Thrownness: a Week in the life of Warren Spicks.

Epilogue

2010-05-03T07:54:00.000-07:00

“Warren, dear, what’s wrong?”
I don’t know, Sofi. But we need to leave. My friend, I thank you for hearing my tale, but I think it’s time our paths split; I don’t think it wise for us to tarry here much…
“Warren, look at the sky!”
What is…Sofi get down! You, get out of here! Go! Go! Run!
Sofi, here, take my hand! Come on!

Chapter 31

2010-05-03T07:52:00.000-07:00

Warren began to notice several different things happening inside him at that moment: he understood Livingstone, he found a knot of uneasiness loosed within him, and, for some odd reason, he didn’t wonder why he felt this way. The only way he could put it was that a fire had been quenched within him—or perhaps the reverse, where there had been dead lumps of coal, flame now burned brightly. Either way, Warren could not deny a change had occurred, though he could not put his finger on what exactly had happened. Beside the fact he had inhaled a wasp.
But regarding Livingstone’s quip, he found it entirely hilarious and laughed heartily. Livingstone was absolutely correct; the absurdity of his journey here made him chuckle—how often had Oscar tried to point out this pointless necessity to understand. Yes, Warren thought to himself, it was this that had changed. What had been lauded, a week ago, as a mindset of critical thought and solid academic inquisition seemed to him a horribly meager and wholly insubstantial method of living. As he thought back, it seemed more and more apparent to him: how much easier his journey might have been if he hadn’t paused to ask why.
Could he have certainly felt entitled to know why he was forced from his home and onto the road with a complete stranger, flung from his own history into the wild garden and its forking pathways, and skipped right to his grandfather’s deathbed just in time to take over as the High Elder Anazao? Even if Livingstone had known, Warren wouldn’t have believed him. No, whether Livingstone knew or not didn’t matter. The fact that, upon looking back, Warren saw his journey to the east Florida coastline as a tailor-made process to shape Warren into a person who would step into his grandfather’s shoes in that moment relieved him.
Livingstone had pin-pointed it; never again would he ask a dumb question of Oscar. Not because he now knew the answers to everything, which he noted he did not. Not because he couldn’t find out what he didn’t know. Not because his inquisitive eyebrows had finally failed him. But the need to know had died within him in that moment he gave up, closed his eyes, and breathed in deeply. It felt as if it was the first breath he had ever taken—indeed he had obeyed the final word of the Keeper. Whatever the future held for him, he did not know. But there was a life within him which he hadn’t had before; this much he felt, and he understood it was quite pointless to wonder how. Warren stretched a bit and blinked.
“Livingstone…”
“Yes Watson?”
“Thanks.”
Oscar nodded with a wry smile. “You bet.” Warren thought he was going to say more, but the hobo remained silent and leaned against the wall with folded arms. Of course, there was nothing more to say. Warren knew Livingstone had fulfilled his charge—Warren had been transformed into the High Elder Anazao. He was also certain the man would sleep well tonight.

Warren took a last look to the bed. There lay his grandfather’s lifeless body, pale and limp, at rest, while he stood strong and refreshed. The pendulum had reached its peak and was now swinging back the other direction. In accordance with that swing, he knew he had to talk with the Elder, the man who had introduced him to his grandfather, and as he took the first step to exit the room as the High Elder Anazao, leaving Warren Spicks behind, Livingstone piped up.
“I’m sure Sofi will be pleased.”
Warren felt poignantly the undercurrents of the phrase. “My grandfather never married...” Warren stated; he knew it as soon as he said it.
“True, in one sense. But in another, he lead the flock with a steady hand and sharp mind. His love for them was never marred or mixed with a different love for a single person. You might have said he was married to them.”
“And Sofi? She knew, of course, I was to become the High Elder.”
Livingstone only affirmed the answer with his eyes.
Warren’s heart collapsed within him—he had to find her and explain. But Livingstone preempted him. “As the High Elder, you’ll be required to return to the Refuge and lead the ceremonies honoring his fall. Then likely, you’ll have your hands full with Maghalis and his lieutenants. They will strike hard at you; you are young and inexperienced still, and without the Keeper’s power behind you, you will have your hands full. Let me deal with Sofi, Watson.”
“You will tell her that I love her, of course.”
“Yes. Of course.”
As Warren nodded and trudged from the room, his heart told him Sofi’s future lay in a different history, on a different path. She was indeed a rose in the garden; one he enjoyed and whose memory he would treasure. But, as he had to die to himself, he had to die to her. He couldn’t imagine Livingstone would put it any other way; he only hoped he would say so with tact. Which, he admitted, was a long shot for Oscar—but something within assured him that Sofi had a bright future ahead of her.
So he tried to push her from his thoughts and left the room. Livingstone followed him out, but turned left in the hallway after Warren had turned right. The High Elder felt that the old Warren might have fretted about how where precisely Sofi was, how Livingstone would find her, how indeed Livingstone had found his way here without her, but these echoes did not disturb the High Elder Anazao. Livingstone had promised to deliver the awful news to her, and he fully trusted his capability to do so. He refocused his mind on his task—of which Oscar had alluded. Of course, he realized it was his duty to explain the necessity of the Keeper’s sacrifice in bringing him here, to fulfill the duties of his grandfather, the late Elder Anazao.
The man in the brown suit coat greeted him with a smile at the doorway and pushed his glasses up a bit on the bridge of his nose. Warren, however, was the first to speak. “Mr. Spicks has passed away.”
“I understand. And the High Elder?”
“I am.”
The man in the glasses sighed in relief. “I suppose you have something to say to them, then.”
“I do. But I have a few questions for you, first.”
“As you wish. Ask away.”
“What is the current state of our struggle against the Mar and Maghalis’ forces?” the High Elder queried.
“Damaged, but not defeated.”
“The state of our allies?”
“Besieged, but holding.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re ready, then.”
Warren nodded.
“I’ll go prepare the video feed. When you see the green light up there flash on, you can enter. You’ll have as much time as you need,” the Elder explained and walked through the door and around the corner, leaving the High Elder with his thoughts.
He thought about the Keeper’s dying words. He thought about how to inspire without sounding brash, to lead without trampling, to empathize without conforming. However, he did not think of Sofi, and afterwards, when he considered this, it haunted him.
But a short time later, when the green light flashed, Warren strode onto the small stage, found the glass podium, and gazed confidently into the feed. “My brothers, my sisters; it has not been such a great time since we last spoke. I told you I would serve you as best I could—I did not mean it when I said so. I was Warren Spicks then, the grandson of the ailing High Elder Anazao. I bring you grave news to rest with the news you received this morning. The High Elder has passed away.
“But do not be troubled. Though our Keeper has been slain, though your High Elder has breathed his last, they did not do so in vain. I have taken up the mantle of my grandfather; I am the High Elder Anazao. And I want to tell you how both of them died.
“I met the first when I awoke in the Refuge one fine morning, after falling victim to a poison of Maghalis. The Keeper spoke to me of life, of hope, of renewal. I heard him, but I did not believe him. Shortly after, Maghalis attacked the refuge, in pursuit of me. The Keeper gave his life for me, and his dying breath bore me to these shores. He took my place; he saved me from the terrible hand of Maghalis. I am to blame for his death.
“But without that sacrifice, I might have not made it here in time. Perhaps the late High Elder could have clung to life, but had he died without an heir…I don’t even want to consider the thought. My point is this: there is a grand design at work here; I believe it is the Keeper’s. It required his life, and freely, he gave it for me.
“I am the High Elder Anazao, now. The Keeper gave his life for me, my grandfather gave his life to me, I can do no less for you. I will not serve as best I can, as I told you as Warren Spicks. But I will give you everything I am, everything I can be, and everything I have, for each of you. For it is no longer I who live, but the Keeper who lives through me. He loved you and guided you; allow me to do the same.
“We now battle a merciless and relentless enemy. Perhaps one strengthened by news of the Keeper’s fall, of the passing of the High Elder to a green and unproven leader. They will strike out hard at us; they will test our strength.
“But they will find us equal to the task. They will find that it is not we who are on the defensive. Our enemies will soon discover the battle does not lie on our doorstep, but their own; it is not our fortress under attack, but their gates which bend and buckle, their walls which crumble and break.
“Take heart, my brothers; keep hope alive, my sisters! This is not an ending, but a beginning; we are not retreating, but advancing. These demons and their servants have struck their deepest blow at us and will find it has only empowered us. Let us hoist the banner of the Keeper high and, for his life’s sake, remind everyone of the greatness of his love and the power of his life. Go now, may the light of the Keeper shine on your faces and guide your footsteps.”
With that, the High Elder Anazao stepped off the stage to the applause of millions. Several of the men in the room immediately approached him. The old man in the brown coat began introductions. “This is Elder Beal,” he said, pointing to the bearded man to Warren’s left, “He serves as the Treasurer; he can tell you where our funds are being currently allocated and how much we can spare and where.” Anazao nodded, and Beal returned it. “To our right, this is Elder Ashcrow; he is the General of our armed force and will advise you on military operations. To his right is Elder Kyrnez, who serves as your Internal Affairs advisor; he can let you know of the condition of our flock as a whole. Directly across from you is Elder Wynn; he oversees our judicial system and can inform you on how we implemented the Keeper’s orders. To his right is Elder Passe; she keeps us all in line and makes sure everything that needs getting done, gets done. And I am Elder Brighton; I am your administrative assistant and will put up all sorts of red tape to make sure Elder Passe doesn’t bother you too much.”
Warren chuckled. “I thank you all and will need to spend many hours will all of you. We have much to do, foremost, a service to plan for the fallen Keeper at the Refuge. But for now, I have a most immediate question for you, Elder Ashcrow.” The old bald man raised his eyebrows. “Do you know where Trent Sutherland is?”

Chapter 30

2010-04-26T22:32:00.000-07:00

“Warren, come here. Let me see you,” a sickly voice from the hospital bed in front of him called. His brain was still trying to figure out how he knew the man in front of him was his grandfather, but his feet found the command simple enough and obeyed. “Ah you look good!” he raised a shaky arm and patted Warren’s shoulder. “Got some muscle to you, now. Have you been lifting?”
“For soccer,” Warren answered automatically, although that world had become nothing in the words that fell from his tongue.
“And how’s that going?”
“I’m not sure if I’ll stay with the team next fall.”
“Found too many other things to do, eh? I understand.” The man tried to breathe deep, but wound up triggering a nasty-sounding cough. Once he subsided, he found Warren’s eyes again. “Same thing happened to me when I was your age.”
“I don’t think so Grandpa. Not quite like this.”
The high elder smiled. “Actually, almost precisely. Tell me Warren, do you dream of corkscrewing pendulums often?” Warren’s eyebrows separated, splitting his brow, high and low. “I have been. And until you arrived, I hadn’t the foggiest idea of what it meant.”
“Listen Grandpa, that’s nice, but…”
“Don’t ask your questions just yet. Besides, you should know better.” And just that moment, a whole host of other questions rushed into his consciousness. Warren did his best to ignore them, but this faint allusion to Livingstone riled them up like a lab puppy chasing a flock of geese. “Wouldn’t you know it, a gang of thieves attacked my father’s store there in Illinois one winter eve when I was home alone. By God’s grace, I escaped and, after I had waited and waited for my parents to come back home, set to wandering where I would, looking to make my own way in the world.”
Warren sat watching his grandfather, dumbstruck.
“Long, long, long story short, I set here in this very room, listening to my grandfather tell a similar tale of how he had been abducted from his father’s cabin while the man was out collecting a few traps.”
It took every ounce of willpower Warren had not to interrupt him.
“And what he told me that day is the same thing I’m going to tell you right now: Warren you are part of a larger cycle than even I understand. You must become the next High Elder Anazao; you were meant to be here, you were drawn here for this purpose. You sensed this, didn’t you?”
Now that Warren had a chance to answer, he wasn’t sure he wanted to. The man before him was as truly his grandfather as the one that had died the previous November, in a fit of hacking and coughing when the results of the presidential election were revealed on the evening news. And not just the mannerisms and the light in his eyes, but sense of overwhelming love and care (and a bit of expectation) he had always felt next to his grandfather told him that the man whom cancer had killed was the very same as the one talking to him now. And though the question burned within him, he couldn’t ask it.
“I guess. I just feel…so…” Warren floundered, looking down at his feet.
“Thrown?” the high elder volunteered.
“Yeah.”
The loving eyes of his Grandfather pulled his gaze to meet them. “If it at all comforts you, I did meet my avatar, the me you knew in your childhood. That was an odd conversation; I really hope you don’t meet yours.”
“What do you mean?”
“I shouldn’t have to answer that question, but I will. Warren, the reason my parents didn’t come back, is not because they left me, it was because I left them. I was given another path, a journey in which they were not involved. But just because I took one, didn’t mean I left the other. Just because you hopped in the Jeep with Oscar, doesn’t mean you left your house. Warren, the only reason you are alive is because my avatar went with my parents. And the only reason you will meet your grandson here one day is because your other self didn’t notice Oscar in the garage. Whether that’s because you went kayaking with your brother, or had received a raid invite on Warcraft, whatever. There is another you that does not have to explain leaving a burnt house with a delusional hob to dead family members. There is another Warren Spicks who might go out for soccer again next fall. A Warren who will fall on his face (probably literally) for a beautiful girl and their son will one day face a separation from his family and journey to meet you, perhaps a week or two before your last.
“It was for this reason that I mentioned dreaming about corkscrewing pendulums—a spiraling oscillation. The thing is circular, but it doesn’t hit every time, just every other. Who knows why this thing was set in motion, but I do know there is a powerful reason behind it.”
“What’s that?”
“Hope, Warren. It is hope. I am privileged to serve the Keeper as the handle to his beaming torch of hope; when I pass, you too will begin to understand. But it is the duty of the high elder to be the seat of this hope for all of mankind.”
Warren suddenly felt a little smaller in the room, a sense of grandeur filled the frail old man on the bed, and the sun seemed to shine a bit brighter through the windows. “Warren my son, come to me.”
Warren closed the small gap between himself and the side of the bed. “This will seem like the most foolish thing you’ve done in your life. To date. Even more so than losing Sofi. But don’t worry, that trumps this. Come closer.”
It seemed fairly obvious that the old man knew that he was fading—but Warren noticed that his grandfather had begun to glow. The high elder motioned him in with his hand, and Warren leaned over, almost touching his grandfather’s nose with his own. The steady eyes gazing into his own asked him to promise. Warren nodded slightly, without blinking.
“When I go,” the high elder rasped between short breaths, “let it in. I guarantee you…you won’t want to. It will seem…ridiculous. But Warren!” A wrinkled hand grasped his own. “You must. You have come…so far to get here…you have sacrificed…so much.”
The light seemed to be fading from his grandfather’s eyes, and Warren clung to every mysterious word.
“Let it in, Warren,” the high elder, “even if you feel…like you’re dying…let it in.”
And with that, High Elder Anazao leaned back into his pillow, exhaled his spirit, and died. But before Warren could think anything, he noticed that the fading light in his grandfather’s face seemed to be moving out his nose. And before he had time to form a question, a softly glowing wasp crawled out of the nasal cavity of the High Elder Anazao. The creature stretched its wings weakly, shivered, and brought them to a flapping life. Warren gazed at the wasp in wonder as it took to the air, then took a step back when it began to hover his way.
But he couldn’t look away from the bug. It’s black fractured eyes mesmerized him and the last words of the High Elder Anazao echoed in his memory like a fascinating and frightening peal of thunder ricocheting down a mountain valley: let it in. Warren shook his head, but couldn’t tear his gaze from the wasp’s.
This was so wrong. Had he been deceived? What sort of imposter had been masquerading as his grandfather? This leach just wanted a new host—perhaps a compatible host, and had probably arranged the whole sequence of events to bring him here. He ought to backhand that wasp against the wall and crush it underfoot. Perhaps then he could get Sofi back. Perhaps then they could find a nice quiet history together, away from the Mar, the Surfside Ping Pong Club or whatever this was, away from demons and harpies and wasps and tokleks and lions and tigers and hyenas and whatever else was out there. This was the most absurd notion he’d ever thought about. It was ridiculous!
“Of course it’s ridiculous. But let it in.” Warren froze. That familiar voice behind him sounded as calm and relaxed as if he were on a midnight bus to Kansas. Or, for that matter, right in the middle of a firefight, surrounded, and running low on ammunition. Warren turned to find a pale-faced and dead-serious Livingstone in the doorway.
“Are you serious?” Warren asked, and shuddered when the wasp landed on his shoulder.
“Never more so,” Livingstone said with eyes that might have beheld a nightmare. “Let it in. Now.”
“You have no idea what you’re asking of me. I can’t.”
Livingstone’s jaw tightened. “You must; you absolutely must,” he said through clenched teeth. “If ever you were to trust me, trust me now; if ever you were to obey your grandfather’s request, obey this one. Let it in.”
“But this is stupid! It’s complete foolishness. Let a wasp in my nose? Are you mad?”
“You’ve asked those same questions before you did similar actions. Now, get on with it. Let it in.”
The smileless Livingstone bothered Warren. Everything about this seemed wrong. Why was it always he who had to face choices like this on the spot? He didn’t want this. He never did ask for it. What had changed a week ago? What had sent him skipping down this path, hardly able to orient himself to one circumstance before being flung to the next. He did feel thrown. And with that thought came another. He was here. He certainly could have been anywhere. He might even be somewhere else, too. But he was here. And he faced a choice between two options: he could swat the wasp on his shoulder and be done with it, or he could turn to the wasp, nod, and…Warren shivered. He couldn’t imagine it. It was too weird. Too other from anything he had even experienced in the past week.
“You have about fifteen seconds to decide,” Livingstone informed Warren in a tone of voice he had never heard from the hobo: anxious.
“What?”
“Twelve now.”
Warren turned to the wasp. A wave of desperation crashed over him. This was crazy; totally absurd. Images flashed through Warren’s mind; his parents at the dinner table, his brother in a kayak, Sofi at the coffee-shop table, Ali gnawing on Old Fred’s finger, his grandfather eagerly relaying his last words, now Livingstone standing in a cold sweat. Could he trust that all of this had hope behind it? Was it hope that told the story, or a deceptive fate hurdling him to his demise? How had it all come down to this little bug on his shoulder?
“Five.”
Questions or not, could he trust? He didn’t have the mettle to trust. He didn’t, Warren told himself; he couldn’t. Then like the flashing bolt of lightning she had seemed to him in Manitou Springs, Sofi appeared in his mind’s eye. “You took a chance on me,” she whispered.
And so on a pleasant Thursday afternoon at approximately 2:35:04 pm Eastern Standard Time in a beach-house on the eastern Florida coastline, Warren Spicks, grandson of S. Ogden Spicks, spun north, held out his hand for a dying wasp, and promptly stopped thinking. The creature inched onto the palm of Warren’s hand and started to glow with a faint, golden light. After pulling his hand nearly to his lips, Warren closed his eyes, tilted his nose into the air, and began to inhale.
When Warren resumed his thought process, he wasn’t sure whether he was horrified at what he had just experienced or if he had imagined the whole thing. He didn’t distinctly remember anything after inhaling, only that he had had made his decision, and that he knew that the wasp knew he had. He had, for half a second thought he had felt the pain of sharp legs in his sinuses and the urge to sneeze..but like failed sneeze, faded with just a little irritation that he hadn’t sneezed.
Livingstone looked as if a hydrogen bomb had just been defused at his feet, and came up to Warren, searching for something deep in his eyes. Warren could tell when he found it; the hobo’s eyes glanced all around his face, then he nodded. “You alright, Watson?”
“Yeah, I think so. Don’t feel much different.”
“Mm. That so. Well, I for one, am glad you decided the way you did.”
“Why’s that?” Warren asked.
“Because I’ll never have to answer any of your dumb questions ever again.”

Chapter 29

2010-03-02T21:15:00.000-08:00

The kind old woman was, in the end, the one responsible for nudging Warren to go stand beside the man in the shiny black shoes. However, it took far more than a simple nudge to encourage Warren to move. He had not realized that the old man's final statement was an introduction, the steps on which he stood were a stage, and the glass cube decorating the side wall of the fireplace at which he stared held a camera and revealed several different crowds of unthinkable numbers. So for several moments Warren waited for the old man looking at him to continue. But as the silence endured, the lady in the kitchen mouthed the word “go” to him several times, then made a flicking move with her hand, as if to shoo him out of his chair. Warren raised his eyebrows, pointed at himself, and whispered, “Me?” The lady nodded with wide eyes and pointed to the man, who had by that time extended his hand toward Warren.

A knot formed in Warren's stomach. He took a short breath, stood, and meandered up to the stairs. A smile crossed the old lady's lips—slight nod from the old man as Warren shook his hand and turned to face the glass cube. Here the knot rose to his heart, which missed a beat as he took in the display of six different outdoor crowds gathered, which all erupted into frantic, silent commotion when he looked at the camera. He tried a smile. It almost came out right.

The man beside him placed an arm around his shoulder, like a proud father introducing his son, and, looking into his eyes, asked Warren, “Tell us, my dear Warren Spicks, why you are here! Tell us all why you have come!” The smile on the man's lips was as sincere as the light in his eyes, but it didn't help Warren at all. Confusion rightly reigned in his mind; questions leapt at him from every corner—questions he knew Livingstone could banish in a heartbeat. If only he were here, he could take charge, deflect and absorb the questions without having to answer them. If only he had taken more time to study Livingstone rather than to, well, question him. But he hadn't, and Livingstone was not going to jump out of nowhere and rescue him now.

Now, he had only himself; what a flimsy prospect that was. What good had he done in the past week? He had managed to get his family killed, his house burned, several safehouses destroyed and perhaps several dozen of Livingstone's associates killed; to get himself kidnapped, Trent lost, himself lost in the pathways of histories; to win Sofi's heart, but only to immediately lose her several times in a row, to draw demonic forces against an orphanage, to force the Keeper to die for his sake, to wake up on a sandy beach and be introduced as some hero or celebrity with some kind of plan to fix everything.

How was that a list of commendable experience? Everything he touched, besides Livingstone, seemed to fall apart. A bitter taste crept into his mouth. “Why am I here?” was the question echoing in his head. He couldn't say. It wasn't his fault, really. He had done nothing to get here, hardly. But here he was, nonethless. And that thought surprised him. The scope of his past and the prospects of the future melted away as he considered this. However he had come here, wherever he was headed, mattered very little to Warren in this moment. He was awestruck at the very fact that he was, indeed, actually here, in a beach house full of strangers, looking at a camera with several hundred thousand people, if not more, all watching him, waiting for his answer. He was here. He had hardly made a decision to come to this point, and yet here he was.

This thought was quite discouraging. He felt utterly insignificant, in spite of the anxious eyes all watching him. He was here, yes, but had nothing to give. Nothing of value to tell these people. He had news for them, he supposed. But the fact that he felt directly responsible for their Keeper's death was not one he was anxious to convey.

But here was the old man's eyes, beginning to falter. His smile, failing. Warren would have to speak soon. He glanced around the room. The bearded man was scowling, the old lady open-mouthed in radiant expectation. For a moment, he considered walking out of the place without a word. He hadn't had a chance to do that since that fateful morning when he met Livingstone in his garage—except for his brief escape attempt in Manitou Springs. And that had only backfired on him. Perhaps it would now, too.

And so Warren abandoned any hope of being able to escape, or even to say the right thing. Obviously these people were in for a surprise. Why lead them on in the first place? And after that question, a small Livingstone danced in his mind. What did their expectations of him matter at all? They obviously believed him a part of a grander scheme, but he did not. Why should he oblige them at all? Silence seemed the best option.

But silence would perhaps lead them to make their own assumptions—which could land him in a very different situation quite quickly. The little Livingstone agreed: he had to say something that would neither shatter illusions nor feed them. And what more equivocal answer could he give than the timeless mantra of four-year olds giving a defense to their sins: I don't know.

And thus he answered half a million people. Of course he didn't word it so plainly. It came out something more like, “I'm afraid I cannot yet answer that question myself, as it seems I am the most uninformed person on the planet at this point in time. But my journey has led me here, to all of you, and it is my humble pleasure to serve any one of you as best I can.”

For a few quick moments, his words seemed to hang in the air. Then the smile danced in the old man's eyes, who offered Warren a hearty handshake and began clapping. Those in the room, and in the cube in front of him joined him. Warren smiled grandly and stepped down to greet the radiant old woman, who came from behind the counter to envelop him in a big hug.

While the old man evidently concluded his remarks, she whispered in Warren's ear, “You have been the talk of the land! We're so excited you've come! Don't you worry, we'll get you started soon enough.” Then she held him at arms length, as if inspecting him. “You seem a bit thin; you're sure you've had enough breakfast?”

Warren tried to answer that yes he had, but the old man had descended the steps and interrupted. “It's time.” The old lady cocked her head and smiled with trembling lips and a tear in her eye, releasing him to whatever fate lie ahead of him.

This phrase, however, set off the tiny Livingstone. “It seems you are at the threshold of something you cannot comprehend. But whatever you do, hold your tongue. This is not the place for ignorant questions.” Warren heeded the advice. Observation was his most powerful asset now. He needed to find clues to the answers, not the opinions and ideas of people he had never before met in his life. It was apparent he held a special position in their eyes, and that the Keeper's death the night before had nearly broken their spirits. It almost seemed as though they saw in him a gift from the Keeper. “You'd do well not to mention that you were responsible for his death, you know,” the small Livingstone voted. “At least if you plan to stay in their good graces. Which might not necessarily be your good graces. If you follow.” Warren didn't, but after a brief pause the little Livingstone resumed. “You don't want to be stuck in a beach-front retirement home playing President of the Shuffleboard club for the rest or your days? You have more important things to consider, or have you so quickly forgotten about Sofi?”

A small shiver tickled his spine. He had. Well certainly not entirely, but for the moment, she wasn't at the forefront of his mind. “Until of course, I mentioned it.” Which was certainly true. Warren nearly clutched his stomach as it dawned on him how likely it would be that he would ever see her again. Perhaps this was the place she was attempting to take him. Perhaps she would show up in the next few hours, or days...possibly weeks. He could wait that long and play along with these people. But if she didn't? “Well then, I'd say you've lost and you'd be far better admitting the truth that you were tracked down by the demon lord Maghalis and therefore were directly responsible for the destruction of the orphanage, the deaths of all within, and the sacrifice made by the Keeper. Perhaps then they'd swifly remove your head and therefore any worry of living the rest of your life without her.” Warren could nearly see the ironic gaze of the dreadlocked man as he spoke.

But here the old man stopped walking down the hallway, at the third door on the left. He pushed it open with his right hand and stepped back, as if to usher Warren through. “Right this way, Mr. Spicks.”

“You'd better choose quickly, you know. It's likely you'll be asked any moment now. Do you risk a life waiting for Sofi? Or be done with it and risk the unknown consequences of the truth?” the tiny Livingstone asked of Warren. He bit his lip as he crossed the threshold of the door. If it were to be a choice between Sofi and likely death...he would certainly choose Sofi. But could he wait? Could he pretend for years, decades? Could he maintain an illusion that long? “So many questions! You won't have answers to any of those,” the Livingstone ranted, “so make your choice and be done with it.”

There was a short hallway which opened into a larger room, with several doors on the way in, like a hotel room, he thought, presumably leading to the closet and bathroom. He could make out the foot of a bed, but it seemed more like a portable, rolling hospital bed. There was a curtain hanging, too, but it had been pulled to his left to open up the room, as if in invitation to any visitors.

“What will you tell them?” Livingstone prodded. Warren made up his mind: I will do whatever I can, if only to have the slightest chance at seeing Sofi again.

“It is not every couple that is a pair, you know,” Livingstone mentioned offhand.

“What?” Warren said aloud, and suddenly regretted it.

“Take off your shoes, please,” the old man reiterated with a cautioning hand on Warren's shoulder.

