has always been you. It shall always be thee. Forever
thee. They embraced, and finally his mouth was upon hers, and he felt the world
flow about them, they seemed to be encircled by great winds, yes, it will
always be thee, Beloved, always, yes, mine, thou art mine, and I am thine,
forever, always. Us, Beloved, forever, us, only us, there is no one else, there
are none, there is none, only we.
Love Thee True.
There were arguments,
great arguments. The Dragon Queen would never allow it, this mésalliance,
never! But Maully was headstrong, and no one else ever talked to the Dragon
Queen as did her daughter, the Lady Maulgraul, Princess of Dragons. For wasn’t
Wolf the Pugilist of legend? Did he not escape the belly of the beast through
prowess and strength?
No, mother, I tell thee,
I am not worthy of him, my Wolf, my soul. But he loves me, and I shall never
touch another man, only him, the Staceman Colton, it shall ever be him.
And so they married and
their lives expanded, as one life, and Wolf was the ever-attentive husband, and
Maulgraul the ever-loving wife, they adored each other, and soon there was a
child, a son, Dane the strong. And soon another son, Gunnar the bold, and then
twin daughters, Shallgrace and Shallfaith. And finally, another daughter, the
light of the family, Shalwaian.
When the Vikings
attacked it was always Wolf that lead the Dragon Warriors to victory, gathering
deep scars on his body, nearly losing a leg in defeating much greater forces,
always battling against the odds, always winning, always victorious.
Queen Maulgraul never repented
her mésalliance to her legendary lover, the Pugilist. They grew old together
and watched their children grow.
They suffered tragedy
when Dane the bold rode out upon a dragon to meet the Viking raiders, and was
slain by a treacherous arrow, fired by his own men, striking him in the back of
the neck where his armor was open. And they knew not how they survived this
death of their favorite son, the handsome man who so looked like his father.
And when their youngest
daughter wished to marry her cousin, the strong and handsome Vicenti Dulance,
son of the Lord Dulance of High Vale and the Lady Varrashallaine, they held the
great marriage in the palace, and Six was there, smiling, embracing Wolf, and
they discussed the long-ago days when Stacey had first come to High Vale,
defeating these his own people that night, saving Six and his beautiful wife
Varra. Varra, who had lived many years more, strengthened by White Champagne,
dying during the birth of Vicenti, the boy now grown and married here today to
Stacey’s daughter Shalwaian.
The two friends puzzled
over their memories, for Wolf had come here as an adult, as Stacey Colton,
brought through a portal, and yet he remembered all of his boyhood, in the
Dragonlands, growing into a young man alongside the Lady Maulgraul.
Wolf, Stacey Colton,
lived a long life, full of great and mighty deeds, but he grew old, and sat in
the sun of the palace terrace, and Queen Maulgraul stood behind him, weaving
her long fingers through his white hair, and Stacey breathed his last,
expiring, full of love, and Queen Maulgraul retired from ruling, devastated by
the loss of her one true love, and many were the nights the peoples saw her
shrouded, floating through the mists, haunting the grave of the Pugilist.
Stacey
opened his eyes, groaning, his head swimming. He felt like he was dying. But
his mind rebelled, because he had died, an old man, and where was Maully? He
glanced wildly about the room, throbbing in pain.
“Shhh,
rest easy, friend, rest easy, Wolf,” a man said, sitting near him on the edge
of the bed.
Stacey
blinked in wonder, because it was his dear old friend, the Lord of High Vale,
Dulance. Six! But he was young again, hale and strong. The last time they had
sat together, smoking cigars and quaffing White Wolf Stout (six had brought
barrels of the brew named after Wolf, as a wedding gift), the man was old,
white-haired, and stooped. Now here he was again, looking as strong as he had
the day Stacey burst out of the manor to greet the raiding Dragon Warriors.
