episode THIRTY
Agreeing
to this process might not have been the best decision he had ever made, because
he felt like he was shattering into countless pieces, and every jagged shard of
him was perfectly conscious, completely aware. The idea was that this
experience would protect him, lend him some abilities that human beings were
not necessarily supposed to have. Old Ben said it was something like when you
chose the protective coating when you ran your car through the wash at the
service station. And it all was happening here in the tall building with the
big red VS logo, at Vestigial Surreality. Supposedly this was the company that
started everything. And Seven was near, Jack could feel her, and he knew that
he was not just imagining the sensation. Right now, in this scattered
sensation, he could find her anywhere, or Stacey, he was like a powerful search
program, a digital sea serpent plunging through the depths of a sea of data,
sweeping beneath and sometimes through vast tidal waves of information. Because
he was jacked into Vestigial Surreality, and as huge as the program and its
database expanded into infinity, Jack felt at this moment that he was just as
vast.
But
hey, in for a penny, in for a pound, right? Okay, he was not exactly certain
what the expression meant, not precisely, but felt he remembered that it had to
do with old-fashioned British money, moolah, but overlaid with this surface
knowledge was the memory of his first encounter with the expression, he had
been a little boy, and he thought it must mean that if you were going to eat a
piece of penny candy, you might as well go for a whole pound of all that sweet
and adorably sticky goo.
Jack
mentally flicked his hand to scatter away all that extraneous white noise, what
he thought of as his jabber thought,
because he had to overthink everything, he had to play with the words, conjure
up the memory, and Google it to no end, just as he was doing now as he
considered how he was flicking away all the thoughts he had thought on in for a penny.
He
needed to knock it off, just go with the flow, and he was flowing, like surging
water, no, like a roller coaster climbing up that clackety hill, and then down
into the great belly-dropping plunge, or he was a dragon in flight, no a ship
slamming through the surging waves, no, a starfighter swooping through the
asteroid belt, zipping every which way, but yet he was a like a hawk soaring
over mighty expanses, gliding, seeing everything, a seabird flapping over the
ocean, viewing the data beneath, endless numbers that swelled and peaked
beneath him, great canyons of numbers, zeroes and ones, rising and falling,
breathing, lungs the size of worlds, a great eternal body laid out below him. A
world, a world, a digital world.
Boy,
talk about mixing metaphors, Jack laughed, exhilarated, but his mind was a
massive machine of gears, and he was there in the middle of it, pulling levers,
adjusting knobs, flicking flickering lights with his imaginary fingertips,
furiously working a thousand pedals with his flashing feet, he was a the center
of a confusing Charlie Chaplin gear machine, and gears the size of houses
turned so slowly all about him, and yet there were the tiny gears, the kinds in
pocket watches, and they were spinning insanely fast, and everything was
connected to everything else, each lever he pulled affected a million gears
about him, every pedal he stomped upon or kicked or gently nudged, sped or
slowed a thousand belts wound through myriad wheels, and Jack was the mad
mechanic in the middle, and glancing over he made out Seven through the
mechanical jungle, seated in her own nest of levers and pedals and buttons and
knobs, and she was working as madly as he, concentrating, plunged in her own
journey through Vestigial Surreality.
“Seven!”
he called, but he never slowed in his frantic button pushing, lever pulling,
slide adjusting, and knob twisting.
“Lovely
to see you Jack!” she called, but she too continued at her frenetic pace.
“Crazy
stuff, huh?!” he shouted through his maniacal laughter.
“Yeppers,
the craziest—are you confused yet?” she laughed in return, her hands a blur of
motion.
And
then his hands and feet, his arms and legs, all of it, everything, all of him fused
with the mechanical confusion. He was no longer working switches and dials and
levers and pedals, moving his hands and feet, but was a part of it all, he was
one with the machine.
He
was the machine.
And
he screamed.
“Please,
Jack, try to keep hold of yourself,” Old Ben said, comfortingly, sitting near
him, patting Jack upon the arm.
Jack
blinked. He was sitting at the outdoor cafe and it was evening, but all the
people were gone, save for Old Ben, who was sitting facing Jack, their knees
almost touching, and the little girl, Manda, who was standing alongside Jack
holding his hand, and the businessman, Mr. Kronoss, who sat watching Jack from across
the table, his eyelids lowered, leaning on his umbrella.
“How
was it?” Old Ben said, smiling gently.
“Wow.
Weird,” Jack said, and felt the tingle in his left shoulder.
“Just
tap it, there,” Old Ben said, nodding toward Jack’s shoulder, “for access. That’s
it. You have administrative control.”
“But
you don’t actually have to physically touch your shoulder, Jack,” Manda said. “It’s
all part of your consciousness. You just need to think about it. Just like you
don’t have to call up windows by making hand gestures, that’s way old school.”
“Little
steps, little steps first,” Old Ben said. “You just figure it out Jack,
intuitively. Just...like you thought, go
with the flow. Think of it as the video games that you play. You can pause
the play at any time by going to your Options Menu. And then, you have...options.”