Warren's focus snapped to the present command and he slipped off his shoes before walking past the drawn curtain and into the small room with the hospital bed in it. A withered, dying man seemed to inhabit the sheets, and more than a few different tubes (hooked up to several bed-side monitors) snaked their way under them as well.

“May I introduce High Elder Anazao, head of the Council. Your highness, this is the young Warren Spicks, sent to us from the Orphanage, by the Keeper himself.” The old man took a few steps to the bedside, nodded, beckoned Warren over, and then stepped back with what seemed the intent to leave the two in peace.

Warren's eyebrows hovered low over his eyes. He wasn't quite sure what to expect, but he felt already lighter, warmer, more peaceful in the very presence of the man in the bed. He strode easily to the bedside and looked deeply into the face of the High Elder. His eyebrows rose in shock: it was his grandfather.

Chapter 28

2010-02-05T22:29:00.001-08:00

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

2010-02-04T18:04:00.000-08:00

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.

Chapter 26

2010-01-29T21:28:00.001-08:00

If a single word could ever hope to describe any one person at any one place in any given history, the word exhaustion would have described Warren as they walked the lonely, well lit tunnel, which wouldn't have seemed out of place as a subway tunnel just a few days ago to him. It's one thing to shovel sand and lime and gravel all day to mix concrete and to collapse into bed for a deep evening's sleep. It's quite another to wear your mind thin at the same time—as if he had not only been pouring concrete, but trying to explain how to do it in a foreign language.

Warren's mind felt overloaded—like the chaos of a long-running dream just before waking—almost as if that's precisely what he needed to do. So much life had been packed into this day alone (which, for all he knew, still had many hours to go before it ended) he felt like an overloaded light bulb, ready either to explode or to fizzle and then burn out entirely. Yet here was walking once again on weary feet, following something foreign without anything substantial for a destination. Yes Florida had been mentioned. Yes, he thought he was still somewhere in Kansas, if Kansas were even a state still, or ever had been, or might still be. As they passed several intersections in the tunnel, Warren tried, but couldn't imagine what might lie down those tunnels. More Tokleks? Or a card-playing Otter with a taste for the dramatic? Or a even a little teacup, short and stout, that liked to dance and whose favorite flavor ice-cream was Rocky Road. Warren chuckled to himself at that thought—and even contemplated telling Livingstone, just to get a good rise out of him.

But his tongue wouldn't move. Walking took every bit of focus he could muster—and only then he walked on because of Sofi's hand in his own. That had to make everything a dream, didn't it? Every time he stole a glance of her face, he felt color come to his cheeks. Yes, real or not, this was a dream. And exhausted or not, he would continue on as long as her fingers kept asking him to walk. He felt it when she knew that he was lagging—just a slight pressure forward on his palm.

Livingstone led the way, and Warren gladly followed, relieved to relinquish leadership to Oscar for as long as possible. He was quite content to zone out and to hold Sofi's hand and to walk as far as the little round device demanded of him. Sofi seemed just as content to let Livingstone mumble to himself about the details and to keep her Warren as close to herself as possible, while Old Fred took his turn holding Ali on his shoulder and asked her all sorts of questions about the nature of communication to which she delightfully squeaked what Warren assumed were answers—mostly because Old Fred responded to each squeak as if it were a legitimate rebuttal.

And it seemed as though the world, as crooked and off-camber as it had seemed, had finally managed to quit tilting so drastically as to avoid sinking completely. Warren settled his mind, relaxed a bit, and smiled into Sofi's eyes.

Until the walls turned an off-dark shade of green. Or so he thought. The moment he focused his vision on them, they were as bright a white as he remembered. He kept walking while an alarm in his mind threw him into a mental huddle; he braced for another assault on his paradigm. Sofi's hair seemed to him bright pink, until he looked for the pink; of course it faded when he turned his head towards her. The hallway all of a sudden seemed very like a trampoline; a smell of ammonia registered in his nasal cavity; a song he was pretty sure he knew was playing off in the distance, but just softly enough that he couldn't place his finger on it. He tried Sofi's name several times, but all he managed to say was something rather muddled and quite unlike her name: “Sasha, er Fiona, er Tasra.” She only stared at him, while Warren was quite overcome with the sensation of eating pumpkin pie to say anything more. He shivered as though it were the dead of winter, glanced from blue wall to crystallized Livingstone to a dissipating Old Fred and a fiery, smoking Ali flying in the air.

And promptly lost all consciousness.

Warrens dreams weren't so very strange, but did, however, induce a fair bit of nostalgia in him. He was again a boy with a brother, with a warm, friendly family crowded at dinner. Smiling aunts offered him more food, while his mother demanded he finish his greens. His father smiled silently—ever chewing, but never looking away from him. Pride lit his eyes. His brother poked him suddenly with a fork and a small wrestling match ensued. Cousins joined the dog pile and laughter reigned. Until an uncle called them off—for his grandfather had left the room. Ashamed, he did what his mother's eyes told him and walked solemnly to the living room to apologize to his grandfather. But the old man in a sweater was nowhere to be found.

But then he was traveling; back to the city of his youth—yes in college again, headed home (snow obscured the highway) for the holidays. On the bus, his roommate and several friends, all jabbering about the horrible traveling conditions. Upon arrival, however, the sun shone, and here came a bright, bubbly girl skipping up to him with short blonde hair and a grand silly smile on her face. She held out two rings in her upturned palms: a green ring and a red ring. She made the lighthearted point with grand sweeping gestures that the two of them should get married. When Warren asked why they should get married, she shrugged and said, “Why not?” Apparently this logic was enough to convince Warren for they joined hands and trotted off to find a pastor.

On the way to the ceremony, the two found a bridge overlooking a deep-running river. Was it deep enough to jump off, the grinning blonde wondered. Warren replied that yes, he thought it was, and jumped off to prove his point—and found that it was actually a much further leap than he expected. His heart jumped into his throat when he saw a thin faint line of blue far below him and realized that the river could have been miles away and he was surely going to fall to his death.

Whether that was the extent of the dream, I cannot recall, but soon after, Warren came again to consciousness in a soft bed with flannel sheets and a thick woolen blanket draped over him. His arms grasped a plush pillow supporting his head. He stretched and rolled over onto his back, but no sooner had he done this, a small middle-aged Asian woman (he would have guessed Korean) burst through the door with a tray of indiscernible utensils which she set behind a partitioned wall. As she raced past, the woman exclaimed in excellent English, though with an undeniable accent, “Good morning! We are so glad you are awake!”

Warren tried to take control of his mind and reign in the rush of questions as his thoughts drifted to Sofi, Livingstone, and the others.

The woman, over a clattering of small metal objects, however, continued. “You did not sleep as long as we expected.” When she received no response, she seemed to feel obliged to add, “This is a very good thing; many of our patients do not wake for years!”

Concern swept Warren's face and the questions could not be contained. “What? How long have I slept?”

The woman bustled back to his side with what looked like a syringe. She grabbed his arm, searching for a good vein. “Oh not long at all; you have only slept for ten days. Seven in this hospital.”

“What? Ten...there's no way! It's not possible!” Warren tried to shout, but failed, as voice was thin, his throat dry.
“You think you have not slept long enough?” she answered and stuck the needle in his arm.

“No, I've slept too long...wait, what's in that needle?” Warren asked as she pushed the solution into his bloodstream.

“This? Oh this will only help you walk when you feel up to it. But it will also make lifting your arms much easier, too. Would you like to try? If not, do not worry; we will have you out and about in a couple weeks without issue. As long as you try everything I...”

Warren interrupted her, his irritation expressing itself in his dropping eyebrows. “Wait? A couple weeks? I can walk right now!” She feigned surprise.

“Is that so?”

“Yes,” Warren stated unenthusiastically and hopped out of the bed. He did two jumping jacks to prove his point. This time, her eyes widened in true shock and she scurried from the room, slamming the door shut behind her.

Warren figured the door was locked before he tried, but nonetheless, he gave it a shot. The handle wouldn't budge. So he sat back down on the bed and pressed where he had been pricked to stop the bleeding. Had he really been out for ten days? And where was Sofi? She wouldn't leave him if she had a choice.

A window beside his bed caught Warren's attention; the blinds had been closed and only small slits of light managed to penetrate the room. But the slats glowed brightly enough that he assumed he was back topside and a morning sun shone on the other side. He reached for the cord and raised the blinds. The landscape before him rolled in a series of tree-laden ridges receding into the distance with channels of mist flowing between them. A higher plane of cloud cover kept the sun obscured, but did little to hinder its light. All around, everything seemed washed with a bright gray, dark purple, or heavy blue. When he shook his gaze from the landscape, he was shocked to discover that his room was colored a bright yellow, with a deep red trim, and green accents. The difference between the inside and the outside was astronomical. The room seemed so much cozier now, and for a moment, Warren forgot it was, for all practical purposes, a prison.

Warren remembered his arm; it seemed all too convenient for strange people to give him shots at will—what concoctions were flowing within him now, he could only imagine...and really didn't want to. A small shiver shook him, though the air didn't have any hint of chill to it. He felt as if he needed to stretch and yawn; but at the same time, the fatigue seemed to have seeped through the sheets and dissipated. And for just an instant, he almost felt that if he closed his eyes, he might be sitting in his own bed on a fresh Saturday morning, wondering what he might do that day.

Until the door was unbolted and a figure entered the room. Warren turned to find a jaguar slink into the room, its eyes carefully ignoring him. The woman who had administered him the shot closed the door again, but Warren's gaze remained fixed on the jaguar, which plodded to the far corner, gave a half-leap, and set its paws on the window sill. So far as it was a comfort to Warren, the cat didn't seem to notice him—but it still seemed aware that it was being watched. And for several moments of silence, neither moved, except small twitches of the jaguar's tail.

When the giant cat spoke, Warren was not at all surprised. “On fine evenings and early mornings, the scent of fresh air invigorates a soul. Why do you think that is?”

Warren couldn't help but assume the cat had addressed the question to him. Nevertheless, he decided against answering for the time being. Livingstone would have approved. But then his thoughts snapped back to the the lady who had given him the shot—he had been quite willing to chat with her. Would Livingtone have encouraged that conversation? Almost as certainly not as one with a jaguar. No, either intelligence was foreign and therefore primarily untrustworthy to that man. Warren wasn't sure if he had more faith in animate beings that Livingstone or if he really still lingered in a state of blissful ignorance.

Perhaps he had a bit of a grasp on the exponential size of the universe, including a brand new and ever increasing perspective on the immanent dangers to himself. He could not afford any ill steps. One wrong move and he could be flung forever distant from his goal. And perhaps that mistake had already been made and he was as a castaway drifting on sovereign currents to times unknown in thickening mists of doubt. Perhaps he was being carried away from all he knew—but it wasn't the first time. He had already lost everything he loved, everything he knew, even his very identity. What could round two hurt? What could he experience that he hadn't already.

And when had any of this been his choice? Sure he had been able to choose little things like when to sit, when to walk, when to talk. But how was he here, listening to a jaguar talk of the passions of the soul? When had he decided to do anything that lead to this consequence? He determined that despite his decisions for the past few days, he had been pushed, flung, bounced, or skipped towards the goals of anyone but himself, and he wasn't sure if that was a comforting thought or not. But in a moment's evaluation, Warren reminded himself that now, only his relationships were valuable. It was only Sofi's smiling eyes and soft hands that mattered—only Livingstone's confident gaze, Old Fred's laugh and Ali's squeaks that held any importance to him. Of course, they had other ends in mind, but they had proven themselves trustworthy, and Warren at last understood that however his story ended, these new friends had become his family, and they alone deserved his efforts. And whatever he did, he promised himself it would be to keep this little family together.

Which he found only slightly ironic since he stood in a locked room with a jaguar with no idea how he had come to be there or where his friends had gone. But with his priorities firmly grasped in mind, Warren looked back to the large cat gazing out the window.

“I don't think I can recall the smell, it's been so long.”

“Not surprising, with the extreme lack of the sense your race has. I'd bet you can't even remember the smell of your mother's cooking, of late afternoons fishing on the lake, of even your dear Sofi's neck.”

Warren's heart leaped within him, but he managed to keep his poker face, as it was apparent the jaguar wasn't finished.

“All you travelers who come here are the same, you know. So reluctant to trust, completely incapable of rehabilitation, eager to be rid of our care, enticed by some luring idea or dream or figment of their imagination that they cannot see the necessity of what we do. Tell me, will you resist our help, too?” the Jaguar asked, as if resigning himself to the reality that Warren would not.

Warren decided against replying, to which the Jaguar simply sighed. “Of course. Why reply to something foreign? Alright; count your losses, then, and don't risk a thing more. I cannot help you any more but to warn you that traveling further down this path of doubt will only lead to an eternity of dissatisfaction and regret.”

This statement intrigued Warren; he had only ever had conversations like this with his brother, who could fill in the unspoken with such clarity as to rival the best seers in any video game cut-scene. And on account of his brother's memory, Warren spoke. “What do you offer? And at what price?”

The cat finally turned, its luminescent yellow eyes peering, as it seemed to Warren, into his very soul. “I offer breath,” it replied.

“I breathe now,” Warren retorted, but those round eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and made Warren wonder whether his answer were indeed the truth.

“Do you...” it sighed, and looked back out the window. “Do you, indeed?”

Warren waited. He figured to say anything in this pregnant pause was to invite disaster.

“And what is it that you breathe? What is it that you eat? What is it that you drink? Is it mere matter that keeps you're heart beating and your mind conscious and your body operating through your life?”

“Yes,” Warren had to reply.

“And so it is. But what is the habit of inhaling and exhaling, of digestion, of all other bodily functions but the gears of a tiny clock, ticking off the years, winding inexorably down to the finish? I tell you again, I offer breath; I offer it because you lack it.”

“What must I do to breathe?” Warren asked, trying to wrap his mind around the clearly non-physical breath to which the jaguar was alluding.

The large cat, walked up to him, found his gaze, and held it tight. “Understand that you are not now breathing. Understand that you are far past drowning, you have died. And believe that I can give you this breath of life.”

“How? How can you give life? How am I dead? The very fact that I talk to you should prove that I am alive!” Warren tried to keep an authoritative tone on the conversation; he knew he was clearly right. He thought and moved and spoke. What more definition needed the word “alive?”

“Just as you think you breathe and eat and dance and rejoice in Sofi's company, just as you think you are yet alive and well and competent, I tell you, you know nothing of life. If you indeed have ears and can listen, hear me now: you are dead inside. There must yet be a renewal of your spirit. If this does not happen, the ticking countdown of your body will count for nothing. I will say it again, Warren. I offer life. Trust me, and you will be made complete.”

Warren's mind spun. Something in the pit of his stomach resonated with the words the jaguar spoke. It just didn't make any sense to him—it was just ridiculous. What could breathe and move and yet not live? There wasn't an answer to that question. Was there? A small, dim memory lit in his mind. What had only happened a few days, or hours, earlier seemed already a faded photograph from a distant past. But the more he scratched at it, the more it came back into focus—a weary awakening among purpled, scrubbing friends. Each of them breathed and moved, but he couldn't have called them “alive.” They were Sofi, Livingstone, Old Fred....Trent. But they were not themselves. They were gone. Absent. For all practical purposes, dead. It was only by his action that they were restored. But how had he been awakened? He had solved a riddle. Was this then another riddle? What the jaguar spoke seemed just as ridiculous as the scribblings on that sliding glass door. If he could just figure it out.

A thundrous clap outside broke his train of thought. He looked back at the jaguar, whose teeth were bared, lips held open in a silent growl. It's gaze was directed at the furthest window, and the cat had placed itself between Warren and the glass pane. When it shattered, along with half of the wall, Warren found himself unscathed behind the cat, who had shielded him perfectly from the blast—and had seemed to have grown, as well. What had been a large jaguar was now a perfectly monstrous lion, standing as tall as a horse, and crowding the room. Warren, found himself content, however, to stand behind the lion as a host of shadows began to form on the floor from beyond the mists outside. But as he waited, none of the shadows ever stretched into anything substantial. They simply hovered, the twisted and gnarled shadows around the still-crumbling opening.

Just the smallest hint of a growl from the lion, however, brought a long shadow through the fog and into the room—and the mere sight of the demon struck Warren motionless. He knew, without a doubt, that this was the demon Maghalis, who Old Fred had described. He seemed at once a serpent and a gorilla and a bat—perhaps a dragon was as close as Warren could place him. But the eyes of Maghalis were his most prominent and terrifying feature: they were black as night...but burned with a heat greater than any fire he had experienced. And Warren felt those eyes find him and focus on him. And there was nowhere to hide. Not even the lion felt big enough.

Chapter 25

2009-09-01T00:17:00.001-07:00

If you believe my tale so far, though I cannot be sure—you seem to have taken lessons from Livingstone himself—you are a saint. It has been so long, so many years. That my memory still serves me is nothing less incredible than this story. Now, when I tell you that Sofi sang Warren free from bondage, this comes as no lie. Truly our musicians have very little concept of the whole of what song truly is. They skirt its wondrous power, but so slightly that all we can gather from this shadow of song is a semi-heightened emotional response. But we live in such a dark history—the light must travel so deep to find us that its potency is lessened to such a degree that abuse of this power does not make your hair stand on end and your insides squirm inside you. We content ourselves with the faintest echoes of what song truly is.
I tell you, in other histories, other ways, centered more closely to the One who is music itself, song has power enough to create worlds! I am convinced that song was at the beginning of all things and will be again, at the end. Ah, I see in your eyes a question! Do I plainly speak of God? Sofi did. And because she was the most intelligent person I’ve ever crossed paths with, I don’t think I could argue. She had a rare mind, I tell you—a gift. And no one knew that mind better than Warren Spicks. They were together so long…but I run ahead of myself.
The song Sofi sang absolutely gripped Warren’s soul. He certainly didn’t want to move, to do anything other than listen—and I’m not convinced he could have done otherwise. Because even in this place of darkness, the currents of musicality ran strong. And though these withered sons of Zoe, these fallen Tokleks had cut themselves forever from this song that had been their life, these deep waters of song existed just a hand-breadth away, forever looming, eternally unreachable. But Sofi bridged that gap easily. And the raw flooding power of her song broke the chains of darkness and bathed them in a circle of the purest white light.
Warren felt it on his eyelids, but he dared not open his eyes—even though it hadn’t been long since he’d been in the light, the darkness he’d last seen still imprinted his memory and somehow kept him from looking for the source of the brightness. The song illuminated his inner being enough as it was. He felt as if he were simply floating. The soft, trilling notes were swelling with power with each stanza that flowed from Sofi’s tongue. And as the song gained momentum, one long solid note jarred his eyelids open.
What Warren saw only enhanced what he had been hearing. A hundred or more of the wraiths were gathered around Sofi, who stood in their midst, arms outstretched, face skyward. These creatures that had been softly glowing in the howling dark were now black as obsidian, with only the faintest hint of blue in their cracked but semi-insubstantial bodies. All of them quivered—some positively shook—at the sound of her voice. At once Warren trembled in spite of himself; he wondered what sense of salvation these beings imagined Sofi bearing. Or was it judgment? Were they so interminably drawn to song, even the song that condemned them, that they had to listen, even if they shuddered at its sentence? And he couldn’t tell. The answer eluded him. But he knew one thing for sure: Ed would have exploded with happiness if he could have heard this. And somehow, Warren figured whatever chasm split this realm, Sofi’s song was incapable of being confined to one—he imagined Ed rowing delightedly for Zoe down some far channel and upon hearing the first small notes stopping his actions completely and listening. He could see those big, childlike eyes bursting with joy as the song grew and filled the tunnel.
When Warren looked above Sofi, who stood, arms outstretched, indeed in the central chamber just as he had predicted—a place very much changed from where he had first encountered Zoe—he found the source of light: what seemed a pinprick hole in the top of the curved ceiling several hundred feet above them. This hazy orb of brightness grew in size, until it distinctly split into three separate points of light. Warren wondered, as the three points spread apart in linear fashion, whether the light was entering the chamber from beyond the convex ceiling or from some other point beyond this realm of darkness. This light certainly must have been from Zoe—he noticed its effect upon the wraiths: they shrunk in size as the light brightened.
The beings that had stood nearly twice his size now seemed but children huddled around Sofi—whose song seemed to beckon the light to grow and the shadows to diminish. Their wide vacant eyes however did not seem to plead for help—rather a quaking, rebellious resolve to stand indifferent to the light while incapable of turning from the song. Except for one. One cracked, crumbling wraith managed to fall forward before Sofi, and reach a long withered finger for the edge of her pant leg.
Warren felt himself gasp at the immediate effect. From the now circling points of light above, a beam of light washed over Sofi and the creature of stone. At the first touch of the light on the stone skin, the cracks glowed brightly, as if energy itself was being infused into the wraith. Pure white light radiated from its eyes, its mouth. Then it pushed itself up and stretched, seeming to grow again—the cracks of light widening as it flexed what seemed weary joints. And like a chicken hatching from an egg, the fractures widened and small dissolving pieces of stone fell to the floor. And where Warren had remembered only a softly crumbling wisp of a tail, two great, powerful legs stood, with feet as large as an elephant’s.
And the very moment it found strength in its legs, and softness in its skin, the son of Zoe fell to its face as its wounds were healed. Its chest heaved and fingers clutched at the darkened stone beneath it. But the brightness that had been seeping from the stretching cracks now made the former wraith feel less fractured as it shed its outer shell and look more luminous. In a matter of seconds, the resemblance to humanity was unquestionable, and Warren knew that the life of Zoe was re-entering this one. Then the creature pulled itself quickly to its knees, and searched around it, as if it were being addressed. It turned and bowed again sloppily—for it seemed to Warren that his joints were still more stone than ligament. But then its eyes reflected something more than the light Sofi had summoned—the son of Zoe reached out and was pulled to its feet by an invisible hand. And it smiled.
Warren was stunned by the smile. This must have been the same captivating creature of Ed’s memories—a son of Zoe as it should have been. Warren knew it could only have beheld Zoe herself. And at once, it began to sing and to stand. But at the same moment, it began to vanish—shifting into an entirely different phase of existence, into the light and presence of Zoe. How content it looked! How absolutely fulfilled! Warren found himself both invigorated and saddened by every second that passed, until the former wraith was gone completely.
Sofi’s song seemed to abate as well; the tone had changed from proclamation to what Warren could only term serenity. He watched as Sofi strode around the now ankle-sized wraiths staring back at here, almost as if she wanted to pet them gently on the head and give them her blessing. But each seemed to cower, in both fear and irritation, when she came to close. When it appeared to Warren that she had sung all she needed to, she beckoned Warren to herself in song—though he never could remember exactly how she had called out to him while still singing. He obeyed, smiling. Livingstone also came out from the shadows, and Old Fred, with Ali on his shoulder, too stepped into the light engulfing Sofi. She smiled a smile of pure grace at her companions and sung them onto the walkways of the air and up through the now quite-large hole of light in the ceiling. When all four of them stepped onto what seemed a well-lit concrete corridor, the hole behind them vanished, and Sofi finished her song. But before anyone could speak, a voice called to them from around the corner in front of them.
Warren recognized the voice instantly; it was the Toklek of light, rower for Zoe, Ed himself. He waddled up to them, shouting Warren’s name. “You found them, I know it! And you showed her to sing, as I had shown you. What a marvelous song!” Warren smiled and enveloped the Toklek in a big hug—and it wasn’t quite sure what to do about it. It fidgeted a bit until Warren relaxed his grip, but seemed to forget its confusion in the hasty introductions Warren put forth.
“This is Livingstone…er…Oscar. And next to him Old Fred with Ali on his shoulder…” Warren began. The wide-eyed creature nodding at each one, but it didn’t go beyond Warren’s notice that he seemed particularly taken with Sofi, as his eyes grew wide and fell into an awestruck stare. Sofi held her lips together tightly, blushing a bit at the attention the Toklek gave her, and Warren, trying to spare her embarrassment, concluded, “and this is Sofi—the one who sang. “
“And what a beautiful song!” Ed praised. “You are the image of Zoe herself, her beauty is your own, shines through you like light through the purest water. And your voice, it was as if she was calling out to me herself! Oh wonderful Sofi, do tell me you’ve come to stay!” Warren watched as Sofi glanced between him and Ed, effectively silenced by Ed’s admirations.
“Ah…” he said after a couple long seconds, “guys, this is a Toklek, loyal servant of Zoe, whom I call Ed.” Livingstone nodded slightly and Old Fred extended a large hand, which Ed simply stared at in curiosity. After another few stiff moments, Fredric pulled his hand back somewhat self-consciously and scratched at his lower jaw—which by now sprouted a swath of pure white scruff. Ali chirped to break the silence—this seemed to remind Ed of something.
“My mistress sends her greetings to you three,” Ed nodded to Livingstone, Old Fred, and Sofi, “and has sent me with a gift for you, Warren.” He fished what seemed to be a large pearl from one of his many pockets on his leather jerkin. Warren held out both hands, palms upturned, to receive it. The dimly glowing orb weighed much less than he expected and was slightly warm to the touch.
“What is it?” he wondered aloud.
“A mapping stone. ‘May it guide you always toward your goal’ she told me to tell you,” Ed added quickly. Livingstone’s eyes lit with interest, but Sofi stepped closer to Warren to gaze at the object.
“How does it work?” she asked.
“Squeeze it,” Ed offered. Warren looked at Ed, then Sofi, then back to the orb in his hands; he took it between an index finger and thumb and pressed upon it lightly. The surface gave a little bit, like a rubber ball, then popped like a pickle jar lid. For a moment the mapping stone pulsed brightly with light, forcing Warren and the others to squint. Then, hanging before them in the air, was a series of what seemed to Warren interconnected tunnels in three dimensions. A small red beacon was flashing in one of them, slowly rising upwards.
“We are here,” Ed pointed to the red dot. “And my mistress has designated your first waypoint, which is here,” it said, stretching and pointing to a glimmering green point of light. The path between the two seemed fairly complex—but not impossible—to Warren. “To reach it on time, you should go, Warren,” it stated, but then looked to Sofi, “but must you take her with you?” Warren chuckled.
“Yes, Ed, I must,” Warren replied. Ed sighed and glanced to all three of them.
“I will remember you well—I will tell your tale for many tides, to every soul I meet. But my barge awaits me, yes, I have many channels to row. Farewell friends and remember to sing! Oh sing, for I will hear it, no matter the distance,” Ed encouraged, walking backwards and bowing several times. Then he spun and waddled back around the corner from which he had come. As the sound of slapping feet retreated down the corridor, Warren looked to his companions, then back to the map hanging in the air.
“Well what do you think?” he asked no one specifically.
Sofi answered him, her eyes focused on the green point of light. “I think we have some distance to cover.”