“What’s
going on?” Stacey groaned, his whole body afire. His groin, particularly,
ached, and throbbed. He smelled blood, and he vomited, retching, pouring out
his entire insides in a gout of guts and blood and sour bile. “Where’s Maully?”
“It
is even as I said,” Varra said, from the doorway. She was smiling, beaming at
Stacey.
“Oh
damn it, damn it all, I knew it,” Six grunted, shaking his big, shaggy head. “As
soon as she pulled up stakes and fled the Great House, I knew she had pulled
some such trick! She meshed him, didn’t she?”
“Yes,
even so,” Varra said. “But remember, Husband, it is how I bonded with thee. I
caught hold of you, and you never let me go!”
Despite
himself, Six smiled up at his wife. There was no denying that, he had never
been sorry for the soul mesh he shared with Varrashallaine, his wife. It’s
true, their lives were very different from the dream they dreamed, but he could
never wish for anything other than this woman, and their life together.
“What’s
going on?” Stacey demanded. He felt like he was being pulled apart and put back
together in all the wrong ways. Someone had put his head where his belly should
go, and mixed up his arms with his legs. His lungs seemed to be strapped to his
back. “Where’s my wife, where’s Maully?”
“Seven
was called away,” Six said. “And apparently Maulgraul slipped in as soon as the
way was clear, and she meshed you. I’m sorry, Stacey, but in the long run, you
won’t be sorry. But Maulgraul left in the middle of the night, apparently right
after draining you.”
“Draining
me,” Stacey groaned, “what’s that supposed
to mean?”
“I
mean you won’t be able to walk for a week. You’ve just had the most intense
lovemaking you will ever experience, even if you live to be a hundred years old,
and I mean a hundred years old with all bionic parts!”
Stacey
didn’t like the way Six was chuckling, like this was all some kind of joke.
Damn it all, his wife couldn’t just leave him like that, fleeing in the night!
“My
sister, the Lady Maulgraul, has chosen you, Pugilist. She knew you the moment
she first saw you. She has been waiting for you her entire life,” Varra said,
and Stacey noticed the woman was no longer on death’s door, she looked hale,
and gorgeous, and sparkling with life.
“For
better or worse, till death do you part,” concluded Six.
“And
she...left? Where did she go?” Stacey
demanded, trying to sit up. Six pushed him back down upon the bed.
“Back
to our lands, to the palace, hundreds of leagues away,” Varra said, eyes
sparkling.
“I’m
going after her,” Stacey said, and began to sit up again, but again Six pushed
him down, and they struggled, and Six laughed out loud.
“I
told you, Husband,” Varra said. “They will not be kept apart. Much like you and
I.”
“You’re
sure a strong thing,” Six said. “I was a dead man, pretty much literally, for
an entire week after my soul mesh.”
Varra
came forward with a glowing orb or purest light in her hand.
Stacey
blinked. It was bright, the thing in her hand, and it took his eyes many
moments to adjust before he discerned a glass of bubbling liquid. It looked
like liquid light, as the brightness emanated from the pale drink.
“Drink
this, but slowly,” Varra said, offering Stacey the glass.
“Yes,
slowly,” Six said, licking his lips, looking with a peculiar hunger at the
glass in his wife’s hand.
Stacey
took the glass, and sipped. His body flooded with fire, good fire, calming,
soothing, and it felt as if his muscles actually grew about him, swelling with
power, his head clearing for the first time in what seemed years.
“Holy—”
Stacey began, in wonder, but then glanced to Varra. “I mean, wow, that’s some
good bubbly.”
“White
Champagne,” Varra said, proudly. “From far away.”
“Do
you think I might—” Six began, reaching for the glass in Stacey’s hand.
“Husband!”
Varra chided. “We’ve talked about this. It is not for you.”
Stacey
sipped more of the delicious nectar, and his vision improved, all the aches in
his body diminished, and he felt a new sense of purpose flood his soul. He was
off to chase down his wife—they had been separated too long. He needed her. He
needed to touch her. He ached for her.