“Go
with the flow,” Jack repeated, hoping desperately that he did not upchuck all
his recently consumed pizza. Now that would be just like him, wouldn’t it? He
concentrated, calming his belly, commanding himself that no cookies shall be
tossed here this day. Well, no more vomiting, anyway, than the prodigious
amounts he had so expertly produced when he had first arrived here. He had done
enough of that for a day. For a lifetime. If he never regurgitated again, he
would be a very happy boy, indeed.
“Right,
then,” Mr. Kronoss muttered. “Then we are off, to the Looking Glass?”
“Through
the Looking Glass, maybe,” Jack giggled, feeling dizzy. He blinked his eyes
rapidly. His belly still felt like it might decide to revolt against him.
“We
will not be going through the Looking Glass, not today, as agents of Mars are
posted in the Honey Moon,” Mr. Kronoss said. “And I do not think you are ready
for Steampunk.”
“Well
then, that explains everything,” Jack said.
“Not
everything!” Manda giggled. “We do not want your head exploding!”
That
image almost made him vomit. Again. Almost.
“Right,
then,” Old Ben echoed Mr. Kronoss. “To the Looking Glass. This will be Mr.
Kronoss’ first visit.”
“I
have chased these hackers through three Grand Reboots, and Five Great Scrolls,”
Mr. Kronoss said, wearily.
“It’s
a landmark event, actually. Mr. Kronoss has joined our little conspiracy,” Old
Ben said, smiling at Mr. Kronoss. “Because of you, Jack.”
“Please,”
Mr. Kronoss said, shaking his head, “please, spare me the drama. The boy is
like all others. He is a biological, and from thence comes all the trouble.”
Manda
came in close to Jack and whispered in his ear: “I like Mr. Kronoss. He’s one
of the good guys, Jack. But he sure can get nasty, when he feels it serves his
purpose.”
“I
can hear whispers the same as if you shouted,” Mr. Kronoss said, in that same
bored way.
Manda
stuck her tongue at the businessman, but she cuddled in closer to Jack, who put
an arm about her and gave her a squeeze of encouragement, although he understood
that he was probably more encouraging himself than the little girl.
A
large shimmering circle appeared on the cafe terrace, cutting several tables
and chairs in half, although the furniture still seemed to be there, fully
intact. The portal looked the same as the one Jack entered in the park, beneath
his tree.
“That’s
beautiful,” Jack said, gaping at the shimmering green portal. It looked like a
big circle of steel, with the outer rim deep blue, shimmering inward toward
glowing green.
“Why
thank you,” Old Ben said, admiring his work. “I’ve always thought the portals
were lovely, as well.”
“Stop
coddling the boy, Mr. Aajeel,” Mr. Kronoss muttered. “You might have just
transported us there, just as easily.”
“Little
steps, little steps,” Mr. Aajeel, Old Ben, replied.
“Come
on, come on,” Manda cried, pulling Jack out of his chair by the hand. “I love
this place, they have ice cream! We can get Rocky Road, Jack, have you ever had
Rocky Road ice cream? It has marshmallows and chunks of chocolate, oh it is
simply the bestest thing that biologicals have ever created, come on Jack,
hurry!”
And
laughing, Jack followed along, but swallowed hard as Manda vanished into the
portal, her arm dangling out, seemingly disembodied, but in for a penny, in for
a pound and all that, and he ducked his head as if he might bump it on the edge
of the portal several feet above him, and he entered the portal.
“Keep
walking, Jack!” Manda giggled, pulling Jack forward.
Jack
wanted to stop and gape but the little girl pulled him forward into the green
room.
“If
you stop, poor Mr. Kronoss and Old Ben will slam right into your back!”
Jack,
gaping at the three glowing green walls, hardly noticed as Mr. Kronoss and Old
Ben followed a moment later. Because the fourth wall was a great window, thirty
feet high and thirty feet below, looking out over the world. It was High Vale
below them, resplendent and glowing in the night, he could see purple mountain
ranges, and great expanses of black that must be forest. The world was so far
below them it looked like a living topographical map, all bulging, rising and
falling, swelling and rescinding, a perfect world at their feet. It was almost
as if he could see the planet breathing, the world dreaming. It was wonderful.
He
closed his eyes, briefly, and issued another command to his stomach, which
seemed to be swimming up into his throat.
“Not
again, Jack!” Manda cried, releasing his hand and leaping backward. “Please,
not again!”
“No,
no, really, no, I’m fine,” Jack muttered, his hands holding his stomach.
Rough
hands seized his shoulders and spun him about. And something slapped him across
the face.
“Grow
up, Jack,” Mr. Kronoss grated, staring with his hard black eyes into Jack’s
face.
Jack
gaped at him, his face tingling. Why, the little—Jack’s eyes fluttered.
“You
slapped me!” he cried.
“Yes.
I did. You can thank me later,” Mr. Kronoss said through gritted teeth.
Jack
swallowed hard. He was certain Mr. Kronoss wished to slap him again, and might,
if Jack said the wrong thing. But surprisingly, the overwhelming feeling of
impending vomit was gone.