Chapter 24

2009-06-13T19:43:00.000-07:00

As it turns out, Zoe’s drink had a little more kick than Warren anticipated, and he was feeling somewhat groggy when she gently lowered him to next to Sofi, who still hadn’t moved. Warren sighed with relief when he noticed this fact. “So…..” he said, squinting and stumbling to one side, “how do I make her move?”
Zoe smiled empathetically. “You wait.”
“Wow, what was in that drink? I can hardly hear myself think…or talk,” he mumbled, rubbing his foggy eyes.
“It’s an antidote for the balm my servant gave you. You will begin slipping into the shadow realm soon.”
“Will you be coming with me?” he asked, turning suddenly to her.
Zoe laughed. “No, Warren; I cannot go against my nature and venture into darkness. But I will be close to you—listen for my song; it will help you overcome any struggle you might face. Now go, find your friends, Warren Spicks.”
Warren turned back to Sophi as Zoe’s voice faded. Find them? he wondered. They were right here, in front of him. He waited for a moment as his head cleared. He blinked his eyes open and closed several times. He was indeed right where he left Sofi, but the lights in the place had certainly been dimmed. It was almost as if he were waking from a dream just before dawn: expecting light, but not quite getting enough. He looked at Sofi’s hand: the note was just as he left it: will be right back. He clutched her hand in his own and kissed her cheek.
Well, he tried to kiss her cheek. And failed. He stepped back. Sofi seemed to have eluded his kiss…but then the warmth of her hand in his own wasn’t exactly triggering. He looked her over. She was disappearing before his eyes. He put his hand on her shoulder (well he tried) and couldn’t really accomplish his task. Every time, his hand slipped right through her. Warren began to panic, waving his arms in front of her, calling out for her.
A whisper replied, “Do not be troubled, Warren.” Sofi’s image faded from view. “Go find her.” And with that silence, and darkness, reigned. Warren put his hands on his hips and took a deep breath. Zoe was right; he had to start searching for them. But then realized he couldn’t see a blasted thing. But when he thought about it, it really didn’t matter to him. He knew the tunnel they were in, knew about how far it was to the grand chamber. It was as straight a shot as they came. He’d just place his hand (or, as he thought about, maybe just one finger) on the tunnel wall and he could practically run there. He knew that if Zoe had made her home (or throne room or reception area or whatever it was) in that domed room, it was likely these sons of Zoe had done the same. From what he had learned from Ed, they didn’t seem to be the creative or artistic type. He expected a sort of imitative corruption on their end. It also helped that Sofi, Livingstone, and Old Fred had been headed in that direction to begin with.
So Warren took off hastily, finger on wall to keep his direction. On his third step, he tripped and fell flat on his face. After a groan, he patted down the area and found a broken slab of concrete on the floor. Perhaps the two halves of the world were not in the same condition of disrepair. So Warren stood himself back up, brushed himself off, put his finger to the wall, and stepped forward without quite so much gusto as the last time. His shin thanked him, but throbbed nonetheless.
After what seemed like enough time to make it to the grand chamber, Warren still felt the wall to his left and decided that his eyes would never adjust. He also found what he thought was silence to be a very busy silence, as far as silence was concerned. But none of the little sounds he thought he heard were substantial enough to warrant his focus. He could have been hearing the buzz of air molecules in his ear, the eternal atomic collisions of air itself, or whispers of long abandoned souls. He did not want to believe the latter—but it rung in his heart as the truer answer.
At any rate, it brought him to an impossible thought: he wanted to yell out for Sophi, but he dared not alert any of these fallen sons of Zoe to his presence. Better to stay hidden and reserve surprise as a weapon, he thought, but then again, how long could he wander this labyrinth without running into his companions? Eternity itself wasn’t out of that question.
It amazed Warren how his sense of space dwindled in the dark—how much bigger the world actually was. Mostly he wondered how wrong his conception of distance could have been. He had been walking for what he would have imagined as twice the length between his original position and that grand cold chamber he sought. But his fingers had found no deviation in the direction of the wall, though he had discovered plenty of holes and cracks in it. His vision however had noticed no perceptible change from blinking for a while now.
So when began to see an edge off to his right, he blinked several times, squinting in between, trying to make sure he wasn’t imagining shapes in the dark. But no, there was a distinct blue line splitting the darkness ahead. He couldn’t tell much more than that, but he saw it more clearly as he approached. Perhaps it was the end of the tunnel, where it opened into the main chamber. There had to be some source of light just beyond the edge. His walk became a half jog, though he still raised his feet a good eight inches off the ground as a precaution with each step.
But when his eyes found that source, his veins froze. A wandering wraith, emitting a flickering blue light—like a frozen firefly—hovered before him. Warren thought of it as like an ethereal, dying glow-stick. It seemed to be cracking, fissured, seeping energy like blood from its wounds. The face seemed to be the only recognizable feature of this specter (except possibly the hands—which had long, claw-like fingers), but like it had been etched into stone.
The glow emanating from the creature didn’t do much to illuminate its surroundings. In fact, the more Warren looked at it, trying desperately not to breathe, the more it seemed lost—like an Alzheimer’s patient in the bathroom looking for that wooden cooking spoon she had set somewhere. And then a thought struck Warren: would being a little light in such a dark place be beneficial at all? Or would it make the darkness that much darker? How much more impossible to see anything beyond yourself! How much more tragic to be set apart from even darkness, to be your own incapable, flickering light, to be removed from participating with anything.
This had to be a fallen son of Zoe. Even as pitiful as it seemed, Warren dared not blink. These creatures of the shadow world had to be dangerous—not just that he had believed Ed, but that there was something about darkness that he feared. Of course, wasn’t that always the case in literature? When wasn’t the light a source of comfort, grace, truth? When wasn’t the darkness a breeding ground for evil, hatred, and malice? It occurred to Warren that it must have something to do with the nature of light as a presence, as an object. Light was something, darkness was the absence of light. Same with heat and coldness, as he thought about it. A dark, cold place can be described only as a place missing light and heat—for darkness and coldness have no substance. Perhaps it was much easier for the mind to relegate fear and chaos to the dark places of the world.
And perhaps that was why these specters were as they were. If indeed they had fallen from Zoe, and Zoe was the epitome of light and warmth, they must certainly have not only fallen into darkness, into coldness, but into insubstantiality. Where they were proud, strong being of light before, they became the tormented wraiths of the darkness after their undoing of themselves.
But certainly regret gnawed at them, and surely they cursed Zoe for her lack of concern for them now—what sort of twisted, self-pitying, revenge-crazed beings had they come? For darkness saps a soul of its will, draws out any grace in its heart—it is a sort of void that will consume anything given it. And Warren didn’t want to test the boundaries of these wretched creatures, absorbed in their own sufferings.
So he waited while the flickering phantom seemed to mourn its own existence in silence, wandering who knew where as it lived out its tormenting days in darkness. When it finally passed the tunnel entrance and moved out of Warren’s sight, he relaxed and took a cautious step forward.
Unfortunately this step elicited a cry from an unknown source at his feet. In the next moments, Warren was tackled backwards by an unknown force, heard another, more-chilling screech further off, and found himself staring momentarily into a pair of large glowing eyes with what he could only describe as insanity. Then a pulse of energy struck him—like the shockwave from a thunderclap nearby. His heart seemed to skip a beat—his head felt light, as if he were beginning to black out from standing up too quickly. The world tilted to the left and he began to slide from consciousness. And all the while those cold menacing eyes glared at him. Then he slipped into the darkness.

*

Warren woke shivering. His head was pounding, his feet were freezing, and his back ached. He blinked his eyes and craned his neck, staring off into the darkness. He thought he saw a few pinpoints of light off in the distance…but nothing remotely close. The darkness was incredible—it was like a terrible inky-black ocean, pressing down upon him as he lay on his back. It was almost suffocating.
He tried to roll over, but found his wrists and ankles tied down. So he relaxed and tried to think of Sofi. Her image came easily to mind—he found himself addressing her with a whisper. “Oh Sofi; where are you? Don’t you know I need?”
When a voice whispered back, “What?” Warren jumped. It had come from behind him; he tried to arch his back and look, but realized the foolishness of this attempt in the darkness. The whisper came again. “Warren, is that you?” Warren’s lungs quivered. Was he hearing things?
“Sofi?” he whispered harshly.
A sigh of relief. “Yes, yes, Warren, it’s me.”
“I thought I was alone,” he said.
“I knew they chained someone else up, but I didn’t know it was you…you were unconscious for a while, you know,” Sofi replied quietly.
“Where’s Livingstone?”
“They couldn’t catch him; so I don’t know. Probably trying to figure out how to get out of here. We weren’t sure what to do after you froze.” She paused a moment. “But they ambushed us. I haven’t heard from Old Fred yet, either.” Warren couldn’t help but think of Zoe’s exhortations not to mourn the loss of the others—perhaps Old Fred, that kind gentle soul, was forever gone now, too. “What happened to you?”
Warren explained how he had seen the figure on the river, that he had found them unmoving, and decided to accompany “Ed” to find Zoe. He told her of how Ed had rubbed something on his eyelids and how he had crossed fully into the light half of the realm. He told her of Ed’s story, of the sons of Zoe, now cursed, cut off from the light, and of the wonder’s of song in this place. With awe thickening his voice, he spoke of the beautiful angel Zoe, how she said she was kin to those Sofi worked for, how she encouraged him in his efforts to elude the Mar, to reach his destination.
He heard Sofi gasp several times during his telling, but it was evident she wouldn’t interrupt him. So when he concluded his tale with his return to the shadow realm, she paused thoughtfully and then spoke. “So she was a Dryad…what did she call her fountain?”
“Cheriel” Warren whispered back.
“She must be part of the Eastern Orchestral Grove. She likely knows the Lady Aurora—that’s great news Warren. Perhaps she will pass on the information to her that she met you, alive and well. And if she does, that means will should expect to find help in the next few days. Oh Warren, this is a great thing that has happened.”
Warren was pleased that she found such hope in this. He imagined her smile. And that thought illuminated his mind more clearly than any bright summer sun could possibly hope.
“But,” Sofi whispered, seemingly collecting her thoughts, “if we’re in the Eastern Orchestrals…we have some distance to go to get back on course. But that should be relatively easy, since we know generally where we are now. As a matter of fact…” she paused again, searching for something.
“What?” Warren wondered, waiting in anticipation. Sofi shushed him. Warren’s eyebrows, if they could have been seen, raised a little in chagrin.
But then Sofi began to sing. Softly at first, and not in English. But Warren still claims that this was the most beautiful moment in his life, lying there, chained in the darkness, immersed in the sound of Sofi’s song—and did she sing! It was like the sweet melody of a songbird. It completely paralyzed Warren—he didn’t even want to breath for fear the sound of it cloud her song. He felt light, as if he were floating the music itself. And then his hands felt different—a freedom. He pulled one hand to his chest as the bindings fell loose. The other came undone just as easily. But he didn’t want to move—oh no. He wouldn’t be doing anything until she stopped singing.

Chapter 23

2009-06-11T16:50:00.000-07:00

Warren’s lack of musicality was not his own fault—he had tolerated piano lessons for two weeks straight in seventh grade! The math behind music intrigued him, and he was a scathing critic of it—if it were literature, his critical theory would certainly fall under the umbrella of reader-response. But he would never claim to be a musician. He knew music was beneficial, exciting, and necessary from experience, but what singing had to do with anything in a strange boat, in an unknown labyrinth, in a foreign history, Warren didn’t know. What he did know was that he would not be singing. He had told Ed so before and did so again.
“I don’t sing.” Ed pulled away quietly at the oars, his large eyes fixed on Warren.
“This may take a while then.”
“Why? What does singing have to do with anything?”
“We Tokleks were not gifted with song, as were the sons of Zoe. But there was mighty power in their voices, power to command the waves and tear through rock and stone.” Warren’s eyebrows raised in half-amusement, half-wonder.
“You see, the Reckoning wasn’t an apocalyptic judgment of Zoe, it was an anthem of praise from the sons—for themselves. They rose up against their great mother and sung themselves into oblivion, into the dark side of the world. The power of their song unchained them, and unsupported by the light by Zoe, they fell into ruin.”
“How did your kind fall with them then?”
“They listened to the song; they heard with wonder the claims of the sons against Zoe. And those who chose themselves over Zoe crossed into shadow. Alas, the great power of the Way Walkers was all they had seen, all the happiness they thought they had known came from them, and the lie of their song convinced them to follow in rebellion. There are few of us now left in the light—I credit the death of my father for preparing my heart for the Reckoning. When the song presented me with the choice for the sons of Zoe, or a great and mysterious mother I had never known, my choice was clear. I would have none of what the sons were, nor what they could do.
“So I ignored their song, and now row long weary days in the light—but I bear my lonely burden easily. I am content in rowing for Zoe—in fact, she sent me to fetch you, and she expects us. But if you could sing, we might make more haste—and perhaps bring a smile to her wondrous face as we arrive.”
This story intrigued Warren immensely. He wondered if Zoe were another demon, like Sylvara, exiled perhaps to an underground factory in a dusty corner of the garden. He was anxious to meet this being of “light” and so he fumbled through his memory searching for some simple song.
“What about a poem? Do you think that would work? I have a couple of those memorized…” he asked, but nothing registered in Ed’s eyes.
“What is a poem?” it asked.
This silenced Warren for a minute, trying best how to explain poetry to a creature who knew both song and story.
“It is rhythmic like a song, but more emphasis on the words, like a story.”
Ed snapped his beaklike mouth a couple times. “Well perhaps I will like this poem you speak of. Sing it to me?”
Warren collected his thoughts—with which would he begin? How about Shakespeare:

“When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.”

Warren glanced about. The concrete tunnels remained silent. The water slapped lazily at the side of the barge. Neither creature spoke for a moment. Then Ed shook his head, “I’m afraid there just isn’t enough song in this poem you spoke. It doesn’t have any power in it.”
Warren scratched his head. He remembered a friend’s poem he had memorized—the lyrics had been based off the rhythm of a song. The words were a long way off in his memory. He dove after them, closing his eyes, holding his breath. He found the first words—and after that they came back quickly. He started speaking:

“When will we
afford that it might seem
beneath fallen lightbeams
a statement of reverie…”

The water seemed to sway in response.

“…we stare as a star gleams
across moonlit paintings
of pale midnight meetings;
the water runs deepening.
we walk as if meaning
will find us retreating
from shadow’s brief gleaning
in bitter swamp sufferings…”

A groan erupted through the concrete above them.

“the dusk leaves us fleeting,
forever completing
this mystery of ceding

ourselves to our passions
declaring our actions
to fit preset fashions.
We walk nature’s mansion;
we break and we crash on
the simplest of bastions:”

Warren had closed his eyes and felt, rather than saw, a surge of water beneath the barge.

“our hearts beat between us
and lock to redeem us
from empty receivers
but wind has deceived us
with whispering breezes
and should fate retrieve us
to forge its own Jesus—
but who will believe us
when wolves finally seek us?
we waltz between seasons
abandon said reasons
to quit all our reaches.”

When a fresh breeze lit his face as poetry escaped his lips, and Warren opened his eyes. The tunnel glowed warmly, but passed by them quickly—they rode a wave of longing forward.

“We’ve lost our demeanor:
un-courtly procedure:
with what shall I please her?
a wink or a whisper?
the darkness which kissed her
has mirrored her grandeur;
my anxious behavior
requires a savior.

These raindrops are endless;
they add to an ageless
defeat of defenses—
her eyes are relentless
her beauty, her essence
lays siege to my senses.”

The tunnel suddenly vanished and the wave deposited them in a grand, circular chamber, where motes of light danced to the rhythm of his words. Warren dared not stop until he had finished the poem.

“a sodden reflection
of half-trodden sections
in marshy confections
completes our defection
to natural deception
our final election
of willful collections.”

Warren sat back, heart pounding from the effect of the words on the environment, on himself. He glimpsed his hands; they were aglow with a steady, warm light. He looked to Ed who seemed completely mesmerized by the occurrence.
“Are we here?” he whispered to Ed, who could only nod vaguely in response.
Then something across the calming waters caught his eye: a speck of dazzling light dancing on the surface. Warren squinted a little. The reflections of the water painted wondrous, flittering patterns on the seamless dome above them. Everything to him seemed golden—as if lit by something in the center, a light source not definitely above or below the waters.
“Row a bit more, Ed,” Warren instructed. The paddles dipped lightly and pulled them forward, generating small, glistening ripples which only slightly bent an otherwise glasslike surface. Warren clambered past Ed to the front of the boat, attempting to make out what approached them. He thought he heard a chime, or the ring of a bell, or the chirp of a bird—he couldn’t quite place it.
Then a clear, beautiful feminine voice filled the chamber, resonating into Warren’s very being. He sat back and listened, drinking it in like cool clear water. Every muscle within him relaxed in the reverberations. Then from the light before him appeared what he could only think was an angel. She hung in the air as a fish might in water—as if gravity hadn’t the slightest hold on her. Yet she possessed great white wings, outstretched but still, as if gliding on the light itself. A flowing, spotless silver dress clung to her figure perfectly, tapering to an end just above her toes, which were pointed down and just skimming the water’s surface as she walked forward.
Her voice quieted a bit, and she sang a sweet, simple melody. Warren felt her gaze on him alone, but it didn’t disturb him in the least. He watched affectionately her approach—found he looked into kind, caring eyes which returned his gaze steadily, without hint of anxiety, worry, or fear. He didn’t feel he should need to look anywhere but into those endlessly abundant eyes. Still her song wrapped itself around him, warmed him as if he had just come in from a winter storm and sat by a brightly glowing fireplace. She reached with firm fingers to his cheek and smiled. The song echoed into the waters and faded from his ears.
“You are the one called Warren?” she questioned him. She might as well have simply sung it, Warren was so delighted at the sound of her voice.
“Yes,” he answered and hated his own voice—so gruff, so brutal, so barbaric it sounded in this place of light and clarity and beauty.
“Welcome then, to the Fountain Cheriel; I am glad my servant brought you. We have much to discuss.” Then turning to Ed, she affectionately dismissed him. The creature bowed and began to row away.
But the lady of light took Warren’s hand, and he found himself rising with her from the deck of the barge. Yet he felt no profound tug on his arm; it was as gravity itself had given up on him. Near the center of the domed room, just below the ceiling, was a small circular patio, of what seemed pure carved crystal. They alighted, and she directed him to a small floating glass table next to gleaming silken sacks. Warren walked as lightly as he could, out of what he could only guess was courtesy, and relaxed into the chair—he had never felt so comfortable in his life. She came lightly stepping back to him, her wings now folded behind her. After placing two glasses on the table and taking one, she sat next to him.
“Your poetry was delightful,” she began, and then sipped from her glass. Warren smiled and bowed.
“Thank you; you do me great honor in saying so—your song, your self, everything about you is beautiful. You cannot be any other than Zoe.”
She smiled again with soft eyes. “You judge rightly, Warren Spicks. I am she.” Warren sipped at his glass. The liquid was cool and refreshing. He tried to say something about how he had come there, but found himself lost in her gaze. “Warren, I am glad to have found you,” she said at last. Warren’s eyebrows lifted.
“Oh?” was about all he could manage. A broad smile crossed Zoe’s lips.
“I am not as secluded here in the fountain as you might think; you have many hunters, though not all of them foes.”
“And which are you?”
“I am your friend and ally, Warren; I will help you on to your destination as much as I possibly can,” she soothed.
“I thank you, but I cannot go on without first going back for my friends,” Warren explained. Zoe’s eyes softened.
“I wouldn’t ask you to. The sweet, darling Sofi is a perfect match for you, dear Warren. And Oscar is a titan; no other bodyguard could keep you safer on your journey.”
“Wait, you know them?”
“I am kindred to those they serve; their goals are my goals, their losses my own. You must stick with Sofi and Oscar, as far as it concerns you from now until you arrive at your destination. As for the others, do not mourn their loss.”
“Does that mean you know what happened to Trent?” Warren asked.
“Such questions should not be bothered with at this time, Warren. For I will reveal only what benefits you. And that means you must finish your drink; for we must find Sofi and Oscar before they pass beyond my sight, before they drift too far into the shadow realm. But trust my song, Warren, and we will find them.”
Warren finished his drink as instructed and reached for Zoe’s hand.
“What will happen to Ed?” he asked.
“You mean my good and faithful servant? He will row proudly in the light of the fountain for ‘many tides’ in my service; I will cherish his presence until his death. Do not worry about him; he will be well taken care of, even after he departs my service.” She took his cup from his hand and set it on the table. “Shall we?”

Chapter 22

2009-06-10T18:10:00.001-07:00

Now when I tell you that Warren was far beyond frustrated with the past twenty-four hours of life, I do him far too little justice. You see when a man finally adapts his mind to a new mindset he expects consistency. It happens once every few years in what you might call a normal life. A child comes to love and cherish his home, her mother, his father, etc. Then comes school—and a change must be made. Once this is handled, very little changes for a great developmental period. Then the breaking from the family, the flying from the nest, per se, occurs and a mindset change is in order. Same with marriage. Same with having children of your own. Same with retirement. And maybe a final change to an old-folks home. But that’s only what, six changes? Maybe eight if there’s a move involved.
I ask you to consider Warren at this moment in time: right now his worldview has been so flipped, stretched, shattered, pasted back together, and dropped again outright. And somewhere in the back of this bruised and battered mind of his, Warren must have been thinking to himself that it was on purpose. He couldn’t shake the feeling that what seemed to be a string of extremely unlucky events could pin him on a rickety barge with a turtleseapigduckfrogthing whom he had decided to call Ed for short was actually a carefully calculated and arranged route. But his mind wouldn’t expand out big enough to comprehend what purpose might lie behind such a view.
So he discarded that thought every time it came up, counted himself among the unluckiest people in history (next to Adam, Brutus, JFK—or any of the Kennedy family tree, for that matter—and Han Solo). Then he remembered he had to qualify even that thought—on of the unluckiest people in his history. Which he really wasn’t sure was his anymore—or that he’d ever be able to return to it.
And now he had left the woman he’d never imagined would love him but did, the only man he could trust his life to in whatever universe he was in, and…whatever Old Fred had become to him. He really couldn’t place that one. But for the third time that day (if indeed days really mattered anymore) he was forced apart from his friends without an inkling of an idea of where he might be headed or what he’d have to accomplish to get back to them. How much more could he possibly do?
Of course, the moment he thought of that, he shuddered. There was no way he would have believed any of this possible but three days ago. When he really thought about it, he had no idea what was “possible”. That word and all of its connotations now meant absolutely nothing to Warren.
With this supreme frustration in mind, it comes as little to no surprise that when Ed asked Warren to “sing” nothing of the sort happened. It wasn’t that Warren didn’t like music. It wasn’t even that Warren was an incapable singer. As a matter of fact—as his shower at college might prove if it could talk—he sang often enough.
Instead Ed found Warren’s left eyebrow cocked high in disbelief. “You won’t? Why not?”
Warren resisted the urge to answer as Livingstone might and instead satisfied himself with a decisive, “No!” Ed slumped a little and toyed with the handle of an oar, as if wondering why such a simple request had received such a bitter rebuttal. The thought obviously occupied his mind for much longer than Warren seemed fit, so that Warren’s patience grew thin, and finally shattered. “Why would you want me to sing? That’s absurd!”
This awakened Ed a little. The large eyes rolled towards him. “Are you sure you’re a son of Zoe?”
“I don’t what you’re talking about; and that’s a good question for you. Why do you keep calling me that?”
“So you are not? Why did you not object earlier if I was wrong in my assumption?” Ed asked curiously.
Warren sighed. The brightness was giving him a headache—only closing his eyes brought any relief in darkness. “I don’t know. What is a son of Zoe anyway?”
A sort of epiphany lit Ed’s eyes and he turned away. “A Way Walker.”
Warren’s eyebrows narrowed in confusion. It was meaningless information to replace meaningless information. So he tried to clarify and asked, “What?”
“Come sit over here while I row, and I will tell you a tale.” Warren massaged his temples with tired fingers and inhaled deeply with intent to refuse, but obeyed. “When I was two tides a hatchling, my father, a bargemaster following ancient custom, took me for my first barge-drift. We had stacked supplies so high—enough for half a tide, it seemed—that I hardly found room to sit!
“I still remember the first feeling of floating so freshly. The bob and chop of the short stiff waves, the slap and push of the oars in the water, the smell of freedom itself clung to the channel. We left the nest behind—our destination was a delivery point three channels to the east, but very far down. I thought we might find the sea itself if we weren’t careful to spot our landing.
“My father assured me that nothing so tragic as that would happen; he would land us perfectly, I knew. But the thought of a sea! Of water without walls, legend told. Who could navigate such a thing? Nevertheless, I wanted to come to the last wall, grab ahold, and peer out at it.” Warren waited for Ed to continue, but found the creature lost in its own imagination, searching an infinite sea, a place without walls. He almost pitied it, something which had lived comfortably in what sounded to him like an underground labyrinth of water works—like a lab mouse, comfortable in searching the maze for cheese. At length, Ed perked up and continued.
“That never did happen. Though I did venture far past the last landing on a Major Fifth once, looking for the sea—at least until my supplies were short and my determination had failed. But that doesn’t matter. We were on a Minor Third when I saw my first Way Walker. He walked like we Tokleks did—but oh how straight, so smooth, so powerful a stride did he have. And bright! As you cannot imagine. He strode right toward us, above us, glided past my awestruck eyes. I remember his gaze, when his eyes found mine, he smiled. Such joy lit my heart. It was as if I had never lived before that moment. I asked father why they were so bright; he told me it was to keep everyone happy. But that was a half-truth, hidden wisely from my growing heart. It was under much different conditions that I learned their true commission as sons of Zoe.
“As my forty-second tide passed, my father gifted me with a barge of my own—that I should help speed his deliveries. I gratefully accepted the charge and began solidifying the process of memorizing the Ways I had started learning as a hatchling. At first, I actively searched the tunnels for any sign of a Walker, but as tides came and went, I found they were much rarer than I had hoped. Still, I managed to see them about twice as often as any of my friends. I always thought they liked to be wanted to be seen, and if they made everyone happier, why wouldn’t everyone want to see them, and thereby improve how often we saw them? It made perfect sense to me—but I found I was an idealist, a rare hatch if there ever was one among the Tokleks. For most find pleasure in fulfilling their purpose, grinding their noses day after day in the channels, never wondering about the sea.
“The trip on which I discovered the true purpose of the Walkers was a rather short one. It was but a half-step change from our Major Third with a single landing in-between. As I passed that landing, I heard some sort of commotion on the docks—it turned out one of the young bargemasters had absconded with his father’s boat, looking for adventure. The last thing I heard before I drifted out of earshot was his father praying a Walker wouldn’t find his son. That didn’t reconcile within me—but instead of chewing on it, I tossed that bit aside and settled into my seat to enjoy the last third of my journey.
“Shortly thereafter, that tell-tale glow on the water, which always made my insides quiver with anticipation, glistened past me. I turned and saw a Walker striding calmly above me. I caught his eye and he smiled at me. I shivered with delight and watched him recede into the distance before me. But before he disappeared, he stopped and turned. Something I had never before seen—and never have since that day. He had come down to water level! I grabbed my oars and rowed for all I was worth, hoping to catch him while he had stopped.
“As I came around the side of the barge, I saw the Walker standing on the deck of the boat, smiling at another young Toklek who sat enamored and unblinking in the rowing seat. Then the Walker turned his gaze to me. He mentioned my name and I trembled.
“He said, ‘Come here,” with such a sweet, rapturous voice that I immediately obeyed, tying my barge off on the other. He placed a hand on my shoulder—I was filled with such warmth! ‘I need your help,’ he told me. I nodded hastily. ‘Hold this tie; do not let this barge move.’ I gladly took the rope in hand, and he smiled and thanked me—then turned his attention to the other young Toklek. I felt a twinge of envy, that he held the Walker’s focus. Until he started speaking: ‘Is this boat your charge, young one?’ The little one didn’t know how to answer, so enthralled to be the center of a Walker’s attention. ‘Are you to deliver C4dL5 from Dt5s to Et4e?’ A slight shake of the head with wide-staring eyes. ‘No?’ The shake was somewhat more confident. ‘Then by the code of Zoe, I sentence you for pirateering, obstruction of good and orderly flow, and improper trade conduct.’ The Walker’s words, however, fell on deaf ears and the young Toklek only stared at the magnificent figure before him. ‘As you make no plea of innocence to said charges, I, a son of Zoe, will henceforth carry out your just punishment.’
“Then the Walker stretched out his hand and took the young one by the neck. He pulled a long, thin shining object with a pointed end from somewhere within his clothing and pointed it at the throat of the now-squirming Toklek. I was confused, but far too mesmerized to interrupted with a question. Then the Walker honored Zoe briefly and forced the object through the Toklek’s neck, just above the grip of his hand. I remember most distinctly the sound of liquid dripping into liquid and a faint gurgle from the young one. And then something happened which I had never before seen—the light faded from the young Toklek’s eyes and he stopped moving. The Walker then dropped him into the water—he fell straight to the bottom and passed beneath the barges, then was no more. I looked up anxiously at the Walker who smiled brightly at me. I’ll never know where I got the courage to speak, but I managed to ask him a single question: ‘Will he be back for the barge?’
“He laughed and patted my shoulder. ‘No. He will not. Now tell me, what is your charge?’ I pulled my orders from my pocket and handed them to him. ‘Very well. Can you tow this barge to the next landing as well? You will be rewarded for your trouble.’ I nodded happily. ‘Excellent. Take heart little one and forget this day,’ he told me and then ascended to the walkway.
“When he had vanished from my sight, I busily roped the barges together and made my way to the next landing. When I arrived, I found that the Walker had made good on his promise and I had a double portion of supplies loaded on my barge for the return trip.
“As far as the fate of that young Toklek, I never thought more, until the passing of my father many tides later. When he lay, wracked with the pains of old age, on his deathbed, he assured me that his death meant nothing as horrible a thing as it was. I still didn’t understand what was happening. He told me he would no longer be with me; I asked if he were leaving on a barge trip without a return. He answered that yes, in a way, that was the case. And then the light faded from his eyes and his breath stilled.
“In that instant, understanding poured into my soul like water into a broken barge. What had happened accidentally to my father, happened purposefully on that barge so many tides ago. I was at once filled with sorrow for the absence of my father, indignation at the Walker for taking that young one’s life so easily, so cheerfully, rage at myself for standing by, for watching the event like a channel-side juggling act.
“Fortunately, I never had another chance to see a Walker before the Reckoning. It’s been too many tides for me to remember the last time I even saw another Toklek after that, much less a son of Zoe.” Ed trailed off and silently kept rowing.
Warren didn’t figure he’d get any more of the story—but wasn’t sure he could attain any more information about these sons of Zoe, these enforcers of whatever system these Toklek’s were a part. But he still couldn’t figure why this Toklek hadn’t tried to murder him on sight—if indeed its story were true and if it thought he were a son of Zoe. So he decided he had to ask, and Ed’s response intrigued him.
“You weren’t bright enough to be one—but you looked like one.”
“So you thought I meant you no harm?”
“No, I knew of no other name for you. But it really was your companions that worried me.”
“You said yourself you couldn’t see them,” Warren pried.
“But never said they weren’t there.” This was true enough.
“Let me explain something to you; the Reckoning did more than simply isolate me from my fellow brothers.”
“What do you mean?” Warren interrupted, “What is this Reckoning?”
“Because of it, I am bound to row in channels of pure light; my brothers in channels of total darkness.”
“But you said you were alone!”
“I am alone.”
“But…what?”
“The Reckoning sundered our world: those true to Zoe remain in the light, those against her wither in shadow. I know not how you straddled both worlds, but because I could see you, I knew you were not with the usurpers of the other world—those fallen sons stalking the eternal night. But I cannot say as much for your companions. I fear them, but I also fear for them. If they could not see me…I don’t know what horrors might find them.”
Warren’s pulse had been rising. “Where are we going? I can’t just leave my friends back there to whatever nightmares this opposite world of yours might throw at them!”
“I told you.”
“Yeah. ‘Somewhere safe.’ What is there to be afraid of in your light?”
“I did say that to get you on the boat, but I also told you we needed help. Just because we live in separate phases doesn’t mean the boundaries are absolute.”
Warren’s eyebrows didn’t match his voice when he sighed and agreed. “So where are we going?”
“To visit Zoe.”
Warren wanted to thank him for a straight answer, but wound up asking him how long it would take. Ed’s answer did not please him.
“Depends. How well can you sing?”

