Chapter 28

Don't look now, but Sofi has returned. I may need to leave any second, if she should discover I'm here. Has she entered the cafe? Can you see?

Don't make it so obvious, I think we're in an inauspicious corner and that might...you see her? She's coming right for us, isn't she. Okay. Keep your head down; we've got a storm on our hands.

“And you thought you could just show up and it wouldn't matter?”

Sofi, listen. I couldn't.

“You're absolutely right! You couldn't ever! Warren, I thought you were dead! And then Fred told me you were...”

I told Fred...

“Yes, Warren. He told me. He does that. He communicates. Haven't you ever listened to his rants?”

Sofi, I didn't want you to suffer.

“I have suffered, Warren. I have...I...”

I thought it'd be best if I were just gone; I couldn't drag you into this.

“And what about what I thought? Didn't that matter at all to you?”

I talked with Livingstone about it, and we decided...

“Did you propose to Livingstone, too? Or just me?”

Sofi...

“Warren! I loved you! And thought you might have loved me, too.”

I do love you, Sofi. But I could never care for you like a proper husband. Not after that. I'm not the same Warren you loved.

“Yes, Warren, you are! Whatever you think changed within you, didn't. Perhaps the man I knew was buried, or lost, but Warren you are still the Warren I love! Just seeing your face again...look at me.”

Sofi, I can't.

“Look at me. This is the face of a woman whose heart has been resurrected. Can't you see?”

I can't.

“Warren. A young lad came into town one afternoon, but had little idea of where he was headed. About halfway through town, he entered a cafe. He felt very out of place, for he didn't drink coffee or tea at all. But in he walked, nonetheless, and found a girl sitting at a booth.

“From the start, he knew she was incredibly beautiful and decided to make her acquaintance. Their conversation was a pleasant one, although he soon found out she knew a great deal more than he, because all he did was ask questions. But she found something desirable in him: a taste for adventure, a thirst for knowledge which wouldn't be satisfied with half-truths.

“But almost as suddenly as the conversation began, it ended. The boy slipped into the woods to think, but not before stumbling upon a newspaper article authored by the girl he had been talking to. The article addressed God's business in the garden of the universe.

“Now, imagine this lad's surprise when he made this connection, and tell me, Warren Spicks, if you can, what the boy might have told the girl, next he saw her?”

Are you a rose in the wonderful garden?

“And what would have the girl responded?”

Which path do you tread?

“And the young man's answer to that?”

Wherever I must in order to smell the roses. Wherever I must. Sofi, I'm so sorry. Forgive me!

“Oh Warren, don't leave; I can't bear to let you go again.”

Sofi...Sofi, thank you.

“Shall I finish the story then?”

Actually, it is mine to finish. If I might introduce my new friend, to whom I have just been in the process of telling our story. This is Sofi Gio Seville, my fiancee. And yes, I apologize for my distance. I am Warren Spicks, and the story you've been hearing is my own.

“How far along are you?”

I was just about to tell how I woke on that sunny beach in south Florida, after floating on the breeze the night before.

“Ah, the final few hours! I want to hear this.”

Yes. And before I begin, Sofi, understand that it grieved me more than anything to deceive you like I did; perhaps you might come to forgive me in hearing the story from me.

“Warren, you are forgiven already.”

Then perhaps you can understand why I did what I did, as horrible as it was.

“Are you trying to defend your actions then?”

No. No, I stand guilty and condemned.

“And freed, cleared from any charge. Just love me, Warren, as I love you.”

I can do that. I will do that...but back to the story, so we can set everything to rest. And perhaps order another appetizer; it's been several hours since we've last eaten. Besides, you didn't touch your meal, Sofi.

“You!..I'll go get us something; you start talking.”

So. There you have it; and now that you know the ending, you're probably curious what I did to get that reaction. It wasn't kind of me, that's for sure. I can hardly contain my emotions; I apologize. I didn't think in my wildest dreams she'd take me back. I don't know what I expected. Rage. Tears. A cold soul. I don't know. But not that. I couldn't have imagined she'd dare to love me again. But she is a rare woman, I tell you. I put her through hell, yet here she stood and freed me from my chains of doubt. Ah! I can hardly think! Surely you can see I'm the richest man alive!

Well, the end began on that beach, with the morning sun as abrasively hot as the sand on which I (Warren) was laying. What had seemed supremely comfortable to Warren the night before, now felt like bed of solid rock. He stood and stretched his aching shoulders. The small crash of ocean waves in front of him had a somewhat mesmerizing effect, so he kept stretching. He rocked his head from side to side, bent on each side, twisted around, and promptly stopped when he found himself in front of a large, beachfront glass house.