“Hey,
that worked,” Jack said. And for good measure, he slapped himself across the
other cheek, so that his face tingled evenly. Wow, that was much better. He
almost felt refreshed.
“Please
do not do that again,” Old Ben said, and his tone took on a steeliness that
Jack had never heard before, and he nodded, uncertain whether Old Ben was
talking to him or Mr. Kronoss.
Mr.
Kronoss folded his arms across his chest, his umbrella tucked beneath one arm,
and stood staring out at the world below.
“Where
are we?” Jack whispered.
“This
is the Looking Glass,” Manda said, hopping up and down.
“It
is the smaller green moon of High Vale,” Old Ben said, placing a hand on the
back of Jack’s neck.
“The
Story Moon!” Jack cried. “We are actually...in...the
Story Moon?”
“Yes,
it is an observatory, where the original programming of High Vale monitored the
Gamer World. But thousands of years ago the observatory was...shall we say, taken over, by certain parties. It is
now run by the original Syn Sim automatons of the original High Vale, as well
as the underground movement that works against the agents of Vestigial
Surreality,” Old Ben explained, drawing Jack away from the great observation
windows.
“But...aren’t
you an agent of VS?” Jack said, vainly
working through all the recent information crammed into his brain.
“So
to speak, although in actuality Mr. Kronoss, myself, and...others, are VS, at least we are the remnant of
the original program,” Old Ben said, haltingly, obviously being highly
selective in what he said to Jack. Little steps.
“I’m
the new and improved VS,” Manda said, quite proudly, smirking at Jack and Old
Ben. “I don’t really have to follow all these old-guy rules, because I an
original. I can think for myself. I get to decide things. From now on, I’m the sheriff!”
“But
for how long?” Mr. Kronoss said, barely above a whisper.
“Hey,
I’m not going anywhere,” Manda said, folding her arms across her chest and
glaring at Mr. Kronoss, jutting her chin. Jack was certain she was about to
stick out her tongue, but she seemed to master the impulse, and instead skipped
across and seized Jack’s arm.
“Come
on, Jack, you have to see this, you are going to love it!” she burbled like a
songbird, tugging on his arm. She led him out of the green room. “There’s so
much to show you, because this whole moon is hollow, it’s a whole spaceship, or
moonship, or whatever! But it is filled to bursting with interesting things. I
want to show you the Hall of Heads, you are so going to love that. And the Main
Bridge, that’s where you always meet Adelaine—if I were older, you would never
even notice that gearhead! And there’s the ice cream parlor, don’t forget that,
but here is another kind of parlor, you are so going to love this guy!”
Jack,
led by Manda, entered what had to be a Victorian parlor, or some twisted
version of it, he had to think it: a
looking-glass version of a Victorian parlor. For there was a round little
man with an extremely high collar sticking up behind his head, but otherwise
dressed immaculately—it looked like he had spent hours to get his hair coiffed
into a deadpan, flat, boringness, that seemed to capture the perfection of what
it was to be boring, and the little man was surrounded by mirrors. But the
weirdly spectacular thing about the whole setting, and the man himself, was
that they were all set at about one-third scale. The man, perfectly
proportioned, must be three feet tall, or a couple of inches just shy of a
yardstick. He looked like a hobbit, but more like Tolkien’s original idea of a
hobbit, as opposed to Jackson’s. There was something distinctly...rabbity about
Mr. Dodgson.
The
little man looked away from his mirrors.
“Ah!
Jack, finally,” the little man said, with evident delight, bowing a courtly bow
(as much of a bow as one might pull off while one was lounging in a velvet
chair). “And Alice! Dear Alice!”
“It’s
Manda, Mr. Dodgson, you know that,” Manda said, smiling for the old gentleman,
and running forward, throwing herself into his arms. They almost tumbled off
the velvet chair, because comparatively speaking, Manda looked like a vast,
ungainly lummox alongside the diminutive gentleman.
“Ah,
Manda yes, Manda, you are growing so large! A tad too much cake, my little
lady?” Mr. Dodgson laughed. Hugging the girl that looked twice his size, he
smiled at Jack.
“And
here you are, finally, my own White Rabbit, Jack! Always late, aren’t you,
always late? Oh, but I thought you brought along the White Knight! No? He’s
probably out after the Jabberwock! Or possibly, the fierce Bandersnatch?”
Jack
scratched his head, grinning like a dope at the little man.
“I
get it, I get it, you’re Lewis Carroll, right? Mr. Dodgson?” Jack said,
dredging up his memories of Alice, and Dreamchild—and
hey, he just made the connection, that the actor, Ian Holm—he played the parts
of both Bilbo in The Lord of the Rings,
as well as Mr. Dodgson in Dreamchild.
Awesome, how cool was that? Except that, of course, this little guy didn’t look
much like either Ian Holm or Bilbo. He was far too chubby, and yet not, there
was something springy about him. That rabbit factor again. He even looked
goofily buck-toothed, along the lines of Bugs Bunny. But then again this would
be a much older Lewis Carroll, and a somehow liberated Lewis Carroll, except
this guy had his hair all plastered down and proper, and Jack seemed to
remember a wild-haired man, or was that Charles Dickens, or Mark Twain?