“Calm
down, you besotted Wolf, you’re getting a boner,” Six snapped.
Stacey
blinked at him, drawing the covers close about him, and then burst into
laughter.
“I’m
married, I can’t believe it!” he snorted. “It’s like the High Vale version of
Las Vegas.”
“Las
Vegas,” Six breathed, savoring the name with wonder. “That place was destroyed
by a nuclear bomb, years ago. And then there was the Great Earthquake, and then
the volcano. And the plagues. And then—”
“—really?”
Stacey interrupted, unconcerned, sipping at the White Champagne. “Must have
been the wrath of God.”
Six
recollected. “Right, that’s right, it was long after your time, Stacey my good
man.”
“Hey,”
Stacey said, looking queerly at Six, “do you remember, when we were old men? At
the marriage?”
Six
looked thunderstruck. “Yes! My boy, Vicenti! And your daughter, Shalwaian!”
He
was looking about himself, as if he expected the happy couple to come strolling
in, the grandkids giggling and laughing about them.
Stacey
hunched in the covers, finishing the last of the White Champagne. Despite the
wondrous feelings of strength and vitality flooding him, he felt very sad,
remembering his old age, and death, and his sad Queen Maulgraul, hovering over
his tomb. Such a life, such a life, such a life.
“That
was all real, wasn’t it?” he breathed, tears forming at the corners of his
eyes.
“I
remember all of that, too,” Varra said, wiping at her own eyes. “I died in
childbirth.”
“We
all remember it. That’s the magic of a soul mesh, it shows you the future,” Six
said, sadly.
“A
future, not the future,” Varra
corrected. “And it allows us to experience the life we might have lived, and
should have lived.”
“Kind
of like Destiny, only in reverse,” Six said, blinking, lost in his own
recollections of a time that had not yet happened, and perhaps never would, at
least not exactly as they had once lived it, long ago.
Stacey
remembered Dane, his boy, carrying him about the palace. It had always been
difficult to separate them. His dear, sweet little boy. Laughing Dane, the kid
was always laughing, always smiling, such a good soul. And he remembered when
he brought Dane home, pulled upon the litter behind his own horse, the still,
quiet Dane, handsome and pale, slain by friendly fire. Dane, the Dragonrider,
the first in many generations.
“Well,
I’ve got to go,” Stacey said. “Let Jack and the boys know where I’ve gone.
Maybe you could pull together a small packet of food and water for me, I’ll be
travelling light.”
“I’ll
come with you,” Six said.
“No,
I had best meet up with my wife, alone,” Stacey replied, climbing out of the
bed, holding the blankets about him. He noticed that Varra was withdrawing from
the room, very slowly.
“Fare
thee well, Brother,” Varra called from the door.
“Fare
thee well, Sister,” Stacey replied easily, grinning at her. He looked at Six
and Varra, fondly, his in-laws.
And
a half hour later Stacey loped easily along the ruts left by Maulgraul’s great
carriage, his backpack on his back beneath his great cloak, his shillelagh
twirling in his left hand.
He
didn’t know if he would ever see them again, Jack, and Joshua, Michael, Six and
Varra, and...Seven. He thought of Seven, checking his nose. Sure enough, the
tell-tale lump was there, where it broke, right in the middle of the bridge of
his schnozzle. What might have been, oh that strange, strange girl, and her
schizophrenic ways. There was something about her, that Seven, and he just
couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was, but there definitely was something about
her.
He
loped tirelessly, swinging the shillelagh like a propeller before him.
What
a world, oh what a world—reality, what a concept.
© Copyright 2016 Douglas Christian Larsen. Vestigial Surreality. All Rights Reserved by the Author, Douglas Christian Larsen. No part of this serial fiction may be reproduced (except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews) or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the publisher, Wolftales UNlimited, but please feel free to share the story with anyone, only not for sale or resale. This work is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental (wink, wink).
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