Embarrassed, Warren glanced around, hoping some retiree wasn't drinking his coffee and reading the daily news while watching Warren do some aerobics. He was gratefully spared. But a second glance at the glass house piqued his curiosity. It seemed bright yellow—almost lime. But the more he looked at the glass, the more it resembled regular glass. The hue faded and the crisp clarity of the glass returned. Warren sighed and glanced back at the beach...and gasped.

The sand had turned a light shade of purple. He kicked at it; sure enough, it wasn't a trick of the air. He picked up a handful. Each grain was like a small amethyst crystal. But as soon as he pondered it, a color wheel came flying into his head. Of course if he had it in his head that the beach was white, of course the moment he looked at something truly white, it would seem bright yellow. This color paradigm flip wasn't the worst to get over, he figured, but wondered how on earth a whole beach could have been dyed purple. What in the world had happened here?

He looked back at the house. Perhaps someone was home. Perhaps he could walk up to the front door, knock, and have a regular conversation with regular people. And maybe they'd be a kind old couple who would invite him in and ask if he'd had breakfast yet—for Warren had remembered his stomach and a true hunger panged him. When he thought about it, he really couldn't recall the last time he'd eaten. Something with Ed, the Toklekk, maybe. He decided the remote possibility of an English Muffin with raspberry jam was worth the risk of whatever crazy inhabitants might lurk in this particular history.

Warren took a few steps up the beach towards the house, looking to either side for a path around. But a rather intricate decorative garden on either side seemed to point him towards a glass door on the back porch. He felt a little hesitant to knock on a back door, but then again, what could happen from disrupting the breakfast of an oceanfront couple that could rival the fury of a demon-dragon in that so-called orphanage? He figured his chances here were pretty good.

As he knocked, he glanced right, and then left, trying to keep himself from staring in. He noticed as he waited, that there weren't any other houses on the beach—it was just purple sand and trees as far as he could see. And then this house. He mentally shrugged and knocked again—and realized his mistake as the door slid open the moment he rapped his knuckles against the glass. A sheepish grin crossed his face, and Warren opened his mouth to explain, but a gentle voice from a kind old lady interrupted his intentions to explain. “Hello Warren Spicks! So good to see you! Right on time, I see,” she said, checking a watch on her wrist. “I didn't think you'd want to miss breakfast. Come in; come in!” She stepped to the side and slid the door wide for him.

Warren smiled as he entered and his eyes searched the interior. It was as much as he expected from the exterior design—simple, curved white walls, sleek, polished metal furniture, each room separated only by three-quarter height walls and a variety of levels (all with ramps instead of steps—clearly designed for the elderly), but most of all, it seemed like an indoor coral reef to Warren. Bright tapestries hung everywhere, from all corners of the world, Warren guessed. And paintings, from cubist experiments to hushed impressionists to realist landscape oils, decorated the walls. But it was only after this that Warren began to notice the plants. Ferns hung everywhere, small flower pots filled in what would have been empty spots on counter-tops, coffee tables, and credenzas. Small potted trees filled in corners. The more Warren looked at the place, the more he wondered how he had never seen so much greenery in one house. Of course it dawned on him the amount of light that entered this place—the glass exterior seemed to focus the sun's energy inward; hardly a shadow existed in the place, and he could only spot a few man-made lights which, he assumed, lit the place at night.

The old woman, short but not frail, hurried across to what Warren believed was the kitchen. She had short-trimmed gray hair that just fell over her ears, sparkling eyes, and a wide smile. She wore a thin white long-sleeved blouse with a bright red sweater-vest over it, with white capris and strapped sandals. Warren followed her, somewhat dumbfounded by the fact that she knew his name and the hour in which he would arrive. She turned and beckoned him over with the energy of a grandmother anxious to feed her grandchildren.

As Warren followed her command, he noticed other faces in the place. Two elderly men sat in a tiled sun room, quietly discussing something. A younger man with a thick beard sat reading a book beneath a particularly giant fern. Two middle aged woman walked out from a back room and down the hallway towards the kitchen, talking between themselves. And a child's squeal of joy echoed from somewhere deeper in the house. What manner of place was this? Warren wondered to himself. And did all these people expect him? A question for the lady behind the counter interrupted his thoughts.

“I'm afraid all we have left is oatmeal and one slice of bacon; but I can make you some toast if you'd like.”

Warren's eyebrows lifted a little. “That'd be wonderful; thank you!”

She smiled grandly, dished out the last of the steaming oatmeal into a ceramic bowl, and lifted it to him. “Go ahead and just sit on a stool there. I'll grab you a spoon.” She pulled one from a drawer in front of her, and as she handed the utensil to Warren, she asked, “Would you like some brown sugar to go on that?”

“Indeed!” Warren replied, warmed already by her hospitality. She placed a smaller bowl with a small silver spoon next to his, and turned to grab a slice of bread to toast. Warren slipped onto the stool and took a long blink. Why couldn't the majority of the past few days have been more like this? He took a bite, added a couple spoonfuls of brown sugar, and accepted the gift of buttered toast a few minutes later.