“Oh
that, that was my nom de plume, or
merely little ole me, hiding behind the feather,” Mr. Dodgson said, suddenly
taking mincing steps toward Jack, his index fingers up and crooking, making
little stabbing gestures.
Jack
took an inadvertent step backward, feeling the creepiness factor suddenly
increasing.
“How
did you like my scorpions?” Mr. Dodgson said darkly, staring at Jack from
beneath a lowered brow, still making those stabbing gestures with his fingers.
“The
scorpions—that was...you?” Jack said,
feeling betrayed, and more and more freaked out. He started sidestepping as the
little man advanced upon him.
“Oh
yes,” Mr. Dodgson said, “the scorpions are decidedly mine, and you haven’t even
met my spiders, ooh, they are going to get you, they are going to get you!”
And
suddenly the perfectly proportioned midget came charging at Jack, his hands out
like claws, and Jack felt he imagined it but suddenly Mr. Dodgson looked like
Bilbo in the movie, at that horrifying moment when he morphs Gollum-like and
tries to snatch the ring from Frodo, and Jack hollered and dodged about the
little man, and dashed to the chair and leapt over it (it was only about two
feet tall, after all).
“We
are coming to get you Bah-ba-RAH!”
Mr. Dodgson thundered in a strangely powerful and scary voice, charging about
the chair to grab Jack, but Jack fled before him, now shouting.
“Get
him off of me! Keep him away!” he shouted like a little boy, and only then did
he notice Manda hopping in place, clapping her hands, screaming giggles. And he
finally stopped, planting his fists on his hips, and turned to face the
pursuing monster.
Mr.
Dodgson came to a comical halt, almost losing his balance, and he glared up at
Jack. But then after a moment the frightening monster face vanished, and it was
only roly poly Mr. Dodgson grinning up at him.
“I
caught you there, Jack, yes I did!” Mr. Dodgson burst into laughter.
And
Jack joined him, laughing his guts out (not literally, thankfully), bending at
the waist, and chortling until tears sprang from his eyes and actually slid
down his face.
“You
really freaked me out,” Jack gasped through continued laughter. “Sheesh, you
scared me more than the scorpion.”
“Did
you know, Jack, that if you merely petted the scorpion, right there on its
chitinous head, it would have become your friend and protector?” Mr. Dodgson
said, sounding like a schoolteacher reprimanding a naughty student.
“Well,
I was a little too busy dodging its stinger to think about petting it,” Jack
said, easing finally on his laughter, wiping his eyes. He noticed that Mr.
Kronoss and Old Ben had just entered the chamber, and were watching from the
threshold.
“You
should see them at one of their parties, deep in the woods, why one scorpion
can play three violins at once, and shake a bell or rattle with its stinger.
Lovely musicians, you really must visit one of their parties,” Mr. Dodgson
said, smiling up into Jack’s face. “They do love their rattles and shakers, it’s
the chitin, you see. The secret is all in the chitin.”
“If
I ever have the choice,” Jack said, “maybe I’ll just skip the scorpions’
parties, if you don’t mind.”
“Ah,
but in High Vale,” Mr. Dodgson said, ominously, “you don’t always have a choice.”
“Yeah,”
Jack coughed. “I’ve noticed that about High Vale.”
Mr.
Dodgson raised his arms the way a child does, and with hardly a thought, Jack
stooped and lifted him up. Although tiny, he certainly was solid, must be fifty
pounds, but a lot of it felt like thick bones.
“It
is so good to have you back, Jack, I have missed you,” Mr. Dodgson said,
cuddling into the crook of Jack’s neck, and Jack gave him a squeeze, making
sure not to hug too tightly, because the man felt ancient, his suit too stiff
and dusty with age.
“Careful,”
Manda said, grinning hugely, but before Jack could react Mr. Dodgson was
blowing and sucking a loud, wet raspberry against his neck, tickling Jack right
in the sweet spot, and Jack howled with outraged laughter. He yanked the old
man away from his neck, producing a large popping sound, and Jack was certain
that not only would he now bear a hickey, but would display a deep bruise as
well.
“Got
you good, right Jack?”
“Oh
yeah, you did,” Jack snorted, grimacing. The little fart. He scrubbed at his
slobbery neck with the palm of his hand. He didn’t know how the little guy knew
that his neck was so ticklish—it was a carefully guarded secret.
He
plunked the geezer down in the velvet chair, where the little gentleman grinned
mischievously, and Jack realized he was looking at the original Cheshire Cat,
with a little Mad Hatter thrown in.
“Mr.
Kronoss, Mr. Aajeel,” Mr. Dodgson said, formally, bowing from his velvet chair
to the two approaching men.
Mr.
Kronoss twirled his umbrella, and Jack was reminded with a pang in his heart of
Stacey spinning the shillelagh.
“It
is good to see that we finally have you on our side,” Mr. Dodgson said, winking
at Mr. Kronoss.