Chapter 21

2009-06-09T19:57:00.000-07:00

Of course Sofi wasn’t the slightest bit intimidated by Old Fred’s suggestion, and so she curled the rope around her legs and slid down into the hole. They heard a soft, “Oh,” drift up through the hole, and they saw the rope relax.
“I know, right?” came Livingstone’s voice.
Old Fred shrugged at Warren and made a curious face at the opening. Just as Warren was going to ask who would go through next, Trent collapsed next to him without a sound of complaint.
“Huh,” was all he could manage at first. Fredric glanced over and added a profound, “um,” to the conversation. The two still standing possessed matching faces of bewilderment and couldn’t accomplish anything worthwhile as they stared at their fallen comrade.
When Livingstone queried their status with an echoing shout, Warren and Old Fred followed the voice back to conscious thought and both stooped to check Trent more closely. He lay rigidly, arms flattened to his side, legs pressed together, toes pointed straight up. Old Fred found his pulse and sighed; Warren peered into the far-gazing eyes searching for a response. Fredric cupped his right hand and lightly tapped Trent’s left cheek.
“Hrmm,” Warren hummed.
“Ehhh,” Old Fred added, pausing for thought.
Warren sighed.
Fredric took a breath and opened his mouth—but not a word ventured forth. Warren raised his eyebrows in positive bafflement.
“You know, my motto used to be ‘procrastination pays’ but I changed that years before I met you guys,” Livingstone yelled through the opening.
Fred screwed his eyes on the hole; “Seems we had a little…hiccup in our plans,” he shouted back. “Trent’s practicing to be a mummy.”
The pause from the hole told Warren that Livingstone was actually considering this a possible explanation. Old Fred fidgeted and must have decided to elaborate so Livingstone wouldn’t ask, for he walked over to the opening and stuck his head through.
“Non-responsive, unconscious, but alive,” he shouted through the hole. Warren decided to join him at the edge of the hole, but Livingstone’s dreads emerged from the blackness. He pulled himself through the opening, propped himself on his elbows, and glanced around the two. When his eyes narrowed and focused back on Fredric, Warren felt an electricity of sorts tingling the atmosphere.
“I hate to ask the obvious,” Livngstone began, “but where exactly is this ‘non-responsive, unconscious, but alive’ Trent?”
Old Fred spun, gestured towards the floor, and then actually looked where he was pointing. His mouth closed and Warren couldn’t help but glance back to Trent. Or where Trent had been. Only a few random butterflies occupied the space where Trent had been lying. “He was just there!” Warren spurted and began searching the room with his eyes, though his legs were rooted to the spot.
“Indeed,” Livingstone mused sarcastically. “Well if people are disappearing, we’d better not stick around until it happens again.”
“If Trent’s gone, so is our hope for finding the next waypoint,” Sofi’s voice echoed from below. This statement seemed to affect Old Fred particularly, though he attempted to disguise his frustration with humor: “You mean we have to choose between butterflies and a sewer system for living out the rest of our lives?”
But Warren noticed Livingstone’s mind churning; he could practically hear the gears grinding in there. “No,” Livingstone said, “Not at all; there seems to be a certain demon interested in our success. Perhaps it will keep intervening; now let’s go before the Mar find us…or Trent,” and slipped down the rope. Warren followed him down, and Old Fred after him.
What surprised Warren was that his feet hit a glass walkway before he was even halfway to the water beneath him. He almost asked a question of such absurdity that Livingstone would have murdered him for it, but he reigned it in before it escaped his tongue. Instead he let his eyes adjust a little more to the darkness of the tunnel. A set of dim florescent lights on each side of the tunnel, about where the glass floor met the concrete walls, blinked away into the darkness on each side.
Sofi grabbed his hand and pulled him to his left, leading him towards what seemed a cavity, or recession, in the wall of the tunnel. Strange, geometrical shadows greeted his adjusting eyes. “What is it?” he whispered to her. Sofi sighed, chuckling, and didn’t answer him. Rather they took a rusted metallic staircase down around several giant cylinders and some scaffolding which seemed to be just barely holding everything in place—and everything groaned with each step they took.
Warren looked back to Old Fred and Livingstone, their silhouettes were unmistakably different as they crossed over to the staircase: Livingstone’s solid, set, and smooth, Fredric’s like he were tip-toeing on thin ice.
“So,” Warren whispered to Sofi again, “why aren’t we staying on the easy glass walk above?” after nearly tripping over a broken-loose pipe. Sofi kindly returned an answer.
“We think it’s a dual-layered sewer system: the lower half for solid and liquid waste, the upper for gaseous waste. As far as that concerns us, it’s far easier to avoid contact with solids and liquids than gasses.”
Warren nodded.
“That and they might use flame jets to clean out the upper layer, while simply flushing out the lower with a burst of water. And while Old Fred might prefer fire to water, I don’t.”
“What’s that?” Old Fred shouted, and clicked the safety off his handgun. “Prepare fire on what?” Livingstone shook his head and lowered Fredric’s gun with the palm of his hand.
“I’m getting you hearing aids, next pharmacy we find.”
“What?” Old Fred complained.
“Exactly.”

*

The trio of soldiers, made quartet with Warren, walked up-“stream” in the relative darkness for hours. I’ll have you know that nothing very exciting happened, other than the occasional badly framed question by Warren which was badly answered by Old Fred, while Livingstone trudged on silently in the back and Sofi strained her eyes in the dark before her. She still grasped Warren’s hand in her own, but Warren felt changes in her grip as they plodded forward. Perhaps she wasn’t only struggling to find direction physically.
Warren wanted more than anything a few hours to be alone with her. Whatever excuse he could find would work, but he knew that Livingstone would see his intention clearly, no matter how he disguised it. So he trusted fate, hoping it might throw them another curve ball, distancing him and her from the other guys, if only for a bit. Of course, that only led him to consider that the opposite effect might happen, that he might find himself isolated from Sofi just as easily. So he clung to her grasp and counted his luck for the day.
Ali seemed to sense his longing and squeaked in his ear to remind him that she to wanted his love. Warren stuck a finger of his free hand to his shoulder and she nibbled on it contentedly.
"Does she ever get tired of your shoulder?" Sofi asked.
Warren chuckled. "No, it doesn't seem so."
"Do you mind if I hold her for a bit?"
He was surprised--this was a first for Sofi. Excepting the night Ali talked, Sofi had hardly recognized Ali's existence. "Not at all," he answered, squeezing her hand ever so slightly. "Here," he said as he picked Ali from her perch. "She'll probably go for the side without your hair."
Sofi's shoulders seemed to tense when he set the rat on her, but she relaxed soon enough and Ali found a comfortable spot. "Hi," Sofi whispered softly to her and smiled. "She really is a cute one."
"I'm glad you gave her to me...even if technically you didn't," Warren laughed. She just squeezed his hand and they walked on in the darkness.
The first sign of change they found was slight and completely imperceptible to Warren at first. But the more Sofi pointed and explained, the more he thought he saw what she was talking about: a slightly iridescent moss growing in the corner of the walkway through the tunnel. Apparently this meant profoundly to Livingstone and Sofi—and I think Old Fred pretended it mattered as well. But Warren couldn’t see what was so special about a patch of moss, and decided that asking about it wasn’t going to get him an answer. So he let them to their thoughts and kept walking next to Sofi.
The second sign of change they found was clearly audible to Warren. But when he mentioned this sound he heard, no one else, as much as they strained, couldn’t hear it. But Warren was listening to the distinct sound of oars slapping the water.
Old Fred said something about buying everyone hearing aids at the next pharmacy, but Warren quieted him as the sound seemed to be approaching them, traveling upstream, as they had been. When Warren thought he could distinguish a figure on the water, he called out.
“Hey there!” After a moment’s pause in what had been a consistent rhythm of paddling, Warren thought he saw the figure move. Then the slap of the water continued.
“I hope you’re still hearing things, because it looks like you’re seeing things now, too,” Old Fred quipped. Livingstone silenced him with a motion of his hand.
Warren stepped as close as he could to the edge, peering through the shroud of darkness in the tunnel. When what appeared to be a small barge clanked up against the concrete, Warren stepped back. Two large glowing eyes turned his way and blinked. They bounced from the barge, landing on the walkway with a wet slap. Warren turned to his companions to point out that he wasn’t going crazy, but they had quit moving. In fact, they weren’t breathing, blinking, or even thinking, apparently. Sofi’s hand in his own was limp and non-responsive when he squeezed it.
Warren turned back to the eyes which sidled up to him with what sounded like a man in sopping flippers walking around a swimming pool.
“It’s been such an eternity since I’ve seen a son of Zoe or heard the language of the ancients,” it said, stopping just a few feet from Warren.
“What did you do to my friends?” Warren asked with a hint of caution tingeing his voice.
“You are not alone, you say. Are you sure? I see what I deem to be a single son of Zoe walking the Sepial Way, and no others.”
Warren clutched Sofi’s hand to be sure he wasn’t dreaming.
“Perhaps it’s too dark in here for you to see them,” Warren suggested. The eyes beamed back at him.
“You do seem to be struggling with your perceptions in here. But I assure you there is no shred of darkness here to trained eyes. Not like some of the other Ways.”
Warren thought the creature had laughed as it turned and leapt onto its boat. “Where are you going?” he called after it. He received no response, but a muddled cacophony of scrapings, rustlings, and clangings. Then he heard the sound of those flippers landing on the concrete and saw those luminous eyes fixed on him again.
“It has been far too long since I aided a son of Zoe; in fact, I’m not quite sure I’ve forgiven the last one I helped.”
“Why do you call me that? A ‘son of Zoe’?” Warren asked him.
“Because, that’s what you are. Are you not?” it replied as it approached him. “Close your eyes.”
“What? Why?”
“This will help you see,” it stated simply. Warren took a heavy breath, clutched Sofi’s hand for strength, and closed his eyes.
What he felt was something akin to an aloe gel one might apply to a burn. Except that it was warm and applied by snakeskin. But then the heat increased, and began to burn. He reached to wipe it off with a hand, but the creature quickly restrained him. “Let it work its course. It’s not going to kill you, but keep your eyes closed for a bit.”
Warren used every bit of his willpower to trust the creature and tolerate the burn. It felt as if Tabasco sauce had been squirted up his sinuses and he started snorting in an effort to relieve it. But the words of the reflective eyes had been true, and once it began abating, total relief came quickly.
“Now what do you see?” it asked him. Warren opened his eyes and was stunned. The tunnel sparkled exquisitely, the lights lit everything radiantly—shadows were even difficult to find. The water glistened like the finest Carribean lagoon under a brilliant summer sun. The moss Sofi had been pointing out glowed with the purest, easiest light to look at he had ever seen. Livingstone stood stock still, squinting at the barge. Old Fred was crouched inspecting the moss closely—so close Warren almost cringed at the brightness he would have endured at such a distance. But Sofi took his breath away. She positively glowed under the light—every part of her beauty enhanced as she bathed in the light. “Better?” the voice wondered.
Warren turned to his helper and had to stifle a gasp. He turned what he saw over in his mind several times—trying to figure if it was more duck, or turtle, or walrus, or frog. It sat, hunched somewhat, like a frog perched on a log. It wore a heavy pack (or shell…he couldn’t decide which) with all sorts of flashing trinkets attached to it. But its eyes were still its most distinctive feature, though no longer glowing as they had been. Rather, they shone with interest, reflected intelligence as well as the light. The rest of its head reminded Warren of a sea-turtle, with a fairly beaklike mouth, but a thick leathery skin under its eyes and on its cheeks. Its hands and feet were more flipper than anything; but it didn’t seem to lack any grasping power from a human hand. It had a stout, stocky build to it and wore what seemed to be a ragged leather outfit.
When Warren remembered he had been asked a question, he cleared his throat and tried to answer. “Ye..yeah. Uh. Thanks.”
“Well let’s go then,” it stated and began to climb back into its barge. Warren’s eyebrows scrunched together.
“Go? Where?”
“Somewhere safe,” it replied without turning.
“But what about my friends?” Warren asked.
“What friends?” it asked, looking back at Warren.
Warren demonstratively pointed out Livingstone, Old Fred, and Sofi…squeezing her hand once for good measure. The creature laughed. Or at least, Warren figured that was what it did. “These. Don’t you see them?”
The creature hopped back off the barge, shuffled over to Warren and stuck his flipper right through Sofi—waved it around a bit and stepped back with what Warren took to be an indolent smile. “If you think that everything exists in the same place for everyone in that place at the same time, my good son of Zoe, you have much to learn.” It sighed, walked back to the edge of the crystal water, and hopped on the barge. “Are you coming or not?”
“But,” Warren protested.
“They won’t budge, I promise you.”
“So you know they’re there!”
“So surely as you believe they exist, I believe they won’t move until you can help them make the transition. Now are will you come with me to help them or not?”
Warren sighed and looked in Sofi’s vacant eyes. “I’ll be back for you; I promise,” he whispered and kissed her on the cheek. Then an idea lit his mind. He grabbed a pen from Sophi’s pack and wrote a note on the hand he had been holding. “Will be right back.”
“Okay, I’m ready. Let’s go,” he called to the bargeman and jumped on board.

Chapter 20

2008-12-11T08:06:00.000-08:00

No one remembered how much time had passed when they woke—but Warren was the first to emerge back into consciousness. Stunned like a sleepwalker waking mid step, Warren found himself in the middle of an action of which he had no recollection: scrubbing. Memory came to life and he glanced at the sliding glass door beneath him. Everything within his reach nearly sparkled with clarity. He gazed below; a river raged with foaming white crescents beneath the glass—a new revelation to him. When he looked at his friends, still mechanistically scrubbing away at the writing and still tinted a disconcerting purple hue, the words on the door came back to him.
But the last few words were missing, having been blotted out by his sponge, which he subsequently inspected. It still dripped when he lifted it. He also noted that his hands were the right color. He held his sponge and stood, stretching his arms and twisting his back—as if warding off the kinks and pains he knew were coming. Then with a moment of decision, he stepped to Sofi’s side, knelt beside her, and started scrubbing where she wasn’t.
His sweeps had an immediate and remarkable effect on the glass—and within seconds, it shone with a fantastic gleam, even for the low-light of the cavernous room. After he had cleared as much as he could reach in front of Sofi, she paused in her motions. Warren sighed and waited, searching her face for signs of consciousness. Her eyes seemed fixed on a distant point, far beyond the giant lamps or the room walls.
Then she blinked, and Warren dared to speak. “Sofi? Can you hear me?” he probed. She dropped an eyebrow and blinked again—but slowly. Her lips parted briefly, then came back together. “I know you’re in there, my love,” Warren prodded. This time, he noticed a flush of color rush to her cheeks—then her hands. She closed her eyes, shook her hair, and ran her hand through it. When she inhaled deeply, Warren knew she was back, and asked her, “Are you alright?”
Sofi nodded. “I think so.” Then she noticed the others, compelled to finish their impossible task. “Are they?”
“I think I have to clean it for them. They’re trying, just like the prisoners before them, but are incapable of doing any good.”
“How was it that your sponge worked?”
“I understood the mystery.”
“The mystery of what?”
“The mystery of the door; how to get in. You remember reading what had been written?”
“Yeah, it didn’t make any sense at all.”
“And then you were powerless to understand…you just did things, trying to scrub it clean. But now.”
“I still don’t understand,” she clarified.
“It said, ‘only one who knows language backwards and forwards will be able to clean this door.’ Except parts of the sentence itself were backwards.”
“How did you figure that out? All I remember is collapsing and falling asleep.”
“It was the power I received. Without it, I would have been done for,” Warren noted.
“And with that power’s aid, you figured it out and…”
“And I got this sponge. That’s all I remember before I drifted off.”
“Hmmm.”
“So then I cleaned your portion for you, and you came back to life…ish when you realized it had been cleaned.”
Sofi nodded and raised her eyebrows. I see. “And is that a river I see down there?”
“Yeah, I think so. Let me wake up the others,” Warren said and scurried to Old Fred’s side. Within a minute, Warren had the whole of the door cleaned and the others, in their own turn, began to stir and lose their shadowed skin color.
And just as quickly, Warren was explaining how their freedom had come about. Livingstone seemed the most curious. “I wonder,” he said when Warren had come to a conclusion, “what happened to those whose places we took.” Warren and Old Fred raised an eyebrow at each other and shrugged simultaneously. Sofi paced around the door, as if she wanted to say something, but didn’t quite have it all worked out yet. Livingstone waited, watching her movements like a cat, with hands folded across his chest.
“What if…” Sofi began, hesitating for a moment. “What if we opened it?”
“You don’t mean going down there, do you?” Old Fred inquired.
“What if this were a one-way door, locked from this side by the writing?”
“What are you saying, Sofi?”
“I’m saying that this may be a waypoint—but a sealed waypoint. Imagine it like an iron fence between paths, and we just made a gate in what was supposed to be fixed. What was it that the demon told you, Warren?”
Warren’s mind put the pieces together. “That Sylvara had been exiled here.”
“Right. And that this pathway was largely devoid of intellect,” Sofi continued. Warren nodded and furrowed his eyebrows.
“And in that case, it would only make sense for a riddle to bar the way out, but guarded on the pretense of an ancient trap—of physical detriment” she concluded—Livingstone was smiling already.
“Exactly. Also, we know from the demon’s statements through Ali that the Mar know our past location, too,” he added. “They will likely be waiting for us back there, if not actively pursuing us, already. If we can change pathways again without their knowledge, we should give ourselves a decent advantage.”
“Well,” Old Fred declared, “I love rivers. Let’s get wet!” He bent over and slid the glass door open a bit.
“But let’s not be too hasty,” Livingstone cautioned, with a hand on Old Fred’s shoulder. “We have little idea of what lies beyond that door. We may find ourselves on a pathway without many exits—and there’s no telling what sort of dangers we might face.”
Sofi fidgeted with her hair. “I think the Mar poses the greatest threat to us at the moment, and if this will lend us any sort of benefit against them, I say we take it,” she said in a simple risk evaluation.
Warren felt like his opinion would mean little to these two—and yet he also felt he was somewhat entitled to enter the discussion which Sofi and Livingstone dominated. Trent was strangely silent as well, Warren noticed, and wondered why he hadn’t voiced his thoughts. The man stood curiously still, hardly the confident, enthusiastic type he had seemed to Warren a day earlier. His eyes seemed to stare past them, concentrating on the ceiling, or some other far-off space.
“Trent, what do you think?” Warren ventured, but received no immediate answer. Trent raised his cheeks a bit and squinted, cocked his head to one side. Livingstone interpreted his body language and drew his weapon, spinning to find a golden-winged harpy swooping down to them.
Warren could plainly see it was Sylvara—Sofi and Old Fred mimicked Livingstone in firing at the wind-witch as she landed. But the creature hid behind the shield of her ironfeathers and shrieked, “Peace! Peace! Strangers, listen to me!”
The red room fell silent as the last echoes of the gunshots faded to nothing. Sylvara peeked from the refuge of her wings. “Warren, I congratulate you,” she said, morphing again into his poorly-clothed mother. She feigned applause. “You passed my last test without my introduction to it! You are something else, my wonderful Warren.”
Sofi frowned at that final statement. “Leave us, witch, we have no more quarrel with you. Let us be on our way, and we’ll let you keep your breath,” Sofi threatened.
“Oh, so fiery! Listen young ones, I have no desire to injure you anymore…no, I had but a wisp of hope that you might be my liberators. Which is why I had to take you in, before your pursuers fell upon you and carried you away from me. And this special one, oh Warren! Aha! You delight me, truly you do. For look, you have mastered the door. How many years have I glared at that writing, how many nights have I been haunted by its message; incapable of doing or thinking what was required?”
Sylvara’s wings burst forth and she took a flapping lunge towards Warren. Guns bristled from his companions, but she ignored them and stroked Warren’s hair. “You have given me a great gift, Warren Spicks,” she said, producing a vial from her rags. “And now I shall give you a gift.” With that, she popped open the small glass container and dripped a drop of shimmering liquid on the glass door. At the touch of the drop, the glass slid back immediately, and the square door folded back and rotated mechanically into a circular opening.
“How is this a gift? We already had it opened,” Warren asked.
The harpy grinned. “Oh no, this is your gift to me…my gift—well—she waits for you in that small box over there,” she said, pointing back across the room. “I hope it’s the last time you lose one you love, Warren.”
The realization sickened him; he had forgotten about Ali. When and where he had lost her, he wasn’t sure. He scrambled for the box and Sylvara hopped up to the rim of the opening. “I hope you won’t forget me, Warren, for I will certainly remember you. Goodbye, dear one,” she concluded and disappeared through the opening.
Warren, however, wasn’t listening. Instead he was sprinting across the pillows at top speed, with an arm in front of his face to ward off the returning butterflies. When he arrived at the box, an old cardboard thing which Ali could probably chew through in but a few chomps, he tore it open and found himself gazing into those glittering black eyes he had so shamefully forgotten. Ali squeaked and stood on her rear legs, scratching at the edge of the box.
She hopped onto Warren’s hands and scrambled up his right arm to his shoulder. “Attagirl,” he soothed and turned back to Sofi and the others. “I guess we’re all present and accounted for…” he started. Sofi nodded lightly and with a long blink.
“Shall we get out of this blasted butterfly storm?” Old Fred suggested after a moment’s silence.
“Then, I suppose we are all in agreement that our best option is to follow the harpy into the next pathway,” Sofi asked. Warren and Old Fred nodded. Trent stared without anything that seemed like a spark of life, but mouthed the word, yes. Livingstone stood, arms crossed and facing away from the others. He gazed down through the glass door transformed hatch at the waters below.
“I don’t think…” he began, but lowered himself to the ground, gripped the side, and swung his head through. Warren wandered closer in curiosity. “Nevermind,” he heard Livingstone echo from the hole. “Let’s go,” he said and let his body swing over and through the opening. Then his hands, all that Warren could see of him, released and disappeared through the hatch. He looked to Sofi who just bit her lip and shook her head.
Old Fred laughed. “That’s the impossibility you come to love with Oscar.” He winked at Warren. “Let’s get wet!” The old man searched down the hole, then yelled down to Livingstone. “Hey Oscar, how deep is it?”
“No, don’t…jump…” came Livingstone’s muffled reply, tinged with irritation, as if Fredric’s question was wholly absurd. Sofi grabbed Old Fred’s shoulder to keep him from doing anything rash, as she sensed Livingstone had a plan of sorts. “Catch!” Livingstone’s voice echoed up to them, followed by a rope tied to an old piece of pipe. Old Fred trapped it against the edge of the hatch and pulled it up through.
“What do you want me to do with this?” he yelled back down, and tugging on the rope.
“Tie it…” Livingstone began, but faded into concentration. Sofi raised her eyebrows expectantly. “To this,” he grunted, and a bigger metal pipe came at the opening from an angle. Old Fred handed Warren the rope and bent over to grab the pipe. Warren at first couldn’t figure out what Livingstone was up to, until the pipe came through the opening and Old Fred clanged it across the hatch. He secured the rope around the middle of the pipe and tossed the rope through the hole.
“Will it hold us?” Warren asked.
“I bet so,” Old Fred affirmed. Then he glanced to Sofi with a sly grin. “Ladies first!”