As he finished the meal, a rather distinguished old man entered the hallway and the anterior part of the house. Everyone seemed to notice his presence and drop their preoccupations in the case that he might speak. Warren swallowed the last bite of his toast and examined the man.

He was tall, with broad shoulders. Warren imagined he was quite a brute in his younger years. His jaw seemed set with purpose and was flecked with a thin white scruff that reached from chin to ear. He was bald in front, with short thin wisps of brilliant white hair in back. His eyes glistened with learning, as if he had witnessed the inner workings of the galaxy himself and wanted to share with anyone who would listen. He wore wire-rimmed spectacles, over which he looked to find things in the distance.

The sports jacket he wore was evidently a favorite: brown, old, and worn—he seemed completely comfortable and confident in it. He wore no tie and left the top button of the shirt underneath undone. His khaki pants were in similar condition to his jacket—the color had faded at the knees and ankles a bit. But his shoes grabbed Warren's attention; they were polished black dress shoes. Warren wasn't sure what to make of this...evidently the circumstances of ceremony requiring such shoes wasn't present. Perhaps the old man just liked his shoes.

As he walked out of the hallway, Warren saw, out of the corner of his eye, the bearded man rise. He looked to his hostess; she was standing as well. Glancing over his shoulder, Warren found that the two men in the sunroom had stood to their feet. The old man paused a moment, before descending a short staircase, and stared through his glasses into the space in front of him—as if trying to read something in the air. Warren crooked an eyebrow and looked to the lady who had served him breakfast. She drew him to his feet with a nod of her head. A brief silence, in which no one wanted to breathe, held the room.

Then the old man spoke. His voice was level and easy to listen too, but his accent was difficult to place. He spoke with authority, confidence, and, it seemed, sorrow. “I have news.” Each ear strained to listen although it was not hard to hear. “Last evening, The Keeper was slain.”

An audible chorus of gasps shot around the room. The speaker didn't regard any of them. Rather, he continued to stare before him, as if he spoke to a crowd of ten thousand. “The demon lord Maghalis is to blame; it attacked the Refuge just before nightfall last night and murdered our beloved Keeper.”

Warren's heart began to beat faster. He swallowed painfully and listened as the man continued.

“A response team recovered the body, and has prepared it for burial. The council plans to convene tomorrow to discuss how the Covenant will proceed. But do not despair, loved ones. This trying time in our history will not be without the light of the Keeper—remember how he told us he would not leave us alone.

“Indeed he hasn't. He has sent us one whom he spoke beforehand. He has sent us his power, his strength, his instrument. He has sent us Warren Spicks.”

Chapter 27

I imagine you've never met a demon in person, much less a demon lord like Maghalis. Some, as I've told you, are coy and deceptive and will appear beautiful or appealing to achieve their own ends. Others have a far subtler sense of misdirection, slipping past suspicion in the little things. But others, such as Maghalis, are like a firestorm, anxious only to rage and consume and leave desolation in their wake. The dread of these demons is well-placed, for their glory is in shock and terror, but these types of demons aren't the backbone of the force. They are the roaring head, the teeth and the claws.

The many demons which roam our histories aren't often these terrible monsters. They are the ones which work their havoc in the background, while we go about our daily habits. They undermine our efforts in the day-to-day routine—these we should fear most, because like cockroaches, they fester unseen and the longer we ignore them, the worse we all are for their malevolent work.

But the demon that towered in front of Warren did not care at all for subtlety or a behind-the-scenes jobs. Maghalis had again caught up with it's quarry and Warren could feel the demon's hunger. And he trembled.

A low rumble of the lion's growl mercifully interrupted Maghalis' gaze on Warren, who found himself seated on the floor, scampering backwards until his shoulders hit the wall. Never before had he felt such dread or fear in his life than staring into those black eyes, those orbs of emptiness, of a terrible and inexhaustible void. His stomach had felt cold within him, his heartbeat seemed to have slowed, and his throat felt as if it had turned to stone. The raw fury of the demon, while focused at Warren, had a paralytic effect—one might have even described it as a tightening grip on his chest.

But the small release that came when Maghalis turned to the lion, hardly felt like relief—only Warren's mind was free to think again. He thought he heard the lion speak, but it could have just been another growl. Whatever it was, it reminded Warren to breathe. He gasped as Maghalis spoke.

Maghalis' voice though, in reply to the lion's statement, was deep and steady. “Why? I violate no such terms; I come to claim a wandering servant, nothing more. As soon as you relinquish him, I will go and leave this place in...peace.”

“You will do no such thing. This place is refuge for all who are lost, and, as it's keeper, I cannot allow any of my patients to leave,” the lion stated, and Warren thought he heard it's claws dig into the floor.