“I
am not on anyone’s side,” Mr. Kronoss sniffed. “I am on the side of humanity,
and Chaos. But as we draw near the end of a Grand Scroll, I do not see any
lasting problem in giving my friend, Mr. Aajeel, another go at bringing a
little Order to this...pandemonium.”
“Oh,
it’s not me,” Old Ben said. He smiled at Manda, who bowed in an extravagant
curtsy.
“I
am the people,” Manda said, “and I am the program, and I am the agents. I am
the hope in Saturn’s Rings.”
“And
schizophrenic as all hell,” Mr. Kronoss muttered.
“I
can hear muttering as well as if you shouted,” Manda snapped, glaring at Mr.
Kronoss.
“Humility,
dear, humility,” Old Ben said, kindly, smiling at the little girl.
“I
don’t need false humility.”
“True
humility, dear, remember, the people are you, the servants are you, and as they
serve you, you serve them,” Old Ben said, as if he had told her the same thing
a thousand times.
Jack
snatched Manda up in his arms and spun her about so that the Victorian chamber
twirled and flashed about them.
“But
you’re my little girl!” he laughed, hugging her against him.
“Yes!”
she shrieked. “I’m Jack’s little girl!”
Mr.
Kronoss and Mr. Aajeel gave each other a knowing, leaden look. Mr. Dodgson
noticed the exchange. He clapped his hands together.
“Anyone
for a nice cuppa tea?”
Stacey
pounded the ground. He had never run for such a length of time before, from
early morning until what now must be around sunset up above the boughs of the
woods. But this High Vale body didn’t seem to protest too much. He ran, puffing
his breath, keeping his shillelagh tucked but ready beneath his left arm. And
he ran through the forest, which seemed endless. He could not begin to figure
the miles he had covered, but he reminded himself that he couldn’t get lost in
these dark woods if he only followed the deep ruts of Lady Maulgraul’s carriage
wheels.
Night
was approaching, and that would be a problem, for he didn’t have any light source.
No lantern, nor torches. He supposed he might fashion a torch of some kind,
wrapping cloth about a thick branch, and lighting that. But that didn’t seem
too practical, as it would not beam before him like headlights, and would only
offer a welcoming beacon to all the killer denizens of this dark and forbidding
forest.
It
would get very dark when the sun finally set, and that time was not far away.
The trees already appeared more like dark screens than individual trunks. He
had hoped to make it to the other side of the woods before night came on, and
had picked up his pace, running a little faster than his paced lope of the day.
He was racing the unseen sun in the truest sense of racing.
He
had emptied his water bag twice throughout his run, filling it again at small
streams that trickled and wended through the forest—grimly hoping that the
waters were not magical as they were in so many fairytales, but he had suffered
no magical effects, at least none that he noticed as such. He didn’t even have
any kind of purification tablets, and certainly did not have the time to stop
long enough to light a fire and boil the water, nor did he have any kind of pot
in which to boil the water over a fire. He just ran, and sweated, and ran. His
body was using up all his fluids so that he had not paused to even urinate, not
once throughout the day. His sweat was constant, and when he grew dry, and
realized there was no more sweat to form upon his brow, only then did he twist
off the top of his water bag, becoming quite accomplished at running and
drinking. He only had a little water remaining, so he kept his ears alert for
the sound of water, but it had been hours since he crossed the last creek.
He
might not be suffering magical delusions, but he certainly was seeing a lot
strange things in the woods. Small twinkling lights bobbing, or wisps of what
might be smoke that turned about and seemed to stare at him as he ran past.
Darts of blue fire shooting up into the air. Several times he saw dark shapes
that appeared to be animals, but perhaps not, sometimes they looked like human
figures, sometimes the melding of humans and animals, fauns, centaurs—but he
told himself that this was his imagination, because he never really saw
anything, only the flicker of something ducking into cover, or darting behind
bushes. He put the images out of his head, and ran.
His
body grew so hot at times, he nearly disrobed, but then remembered the spider
crawling about his back, and he opted for the heat, the hood pulled over his
head.
He
increased his speed, working into a full run, breathing in through his nose,
and explosively out through his mouth. Just keep going. But he sensed something
and glanced over his shoulder. There! He thought he saw a shadow moving back
there, perhaps twenty yards behind him. He looked over his other shoulder and
saw nothing, no movement, only the endless forest leaning in toward him. He
ran.
Stacey’s
hackles rose. Yes, something was back there. Something was coming, pacing him.
He sensed them, whatever they were, fast things, dark things. The fingers of
his left hand worked the shillelagh around so that the knob of the club was
just above his hand, his grasp settling into the place where his hand fit
perfectly, it was almost ergonomic, it fit into his hand so well.
“Stacey,
behind you!” a voice shouted, Jack’s voice—Stacey recognized that voice
immediately—and he whirled, dodging a step backward to his left as a dark
shadow came in low at him, and he knocked the shape easily aside, it was
attempting a football tackle, and Stacey cracked the thing in the side, and he
jutted the shillelagh with his hip, increasing the force of his strike in a
clean Judo throw, so that the shape went up and over his hip, and he flashed
the shillelagh the other way, and knocked another shadow in what must be its
head, producing a satisfying crack.