Chapter 19

2008-12-05T20:31:00.001-08:00

Well, I see haven’t achieved my goal. If you look quickly, you might catch her exiting through the doors just up the street. Yes, there. Ah, there goes our sweet Sofi in a rush. But her poker face, the very one Livingstone taught her, masks her expression. Could you tell if that phone conversation delivered good news or ill? She has become such an enigma to me; I doubt I should ever unravel all of her secrets. Oh, and now she’s in a cab. Look away; don’t stare as she goes past. Let her go. She has endured far too much to stay.
I, however…I have no pressing duty, so I shall continue the tale, if you wish. Order another drink, perhaps? Shall I call the waiter? But what am I saying? You’re a competent customer—oh, I’ll cover the bill, don’t you worry—order whatever you’d like. Now. Where was I?
Oh yes. Well, the first thing I said to Sofi when Old Fred and Trent had split off to secure the far end of the cavern was to question the condition of Livingstone. Sofi answered in a positive, hopeful tone, “That man can sense trouble better than any alive. I’d be honored to meet the death that finds him. And I can guarantee you that it won’t be by the talons and beaks of the harpies. They have no idea what kind of force they’re dealing with by pursuing Oscar. It will take much more than an exiled demon to bring him down. He’ll be perfectly fine.”
“How did they capture him in the first place?” Warren asked, “Or any of you, for that matter?”
“Surprise. They found us without our most important weapon,” Sofi stated.
“What’s that?”
“Knowledge. And still without it Oscar alone killed more than twenty of the ambushers before they overwhelmed us with the tranquilizers. He was still fighting when I went under. God knows how many he destroyed…”
Warren stared off into space, trying to visualize this hobo as an elite soldier. He had glimpsed it in the past few days of travel, here and there. But to find Livingstone backed into a corner, giving his enemies absolute hell before the end—that he would like to see. Maybe not witness firsthand. But see.
A butterfly landed on his cheek and Warren brushed it away, peering at the giant ovular containers that glowed like the lava lamp his brother had received one Christmas several years ago. It didn’t have the same globular inner motion as that little lamp did, but rather a bubbling or fizzy quality to it. It was almost as if the contents were under high pressure—like a Henry Weinhart’s root beer that you accidentally drop before opening.
Sofi inspected the glass more closely while Warren found a comfortable seat, stretching out a bit on the plush pillows and keeping the butterflies from landing on his face. “This doesn’t seem like demon architecture,” she mused. Warren’s eyebrows shot up.
“That’s good news…right?” he ventured. Sofi nodded. “Does that mean we’re beyond the harpies’ domain?”
“No, not necessarily. They’re cannibals, really, they only…” Sofi began to explain, but a crash above them stole their attention. Warren watched in awe as a figure, shrouded with an aura of broken glass shards, fell backwards from the curved ceiling—bright gunshots flashed from his hand, punctuating a screeching roar which issued from the hole behind him. Feathery forms flapped and fell from the opening, as the figure crashed to the ground, rolled to a stop, and rose to a one-knee stance, still firing at the broken window from whence he had fallen. Warren had covered his head to protect himself from the falling glass, and when the splinters stopped tinkling on the floor, he looked first to Sofi, who now had her weapon drawn and was firing at the ceiling, then to the figure with a glinting sword in one hand and a blazing gun in the other now striding back towards the opening. It could be none other than Livingstone.
In the soft light, he saw a multitude of feathery shadows, but he heard a whole chorus of crazed, dying shrieks. Then he remembered his own powers, though dwindled by the effects of time, but nonetheless there—he felt it coursing through his blood. He touched a writhing harpy and it smoldered into ashes. And so the trio worked, Livingstone and Sofi firing at the stream of feathers pouring from the hole, and Warren sending each struggling, downed bird from her loosening grip on life.
Other voices joined the circle; bigger blasts echoed through the cavernous room. Warren glanced and there stood Old Fred, sending bursts of feathers to mix with the butterflies in what seemed a blizzard of dim color. And after what only seemed a few seconds, the room fell quiet.
Livingstone rubbed his neck, grimacing at the harpies as Warren cleared the last of them. “Don’t,” Livingstone began, as if futilely addressing a disobedient child, “Don’t use…ahh forget it.” He sighed when Warren looked up at him. “We’re already screwed as it is,” he lamented with his other hand massaging his forehead.
“How do you mean that, Oscar?” Old Fred questioned, brushing a butterfly from his eyes.
“Well the only stairway out of here was back up there,” Livingstone said, glancing to the place from which he had fallen.
“How do you know that?” Trent questioned him sharply.
Livingstone scratched at his head idly. “Demons squeal, too, you know, when you apply the right pressure. What’s with the butterflies down here? It’s like you shot at a hornet’s nest…except with bubble guns or something and got butterflies instead of angry wasps.”
“This is a strange place—strange forces at work here,” Sofi answered.
“Like?” Livingstone inquired. Sofi nodded towards the wilting and blooming figures in the center. He squinted and started walking.
“They’re chained,” Warren volunteered, stepping alongside Livingstone “and imprisoned until they finish a task, I would guess.”
“Hmm,” was all Livingstone said while he inspected the figures. He began walking around them clockwise while the others filled in around the scrubbing prisoners.
“Five of them here,” Warren stated, “all mesmerized in trying to clean this door.” He looked back to Livingstone in the dim light. “Can you read it?” he asked the hobo.
“I’m not sure I…” Livingstone began, but then epiphany lit his eyes. “Get away!” he shouted and tried to step backwards. His exclamation made Warren jump, but his feet felt sluggish. Then a chilling numbness crept up from his toes. He glanced to his friends. Old Fred was and to stand as erect as she possibly could. But Warren felt his leg muscles weakening. Then a couple shots rang out—Livingstone fired indiscriminately at the five washerwomen. But his bullets had no effect, seemingly being absorbed by the figures. Sofi quivered momentarily, then collapsed entirely. Warren tried to lift his feet—it was like they were glued to the floor. When the numbness reached his knees, he fell. Livingstone had fallen forwards, into a push-up position and Warren could see the muscles quivering in his arms as he resisted the strange, sticky gravitation.
“Whash gungon?” Old Fred slurred. He kneeled, sitting back on his feet, head lolling to his right side. Warren heard Livingstone finally collapse in a heap, then get to his knees, like the others, including himself, already had. They seemed to be moving inward, slowly, each heading towards one of the five imprisoned women.
A purple gas began to issue from around the door, circling outwards. Old Fred blew at it, but to no effect. When it touched his knee, the mist seemed to seep into him. Suddenly Old Fred turned the same, off-dark color as the washerwomen. Warren gasped and looked around him. Trent and Livingstone had been simultaneously affected. He looked at Sofi who tiredly tried to stretch away from the swirling gas—Warren watched in horror as she was consumed, unable to do a thing. All his muscles were relaxed and he had no command over them.
When the mist touched his own leg, a gasp of wind rushed through the room from the center, blowing back the butterflies and dispelling the dark mist—and the previous prisoners. It was only the five of them, huddled around the glass door. Warren’s four companions all imitated the motions of their predecessors, the lax stretching, then slapping at the glass with dry sponges. He felt paralyzed, but noticed he wasn’t in the same motion as the others. He tried speech.
“Sofi, can you hear me?” he said, and surprisingly well. She didn’t answer him, however. He glanced down at his hands—they were still the pinkish yellow of the Caucasian skin. Immediately he wondered if his sight was deceiving him and he were just as futilely trapped as the others. He grabbed lazily at a pillow and found he could still feel it. He brushed it closer to his side. Perhaps it was the demon’s power. Perhaps he had been spared—had it taken the brunt of the attack? But he was still fairly paralyzed and definitely rooted to the spot.
The good part, he reasoned somewhere in the recesses of his mind, was that he could now take a good look at the writing once every ten seconds or so, since he himself wasn’t part of the obscuring rhythm. So he focused himself entirely on this task—if he could understand what it said, perhaps he could figure out how to break its binding spell, or whatever it was, and get out of this place.
So he focused on the far side of the glass from him, after Old Fred had raised himself back up. Sofi plummeted to the surface, but didn’t cover what he was looking at. Warren squinted. “roodsih” seemed to be the first word scrawled. Whoever wrote this didn’t seem to know how to use spaces, Warren thought. All the lines just looped together. Perhaps it was just rood. He remembered one of his English professers talking about rood. It was an old word for a cross. Perhaps that was it. But what about a cross? Or crosses, plural? Roods?
Warren tried to move on, after Old Fred had tried to scrub roods from the door, and failing, stretched again weepingly. “ihtnealce?” He knew a Neal from high school. Was this a proper name? Maybe it was supposed to read, “Iht Neal” Crosses it Neal? Warren lamented his situation. This was going to be impossible. But he kept reading. “Cotel baeb.” Maybe this meant a Babylonian prison? Or a hotel with cots for infants? Warren felt this was getting a little too strange. So he read on to the only part that made sense to him: “will forwards and backwards.”
His friends were swaying forwards and backwards. Did their movement have something to do with solving this riddle? Warren tried to blink the heaviness from his eyelids. “Will forwards and backwards.” Maybe that was just part of the curse placed on them. He read on.
“egaug nal” he figured before Livingstone had fallen face first on the line. “Gauge,” maybe? That was almost spelled correctly, it only had a letter forwards. And “lan” might have been spelled backwards. Then epiphany sent a shiver down his spine. “lan-gauge…language.” Perhaps all the words he couldn’t understand were backwards, while the ones he could understand were forwards. He looked at the final words, written in front of him. “swon kohwen oylno.”
He tilted his head, trying to place the letters in reverse order in his mind without mental spaces. “Onlyonewhoknows” Yes, that was it. It said, “Only one who knows language will forwards and backwards…” he stopped. It had made sense until he had joined the two phrases. Perhaps he had to reverse it. “Only one who knows language backwards and forwards will…” Perfect, he thought and squinted to see the first part again. “Roodsihtnealcotelbaeb,” he determined after several tries. He closed his eyes, trying to see it backwards. “Beableto,” was all he could pry out without looking. At least it made some sense. He sighed and took a deep breath afterward and held it, willing himself to think. The numbness held his head in a fog. He shook it lightly and looked back to the sliding glass door that wouldn’t slide, but was giving up its mystery bit by bit.
“Cleanthis,” he finally determined. Clean. That was a good word. Then rood. Cross. What did a cross have to do with cleaning a door? He couldn’t figure it out, his eyelids were so heavy.
Did he have to cross himself to break this spell? He tried it the catholic way, right then left, and waited. The numbness throbbed in his head. Then he crossed himself like the greeks, left, then right. Again nothing happened. He blinked for an extended second, head lilting to the right. Back to the beginning. What was it? he asked himself. “Only one who knows language backwards and forwards will be able to clean crosses.” That didn’t make any sense with the writing being on a sliding glass door and not a cross. Wasn’t that what Sofi and Livingstone and whoever else was close by were trying to do? Wash a cross? Or a door? Yeah, a door, he told himself. He looked back to the far end.
The letters down there didn’t spell cross. Backwards or forwards. Why had he been thinking about crosses. Oh yes, he remembered, it was the rood. That old English poem. Or middle English. Something. Rood. But that didn’t. That wasn’t. Warren narrowed his eyebrows, toying on the edge of epiphany. Rood. Rood. Backwards and forwards. Rood forwards was rood. Rood backwards was…was…what was it? he asked himself. He shook his head again. The strain of thinking was so much. He looked to his right. Rood. Backwards.
Sofi stretched backwards, mourning her dry sponge. What would she say rood backwards was? Would he care? She was beautiful, and caring. He couldn’t care about anything less than that. He looked back to the glass with the writing on it. Such a mystery. He gathered himself and ran it through his mind one final time. “Only one who knows language,” he remembered easily, “will forwards and backwards,” he read, then remembered that was wrong and flipped it, “backwards and forwards will be able to clean…” he remembered clean. That was what they were trying to do, right? Warren squinted at the far side again. “roodsiht.” That started with a t, then. Then an h. “Th” he imagined. “This,” was what it said then. “This rood.” No backwards. “This,” then a d. Epiphany clicked. “This door.” Door. Not a cross, he sighed. “Only one who knows language backwards and forwards will be able to clean this door,” was its message. He memorized it. Or thought that he should. Then he wondered if he should say it aloud.Warren licked his lips with a thick tongue. “Only one who knows…language…backwards and forwards will…be able…to clean this door,” he finally spat out.
He waited, expecting the fog to lift. The only thing he heard, however, was a liquid plop at his side. With a flimsy neck, he rolled his head to the left and found a sponge at his side. But it was wet. He grabbed at it a couple times—failing to grasp it. Instead, he gave up and set his hand on it. But it wasn’t his hand. It was more purple than he remembered. He had never had purple hands before. Not ever. And with that thought, he lost consciousness and drifted off into dreamless space.

Chapter 18

2008-12-04T14:06:00.000-08:00

Now glance a moment at Sofi across the way. She’s conversing with someone on her phone. And I wonder who it could be. I doubt this is any random hello from a friend—look at how her eyes are suddenly fixated on her wineglass. She must be hearing something important, some valuable jewel of information. And look! What a surprise to her ears—she has not heard this before; her lips open and close in indecision. Perhaps a breath of hope has entered her soul? Perhaps the final dagger of regret has plunged into her depths—either way, she won’t last long there at her table. I must continue my tale before she leaves and plummets into despair.
All you need to note is the sheer opposition a few years have made in Sofi’s story. She’s now a wisping, smoking candlestick in danger of growing forever cold—just a remnant of the brightly burning flame in her soul that hour in the depths of the harpy’s den. But how lovely she was to look upon there in Warren’s arm. Not to take anything from our hero. His heart had been shattered and his love burst forth in what could have been tangible rays of warm, overflowing light. And so the two stood and cradled the other in a slow, rocking waltz to the music of love—which both heard so clearly in the relative silence.
Between the reverent pauses for love, they whispered to each other of the day’s immediate events. Sofi revealed that the only members she knew were alive were Livingstone and Old Fred and Warren told her of his abduction—she of course inspected his wounded shoulder. Warren melted at her tender touch.
But all too suddenly, the echoing flaps of the harpy’s wings caught their ears and she was upon them. Warren jumped when he saw her—her feathered body had his mother’s face. The harpy landed and folded her wings, a sly grin on her lips. “Are you ready for your next task, Warren?”
He nodded and bit his lip, hoping he could pull another miracle out of his pocket like he had with Sofi. The harpy shook the feathers from herself and became Warren’s mother completely, beckoning him to a faint outline in the cliff wall with splayed fingers. Warren followed obediently, Sofi clutching his waist. The harpy pressed on the stone and a door slid upward, vanishing into the rock. Warren’s eyebrows shot up with it and followed her through the doorway.
The hallway was a pristine, white passage with several tinted windows lining both sides. Sylvara strode down the hall with a fascinating pace, and the tangled pair of Warren and Sofi fell behind. But the harpy turned to her left just a few yards ahead of them and opened another door. She turned and extended her right hand. “Please, in here.”
The room was empty—no big surprise for Warren, who had scarcely seen an inhabited or even furnished room since his rescue from his own home by Livingstone. But Sylvara pointed to the far end of the room, where Warren saw a recessed, glass cage. He approached it slowly at first, but recognized the inhabitant of the cage, Ali. She stretched her paws as high on the glass as she could, sniffing for any kind of exit.
Warren dropped to his knees to level himself with the cage. “Are you okay, Ali?” he asked, hands planted on the glass. She squeaked and clawed at the glass.
“We purged the demonic essence from her system—so she won’t answer you,” Sylvara stated, winking at Warren. “At least not in your own language,” she thought to add. “However, your test for Ali’s life is simple: you must retrieve her key from my nest.” Warren dropped a questioning eyebrow. “It’s in plain sight,” she laughed, “an my nest is the biggest one in the middle.” But as Warren turned to go, she cautioned him. “But! You will not be going as yourself; and remember, if you die, the rat dies. If you come back empty-handed, the rat dies. If you succeed, she will live,” she warned him, all the time stepping closer to him. “Now be off!” she said and seized Warren by the neck. He struggled to pry her hands from him for a moment, but then she released him and stepped backwards.
Sofi gasped and turned. In just a few moments, Warren had fallen to the ground, sprouted hair and claws and whiskers. Sylvara smiled at the transformation when all that remained of Warren was a squeaking, terrified rat on the white tiled floor. She opened another door and pulled two collapsible chairs from the closet. “We shall wait here for him, dear Sofi.”
Once Warren had registered the change brought upon him, he had to adjust himself to the drastic changes—mostly in the world of his senses. Smells hung in the air like levitating streams; a barrage of sounds overpowered him at first. But bit by bit, Warren accustomed himself to this new manner of perception and gathered his wits. He had to find the nest, the key—for Ali’s rescue, for her freedom, for her life.
He scurried out of the room and back down the hallway they had come, through the doorway and into the cavernous abyss beyond it. A whole host of streaming smells accosted his nose. But the one belonging to Sylvara was quite keen.
It didn’t take Warren long to find a scrambling path up the cavern wall to the largest of the myriad of woven nests constructed with a motley blend of sticks, plastics, and mud. He scurried into the nest and gave it a quick look over—checking for anything that might resemble a key. But the place was a veritable treasure chest of miscellaneous items. A violet rubber ball, an oval mirror, several loosely rolled wool blankets, a golden pocket watch, a conglomeration of pens, a jar of paper-clips, a spatula, a decorated teapot without a lid, several lighters, a metallic toy plane, two pairs of sunglasses, and a whole host of other items he didn’t recognize.
What he did recognize when it happened was the sound of flapping wings. Warren’s rat eyes searched the thick cavern air momentarily—a winged terror dove towards him, talons outstretched. His instincts took over and he found himself scampering for cover. He found a slight opening between the nest and the cavern wall into which he ran quickly—and just in time, as the harpy slammed against the rock and started to scratch and dig after him.
Warren squeezed himself down through the tangled mess, his heart pumping as the talons tore after him. Then shrieks seemed to multiply around him and the commotion above him increased exponentially. Yet further inward he burrowed, where he found a small cavity. He couldn’t control his shivering and shaking, or the rapid beat of his heart. Sounds of ravenous harpies clawing at the nest moved around him. He searched around frantically for any route of escape—each passage only carried reverberations of doom through it.
Then a soft yellow form caught his attention, creeping through the maze of sticks. It was a moth with restless, fluttering wings. Warren stared at it for a moment while it crawled up to his twitching nose. Then, apart from all the sounds of the world, a thin, fine voice curled itself around his mind. “You will die,” it stated affectionately. Warren recoiled. “Yes, the harpies will find you and dismantle you. Sylvara is a cruel being, exiled to this bottomless pathway of guttural moods and fierce passions. She suffers the torments of her mind, her conscience in this bleak, dying history.”
Warren crouched and thought, “Who are you?”
The moth twitched a furry antenna. “How does my appearance deceive you? Have you so quickly forgotten?”
“What is your name?”
“Unimportant. But if you must have one, I will give you one: call me Thandris. Now, little one, listen to me before hope is lost. Sylvara has been condemned among the living and the dead, the pure and the corrupt. Pay her no heed, for she will delight in your ecstasy and your pain alike—give her no reason to indulge in either.”
“What should I do?”
“Accept my power—I have little to give you now and it will wane with time. But find her key and return to her quickly. She will sense my presence and agree to any demands you make of her—especially if you make an example of one of her minions.”
Warren spun in a circle and looked at his rat-paws, “How?”
“Allow me,” said the moth, which climbed onto Warren’s back. A jolt of energy entered his spine—and Warren felt himself growing, he squinted as light surrounded him and seemed to blow the nest away, like the breeze would a plume of desert dust. Wingbeats surrounded him, but the intensity of the light around him kept the harpies hidden. When the light began to fade, Warren found himself standing on a small ledge of the nest, a strange, blue-steel colored object at his feet: the key. He picked it up with human hands.
At last the light was gone and a hundred glowering harpies flapped in obvious irritation around him. Warren’s confidence soared and he stepped lightly off the nest onto the air. He strode towards one burnt-orange winged fright and without a thought stretched out his hand. The creature struggled with powerful strokes to get away, but had been shackled in place by the air itself. When Warren’s outstretched finger touched the frenzied being, it exploded into a thousand drifting embers.
An echoing storm of shrieks erupted immediately and the creatures fled to the depths of their nests. Warren ran now on the cavern winds, cursing himself for having left Sofi with that monster in the first place. Back down the brilliant hallway and through the door he stormed, the energy of the demon coursing through him.
At first glance, Sylvara screamed and cowered in the corner. Warren stared her down as he walked to Ali’s cage and freed her. The rat delighted in Warren’s smell, his touch, and raced up his arm to his shoulder. Warren smiled and stroked Ali on the head. “You’re safe again now, girl.” Then he turned to Sofi, whose face showed relief, but whose shoulders demonstrated anxiety. “Are you okay?” She nodded.
Halfway satisfied, Warren turned his attention to Sylvara, who gulped and scrambled to the corner, hiding herself with her wings. “Where are the others?” he demanded of her.
“I will kill them if you touch me,” she warned.
“Where are they?” Warren commanded, stepping closer.
“Keep away from me, demon, and I will tell you,” Sylvara hissed. Warren stopped and she glanced at him from behind a veil of feathers. “Next door on the right,” she said, grinning a wretched smile.
Warren followed Sofi, who was already out the door. Sofi struggled with the door, then turned to Warren. “Locked,” she said. He grasped the handle and the lock split open. Warren smiled; the harpy hadn’t lied. There, in shackles, lay Livingstone, Trent, and Old Fred. Sofi bounded in behind him and sighed. “Get up guys, time to go,” she said and gave Warren a little push from behind to free them.
He came first to Livingstone and touched his chains, which fell from his wrists and ankles like liquid. With such simplicity, he freed the other two, who patted him on the shoulder and thanked him. “Where are the rest?” Sofi asked. Old Fred shook his head with downcast eyes. Warren shivered at the fates of those poor soldiers. Livingstone’s poker face, however, hadn’t changed a bit. Warren knew he wanted the story behind his powers. But Sofi was not in the mood for discussion and urged them out of the room, like a mother hen escorting her chicks.
As they sprinted down the hallway, Trent pointed to a red door ahead of them. “I remember seeing them store our weapons there—before the drugs took complete effect.” Warren nodded, slid to a stop, and opened the door. Old Fred went in and started handing out the goodies. Warren couldn’t help but envision him as a jolly but dirty Saint Nick passing out presents. But not only were their armaments piled in there, but those of other victims as well. Perhaps expeditionary teams into what the demon had told Warren was an asylum for exiles. Old Fred grinned when he picked up an ancient, but powerful shotgun and slung it over his shoulder. Livingstone rolled his eyes and grabbed a sheathed katana. “Oh is that right, Samurai Jack?”
A smile almost crossed Livingstone’s lips, “Yes, indeed. And you’ll thank me when you run out of shells.” He winked and Old Fred shook his head. When the group had re-armed themselves, they pressed forward again, searching for an escape from the tunnels. Trent led the party, looking at his watch as he jogged ahead.
“I think there should be a passage to the surface just on the other side of this wall up here. If we could…” he began, but a spine-tingling screech echoed down the corridor, effectively silencing him. Four of the five slowed and turned to check behind them, readying their weapons.
Only Livingstone kept moving, yelling back to them, “I wouldn’t stop there if I were…” But before he could finish, the floor fell out from under the four. They plummeted down a short shaft and landed on an incline, spiraling downwards. A small, circular outlet door opened and spat them out into a warm room, lavished with soft red carpet, pink suede pillows strewn about the room like autumn leaves, and what seemed to be giant lava lamps populating the perimeter of the circular room. But far more curious to the four was the thousands of butterflies flitting about the room, dazzling the air with swirling color.
Sofi was the first to stand, followed by Trent, while Warren and Old Fred only propped themselves up on their elbows to gaze at the spectacle. “My God,” Fredric stammered. “What is this?”
Warren laughed to himself in the irony that Livingstone wasn’t present to point out the stupidity of asking such a question. But if anyone were to ask it, it would have to be Old Fred. But as he looked through the haze of butterflies, he saw silhouettes—figures bending, stretching, squirming. “Do you see those…?” he began and Sofi nodded, squinting beside him. Now Warren stood and helped the old man to his feet.
Trent was already several paces away, heading towards the shadowed people with his pistol drawn. Warren reached for Sofi’s hand—whether for his or her comfort, he couldn’t say—and followed him. Old Fred hobbled after them, a hand on his back, the other clutching his shotgun, which he employed as a walking stick.
Across the pillowed, carpeted floor, through the butterflies and the soft crimson glow, the oddly-moving figures huddled—perhaps five or six of them—and every now and again, one would flail its arms backwards, splayed out like a kitten stretching for a piece of string just out of its reach. When Trent was within twenty yards or so of these blossoming figures, he called out to them.
“Hey there!”
Warren watched as they paid not the slightest heed to Trent’s greeting, and kept undulating from their knees. They were women—or at least had the feminine figure, Warren clarified in his own thoughts. He imagined they were trapped in a ritual of some sort—he began to discern chains around their waists and wrists. Through the clouds of butterflies, he also found a distinct, pale sort of mist rising from their midst.
“Are you okay?” he heard Trent ask again, his handgun still leveled at them, but irritated at their ignorance of his questions. “Are you slaves of the harpy?” He stopped a couple feet from them and Warren and Sofi joined him at his side. The girls wore paper-thin purple garments, which hung on them like moss an old withered tree branch. They were chained to the floor in a semi-circle, but seemed unaware of their bindings—each focused on the space between them, each had a dark, glazed pot of liquid and a sponge in each hand. In a waving sort of dance, they stretched skyward with their sponges collapsed down to the floor, eyes and noses only inches from the surface, then they would twist sideways and soak both sponges in the pots and repeat the process—but never at the same time; they alternated with an inconsistent rhythm.
Warren craned his neck to see what they bent over to scrub while Trent kept the torrent of questions raining on these unresponsive beings. Old Fred, however, simply walked up to one, cupped her chin in his hands and twisted her face towards him. Dark blank eyes stared at him, as if she couldn’t quite pinpoint why the rhythm of her life had been interrupted. Then she squirmed from his hands and fell back over to the floor. That’s when Old Fred gasped and motioned for Warren and Sofi to step closer.
There, resting in the floor, was a sliding glass door, with a luminescent glow—so out of place with the rest of the room—like a lemon among cherries. Warren also noted that the butterflies seemed to gravitate away from the radiance of the door. But as he inspected the glass, he saw, in a brilliant lime-color, a loopy handwriting scrawled across its surface. It reminded him of Sylvara’s note. He dropped to a knee, next to one of the slaves, squinted, and tried to read the writing. But the interference of the sponging girls made it almost impossible. He looked up to the others.
Trent was walking from each to each, looking for the spark of intellect in any pair of eyes—and evidently failing to locate it. “Hello? Can you hear me?” he yelled in obvious frustration, yanking on their arms or hair. “Anyone in there?” Still he tried, and still they stretched, searched, flopped, and scrubbed. “It’s like they’re zombies or something,” he stated, “only instead of the crazed, bloodlusting frenzy they’re just on a cleaning binge.”
“Perhaps we have to figure out what’s written on the glass, first,” Warren volunteered.
“Let’s make sure the room is secure first,” Old Fred suggested. “We don’t want to get jumped by that harpy and her minions again.”
Sofi nodded, but added quietly, “I think Oscar might be a preoccupation to them right now.” Trent shook his head and placed his hands behind his neck.
“After all,” Warren suggested, “We can’t assume that Sylvara has complete control. She might just be a force who has no choice but to make her home in this dangerous pathway. The ‘demon,’” he made quotation marks with his fingers, “told me she had been exiled here. Who knows what other forces are at work here besides the harpy?”
“Right,” Sofi decided, “Trent and Fredric, sweep the far side of the cavern, Warren, you and I will check back that way. We’ll meet back in the center. Good enough for a start?” Everyone nodded and left the imprisoned girls to their impossible task in the middle.