“Lost? No, no this one was never lost. A drifter is not lost, for he has no goal, no future, only a past—a past which belongs to me. You cannot refuse me that which I own—look for yourself, my mark is upon him.”

Warren scrunched his eyebrows, and followed the lion's saddened gaze to his hands. There, right at the wrist, on the back of his hand, had grown a curious, dark, twisting tattoo. Warren looked back to Maghalis, whose lips widened in a grim smile.

“I ask you,” the demon said, addressing the lion, “did he enter willingly, or was he brought to this...infirmary by another?”

“He belongs here, in this orphanage,” the lion answered sharply, “regardless of how he entered.”

A dark mist seemed to begin to rise from between the demon's scales, and Warren feared the combat that seemed would be inevitable. Surely the lion could put up a firm fight, but....against such a foe as this? Maghalis shook his head wildly as he answered. “He belongs to ME! Do not tempt my rage, young one! I will tear this place to pieces if I must; I should have done it ages ago. Prepare for oblivion!” The demon fell to his front legs and his form suddenly resembled a dragon far more than the winged human-esque shape he had been. His jaws snapped eagerly as he stretched toward the lion. Warren tried to squirm further into the corner of the room, but with the two giants stretching the limits of the space, there seemed no alternative but to hope the lion would defend him and defeat the demon. The lion crouched, snarled, bristled his fur; and then relaxed, set the whole of his body on the floor, and turned a pained eye to Warren. A whisper invaded his mind: “Breathe, on my account.”

The dragon lunged forward, still growing in size, broke apart the walls and ceiling with a great sweep of its wings, and let out a tremendous roar. The lion laid its head on the floor and closed its eyes, while Warren tried to make sense of what was happening. But then, to his absolute horror, the dragon snatched the lion's neck in its powerful jaws and shook it like a puppy would a rag doll. Then, throwing it back down to the ground, lunged at the cat, tearing and biting in a blood-crazed frenzy. The whole of the serpent's being convulsed in rage as it pounded and shredded the orphanage keeper. The mists that had shrouded the beast caught fire and soon spread to the debris around him. Smoke began to mix with the dust, and after just moments, Warren could only see the silhouette of the enraged demon as it spun and circled and pounced again and again—could hear the gleeful howling of death itself as the life was beaten and bled from the lion.

After a final, terrible roar, the demon paused in its fury to relish the moment of death. “And I thought you were going to fight back, “ Maghalis cackled. “I thought you might have even challenged me. But this! This is all? You are pathetic.” The form of the dragon bent low, his head evidently next to that of the dying lion. “Where is your fabled power? Where is your protection? You have become just like those miserable wretches you sought to aid: worthless, powerless, feeble, weak. You have been abandoned just like them. Now, die with the comfort that all of your so-called children will be joining you soon.”

Warren saw the dragon-head make a last strike and wrestle the final ounces of life from the body of the battered cat. A deep, throbbing laugh echoed across the misty valleys, and Warren huddled into himself, waiting for his turn. But after the laughter had subsided, a small whisper penetrated the smoke, the dust, and mist. “It is finished.”

A sharp rush, like a thunderclap, blew the air free of any obscurity. For a moment, Warren and Maghalis stared at each other, but the surge of hate was gone from the black eyes. Curiosity had replaced it. Then a breeze gently began to blow through Warren's hair. It lifted him as easily as a feather and started to carry him upwards, and off to the east, the western sun at his back. Maghalis screeched and took to the air, his great and powerful wings churning to carry him upwards, but it became apparent a headwind had caught him. The more he struggled, the greater the resistance seemed to be, until finally the dragon was thrown back to the earth and drifted out of sight.

Warren relaxed on the currents of the wind, took a deep breath, and, with a tear in the corner of his eye, thought of the lion. “Why?” was the only question on his mind. It was evident enough that the lion had given himself up for Warren. But why? And Warren could not answer it.

So he floated on, watching the endless countryside disappear below him. He passed over rivers large and small, over forests and long grasslands, through orange trimmed clouds at sunset, and across a large body of water, scintillating under a full moon. His speed must have been incredible, but he felt nothing at all as he rode with the wind. For nearly an hour he watch the stars appear, watched the waves roll on beneath him, until he saw the glistening white of a shoreline beach. As he passed it, he felt noticeably lower, and the tree tops rushing below him began to concern him. But as he lost altitude, his speed began to diminish as well, and after a few minutes, Warren could again see what he assumed to be the ocean, and those silver-lined waves. And although he could reach out and brush the foliage of the trees if he had wanted to, he never did have to dodge a branch or duck a limb. And then he burst from the trees onto a white-sanded beach. The wind swirled him around and set him on the sand like a mother putting her child to bed. Warren felt his weight again, found himself releasing to a sudden gravity of fatigue, decided that sand had never felt so comfortable in his life, and dropped into a deep sleep.