A
third shape was rushing forward and Stacey didn’t have time to react but then
the shape tumbled and went face-down in the dirt, and Stacey noticed an arrow
jutting up from about its midsection. The thing in the dirt yowled and went
motionless.
Stacey
glanced up and caught a flicker of—something.
It was just a momentary flash, but Stacey had the impression of seeing Jack,
ten yards back, as if looking through a window at him. But it was literally
nothing more than a twinkle in the air.
Several
more of the dark shapes halted, crouching, many of them utterly still, but
others slinking off to both his left and right, working to surround him.
Stacey
pointed to the arrow jutting up from the creature that groveled between the
carriage ruts in the dirt.
“See
this arrow? They...are...watching.
Attempt to harm the Pugilist, and collect more of these arrows!” he growled,
hoping he sounded as menacing as he intended, but in reality he just wanted to
get the hell out of here. Oh yeah, everyone wanted a piece of the Pugilist, at
least if they could sneak up behind him. He twirled his shillelagh like a
baton, up over his head, and then snapped it down beneath his left arm, where
it seemed to poise for immediate action, so perfectly.
“I
leave it to you to decide,” he gritted between his teeth, and then almost
casually turned and jogged easily between the carriage ruts. If there was one
thing he had learned about High Vale, these folks loved the machismo, a good
front, a show of masculine courage—whether it was Dragon Warriors or
hundred-foot long god-serpents. They liked the big talk. If you showed fear,
these guys were all over you, with relish, with gusto—Stacey was the sweet
dessert, and everyone drooled for a mouthful, perhaps just a taste.
“Bite
me,” Stacey growled, moving his legs forward. Just that slight pause, and his
limbs had begun to swell up, lock up, slow down, it was harder and harder to
keep the motion. His body kind of liked the idea of folding up like a wet
rag—except it would be a very dry rag, indeed, all wetness expended.
He
jogged, keeping his posture straight and as tall as possible. Yes, they tried
anything, and he would crack some shadow heads. But if they didn’t try
anything, he just wanted through this forest, this endless woods full of
spiders and swirled ice-cream mounds that heaved with some kind of insectile
life form, and dark shadows that tried to take you down in football tackles.
Let’s see, in his run he had the opportunity to practice hockey, baseball, and
now football—gamers just loved their sports, didn’t they?
He
ran, just follow the tracks—only now it was more difficult to pick out the deep
tracks in the forest floor, because he could barely discern the forest floor.
More and more it was as if he ran upon a dark treadmill, with cartoon trees and
bushes constantly moving toward him, and then away from him. He ran.
And
he ran, despite the gathering gloom. The darkness seemed to pool above him, and
slowly drip down into an iron cage about him. Yes, he could keep running, but
he couldn’t see where he was going. He had lost the race. Night was here. He
slowed, finally, snarling. He slapped the shillelagh knob into his hand, and
cursed under his breath—his great, heaving breaths, because even stopping like
this, stopping in this dark place, he was done. He doubted he could walk, let
alone run any farther.
In
the pool of darkness he groped and found his water bag. It hardly squooshed
beneath his fingers. He unwound the top and filled his mouth once, and
swallowed, and twice, and swallowed, and then just a little trickle. He was
done, he was dry, and he was utterly blind.
“Pugilist,”
a hissing, catlike voice, said, uncannily close. Stacey tensed, but showed no
other reaction.
And
then there, just a few feet away, were these floating eyes. Amber. Beautiful in
color, but utterly weird in the context of the situation. They were little
lights, each an inch wide, spaced apart by an inch or so, and they were staring
at him. For a moment the eyes appeared to be swimming close, and then they
seemed to be swaying away, as if moved in a breeze, but Stacey realized it was
the optical illusion of light, amber light.
“Place
your hand here, Pugilist, upon my shoulder,” the quiet, hissing voice
whispered.
Stacey
tentatively put out his right hand, fearing a sudden bite to remove his
fingers, but he steeled himself and reached out, and felt warm—fur, or at least
the sleek, furred skin of an animal, like a Doberman Pinscher, that sleek short
dog skin that was so pleasant to the touch. But this was a well-muscled
shoulder, the shoulder of a being several inches shorter than himself, but
standing upright.
“I
am your guide, Pugilist, I will be your eyes, but do not release your hold, for
night in the trees is a dangerous time, and if we lose contact, I may not find
you again,” the hissing, catlike voice spoke.
“Follow
the ruts in the road, the grooves formed by the large carriage,” Stacey said,
unable to look away from those amber eyes—he could tell by the angle of the
eyes that the being was facing away from him, looking back over its shoulder at
him.
“I
understand this, Pugilist, but you may not wish to catch this prey of yours,
for they are very bad creatures. They are enemies of the peoples.”
“I
have to catch that carriage,” Stacey said, staring at the eyes.
The
eyes vanished and what felt like a paw came down upon Stacey’s right hand.
“Do
not lose contact. Hold onto me, Pugilist,” the voice hissed.