Chapter 17

2008-11-29T17:59:00.001-08:00

The first thing that occurred to Warren to say when the creature that appeared as Sofi led him to Sofi, chained wrist and ankle to the cavern wall on the dark side, was to ask if she were alright. Yet a tiny Livingstone hiding in the back of his mind advised against it. Her condition was fairly obvious to him: poor, yet alive. She stood rather defiantly in her shackles, rather than sagging in them, as others (several yards away on each side) did. But her head was bowed, her chin pressed to her chest—only when he was within an arm’s length of her did she look up.
Warren would never forget her face in that moment of recognition. There was joy, yes. But it weighed heavily both with relief and with exhaustion. He longed to hold her up, embrace her, keep her safe. But the harpy was near—she was watching. He had to win her mind. Such enigma inhabited those words. And so he chose his own carefully, and fortunately, she sensed that he must speak first and waited for him.
He swallowed and began. “A young lad went into town one afternoon, but having very little idea where he was headed.” Sofi cast him a strange glance, but didn’t interrupt him. “About halfway through town a voice from his side told him to enter the café to his right. He had not known this voice long, but he heeded the instruction nonetheless and entered. He felt very out of place; in fact, if you had asked him, he might have told you he didn’t care for coffee or tea at all. But in he walked anyway and almost immediately his eyes found a girl.
“From the start, he could tell she was exceedingly beautiful—the voice at his side even suggested he make her acquaintance. Suspecting the intentions of the voice from the start, the young lad nonetheless walked over and stirred up conversation with the girl—a pleasant one, too. It soon became apparent to him that she knew much more than he, for he asked a great deal of questions, of which she answered very little. 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 had begun, it ended. And the boy slipped out of the café to head to the woods to think, but not before stumbling upon an article in the local newspaper, authored by the very same girl with whom he had just been conversing. 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, Sofi Gio Seville, if you can, what that boy might have told the girl next he saw her—if he saw her?” Warren finished. The harpy kept a corner of her mouth open in expectation.
Sofi herself simply smiled. “Are you a rose in that wonderful garden?”
“And what would have the girl responded?”
“Which path in the garden do you tred?”
“And the young man’s answer to that?”
“Wherever I must, in order to smell the roses,” Sofi replied, her eyes fixed upon Warren’s.
“Shall I finish the story then?” Warren asked of the harpy, whose delight was palpable. She came and kissed him on the cheek.
“You truly are a wonderful man,” she praised him and fished a key from her rags. She unlocked Sofi’s fetters and looked her squarely in the eye.
“Do not let go of this one. Ever,” she demanded of her. Sofi managed a weak smile and nod, and collapsed into Warren’s embrace. Then, with a rush of wind, the harpy burst into the air with her great flapping wings. “I will leave you two for a while. But your tests are not finished, Warren. You have more friends to rescue.” And with that she flew off into the darkness.
Warren simply stood and Sofi simply relaxed in his arms. And for several defining moments, she rested her head on his chest and he held her tightly. They exulted in feeling the rise and fall of each other’s breathing and could say nothing.
Then a whisper from Sofi reached his ear: “What was your task, your test for my release, as the creature inferred?” Warren sighed and stroked her hair.
“To love you,” he answered her whisper with his own.
“How was that?” she wondered.
“I had to rescue your mind, she told me.”
“Why my mind?”
“I guess she thought your passions would overtake you, otherwise.”
“Warren?” Sofi asked, looking in his eyes for the first time. Warren noted that this was the first time she had used his real name and gladly returned her gaze.
“Yes?”
“When we were taken last night, I thought only of you and how I’d let you slip from me. You were there, so tangibly, so pristine in your affections for everyone, so excellent in your love for anyone, your mind of questions only ever improved your understanding in any situation. And then, just like that, you were gone. I didn’t expect to see you again, Warren. And then, then there you were, with a creature that looked like me, talked like me, but wasn’t me. And you knew it. I knew you knew it when you looked at me. In that moment…she was right. My passions had taken me over.”
“And now?”
“Now I know I love you, rather than simply feel that I love you,” she stated without blinking, in a soft voice like jasmine in the cool midnight air. “Your story, Warren. You moved my heart from the moment into duration. You anchored my spirit in memory. I thought back as you spoke and realized how perfectly necessary it was for me to love you.”
Warren drank in her words like nectar. “Well I’m glad it worked,” he said at last with a wry smile. “I wasn’t at all sure what I was doing.” Sofi dropped her eyebrows and grinned.
“Yes, you were. You were talking to me; that’s all you needed to do.”
“For what, the harpy’s satisfaction?”
“For my love.”
“So I suppose now would be a good time for me to say how I can’t stop thinking about you, what you’ve meant to me in these crazy past few days, how I want to give you every thread of my love?” Warren asked with raised eyebrows. Sofi blushed, sighed, and placed her head back on his chest.
“Yes, it would,” she whispered.
“Sofi?”
“Yes, Warren?”
“I can’t stop thinking about you.” Sofi smiled and tightened her grip around his back. “You have meant more to me in these past few crazy days than anything else,” Warren continued. “And I love another girl.”
Sofi instantly pulled away to arms length—yet did not dare let him go—dropped her eyebrows, and stared him down. Warren’s poker face cracked into a smile. “What can I say? I love Ali, too,” he said, laughing. Sofi scowled and tried desperately to keep from smiling.
“Not funny, Warren,” she said, resisting his tugs and a smile.
“Sofi?” he said.
“Yes, Warren?” she answered.
“I want to give you my undying love. I want to love you with every fiber of my being, heart, mind, and soul.”She relaxed her shoulders and let him pull her back into his embrace. He kissed her forehead. And for the next several minutes, they stood in each other’s arms, participating in pefection.

Chapter 16

2008-11-27T11:08:00.001-08:00

Before I continue, notice our poor Sofi’s condition has slightly worsened. I fear she may yet lose all patience, ask for her check, and leave. I suppose I’m trusting her resilience. I’m fairly certain that she has undergone traumatic situations worse than this. For instance, she had suffered much by the time Warren found her in that sagging, dying apartment building. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Just please keep an eye on Sofi; I would hate for her to leave early and miss her surprise.
Back to the tale. Shortly after Warren felt the bone-chilling shriek resonating through him, a blur of motion and feathers shot up from beyond the edge, folded its wings around itself and landed with a shock on the floor. Warren’s heartbeat began to rise as he studied the now motionless figure. Then movement caught his eye. The wings began to drop away slowly. Warren squinted, watching the form intensely, and inched away with his left arm.
The dropping wings revealed a human form, head bowed, chest covered with feathers, and eagles feet perched on the floor. The wings continued to spread and the figure kept its head bowed. When it had stretched to its full wingspan, it promptly glanced up at Warren, whose mouth dropped open. For the creature before him had Sofi’s face.
Warren tried to speak, but the harpy folded her wings in a bit and smiled grimly at him. She waltzed over to him, hopped around him, fluttering her wings for balance now and again. Warren shuddered, with ice filling his veins.
“Hello Warren, my love,” she rasped in a hushed whisper. She stroked the side of Warren’s face with a claw on her wing. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t come.”
Warren somehow found the courage to speak, “I’ve been here for hours…”
“Yes, yes, physically. But what does that matter if you aren’t here,” she tapped on his head. “What is the body without the mind? It is a flimsy thing, fit only for a meal.” The creature with Sofi’s face licked her lips and clicked her tongue. “But you, Warren,” she continued, hopping around him and giggling, “you took awhile to arrive, today. Ahh but here you are, and what a delightful little surprise you have become. I think that the rest of this morning will be extraordinarily…” the harpy paused, as if searching for the right modifier. “Pleasing,” she said at last, with a wry smile. She folded a wing around him. “Come, Warren. We have much to discuss. But not here, in this disaster. So come along.” She halfway lifted him to his feet with her powerful wing and pushed him towards the edge. Warren found his balance, but didn’t walk with her.
In a moment, the pressure from the wing was gone and a burst of air sent the dust in front of him swirling. He glanced backwards in time to see the harpy burst towards him with incredible speed. She hit him in the ribs and sent him over the edge and into a freefall. Warren found himself facing away, and in the few moments he had, he noticed that the buildings outside of the crater didn’t adjust in their perspective as quickly as he thought they should in such a long fall. Then another shriek echoed through the ruins and he felt a terrible grasp around his shoulders again, and then the painful grip as her wings opened to direct their fall. They shot through what he thought was a stairwell breezeway and out over the backside of the apartment, where a true crater, nearly the size of a football field, dominated the ground. He was flown right into the center of the place and down into the darkness.
For nearly a minute, the only reason he knew he was moving was the gusts of air on his face and the sound of pumping wings above him. Warren tried to keep his feet tucked in, he certainly didn’t want to smack his shin on any debris likely littering the tunnel. So he hugged his knees with his arms, closed his eyes, and waited for disaster. The forces of turns and drops and rises all played on his stomach, until he was certain they had navigated to the center of the earth. After a while (be it seconds or minutes, he wasn’t sure) he opened his eyes and actually noticed some difference. Faint orange lines swayed across the darkness, stretching, glowing, then disappearing. It was a mesmerizing dance, one that grew in brilliancy as they moved onward.
Then he found that those orange lines had preceded the bright hue emanating from a large, vacuous cavern. The light shimmered off the rock formations, and as he quickly approached the light source, the talons gripping his shoulder released him. Warren’s heart jumped into his throat and flailed a bit for balance and fell towards the stone. But as he neared the floor, it dropped away, so that he felt himself flying over the rock surface, falling into a bath of light. Whatever it was directly beneath him glowed intensely—he nearly squinted as he fell down the hole. Then the side-walls ended and he found himself dropping into an even more monstrous and more brightly lit cavern. The light below him still seemed a ways off—but off course, still rapidly approaching.
Then he felt the talons again, but not as brutally this time. They wrapped around his arms, tightened their grip, and he felt himself slowing as he was edged into another spiral. Warren tried to take in his surroundings as they descended. One side was definitely brighter than the other; he thought he could pick out structures of some sort on the brighter side. But as he approached the ground, he was dropped again. It was a short fall, however, and he splashed into an underground reservoir, which acted like a mirror for the lights above him. He sputtered and kicked himself towards the brighter side of the shore.
When he pulled himself from the water, which had been surprisingly warm, his shoulders felt like hamburger. So he crawled forward on his knees, set his head on the rock and let his shoulders sag. When a shadow enveloped him yet again, he let himself fall sideways and rolled onto his back. There was Sofi’s sly face staring down at him. She perched herself on his chest and gazed thoughtfully at him. “You are something else dear Warren. All this…sensation! And still you manage to think.” She tapped his sternum with a talon twice. Warren decided against questioning her and making a fool of himself.
“Warren, let me tell you something,” she continued and leaned forward until her face was but inches from his. “You are a special person. You realize this don’t you?” She seemed to focus on his mouth and brought her wing over him, again stroking his cheek. “I think you do. Why else would you be here? Oh Warren!” she cried and buried her face in his neck. Then she whispered in his ear, “it has been so long since anyone in our path has thought as you do! They feel and they burn and they hate and they kill. Such an eternity has passed since anyone here thought. Even them!” she swept her wing back and Warren found hundred of hovering harpies watching him. “Their passions have undone them, Warren. I say again, rationality has fled this path; I trod alone in darkness.” She pressed her nose against his
“Can’t you see what difficulty it is to keep one’s sanity in the midst of such animalism? Can’t you understand how many ages have passed since I have sensed thoughts like your own? In the glow of your intellect, it’s impossible to know how I endured those years of darkness!” she exclaimed and brought both wings to Warren’s face, enveloping him in a warmth of feathers. She slid herself down his body and pressed her head against his chest. “Oh do say something!” she said, quivering in anticipation. “Tell me why you have come! What drives you, dear Warren?” she asked, suddenly raising her head from his chest and peering into his eyes, running her wing claws through his hair. “Is it virtue that you seek? Are you planning for the greater good? Or are you just along for the ride, soaking up information like a sponge, ready to use knowledge for your own benefit?” Warren let her talk, eyebrows narrowing and dropping as she went on. “I see you judge me now. Must you focus on outward appearances so much? Listen to me, Warren. Converse with me and discover my mind.” She seemed to study him and decide on a course of action.
“As you have probably guessed, I am not Sofi. My name is Sylvara. I had hoped you wouldn’t be so shallow as to require a similar form for conversation. But I trust this shall aid you, my dear.” Upon those words she stretched out her wings and with a swift motion downwards, shook the feathers from her arms. Warren stared, dumbfounded. The bird was gone—just Sofi’s human form, clad in rags, straddled him. She brushed her hair back and caressed Warren’s hair with soft fingers. “Now speak with me,” she said softly. “I have much desired conversation with you; do not hold out on me.”
Warren’s heart threatened to explode within him; he told himself again and again that the woman on top of him was not Sofi, but some foul creature of an underworld he knew nothing about. She was after something, he knew, and her deceptions likely wouldn’t end here. But then she bent over him and kissed him on the lips—and ignited a war between his senses and his mind. When she pulled back, Warren fidgeted under her pouting mouth, her begging eyes. “I know it’s in there; why won’t you let it out? Can’t you see, Warren? All I want is to talk with you.” Then her expression changed slightly, darkening a bit. “Unlike them,” she said, gesturing to the sky, “they just want to feast.” Warren shivered and she lowered her face again to his and kissed him lightly. “Talk with me?”
Warren couldn’t quite figure why this creature wanted to converse with him so badly—he knew that he knew very little about what was going on. But neither could he discern any reason not to talk; so he managed to swallow once, take a breath, and speak. “Um. What do you want to talk about?” he asked.
“What did you think, when you read that note?” she asked, intrigued beyond measure.
“I was concerned for my friends’ safety,” he answered.
“Yes perhaps you were; but something else, too. What was it?”
“I’m not sure what you mean. I have nothing left in the world but my friends, without them I’m alone and meaningless.”
“Ah! But was this a fear for them, or a fear for you?” she probed.
“I suppose both.”
“And yet…yet there is more here, more to your reaction. Why did you run?”
“I didn’t want to be too late.”
“To arrive before they died?”
“Yes.”
“Did you think you could do anything about it? You knew nothing but my name and a location not too far from you. Did this mystery enable or disable your actions? Would have done more, had I told you the reasons for your friends’ capture, their precise holding location, or the fact that I had to kill two of the more rambunctious ones?”
Warren’s smile faded. “You…you what?”
She sat back on his hips. “Do not burden yourself with the lost. They weren’t your friends, don’t worry. No, the ones you care for are still alive. For now. But what about the mystery, Warren? What did you think of the unknown?”
Warren sighed. “I’m not sure; I decided to try to help them, whatever that meant.”
“Despite the unknown, right?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“Oh Warren. Be assertive! You did what few in the whole history of my path have dared to do. Tell me what you did. You risked all for the thought of love, didn’t you?”
Warren nodded. “Yes, I did.”
“And now I have you here, with a legion ready to tear you limb from limb, and you don’t seem to sense the danger to your life. Why? Is it only because I talk to you in the form of someone you love? Have you pity or understanding for a lie?”
“Why shouldn’t I give you a chance to talk? I have nothing to do with your deceptions—why should you have to appear as Sofi? What difference does that make?”
The creature in Sofi’s skin reveled. “Oh Warren! You are something else entirely,” she giggled. “If you saw me in my true form, you wouldn’t dare speak with me. I know you wouldn’t. But that does not matter, for we are speaking. And if I speak from a lie, it should not follow that I speak lies, am I right.”
“You are. But if you spoke truth from truth, I might be more apt to believe it as such, you know,” Warren pointed out. Sofi’s lips smiled and she tossed her hair around.
“So you have yet to ask me anything to resolve the mystery. Don’t you want to know where your friends are? How they are doing? How you can rescue them?”
“Would it really make that much difference if I knew?”
“Warren, Warren!” she laughed, “your questions are an ecstasy! It has been so frightfully long since anything of the sort has been put forth to me. But believe me when I say that yes, it would make a difference. Knowledge is power, Warren. And you, whether you choose to believe it or not, are a very powerful individual. I wonder what you will choose to do with that power? For instance, let us look at Sofi, whose image I have. She will not say it (for she does not know it, as I think you do) but she loves you desperately. She feels, but she will not acknowledge it. And with the power of the mind behind her passions, she will drift away into meaninglessness. But you Warren, ah! you will love her, and you will focus your mind behind it. This will rescue her, more than you could ever hope to do by breaking chains with your hands.”
Warren kept silent for a moment, considering her words. When he began, it was a slow and deliberate chain of words that he spoke. “Are you saying that if I can rescue Sofi’s mind, no earthly bonds will hold her?”
Sofi’s eyes flickered with excitement. “Yes, Warren. Rescue her mind with your knowledge. I long to see it—the love of two in mind and spirit. But beware! Should you fail, you will lose her forever.”
“You mean, this is a test,” Warren clarified. A sly grin crossed Sofi’s lips.
“You are precisely right. It is easy enough to think for yourself…but to bring true thought to another being—even I have seen the sheer impossibility of that. Look around me, Warren. You see years of my miserable failure to lead these wretches from the bonds of their passions. And from this I have learned this: if you fail, you will drive them even further into their ignorance. Just look at them, the mindless souls watching our every move, waiting to devour. Your precious Sofi will become just like them, unless you can light the beacon of reason in her mind."
Warren bit his lip and stared at the creature sitting on top of him. After a moment’s pause, he asked the question she had been waiting for: “Where is she?”

Chapter 15

2008-11-27T07:31:00.001-08:00

It’s difficult to say what dreams might have haunted Warren that night in a dusty, unfamiliar room. And if he had remembered any of them, explanations might have been far from possibility. But troubled his dreams certainly were—for he awoke early, anxious and sore. The sun had already nipped above the horizon and extended its first few rays through the windows, laying them brazenly on the off-white wall opposite him. Warren tried to turn over and cling to the last vestiges of sleep, but found his brain already pondering the questions of the new day—namely where Ali had gone. He had surely watched as she had curled up next to his pad, hadn’t he? But now he propped himself on his elbows and scanned the room.
“Ali?” he said, coughing hoarsely afterward. He swallowed and tried again. “Ali, where are you, girl?” She was nowhere in sight and for a second he listened, hoping to catch the sound of any of her motions, the scratch of her claws on the wood flooring or the squeak of a sneeze.
Unsatisfied with nothing, Warren rolled out of bed, scratching at his scalp with one hand, and picking the sleep from the corner of his eyes with the other. The silence was desolate—nothing moved or ticked, not a shadow flickered nor a light flashed. He exited his room to find an empty, barren hallway. Dust lingered in the air, motes swirling lazily from his breath in the still beams of light, fixed in place by the shutters. Each step he took sent a small puff spiraling into shadows.
As he entered the front room, with a brazen, but dust-covered, chandelier hanging meaninglessly over the vacant room, Warren stopped. All the suitcases and bags and equipment were gone. The room had been stripped as bare as it had been when they arrived the previous evening. He glanced furtively around the room, nothing caught his eye at first, until he found a single notebook page, curled at the edges, resting in the early light. Warren approached the paper with obvious care—holding himself back, as if it might leap up and bite him—and his right eyebrow dropped into a scowl. He squinted at it, determined that it did, in fact, contain a lightly scribbled note.
When Warren crouched and picked up the piece of paper, he began to read the following, written in a loopy script:

“Walk east five blocks the moment you read this and you will live. Come unarmed and alone and one of your friends shall live. Give us what we desire and we may give you two more. Deviate from our instructions in the slightest, and you and your friends shall die.

--Sylvara

Warren’s heart must have missed a beat, for he stood there, looking at the torn piece of paper like a deer in headlights. He managed to read it again and react—he yelled about the house and waited for answer. None came. He spun and searched the walls, now brighter in the morning sun and he began to observe that which he missed upon first glance: several bullet holes. And something else, something new, came to his attention as he inspected the wall more closely. Fine little dots had been splattered across the bland yellowed wallpaper. Warren rubbed his thumb across one and it streaked red in the rising sun’s rays. He staggered backwards and hastily searched the other walls. Everywhere blood had been sprayed onto dust-coated surfaces.
He glanced back to the note; he figured he had no choice but to follow the note’s instructions. With the paper in hand, he burst through the doors and into an already balmy summer morning. He found the sun and began running east on the street just beyond the drive. It was a divided street with giant willows lining the middle, allowing only the tiniest snippets of light to fall on Warren like a fine crosshatch pen stroke. A squirrel seemed to notice his urgency and followed him in the trees, racing across the limbs and hopping lightly from branch to branch.
By the fourth street, his run had slowed to a minor jog and he couldn’t help but wonder where precisely he was supposed to be or what exactly the note-writer wanted him to do. But he felt his friends jeopardy acutely—he knew he wasn’t a soldier, like Livinstone, and had immediately abandoned hope of a forced rescue. He would have to play this game and trust his intellect to carry him through, Warren decided. Above all, he reminded himself the importance of questions—of asking the right ones, as Livingstone had taught him (although with a slight dose of frustration and humiliation).
But as he began down the fifth block, he found the sun’s light much intensified in only a couple yards. He squinted at the glaring light—flattened his hand over his brow. The tree just beyond him, nearly indiscernible in the brightness, seemed to be lacking foliage. Warren kept his feet moving, his hand at his forehead, his eyelids barely cracked. As he approached the first tree, he found its bark blackened, as if scorched from a fire, with only a few thick bare limbs stretching into the sky. Not a single leaf inhabited its heights, nor even the smaller twigs.
He looked back to the west at the brilliant, fully-leafed trees behind him, glowing green in the rising sun. A squirrel paused at the last healthy tree, quite reluctant to continue on. It chirped a couple times, its tail bobbing with each, and then scampered frantically back west. But then, on the street behind him, he saw a long, swimming shadow, stretching across the whole of the street. Warren’s right eyebrow dropped and then he turned to find the source. It seemed a figure in the sky—but he heard nothing of the thump of helicopter blades, nor the roar of a plane engine. Glancing back, he watched the shadow dancing on the street, approaching the long tower of his own. When the two combined forms, he glanced back up just in time to see a great span of wings silhouetted against the sun, hear a couple pounding flaps, wonder for a moment how big the bird must be, and then raise his hands to shield his face from the impact.
In the next moment, he felt as if a truck hit him. Then weightlessness occurred to him—he did not dare to open his eyes. He waited to hit the pavement again. When nothing of the kind occurred, he realized a dull but forceful pressure on his shoulders and armpits. His left arm went numb, followed by the realization of his weight again. He was hanging, Warren ascertained and tried to will himself to open his eyes.
One by one his senses returned to him—the deep monotonous wing beats assaulting his ears, the rush of a breeze on his cheeks, then sight of his legs dangling over a black and gray, debris-filled, smoking quarter of the town. Warren craned his neck upward in a failed attempt to ascertain his captor’s identity. Instead he focused on the vice-like talons hooked around his shoulders—they were the feet of an osprey, rough scaled toes with curving claws to keep prey from slipping their grasp. And the longer the flight lasted, the more acute the pain of the talons digging into his shoulders became.
Then Warren noticed a slight change in what was otherwise a fairly straight flight path towards what he thought was the center of the desolation. He felt himself dipping and turning north; then the banked turn became even more severe as he was dropped into a descending spiral—heading for what he thought the tallest building in the area, a six or seven story apartment complex with a gaping hole in one side. This appeared to be the target of his abductor and Warren found himself slightly concerned about the speed with which they were approaching the building. And all too quickly they dove through the opening and then he felt the wings spread wide and a brutal pain from the talons as they slowed from the descent.
Then he was free of the grip—but free falling to a large, emptied room. When Warren landed, face-first and sliding across the wood flooring, he cringed and coughed. He rolled himself over and grabbed at his left shoulder—it felt wet. He tried to use his tingling left arm to prop himself up, but failed and collapsed back to the floor. After a few short breaths while lying on his back and a grunt, he pushed himself into a sitting position with his right arm and glanced around the room. He found no sign of his captor, but just the cracked floor ending abruptly fifteen feet or so in front of him, affording him a good view of the surrounding buildings. Each seemed coated with ash; most of the windows were shattered and doors blown open. He wondered what sort of catastrophe had occurred here.
He pressed his right hand to his opposite shoulder again, pulled the collar of his shirt down to get a look at the wound. It didn’t seem to be bleeding too badly, so he kept some pressure on it and scanned the room. He imagined there had been another room between the one he was in and what used to be the edge of the building, as he found himself far within the cavity of the collapse. A room to his right, across the expansive hole in the building, was visible from his location, as well the one below it, and a section of the roof above it.
Sheer silence held the place captive, save a drip from a still-leaky pipe somewhere in the recesses of the ruins. Warren struggled to his feet and made a trip around his prison. The obvious first deterrent was the four-story plunge into wreckage. The wall to the right had no doors or windows, unlike the wall to the left of the edge. But when Warren inspected it, he found no doorknob, and it wouldn’t budge an inch when he kicked it—which told him that it had been boarded up or was otherwise blocked from the far side. A couple windows behind him were devoid of glass, and Warren wondered if they led to a balcony or fire escape. When he leaned out of them, however, he saw that perhaps there had been, at one time or another, a ladder of some kind, but nothing of the sort existed anymore. All he stared at was the cluttered ground, seven stories down.
Indeed his room was meant to be a self-containing cell, Warren figured, and sat against the wall by the door. An hour passed, while he massaged his shoulders and closed his eyes and tried to picture Sofi’s brilliant eyes gazing into his own. In fact, the percentage of time he noticed that he spent thinking about her served as an subject which ate up a rather substantial portion of that time. When he lost himself in thought, he watched the shadows shift along the skeletal buildings outside, in that repetitive sundial dance of daylight. What seemed to be more time than perhaps actually passed edged onward, while his throbbing shoulder counted the seconds better than any microwave timer.
These hours of solo introspection brought the same questions to his mind time and again: what am I here for? Who am I to these people—to Sofi and Livingstone, to the Mar, to the demons? How did it come to this? Why me? These, or other variations, sapped his mental energy while he sat there, on a cracked, dusty, wooden floor, rubbing his shoulder. As far as he could tell, he had no idea whatsoever to explain why he was in this particular position.
Warren felt it was series of disastrous and unexpected and flat-out strange events that had sent him tumbling to where he was now: like he was a rock that had been jarred loose on a steep hill and had gained too much momentum to stop on its own—as if he needed to hit something solid first. Problem was, he couldn’t find anything solid if he wanted to. He had been separated from his family in a morning. He had been driven out of his home town, even his home state, by several hundred miles. And now all of his new “friends” had disappeared overnight. What was solid in that? And now he found himself wounded and powerless, trapped in an exposed, seventh-story prison, awaiting who-knew what to save the lives of these people who had ruined his life.
Why was he so important? What could he possibly have or know that could have set off this chain reaction in which he found himself so impossibly buried at present? These unanswerable, but quite nagging questions pestered his soul to its core. Indeed, it seemed as though his very will had been stripped of him starting that night when he went to bed several days ago in his own bed, carefree and in love with life. Why had such change found him so quickly?
And the longer he thought about it, the more he meditated on these questions, the more it occurred to him that Livingstone was absolutely correct in renouncing the meaninglessness of such inquiries. What did it matter that this happened to him, one of billions (even on a single pathway…probably of billions more)? For every question that came to him, there existed a counter question just as far removed from an answer as the first. And the more he decided to lose himself in pondering these abstractions, the further he stretched himself from any answers. If there were a right way to dabble in abstraction, Warren decided that it wasn’t considering one set of questions without the other. Theory only amounted to something like an alignment on a racetrack. It was setting his wheels on the tracks. And bad questions only disrupted this process, and once set in motion, could steer him of course—perhaps ending in disaster.
So Warren decided to ask himself, “Why not me?” along with “Why me?” He thought about the consequences of his purpose as meaningful or as meaningless to the others he interacted with. And within a few moments, he determined that, if he were a drastic asset to either side, or completely worthless, his life still had value to him. And so if he sensed a necessity to keep an identity of value to keep himself alive, then so be it. If it seemed better to him to do the opposite, then of course he would. He would steer himself towards life at every opportunity.
The only issue for Warren, then, remained the question of Sofi—and whether he might tie his purpose to her. Unfortunately, nearly the moment he began to consider her value to him, a shriek pierced what had become a comfortable silence. It echoed up from the depths of the ruined apartment below him—and it certainly wasn’t human.