And
they were off, Stacey clutching at the shoulder, the paw remaining upon his
hand. And they ran, as fast as Stacey had run, perhaps faster. But now he was
carried forward, actually pulled by the unseen being before him, and he found
the pace much easier to maintain. But the darkness proved disorienting, and
many times Stacey almost tripped on his own feet, or over irregularities in the
forest floor, or even upon the deep ruts left by the carriage wheels. Finally,
he closed his eyes, and ran, and even though his eyes were closed, he kept
seeing images, in fact now he seemed to see the path more clearly, and he
couldn’t tell if he was imagining it, or if he actually was seeing real sights,
with his closed eyes, whether the visions were in or out of his head.
They
ran, the Pugilist and the unseen creature of shadow, through the forest,
through the night. In their race with the darkness they heard wafts of strange
music, sometimes distant harps, other times what must be pipes and flutes,
fifes, and oddly, an oboe, or several oboes, and it was beautiful. Stacey would
hear it approaching, the music, and he would keep his eyes closed, and for a
few moments it would seem they were surrounded by the music, that they were in
the music, and lights, colored lights splashed across Stacey’s eyelids, but he
kept his eyes shut tightly.
“Do
not listen too long, Pugilist, and do not look upon the musicians,” the hissing
voice came, just once, through the long run.
And
then Stacey was certain he heard violins playing in choppy rhythms, and rattles
shaking, and other percussive instruments. He kept his eyes closed. It sounded
like some kind of giant rattlesnake symphony. Definitely lots of clacks and
clicks and buzzing.
Stacey’s
legs pumped, endlessly, and he forced himself to breathe, in through his nose,
out through his mouth, and he was exhausted, utterly spent, but he kept moving,
pulled forward by his unseen savior.
Then
they came to a halt, and the paw upon his hand gripped his hand.
“Sshhhh,”
whispered the creature, in the universal sibilant signal that meant: be quiet, do not speak. And Stacey was
quiet, standing still for the first time in hours.
Something
large moved through the woods, scraping against trees, lumbering, with the
clump of feet, many, many feet. He didn’t even try to imagine what was making
the noise, but his mind conjured images of a brontosaurus, even a blue whale,
and some hulking crocodile, but whatever he imagined, there were always
hundreds of feet pounding the ground—whatever it was, it obviously was
attempting quiet, discretion. Whatever it was, it was probably hunting. But
slowly, gradually, the noises of thumping quiet feet grew quieter, and quieter,
and finally was gone.
“That
was close,” the creature whispered, still clutching his hand with its paw.
And
they were moving forward again, proceeding, running, the shadow creature seemed
tireless, and Stacey grimaced and ran, pulled along into eternity.
After
another few hours the creature slowed, and Stacey slowed.
“Water,”
it whispered.
“Thank
God,” Stacey murmured, because he was feverish, parched, he had been running
dry for hours.
“Drink
as much as you can, and fill your bag,” the creature whispered, and then Stacey
heard it lapping. It sounded like a very large dog, licking up the water with a
fat tongue.
Stacey
crouched and put his hands in the water. Ah, yes, thank God, water, the stuff
of life. He bathed his face and hands, and poured water over his head so that
it ran under his collar and down his back, and then he lay close to the ground,
and brought up cupped-hands full of water and slaked his thirst. It was good,
and cold, and tasted like the purest thing he had ever drank. And only after it
felt like his stomach would burst, did he finally belch, a few times, and
submerge his water bag and fill it.
He
felt completely battered down to almost nothing. His legs screamed out at him,
accusing him of murder. And his shoulder throbbed with pain. His eyes felt like
raw pits, and his lips were chapped and he tasted blood. Thankfully, this world
did not seem to acknowledge gout, or he would be dead already. Oh, his feet
hurt, and throbbed, but at least they didn’t feel full of shattered glass.
The
shadow creature maintained contact with Stacey, its muscled leg against his
hip.
“We
must continue, Pugilist, the time is short,” the creature hissed.
Stacey
climbed to his feet, his spine squealing with rust. He flexed his ribs and felt
them crackle and pop.
“I’m
ready when you are,” he muttered, now feeling waterlogged and soggy. But he
knew after an hour of running all the water would be dispersed throughout his
body, and the sweats would begin with great fury.
“Strong
man, Pugilist, I am impressed. I had not believed the legends. But now, I know
they are true, and it is a great honor for me to guide you. I am Clawlick, of
the Shadow Clan, and long will the People speak of this, telling this tale to
our kittens throughout time.”
“Well
met, Clawlick, and I appreciate your help,” Stacey said, patting the creature’s
muscled shoulder. The paw came down upon his hand again.
They
splashed through the stream. The water was icy. And as they ran through the
unseen woods Stacey felt cold, and he trembled, but he ran. Just keep going, to
Maulgraul, my love, I am coming, Maully, I am coming.
Soon,
his trembling turned to heat, and then the sweats began. And they ran.
In
their long journey, after many hours, Stacey felt light wash over them, and he
finally opened his eyes, and the pale, greenish light actually hurt his eyes. After
hours and hours of darkness, he peered up at a break in the trees and witnessed
the smaller moon of High Vale, the Story Moon they called it, peering at him
from a lightly clouded sky, bright and full and beautiful. Like a pale jade
bauble. And for some eerie reason, he thought of Jack, and wondered where he
was. He remembered Jack’s voice, warning him in the forest, and that certainly
was one of Jack’s arrows he had seen jutting from shadow.
Then
the light was snuffed out as the trees hunkered down, and Stacey ran blind
again, Clawlick’s paw upon his hand. Sometimes a stray claw slid from his
fingerless glove, and scratched his fingers, but that was the least of it. His
legs shrieked in the darkness, and his whole body went numb. And when he felt
like he could not make another solitary step, he did, and then another, and
hours later the creature finally slowed.
“We
are at the edge of Tombwood Tangles, and I may not depart,” the creature
hissed, and it seemed completely stable, hardly winded from the night-long run
through the deadly woods. “I must return to the shadows ere the sun reaches the
sky.”
“Thank
you,” Stacey gasped, his hands going to his knees, as he doubled forward,
bending and gasping. “I couldn’t have done it without you, Clawlick.”
“No,
you could not. As brave as you are, I do not know how you made it to nightfall,
no other man ever has. Even with my help, we should not have made it through,”
Clawlick purred. Yes, it actually sounded as if the creature were purring, like
a tiger.
“I
have to run,” Stacey said, dreading the effort it would take to get his legs
moving again. But he forced himself fully upright, despite the gears clanking
in his spine.
“My
people have the sudden sight,” Clawlick hissed, “and I see a great fight ahead
for you.”
“No
surprise there,” Stacey said, half-sullenly. High Vale sure loved to throw a
fight his way, and he never could manage to get through one without half his
head getting knocked off.
“Fare
well, Pugilist,” Clawlick said, and Stacey finally opened his eyes, forgetting
they had been closed throughout most of the night. And he was shocked, that he
could see, there was actually morning light, still diffused, still almost
nonexistent, but he could see, but more shocking was that he could see Clawlick
for the first time, and she certainly
was more than shadow.
She
was a lovely woman, with too-large amber eyes, with the striated pupils of a
great cat, and lovely high cheekbones. She must stand about five feet four
inches, and was all lithe muscle, and black sleek fur, and it was difficult to
tell if she were more a human woman that looked like a cat, or a cat that
looked like a very well-endowed human woman. Stacey was very glad he had not
seen her throughout the night, because it would have been far too distracting.
She was lithe, and gorgeous, and sleek, with three feet of whipping feline
tail.
“Wow,
it is great to see you, Clawlick,” Stacey said, coloring, blinking his eyes,
trying, desperately doing his best not to stare at her body. He was certain she
was going to snap: “My eyes are up here!”
“Yes,
Pugilist, it is great to see you, as well, but your people and my people do not
mate, as the children are very odd indeed,” she said, actually grinning at him
in what he supposed must be a Cheshire grin. “But I embrace thee.”
She
stepped forward, one of her hands or paws going behind his head—he could feel
the prickle of claw tips, one of her arms going about his waist, and she licked
him long, slowly, her tongue moving up the side of his neck to his cheek, and
it was rough, the way you would expect a cat’s tongue to be. He whole body
pressed against him, sinuous and warm.
“I
embrace thee,” she purred.
And
licked him on the other side, long, and slowly, up from his neck onto his
cheek.
“And
I embrace thee, proud Pugilist,” she purred.
And
her tongue came up his throat, over his chin, onto his mouth, and suddenly her
full lips were upon his, and she was kissing him the way a woman would kiss
him, and it was quite sweet, and utterly breathtaking. And he nearly passed
out, so swiftly did the blood flee his head.
Clawlick
turned and sauntered from him, taking the slow, gunslinger swaggerer that every
cat knows, ensuring he would watch her for a long time, her sleek flanks, and
the whipping black tail, and all of that...well, tail. Until she was gone into the forest. He had a strange sensation
that she was still there, just hidden within the forest, watching him. Wearing
that crazy black catsuit that was actual skin.
“That
was certainly bracing,” he muttered, and then mentally turned himself to the
task before him, and shaking his entire body—attempting to recirculate his
blood to all the proper locations—he began a slow jog along the carriage ruts.
And then, gritting his teeth, he turned up the heat, and managed a decent lope,
and after a while, he flowed back into his measured pace, an actual run, and Stacey
ran.
He
ran from the edge of the forest and groaned miserably as he mounted a hill
where the carriage ruts could clearly be seen in the early morning light. The
tracks looked very fresh. The sun would be up in about an hour, and then the
sun would hit him, but he had least had a half bag of water.
He
heard it then, from far away, the sound of a war horn blowing, and he heard
steel upon steel, the clash of weapons.
Thus
approaches the great fight ahead of me, he thought, quoting the cougar, or
panther, or shadowcat, whatever. Get your mind off the sexy cat, and on the
battle ahead.
Here
we go, Stacey told himself, managing a decent jog up the hill. The carriage,
and thus Maully, must be close, at least as close as the sound of battle.