Chapter 14

2008-11-23T21:03:00.000-08:00

Up until this point, it had not occurred to Warren that he was entirely hopeless to return to his former life. He had been told that his family was dead, yes. He had accepted that they were gone and that he was embarking on something new. But the first glimpse of that new moon, that intriguing and frightening moon, had told him that not only had his circumstances changed, but the whole of the world, even of its history, had developed into a intensely different scene.
His paradigm had been pressed and attacked, but the moon had shattered it. This was a new world, and it could be utterly foreign to him, moreso perhaps than a casual visit overseas. What had happened differently in this place? His mind drifted to some of the simple, momentous events of history. Had Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. given his famous, “I Have a Dream” speech…or in that case, had he been assassinated? And had John F. Kennedy been killed? Had he been President? Who indeed was President? And of America…had it fought any wars at all? More? Had WWIII occurred? Even smaller questions pressed his mind: had his parents married each other in this history, too? Was there another Warren (with or without that name?) walking around?
And all this had been opened to his mind by the moon. And therefore, he had little success in looking away from it. Not to mention it gave him an excuse to lean against Sofi’s side—which he noted was an action she didn’t protest. While Warren certainly had a newfound respect for Sofi, in the few quiet moments he had, his thoughts drifted to her—he thought of her smile; he imagined her eyes gazing into his own. And naturally he wondered if she thought the same of him. But had you asked Warren if he were in love with her, he would have denied it vehemently. Which might have only proved the point that he found himself attracted to her. And so relished this quiet, semi-intimate moment with her, staring twofold out the window at strange moon in a foreign night.
When Old Fred slowed to a stop and announced their arrival at the second waypoint, no one immediately answered him. Warren slept, head tilted straight back. Ali had curled into a ball in his lap, next to his elbow. Sofi’s head rested on Warren’s shoulder—a fact which no one in the vehicle mentioned for days. Old Fred had weighed his options: startle them all awake with a blare of the horn or just exit the vehicle, hoping the sound of his door closing and a small breath of fresh, cool air would get the job done. Prudence led him to attempt the latter, and it paid off.
Sofi woke first and blushed immediately at her predicament. She looked at the waking Warren, pulled her hair behind her ears and over her shoulders, and straightened in her seat. She took in a breath and held it, closing her eyes for a second. Then she touched Warren on the shoulder. “We’re here,” she whispered to him.
He awoke from dream to a dream. He blinked several times and yawned, stretching behind his head. “Thanks,” he mumbled as she exited the vehicle. He looked at Ali in his lap. “Alright, wake up, girl; time to go to bed.” She quivered as he slid his hand underneath her belly and relaxed in his grip. “There we go,” he said and slid out the door into the mild night.
Fredric was already carrying a load of equipment into the place, so Warren followed him. Trent busied himself in the first room, ordering supplies to different sections of the house. When Warren and Ali waltzed in, Trent pointed to a hallway. “Down there, first right is where you’ll sleep. Take an air mattress,” he said, gesturing towards a pile of inflatable pads. “Blankets should come in soon, so come back for one,” he winked and scurried to help a soldier unload a tangled mess of wires and equipment from his arms. Warren picked up a mattress and found a nice corner in the room, next to the window (where he could still see the moon) and began inflating his pad. And these were no cheap air pads either, he noticed. These probably ran upwards of a hundred apiece, he guessed, as it hadn’t been so long since he had browsed an outdoors shop.
Just as he had finished inflating the pad, on which Ali was now sniffing and pacing, Warren noticed a moth beating against the window, straining to find the light. He watched intently, as if drawn to the plight of the bug as it slid across the pane left and right, searching for an entrance. And just as soon as Warren saw that the window was cracked open and stood to remedy the situation, the moth found the gap and fluttered inside.
But then, to Warren’s bewilderment, the insect veered sharply away from the bulb in the ceiling and alighted on his pad, his wings flattened outwards and swaying slightly. It’s front antennae twitched as it spun ninety degrees to face Ali, who had noticed the intrusion and had scampered up to the moth. She sniffed at it, whiskers trembling. Warren kneeled and studied the moth’s movements as it crawled towards Ali. Warren gave her a warning. “Don’t even think about it.” Ali turned her eyes to Warren, blinked at him, sneezed, and sat back on her rear legs. Then she turned her attention back to the insect.
“Warren, do you have a blan…” Sofi called from the doorway, but lost her words when she saw the spectacle before her. For a moment no one spoke or moved. Then Sofi tried again. “What are you…?” she tried to ask.
“I’m not sure…it’s just this moth…” Warren attempted to reply. Sofi sauntered in, squinting at the scene.
When the moth stopped moving, Warren blinked. He looked to Sofi, to Ali, then back to the bug. It had simply frozen—its wings were as still as the glass surface of a pond on a summer night. Even its antennae held their position. But that didn’t seem especially extraordinary—not compared with what happened next.
Warren swore that his bleary eyes were not seeing things; Sofi would have dismissed the events altogether, had it not been for the damaged, green moon shining outside the window. But when a wave a color crept over the moth, turning it a golden brown from the pale gray it had been before, Warren could help but point it out. “Sofi! Did you…?”
“Uh huh!” she whispered back, entranced by the occurrence.
Ali seemed the only living thing in the room that wasn’t surprised. She ambled up to the moth and, to Warren’s absolute horror, plucked off a wing and promptly ate it. Before he could stop her, she then snatched the whole of the moth and devoured it before their eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing found its way out. Instead, he gazed into Ali’s radiant black eyes and thought he suffered a heart attack when the rat twitched her nose and spoke.
“Hello Warren,” Ali said in a cheerful, soprano voice and blinked. Warren’s eyebrows made a slow journey up his forehead and Sofi’s hand again found its way to her mouth. “I have received this gift, that I may aid you.” Ali clasped her front paws together and bowed slightly. “Do not be troubled, Warren, and look on me as your servant and friend.”
While Warren floundered in amazement, a light of suspicion had grown in Sofi’s eyes. She found her tongue and spoke to Ali. “The demon sent you,” she accused.
Ali shook her head and twitched her whiskers. “No, it was the Mar who sent me to Warren that they might track him; I was ignorant then and searched only for pleasure and security. In this, I thank you, Warren for your generosity. I owe you much. But it was the ‘demon’ who gave me the ability to communicate with you. Its gift is precious, as is the message he gave me to deliver to you.”
Sofi narrowed her gaze. “Which is?” she demanded.
“The reason why you are where you are,” Ali ventured, and scratched at her cheek with her foot.
“And what is that, Ali?” Warren questioned.
“At your first waypoint, the Mar surrounded you, led by the demon Maghalis. In your analogy of the universe, Sofi, you compare histories to paths in a garden and waypoints as the places where those paths intersect, do you not?” Ali reasoned. Sofi could only nod. Ali continued, “Then at the last waypoint, you thought to switch paths in order to follow your plotted journey to St. Barthe’s in western Florida, correct?” Sofi didn’t reply, but Warren found himself nodding in agreement. “Well you must realize that that waypoint was not a crossing between two paths, but three. For sake of analogy, imagine your two paths met at a bridge over a third path. The Mar decided simply to create a hole in the bridge and ‘drop’ you into an entirely different path than you expected.”
“The pink globes,” Warren deduced. Ali nodded.
“Then Maghalis just moved his ship into position to ‘catch’ you.” Ali blinked and waited for her words to sink into the minds of her audience. Then she began again, “Now, my benefactor is an ally of Maghalis, but not necessarily a supporter. What Maghalis intends for the futures of the universe seems much to risky to our unnamed friend and thus he will attempt to undermine the demon in any way he can.”
“Wait,” Sofi interjected. “What are Maghalis’ plans?”
Ali looked at her paws. “That I cannot say, for it was not planted in my mind. But the intentions of our friend is quite clear. He will aid you in any way you can; but know that if you reveal his objectives to Maghalis or the Mar, you will lose that trust forever. But why you would find that option appealing, I don’t know. It would be absurd to refuse this generous offer. For it was he that ‘lifted’ you back onto your chosen path before the waypoint closed. It will take the Mar some time to mobilize and navigate to the next possible waypoint converging with this path. This is the most important news I bring you: you have at least 16 hours before the Mar will arrive on scene, and this waypoint closes before that time. However, if you enter the waypoint, they will be able to close on you within two hours of your departure for your next waypoint. Either way, our benefactor has given you a slight edge on your enemy. If nothing else, thank him for time for a good night’s rest.”
Sofi nodded and turned to Warren. “If we have 16 hours, we might be able to find an alternate route for a couple waypoints and increase our lead. I need to talk to Trent about this, but you. You get a blanket and get some rest.” Then she stooped and held out her hand. “Ali, will you come with me?”
“Certainly,” she said and scurried to the outstretched palm. Warren followed the two out. Once in the main room, Trent tossed him a blanket and a pillow. He caught both, watched as Sofi motioned Trent over, whispered to him, and then called Livingstone over as well. Warren turned to head back to the room, as the discussion evidently was not going to involve him. He slipped through the doorway, threw his pillow to the floor and watched the three shadows flicker on the floor in front of him as they moved to another room.
Warren rolled onto his back and kicked the bottom half of the fleecy blanket into place. He adjusted his pillow, closed his eyes and tried to process everything that Ali had told him—or even the simple fact that Ali had spoken to him. As he adjusted to the silence, he heard the muffled voices from the discussion taking place next door. They weren’t quite audible, so he tried not to focus on it. What was the point of straining to understand anyway? At the moment he probably understood more than Trent or Livingstone did.
But the voices, which had began in a hush, grew in volume, until Warren found it nearly impossible not to listen. Livingstone had been speaking when Warren decided to open his ears completely and eavesdrop.
“And you don’t believe this demon has some ulterior motive for ‘aiding’ us?” he was asking. “Even if Maghalis controls the Mar, you don’t believe this one has no influence at all, do you? Listen, demons hate demons as much as humans. But for a demon to betray a demon in the name of helping a human? That’s unheard of. I wouldn’t trust him if he were standing over my burning body with a bucket of water.”
“I know it doesn’t make any sense that a demon would aid us, but he has. We can’t overlook that fact. We would all be locked in some demonic prison, waiting to be chopped into tiny bits for some horrible experiment right now if it weren’t for his actions,” Trent retorted.
“Yes, true. But imagine if he had some ambush planned and Maghalis got the jump on him; he frees us, gains our confidence, lies to us about the time we have, and lures us into his own trap—take the credit for our capture for himself. He might even gain enough influence to seize control of the Mar from Maghalis. I don’t care what he’s done for us, I will not trust the devices of a demon.”
“But don’t you think he risks much by giving us this information through Ali?” Sofi asked.
“Certainly not. He knows his quarry. We wouldn’t dare negotiate with Maghalis—he knows that. He assumes that we will take his charity in good faith and uphold our end of the bargain…until he smashes the deal and destroys us himself. As much as we hold that humanity is not completely bereft of the power to do good, we must understand that demons are not on the same plane. They are corrupt thoroughly and are not capable of a good action. Not to say that their actions might lead to good, just as the growth of a weed in the garden might give the gardener cause to uproot it and churn the soil to make a fine place to plant a flower. But no. make no mistake, these demons are masters of deception, and I, for one, will not trust them. Any of them.”
“You seem to know much of the universe, o wise and masterful Oscar,” answered Trent, dripping with sarcasm. “You don’t trust anyone—so what would you know of trust? Why should we listen to you condemn what you have never known? I don’t care what the demon’s intentions are; I care about his actions. He has aided us, that much is certain. And it seems that he would like to continue to do so. We were in a tight spot, but now we have some room to work with. If we accept his future help, we are not relegating ourselves vulnerable to him. We would accept his information as we would any outside source, treating it according to protocol and comparing it to our own research. We can be as ready to terminate our agreement with him as he might be to do with us. Just because he might be playing us, doesn’t mean we can’t pay him back. The opportunity here of an ally within the enemy is too great to pass up—even if he’s only a momentary ally. I say we cross check his information with whatever the boys have found by morning and make our plans accordingly.”
“May I say something?” Sofi interrupted with a much quieter voice. Apparently the two didn’t object. “I don’t like the idea of trusting a demon any more than you do, Oscar. And I realize the aid he has already given us, Trent. But let us look at our situation. From what we’ve found already, signs indicated that another waypoint for them to merge with this path was fairly distant, at least not within twenty hours or so from our departure from the Denver waypoint, right. Well that seems to fit with his information. So I agree with Trent that we should finish some comparative data analysis in the morning; but I also think that we should watch our steps and be ready for anything. Is this reasonable?”
Warren imagined both nodding when no replies came. He listened for a moment and heard nothing more. Then a knock on the door frame caught his attention, Sofi peeked in. “I brought Ali back,” she said, winking with a slight smile. She bent to the floor and set Ali down, who scampered to Warren’s mattress and curled up next to it. “Good night. Sleep well,” she whispered and closed the door before Warren could reply. He yawned and stretched.
“Well Ali. I guess I’ll see you in the morning, girl.”
“Likewise, Warren,” she squeaked and nestled herself into a little ball of gray fur in the shadows.Warren looked back up and out the window. There hovered the decimated moon, and despite the strangeness of the glow, the dustiness of the air, the absurdity of his situation, Warren sighed and fell asleep, thinking of Sofi snuggled up against him, arm around his waist, her chin on his chest.

Chapter 13

2008-11-22T20:38:00.001-08:00

“Well Warren, first order of business is to teach you how to take flashbangs. Grenades roll into a room, you close your eyes, turn away, and cover your ears. Doesn’t do much good, but it helps. It’s certainly better than staring at it with the curiosity of a monkey. Second order, you need to know that if something’s leaking gas, don’t breathe it. Especially if it comes from me.
“Okay, now that you’re all caught up, you can realize that since you did none of the above, you were out like a light—it was people like you that flashbangs and gas grenades were made for. So a few moments after you went down, they rushed in like the good little Mar boys are all taught to do and we, being the nasty little rebels we are taught to be, shot back at them and rushed back out of the room.
“After that, we had the two recon teams pretty much down and figured more would be coming in. Well only one came down. And it wasn’t Mar. Matter o’ fact, it was a demon, though not as nice a one as you met, evidently.”
“Wait,” interrupted Warren, “Demon?”
“Yes, demon. Nasty sons of bitches, demons are. Listen, let me explain to you what we’re up against: the Mar are stupid, greedy, ignorant sissies who have lots of connections and weapons and can usually get away with murder. The demons, who pull the strings of the Mar, are not any of the things the Mar are. They are cunning, resourceful, and attentive killing machines. My point is this, if the Mar want you dead (more than just the local thugs) that means demons want you dead. And if demons want you dead, you’re probably going to wind up that way. So.”
“So? What?”
“We’re going to need a car soon before the demons show up again to kill you. But while they go find them, you need to hear about Maghalis—he was the demon who dropped the ground from beneath us and landed us in a portal (or something) to his ship. Anyway, he’s a tall-walking, purple-winged wonder—long teeth, big claws, twisted horns, pointy tail. You know pretty much the portrait of your classic demon. Not to say they all look like that.
“But on with the story. We still had our weapons of course, so when we landed I the demon-shsip, we opened fire on the Mar operating the cargo hold (as we later discovered that’s where we were). It was a short journey to the bridge in which we decimated the defending Mar. I mean, they really didn’t stand a chance. I kind of feel bad about it, you know?
“So we take the bridge and check the instruments to find your location (since you hadn’t dropped with us). Sofi sprinted off for you, while four held the bridge and the other four went on a sweep and destroy patrol. There’s nothing sweeter than sweep and destroy missions on an enemy vessel. Loads of fun.
“Well anyway, the first group of four (with Trent) were attacked on the bridge by a couple demons and the gyro governor was damaged (you might have remembered the shift) and I think they were still holding them off when we got ported here. So by then our sweep team (slowed a little by the tilt) had scored ten or fifteen Mar kills and one demon kill. The demon had jumped us around a corner and would have taken Max’s head off had he not been in a corner-check motion with his bayonet armed. He sort of accidentally beat the demon to the punch. It screamed. We fired. A lot. It sort of writhed a bit and then burst into flames. Probably nothing but charcoal left now.
“It was right about that time we found ourselves a little light-headed and looking back at the blue sky. Are the trucks ready yet?”
Warren was still a little foggy about the demons, and decided to press the issue. “So if Maghalis is so powerful, how come he didn’t just kill us all? I mean, isn’t that what you’ve been saying they want to do?”
Before Fredric could wind himself up, Sofi answered. “The demons are each their own master—they work together on occasion when the outcome benefits them all. Which is rare. And to say that they control the Mar is also somewhat outlandish. They are not the Mar—though they will use the Mar to their advantage. Of course the Mar believe they have made the deal of the ages, working closely with demons, as if they have harnessed a great power. So rarely do they work in suspicion of the other’s motives, but even less frequently do they actually agree. It’s hard to tell which one is the host and which one the parasite in their relationship.
“Maghalis is probably the most Mar friendly demon in existence, and therefore most dangerous to us. But don’t be deceived, Watson, Maghalis doesn’t want you personally dead. He is fighting a larger battle and would much rather figure out why we want you alive and where we are taking you. He’s not a beast of anger and passion for destruction like many of his lesser imp friends—it’s his rather insatiable lust for knowledge that compels him.”
At this point, Livingstone, who had been sitting in silence, fidgeting, now spoke out with an unrestrained passion. “Which rulebook will you be playing by, ehh Sofi? Are we to tell him nothing or everything? You’ve been quite reluctant to reveal anything to him in the past; what has changed now? I mean, no offense to your faculties of thought, Watson, (they aren’t in question here) but honestly the less you know the better.”
“He has seen a demon and the demon has seen him; I should think that’s reason enough to explain his situation.”
“Watson,” Livingstone addressed Warren in answer to Sofi’s question, “we are trained soldiers. I cannot lie about that to you; you yourself have seen it. We fight against the Mar; you have witnessed this. And now you know about the faction of otherworldly demons which may or may not aid the Mar. This is not necessarily dangerous information for you. But if you come to understand any purpose behind our actions, if you come into enemy hands, they will find out. And, as Sophi said, once Maghalis knows, he will have very little use for your life. So when I tell you that it is better that you don’t know, believe me, for your own life’s sake.”
“You think I would tell them?” Warren began, but Livingstone shook his head. “These are no ordinary interrogations they would perform on you, question and answer type. Not even torture. No, once they have you in their custody, they will know what you know. It’s a simple psychic process and they will access your memories like an electronic file. Now as soldiers, we have had a defense mechanism implanted within us (by our voluntary choice) which disrupts this effort and will make them resort to torture, which we can and will withstand. But I have no wish for you to suffer nor for the demons to gain access to our purpose; therefore, for the common good, I will not, nor will I let anyone in our troupe, tell you more than you need to know. You do not need to be accountable for our actions.”
Warren stared wide-eyed at the hobo soldier and turned to Sofi, who glanced away. “Do you understand, Sofi?” He measured her silence and then nodded. “Do you understand, Fred? All of you?” No one said a word. Then Livingstone put a hand on Warren’s shoulder.
“I hope that you understand our intentions for you are nothing but for the best possible outcome in the sequence of events that have already begun cascading through time. I trust we have demonstrated this thus far. So look back on the last two days, Warren. Tell me if you would trust in us to lead you on—and not just to safety, but to understanding. And in the end, when you understand it all, then look back on us and judge our decisions.”
Warren pulled Ali from his shoulder again and looked at her gleaming eyes. “I think we can do that, can’t we, Ali?” She squeaked in admonition and tried to chew on his thumb. He raised his eyes to Livingstone. “I think we can do that.”
“Excellent,” Livingstone said, smiling for the first time in a long time. “And perfect timing, here are the trucks.” Warren searched in the direction that Livingstone pointed. Two giant, black SUVs raced around the corner and dipped to a stop. Then Trent spoke up. “Sofi and Warren go with Old Fred and Max, in Connor’s vehicle. Oscar and the rest of you, come with me in Shan’s vehicle. Let’s go; let’s go people. Long drive to Kansas City.”
Warren followed Sofi, as he was entirely clueless as to which vehicle belonged to whom. Old Fred climbed into the front passenger seat and Warren found himself seated between “Max” and Sofi. And he didn’t really mind, though Sofi seemed a little downcast since Livingstone’s rebuttal. As they buckled themselves in, Ali squeaked and caught Warren’s ear in her teeth. “Ow. Hey! I need that ear, Ali,” he said, wincing. Then to the rest of the passengers, he added, “Does anyone have something edible for Ali to snack on? I think she’s hungry.”
“Yeah,” Old Fred said, rummaging through the glove compartment. “I think…ehh…somewhere in here are some…aha! Here, she’ll get a kick out of these,” he exclaimed and handed back a pack of Jalapeno Cheddar flavored sunflower seeds. Warren hummed monotonously in indecision. “Okay, maybe lick them off first or something,” Fredric suggested.
Warren decided to rub them off as best he could; he did so and held it up for Ali. She sniffed the seed with interest—then promptly sneezed. “Hmm, maybe I’d better rinse it off,” Warren thought aloud. “Anyone have a water bottle?”
“There’s a bunch in back,” Connor, the driver, offered.
“I’ll snag one,” Max chimed in for the first time and pulled one from a package of bottled water behind him. “Here you go.”
“Thanks,” Warren sang, ripping the plastic off the top and opening it. He dripped a bit on the seed, rubbed it thoroughly, and handed it to Ali. She took it in her nimble paws, turned it around a couple times, and started gnawing. Warren watched her devour the whole thing, and then repeated the process. Even Sofi, who had seemed quite emotionally displaced from the furry little gray ball atop Warren’s shoulder, glanced over every now and again to watch the spectacle.
Warren thought Ali could sense the attention and believed that she rather enjoyed it, as if she were made to inhabit the spotlight. And so for the next ten minutes, they watched Ali devour sunflower seeds, with Warren dripping water down the edge of the cap so Ali could drink every now and again.
“We still need to operate on her, you know,” Sofi said quietly, eyes fixed on the little ball of fur. Warren’s gaze snapped to her—a smile tugging at his lips.
“Thank you.”
The rest of the day passed without much, Ali occupying the entertainment spotlight on the trip. Conversation drifted in and out—usually centered lightly on Ali’s antics. Several hours in, Old Fred took control of the wheel and shortly after announced their departure from Colorado. Warren felt somewhat uneasy without the mountains in sight, but distracted himself with keeping Ali in line.
The sun faded quickly behind them, revealing the glittering fields of stars above them. But what soon caught their undivided attention was the rising moon. Fredric, with his eyes searching the road for wildlife, had noticed it first, but hadn’t said anything until at least half of the bright orb had escaped the horizon. That second glance had hushed him in the middle of a story, and when the others had prodded him to continue, he pointed in the general direction of the moon and said something like, “I…look.”
Warren had to lean close to Sofi, a necessity he didn’t mind in the least bit, in order to glimpse the moon. But what he saw wasn’t the moon—well, half of it was. And most of that half glowed bright green in the sky. The other half hung in space around it, drifting in what must have been nation-sized chunks. Warren gazed with open mouth at the spectacle before him—he wasn’t sure which half of the moon to wonder at.
Sofi drew a long audible breath and raised her hand to her mouth. After a healthy silence, she all but whispered, “What in god’s name happened?” Warren shook his head and continued to stare. Only Old Fred dared to reply.
“I reckon the waypoint worked.”

Chapter 12

2008-11-22T14:15:00.000-08:00

Do you know that sensation you have when you wake in a strange place? It’s as if you’re for a moment in your own bed, and as long as your eyes are closed, you can picture precisely what you’ll see when you open them. And the shock when you find yourself somewhere completely different makes you want to close your eyes and reclaim that lost paradigm. I’ve had this feeling many times, but probably not as acutely as Warren felt it when he awoke.
For that blissful moment, Warren imagined himself secluded in a blue bedroom, wrapped tightly in a thick comforter, hiding from the morning light. But when his eyes flickered open, he found not the pure rays of a rising sun, but the mechanical glow of fluorescent lighting. And the tight wrap was not of his own doing, but restraints of some kind. He heard voices babbling around him, fading in and out, but never quite comprehensible.
The ceiling was low, stained a dark metallic green with tints of blue. It seemed to press him into a state of claustrophobia. Its uneven nature made him wonder if it was strange, or if he had lost his sense of dimension. He tried to crane his neck, but found himself strapped down by the forehead as well. So he licked his lips and shut his eyes again, listening for all he was worth.
Two voices, one distinctly female, another male, seemed to fluctuate around him most often—at times close that he could hear distinct words and phrases, but found himself unable to scour any meaning from it. He thought it might be Latinate—every now and again he thought he had heard at least a cognate of the English language or two. Just when it seemed the voices had drifted far enough his way, that he could decipher a word or two, a deep rushing wind ripped through the place. It had almost a throaty howl to it, as if the air were being sucked into some deep pit in the corridors beyond him.
Then the voices became audible again—much clearer now. Then he felt a shadow fall across his face. He relaxed his eyelids, took a deep rhythmic inhalation through his nose—and hoped they wouldn’t catch on that he was listening. But their proximity to him now didn’t help. Sheer clarity couldn’t interpret a foreign language. A set of cold fingers touched his arm, massaged it lightly. Then amidst what he took to be idle chatter, a sharp prick in his arm made him jump—Warren made a nasally gasp and fluttered his eyelids, as if waking.
The woman said something soothingly and stroked his forehead. He felt a tingle in that right arm that crept up towards his shoulder. Then he realized he couldn’t feel his fingers—she had most certainly applied a local anesthesia. He stared at the ceiling, wondering what they planned for him. His ears heard a bit of machinery being maneuvered; his shoulder felt a weight on the joint, then a thud. Warren yawned and flickered his eyelids again, eyes straining towards his right arm. What looked like one of his father’s air-powered nail guns was situated over his right forearm. The girl was holding some sort of device to his skin. It bleeped twice and she made a satisfactory grin. The man turned away, apparently setting the gun down. His shoulder felt another tug. Warren returned his gaze to the ceiling, which didn’t seem so low any more.
Then his view was filled with the woman’s face—which warren found only slightly attractive. She had a rather emaciated look to her, with sallow cheeks and defined cheekbones. Her eyes seemed set too deep and her skin seemed stretched over bone alone. Thin, but ruby red lips spoke something to him, and those blue eyes pierced his own, searching him past a sharp, beak-like nose. Her short, crimson hair still fell over her ears, but had been spiked in front. Her thin eyebrows rose in expectation of an answer; she glanced at her partner, as if to ask for help—but just for a moment—then she settled her gaze back on Warren, who desperately wanted to say something but had trouble finding the words.
Then the woman stood back and turned. Warren’s eyes grew wide when he saw a set of ink-black wings stretch from her shoulders and block his vision of half the room. They were grand, majestic, and terrible wings—like those of a giant raven. With a swift stroke of those powerful, feathered limbs, she took off down the corridor. Still in shock, he turned to see the man grin and exit the corner. No wings on him though, Warren told himself.
Before Warren had any time to ask himself what he had just witnessed, the whole room shook violently and it seemed the bottom fell out of the left side—the whole room sank to an incline. The straps held Warren fast, but a myriad of tools dove to the left-hand wall, bouncing beneath him. The bed he lay on seemed secured to the floor well enough, so he tried to relax. He took three regulated breaths, then paused for one deep breath, and then repeated the procedure.
But then shouts began issuing from down one of the passageways beyond his room. A distant explosion and what he took to be erratic gunfire trickled into his ear. Just before another explosion, Warren thought he heard the words, “Get down!” but he wasn’t sure of anything at the moment—except that his arm was tingling with a vengeance. He tried to wiggle it, but that just sent a shower of needles down the length of his arm. So he relaxed and listened.
The shouts were definitely getting closer, the cracks interrupting what had become a storm of activity seemed more and more likely gunshots. He imagined Livingstone was behind it. At least, he hoped he were. When Warren believed the commotion closing in on himself, the woman, if you could call her that, returned—swooped down and landed on the left wall, folding her wings behind her. She made a cute frown at Warren and searched the spilt tools lining the corner of the room. A syringe made her happy and, with a couple great flaps, leapt over Warren and clung to a mounted lamp at the top half of the angulated room.
She found the cabinet she wanted, and carefully pulled the magnetized door open. Small glass vials crowded the opening, and one by one she tossed them over Warren, until she found the one she was after and a small pile of broken glass had accrued at the bottom of the room. With a playful stab, she stuck the needle through the thin rubber cap and drew the syringe full.
Her eyes flicked to Warren and her tongue caressed her lower lip. Then, like an eagle diving down to snatch a fish from water, she spread her wings and dropped to the right side of the table. Landing with a crouch, she smiled at Warren, found the vein in his numb arm, and jabbed in the needle. She sang something in a language he didn’t understand, kissed him on the cheek, spread her wings and dove down the hallway. When she was out of sight, Warren tried to look at his arm—he could only imagine what sort of injection she had given him.
Just then another shout, one most certainly recognizable as Old Fred’s, erupted from just beyond the passageway. Warren decided to call to him, to aid with what had to be a rescue effort. “Fredric!” he tried with a hoarse voice. He coughed and tried for more volume. “Fredric! I’m over here” Several shots rang out—followed by a thud. “Fredric?” Warren tried again, his vocal cords warming up a bit. Another, louder thump echoed to him. Then, to Warren’s surprise, Sofi’s figure appeared in the doorway, one foot on the floor, the other on the left wall.
“Hey you,” she said.
Warren tried to smile. “Hi.” Sofi seemed to judge the distance between the passage way that fell off to the left and the corner of the room filled with medical debris. With a jump and a slide, she found herself below Warren. With another leap, she had secured a grasp on his table’s leg, and she pulled herself up, wrapping her leg between the supports to free her hands.
Her nimble fingers quickly undid the straps on Warren’s arms, saving the waist and shoulder belts for last, to keep him from falling. As she released his harnessed right arm, Sofi noticed the blood on it. “What did they do?”
“Several shots via needle and one by nail gun, I think.”
“Hmmm. We’ll check you out later, come on. Hold onto me with your good arm while you pivot. Excellent; do you mind that drop?” she asked.
“Not a bit.”
So he landed on the wall and leaned back against the floor. Another explosion sounded further into the corridors and several small cracks of gunfire reached their ears afterward. “Are those the others? Warren wondered aloud. Sofi nodded and dropped down next to him, crunching a conglomeration of medical utility beneath her feet. “Let’s join them,” she ordered more than suggested. “Down, I think, will be our best option. She withdrew a pistol from a leg holster and peered down the passage. She nodded, gave a little leap and slid down the incline on her right hip, disappearing quickly in the failing light. Warren gave chase rather whimsically and tossed himself down the corridor, though not quite as far out as Sofi, in hopes he wouldn’t land on her.
The slide wasn’t nearly as smooth as he had expected, but his location was; when he hit the wall at a “T” intersection, he landed right behind Sofi. A cry to the left caught their ears and Sofi took off in that direction. Warren blinked and shook his right arm, hoping some form of life would come to it soon.
And as his mind’s focus was somewhat distracted by the semi-simple job of following Sofi and waiting for her commands, he found a moment to wonder where Ali had gone. This gave rise to just enough panic to send a shiver down his spine. He had not seen (or heard, for that matter) Ali in the room where he awoke. Warren joined Sofi at the edge of the next hallway.
“We need to find Ali; she’s gone,” he whispered.
“Who?”
“Ali. The rat you gave me.”
“We’ve been through this: I didn’t give you a rat. She was a plant to track your movements. If we find her again, they’ll be able to find us again. It’s for the best, Warren, that she’s gone. Now hold while I clear this next passage,” Sofi said and slid into the darkness. The echo of two shots came blasting back to him. “Clear!” Sofi’s voice issued up to him. Warren had half a mind to disappear in his own search for Ali—let the others catch up with him. It was such a troublesome situation, one with which Warren knew countless others had struggled. His instinct warred against Sofi’s words. He wondered how he would even begin to find Ali. “Watson!”
Another three shots clapped against the walls and bounced through the passages. “Watson, I need some help,” Sofi urged. This overpowered Warren’s train of thought and mandated action. He slid down to her side; she pointed across his chest, down a low-lit corridor. “Run that way, go now!” Warren obeyed and bounced from wall to floor to wall on as straight a path as he could go. He heard another pair of shots, then that distinctive hiss-snap as the floor beside him exploded into a small puff of dust. He reached for his shoulder, found nothing and switched shoulders. When he grasped only air a second time, he panicked. Then memory kicked it and the question of Ali’s whereabouts plagued him.
But another hiss followed by a ricocheting ping kept his head down and his feet moving. Several shots (without the deadly hiss) issued from Sofi’s weapon and a slight thud warmed his heart. The already much more uniquely distant passage began to fall off a bit, curving downward. And just when he began to slow out of sheer caution, a soft orange light illuminated the corridor beyond him, issuing from an object beyond the curve, beyond his sight. Warren glanced back to find Sofi right behind him. He pointed at the light.
“What do you think it is?” he asked.
Sofi raised her weapon. “Let’s find out.”
The glow rippled over the subtle curves of the passage walls, drifting steadily towards them, growing steadily brighter where their line of sight ended. When the object finally appeared, it was difficult to look at—but not overpowering in its brightness. It took Warren a moment for his eyes to adjust from the relative darkness he had been in before encountering the object; then epiphany lit his mind: it was a moth—a giant, effervescent moth.
Its wings fluttered in a blur, but the creature seemed not to mind taking its time in its progression up the tunnel. Its size was palpable—perhaps as long as he was tall, with wings spreading across the width of the hallway, more than he could stretch his arms. And like a fine dust, light seemed to float off of its beating wings and to coat everything in its path. Warren sighed at the warmth of the moth’s presence—it was as if an emotional burden had been lifted from his shoulders by the light.
Sofi, on the other hand, kept her weapon steady—almost as if she recognized the beast and knew it was dangerous. She passed Warren with a crawling but steady advance, pressing a hand to his chest. “What do you want, demon?” Warren thought he felt the effects of a shiver in her body, and raised an eyebrow. She had addressed it, “demon,” and he wasn’t quite sure what to make of that. It seemed harmless enough—but so had that gardener. He decided to stay behind Sofi and let her do the talking.
But then something happened that caught Warren completely off-guard. The moth spoke with a tender, but surrounding sort of voice. “Take care little one, for you know nothing of tending the garden.”
Sofi seemed to tense, fighting something with every muscle in her body. Her lips quivered as she spoke again. “I know I have been charged to deliver this one to St. Barthe’s, ae1205-Bau, Vilate 3 and neither you, nor any of your kind, nor any agent of the Mar will keep me from completing my task.” Sofi’s confidence seemed to wither with each passing second. A short pause seemed an eternity of conflict.
Then the creature issued what Warren imagined was a laugh—a crackling sort of trilling note. It fluttered closer and Sofi stepped back, her right shoulder pressing in Warren’s left. “I do not intend you harm—as do some aboard this ship,” the moth soothed. “The Mar are fickle and their trusts are as easily broken as gained.”
“And you are less so? I know your kind—your filth runs deeper than the oceans.”
“If you will condemn me along with my species, consider my actions from the free air above, and I beg you to choose on a different day your judgment on me,” the creature spoke and suddenly stopped his wings, alighting on the floor. Deep dark circular marks filled the wings, which it stretched to their full span. Then the beast began to vibrate its wings and the marks began to shimmer—then to move up, down, to focus in on Warren and Sofi like two great eyes, searching their souls. Then the wings stopped and a shockwave of what seemed sheer light knocked them backwards.
When the bright, dancing spots in their eyes faded and the shapes of dark blues and greens took on texture and shadow, Warren and Sofi found themselves outside of the Denver waypoint building. Beside them stood Livingstone and Old Fred, Ali squeaked from Warren’s shoulder, and the six man team were high-fiving each other and pointing to the sky, the buildings, etc. Trent was running a hand through his hair and checking his watch.
Warren snatched Ali off his shoulder and stroked her head—then turned to Sofi. “What was that?” Sofi looked only at Livingstone who shook his head and kicked at the ground.
“It was a demon,” she explained, more to Livingstone than Warren. “I’ve never seen one like it—it was…amiable, even. It’s responsible for…”
“I know, Sofi. I know. It’s just…” Livingstone responded and shoved his hands in his pockets. A long silence continued until Warren couldn’t stand it anymore.
“Where were we? What happened?” Livingstone just paced, and Sofi seemed most intrigued by his actions. Luckily for Warren, Old Fred would never turn down a chance to talk, and he seized it by the horns and ran with it.

Chapter 11

2008-11-18T18:47:00.000-08:00

If, in the event of a catastrophe, you manage to remember your identity, your chances of survival will probably triple. If by a minor miracle, you somehow retain logical reasoning and critical thought, you will have surpassed (if only the cliché) masses of humanity which flounder in their plight. And finally, if you can master your senses and control motor-skills and muscle movements during such a crisis—well, you have probably been trained in the Armed Forces.
Sofi, Oscar, and the rest of the team qualified in the final category—the minority, to say the least. Warren did not. While he managed to think and demand action of his body, the rush of adrenaline (again) made his movements shaky and his grasp weak. And so he fumbled with the packing job to which Sofi had mandated him. He managed to follow the directions—when he actually saw them—and had nearly half the equipment packed when the window in the far corner of the room suddenly glowed with a bright pink haze.
Ali chirped and switched shoulders three times to figure out which afforded her the best vista of the window, as Warren crouched and skittered towards the window. He knew this action would be severely dissuaded by Sofi, but the intrigue of the luminous pink glow, now coating the room through the light drapes. His mind blitzed through questions before he had a chance to answer any of them. The final one he settled on—what was going on here?
When he reached the window sill, pulled back the drapes a bit, and peaked out, the scene which greeted his eyes blew his imagination to bits. Dominating the landscape, a large pink globe, hovering a couple feet off the ground, rotated—like a giant disco ball, Warren thought—and radiated a bright, but warm light, which blanketed everything around it. Looking to his extreme right, he saw the edge of another of the slowly spinning globes. But as he studied the landscape more, he found that smaller pink globules were breaking off from the big ones, floating—not in random directions—but towards the house. He also noticed from beyond the cherry spheres the small, indistinct contours of men with rifles behind cover.
Just before he decided to continue packing, he heard a muffled yell and saw the smoke of a rocket-propelled grenade take off towards a hedge where he had spotted some of the besiegers. But to his utter surprise, the rocket slowed, as if fired underwater, lost altitude and fell to the ground, sputtering along the grass until the rocket motor burned out. It fizzled for a moment on the lawn, then exploded, having only covered about a third of the distance between the house and the adversaries.
As the dust and smoke cleared, Warren began to see the pink light reflecting off of other spots in the lawn. He squinted. The pieces must be metal—then it struck him: they were bullets that had been fired at the enemy. Somehow the pink globes negated momentum—like an inertia generator or something. So surprised at his discovery was Warren that when the three knocks came at the door, it took him several moments to remember what the knocks signified, and then several more seconds to actually walk to the door and unlock it.
Old Fred stumbled into the room, panic-eyed. “Useless!” he cried, eyes glancing about the room—evidently searching for something. “It’s all useless—come on, where’s the damn…aha!” He picked up a hand-held device and began tapping away at it.”
“What’s happening, Old Fred?” Warren queried.
“They…uh…” Fredric began, as distracted as a four year old with a new toy. “Came. And…holy shit! How long?” He dropped the piece of equipment and snuck to the window, peering out for a moment, then crept back to Warren. “You’re coming with me. Leave all this; Sofi will worry about that.” And he grabbed Warren by the arm and the two sprinted through the halls. “Five minutes has never seemed so long in my life!” he ranted as they turned a corner into the dining room, where Livingstone was descending the stairs and spat.
“They shot at me!” he yelled, with obvious frustration and jumped the final three stairs.
“Welcome to my world!” Fredric snapped and flung Warren to a chair. Warren’s hands automatically (as had been the case for several hours now) cupped themselves around Ali on his shoulder.
“But you don’t understand—I was IN.”
“What do you mean ‘in’?” Old Fred wondered while creeping back to the dining room window.
“In their manual glider. They had absolutely no reason to suspect I stole it! And they shot at me!” Livingstone ranted, joining him at the window. “I hate being shot at.”
“They have terrible aim anyway,” Fredric soothed.
“But still, blind luck pays dividends sometimes. I don’t want to be killed by blind luck. In fact, I don’t want to be killed at all.”
“You are in the wrong line of work if you don’t want to be killed you know. You might have gone into masonry or something.”
“Forget that! At least I have a gun if someone shoots at me. But I was in their glider! Who shoots at their own glider?”
“Evidently the Mar.”
“I’m surprised you guys didn’t shoot me down.”
“You were on the radio, telling us it was you.”
“And I’m supposed to trust that you’ll believe me and that you won’t shoot at me?” Livingstone wondered.
“Yes! It’s called teamwork.”
“Like the San Diego exercise?”
“Luke was shot because he was an idiot.”
“And how do I know you wouldn’t shoot me down and call me an idiot afterwards?”
Old Fred began to reply, but the sudden thumping of a helicopter had drowned them out. Warren, who had been thinking about Old Fred’s citation of the wonderful communication that existed between himself and Oscar, now sensed a newer desperation crossing the faces of the two at the window. Through the doors of the kitchen behind them came Sofi and the rest of the team she had evidently rounded up, including Trent. Fred and Oscar joined them at the table, where Sofi began yelling over the helicopter.
“Trent tells me that these generators which make our armaments at present useless against them work both ways and that’s why we haven’t seen any responsive fire on their part. But he thinks it’s more than just defense, or a way of keeping us under siege. Tell them, Trent,” she demanded.
“If it works like I think it does, these pink balls basically mitigate the effect of forces—like the force behind a propelled bullet. This also probably makes it extremely difficult to run past them. They have been closing slowly on the building, which will make it more and more difficult for us to escape. But more than this, I think the effect on the structure itself will be profound. Architects carefully measure and direct forces to keep the building standing—by uses of arches, braces, supports, etc. Well, when these balls reach the edge of the building, the effect on the structural integrity will probably be extreme. I imagine then, that the helicopter has some sort of concussive weapon aboard. When the structure’s integral binding forces have been eliminated, it will become a house of cards—held together by only a few flimsy bolts and nails, not by the sheer forces acting on each other. So, in the same way that an earthquake produces a tsunami in the ocean, they’ll attack the house in this manner: by producing a tsunami in the air. And our “house of cards” will not hold up.”
The menacing thumps of the helicopter dominated the silence, while eyes searched eyes at the table. “So what do we do?” Old Fred finally asked. “We have five minutes until the waypoint even begins.”
“I say we down that helicopter,” Livingstone offered. “We may have a slight advantage over the effect of those balls by shooting from the roof, if our target gets low enough.”
Sofi nodded. “I agree. The bird is our number one priority; if we can keep it from blowing the house down, we might be able to slip paths and escape before the Mar make it into the house. How long do we have Fred?”
“I count…three minutes and twenty-eight seconds….now,” he determined.
“Okay, everyone to the upstairs bedroom with the skylights,” Sofi ordered and everyone at the table split and filed up the stairs—at what might be noted as a less than normal pace, perhaps even sluggish would describe it. When they surrounded the skylight and prepared to exit to the roof, they found, suspended on a cable below the helicopter, yet another of the pink balls. Fredric, per usual, was the first to speak.
“I don’t think they mean to crush the house.”
“They mean to trap us—we need to get to the very center of the house, away from the physical influence of the orbs,” Sofi counseled. “How much time until the waypoint opens?”
“Just under two minutes,” Old Fred answered.
“That’s all we need to hold out; it’s likely that when the event occurs, you should feel a little different, as the influence of another history, one hopefully without the globes, should give us the chance to run,” said Sofi, and so the troupe, even more lethargically, descended the stairs and found a basement bedroom nearly in the center of the house, about as far away from any brilliant, pink orb as possible. Oscar and Fredric took up positions by the door, with six (including Trent) forming a line behind them. Two more found cover positions protecting Sofi and Warren, while Ali dug herself into his collar.
The silence was awful (it seemed to take a special toll on Fredric)—but they new better than to talk and reveal their location. For surely the enemy knew the waypoint was close to breaking and would be sending troops in to wipe them out before they had any chance of escape. Old Fred had since handed the countdown device to Sofi in return for an ammo clip—and she checked it addictively. Warren tried not to breathe. Livingstone fidgeted, quite obviously uncomfortable with waiting.
At the minute mark, Sofi nudged Warren—he looked at the screen and then smiled at her. She seemed intent on listening for footsteps. At thirty seconds, she let out a sharp hiss, every eye turned to her. She flashed her ten fingers three times. Everyone seemed to tense up—each had a finger caressing a trigger. Warren wondered what exactly might happen once they crossed the threshold of the waypoint. Would he indeed feel himself move at all? Would he feel different? Would he notice anything strange? Or would it simply pass, leaving him to hope for the best?
Sofi flashed ten fingers. Warren felt his heartbeat rise. Five fingers. How precise could their calculations be? Three fingers. Warren covered Ali with a hand. One finger. Everyone sighed. With each second after (for the next fifteen or so) no one dared to breathe. Eyes glanced around the room, from gaze to gaze. Warren hadn’t noticed any change. Livingstone stood and stretched a leg—hopped once, twice. He shook his head and scowled at the door.
Just as it seemed he was about to say something, the door exploded. Two small, round metallic containers skipped into the room. One flashed brilliantly—but lacked the customary bang of a concussion grenade. Still, Warren found his vision blurred with white light. As it started to clear, the only sound, a lonely hiss, gave him a momentary hint that perhaps the fog wasn’t all in his vision. But by the time he had figured out that there was indeed a mist issuing from the other canister, a sudden, crushing wave of exhaustion overpowered his mind, and Warren faded into a deep, soothing sleep, ignoring the muffled, distant sounds of human voices and some irritating pops.

Chapter 10

2008-11-17T17:18:00.001-08:00

Now. When I asked you to consider the journey of Warren Spicks, I had very little expectation of credibility. But the facts, as I lay them out here, remain true. And if you should ask for proof, well I’ve already supplied it: glance at our girl across the street, Sofi Gio Seville. Yes, that was her full name. And if you remember, she was indeed the author of that fascinating article which had caught Warren’s eye in the café in Manitou Springs on that first fateful day of his journey.
Now, why should she be proof of an international mob war you’ve never heard anything about? How does she explain elephants roaming Colorado’s valleys, a flood of pinecones, such reckless fighting with massive collateral damage, and not a stitch of news coverage? Well, should your doubts flare up, should your mind question the reality of the things I’ve told you, her articles, indeed her very field of study, will be of extreme interest to you. While her degrees in social psychology explain her skilled work with the human operatives within the organization—it was not her passion. Rather, she had nearly completed a bachelor’s in the field of philosophy, her favorite class, as she once told me, being one on cosmological philosophy—asking questions about the reality of the universe, asking about the entire progression and existence of the whole of what is.
But some professor noted her skill in perceiving human beings and talked her into switching majors (she had a few psychology classes under her belt already, I think) probably mentioning the quality and quantity of jobs related to the field of psychology, as opposed to philosophy. So she made the switch between asking questions about the whole of things, to asking questions about the mind—both rather complex with a fair amount of unanswerable questions to deal with. And probably because of their similarities, she excelled at psychology and proceeded to finish her master’s in it as well. This you already know.
And yet, somewhere, the longing to understand and address the bigger issues—well, the biggest issue (perhaps besides theology, based on one’s beliefs) which could be addressed. Her question could probably be phrased like this: What does it all mean? And this of course, contained all manner of sub-questions. How did it begin? What does it contain? Will it end? Etc. These were inquiries she addressed regularly in articles to whatever local paper would take them. Before she met Warren, she had been stationed in Manitou for some time, but when she was compromised by Warren’s arrival she had to uproot herself. So up to that day in Manitou, she had published in a local newspaper entitled, “Outside the Camp” several articles of interest, not only to the local readership, but probably to any chair of philosophy on the continent—had they the chance to read it.
Sofi, however, she isn’t a very forward human being at all—not like Trent, who will smile and swindle anyone he meets, nor Old Fred, who will talk your ear off, no matter who you are. And so Sofi’s aspirations remained small and her articles appreciated among local thinkers.
Here then, I submit my proof. Sofi’s discoveries in philosophy, particularly in the philosophy of time as it related to her preferred field of cosmology, had captured the interest of one of her readers. This man, as I found out from her, had visited Sofi not a few days before Warren arrived, asking about her most recent article. He was an elderly man—much older than Fredric—whose habit, it seemed to her, was the wearing of trench-coats. Even in the middle of the summer, he walked into the café and met with Sofi, dressed in a dark-gray trench-coat with a low-brimmed hat and dark aviator sunglasses. He had a salt-and-pepper mustache, and strands of brilliant white hair spilling over his ears and beneath his hat.
Their conversation, as Sofi told me, was short and sweet, for he too was afraid of the Mar and their capabilities. She would not tell me what he proposed, at first. But in the end, I coaxed this much information from her: he had told her that her theory of time and space was true in most facets, and that the Mar’s influence was far more reaching than she assumed. Then he told her about the waypoints and their importance to the future journey of Warren Spicks. She of course asked him about Warren—he told her only that Warren was, as she had assumed, of great value to the Mar and she would do best to escort him through the waypoints. With that, and perhaps an eloquent goodbye, the stranger had disappeared.
Now, I know little of what waypoints are, or even how they work, but they are points in time and space where overlap occurs. Overlap between what, you ask? Well, I just happen to have acquired that article of interest from Sofi. You may read it length, but let me summarize her main points and what the gentleman in the cloak pointed out to her. Sofi envisioned the universe as did the Latin writer of the mid 20th century, Jorge Luis Borges—as a garden of forking paths. These paths, infinite in number, represent a single history of the universe. Now when I say a history, I mean as a string of events as influenced by rational beings, or to quote Sofi, “the cascading stream of time resulting from a choice, be it a butterfly’s choice to land on a flower or the choice of John Wilkes Booth to pull the trigger.” Each of these paths of time crisscross the massive labyrinth of times in the giant garden of the universe. What the gentleman in the long coat told Sofi, was simply that there are waypoints, places where these histories cross each other and one might traverse into another path—and that the Mar had already succeeded in doing so.
This gave Sofi hope, as a team of code-breakers working on Mar transmissions had intercepted a great many codes which came out to be little more than random numbers. With this paradigm, the numbers were determined to be longitude and latitude and time locations of these waypoints. With this discovery, the planning to move Warren across these different paths to the final safe location on Florida’s coast had begun. A couple of the timings would have to be dead-on accurate—as several of the waypoints would only open for a few minutes, instead of days. Of course, this path-hopping strategy had been largely built on decoded Mar information until they figured out how to locate and track these waypoints.
Sofi had figured that Trent would be able to figure that out when he found one. The first, closest on their journey had been in southeast Denver, and she had ordered a team in to secure the location of the future waypoint—and, as she explained to me, had joined them via helicopter the night after leaving Warren.
So it should come as no surprise to you that when she heard the explosion and gunfire outside the secured area, she and her team arrived on the scene to find Old Fred and Warren working busily to save what looked like a gardener from death’s grip. But it did come as quite a shock to Warren to see Sofi trotting up with a group of six armed men. After Fredric had updated her, she ordered her men to get Scott’s body and the injured man back to the waypoint. She also insisted that Warren accompany her to the waypoint itself, while they waited for Trent and Oscar to arrive—explaining in the process as much as she could to Warren about the nature of the waypoints. As they entered the building, what seemed an ordinary upper-middle class residence, Sofi said something which caught his attention.
“Now I doubt that there will be many ways to tell once you’ve made it through a waypoint and have crossed into a different pathway. Most of the paths will seem so similar that until we’ve detected a bifurcation again, we can’t be sure we’ve been successful. From what information we’ve intercepted from the Mar, they seem to treat the waypoint as a waiting room. You go in, you look at your watch, when the time’s up you go out. It’s almost as if you have to rationally choose to enter and exit a waypoint—whereas, if you stumble upon one in everyday life, it seems doubtful you will cross. So we believe that if you choose to enter a waypoint, knowing that it is such, you’re chances of successfully navigating to another path will increase. If you do get separated from the team, keep an eye on your wristwatch.”
Warren didn’t know he had a wristwatch, and began to inquire what she meant when she pointed to his pocket. “Put it on. It will indicate your proximity to the next waypoint and alarm you when you have successfully made the transition.” Warren checked his pockets. Sure enough, he pulled out a gleaming burnished silver watch and slipped it onto his wrist. “If you happen to lose it, Watson, use your own sensibilities. If you have passed into another pathway, you should check the little ordinary occurrences in life to make sure. For instance, say you don’t see any butterflies. This is June, they should be in any garden. That might be a solid indication you’ve succeeded.
“You may feel a little different as well. Our scientists aren’t quite sure what side-effects this sort of travel may cause. Just keep your head and follow me or Oscar or your watch,” she finished and indicated for Warren to have a seat on a plush suede couch. “Do you need anything? Something to eat, a drink?”
“Do you have anything for Ali?”
“Who?”
“Oh, Ali is the name of the rat you sent me.”
“I didn’t send you a rat; what are you talking about?” Sofi wondered. Warren fished Ali out from his shoulder. Sofi wrinkled her nose.
“She came this morning with a note from you,” he said and stroked Ali gently. Sofi shook her head—frowned at the rodent.
“No, I didn’t authorize anything of that sort. Let me run some tests on her; make sure she isn’t being used by the Mar to transmit your location to them. Here,” she demanded, pulling a plastic bag from the counter.
“I’m not going to put her in there,” Warren stated.
“Watson, please, I don’t have time for games; we need to figure out if she has a tracking device in her.”
“I’ll take her wherever she needs to be taken; but if you harm her, so help me God…” Warren threatened, holding Ali close.
“Watson, it’s just a rat…” Sofi began, but Warren shook his head and interrupted her.
“She’s survived as much disaster today as I have—more than any creature should in a lifetime. I’m not going to let her suffer any more.” Likely sensing the determination in Warren’s voice, Ali squeaked defiantly.
“Fine, bring it along,” Sofi sighed and strode from the room. Warren followed her, but not closely.
“I’m sorry Ali. I don’t know what’s wrong with her today. She’s usually much prettier,” Warren said, setting Ali back on his shoulder. She squeaked and tried to decide which shoulder offered the better view.
When they entered a bedroom which had been converted into a sort of minor operation command post or the like—wired with all manner of portable electronic equipment—Sofi picked up a small device (Warren assumed it was a metal detector—or at least had such a function or something similar) and stood right in front of him, though her focus remained on Ali. Warren stiffened and suppressed a shiver. Her proximity to him heightened his senses—with each breath, her fragrance overpowered him. But she seemed oblivious to her marked effect on him, and so Warren tried to ignore the quivers in his stomach—attempted not to gaze at her hair, her neck, imagine her resting in his embrace. And of course failed miserably.
But as soon as she had approached, she spun away and grabbed another gadget. “You’ll have to hold her for a second,” she ordered and Warren obeyed, picking Ali from his shoulder. “Okay, start by holding her on her back. Like this,” she said, grabbing Warren’s wrist and rotating them. He noted the warmth, the delicacy of her touch—and while he tried to think of Ali’s safety, he only succeeded in dreaming of her fingers entwining his own.
“Aha!” she exclaimed, looking at the display on the device. “They’re tricky, the Mar.” She set down the tool and kneeled down to examine a suitcase full of such electronic gadgets.
“What’d they do to Ali?” he asked her, his voice coated with obvious concern.
“It’s a fairly recent development. Trent would know more about it, but basically it’s a small radioactive signature—not harmful, but easily tracked from within fifty miles or so. Because their network is so widespread, it’s unlikely we can ever get away from it—and if we do, say in the middle of Nebraska, they’ll have a pretty good guess of where to send a research plane. I don’t think it’s quite strong enough for a satellite to track it, but it’s certainly possible.”
“So what do we do?” Warren wondered, stroking Ali. Sofi put a hand on her hip.
“We could put it to sleep and mail the body to Alaska, which might serve as a healthy decoy for a while,” she suggested. Warren cringed and glanced at Ali.
“No, not an option. Can we neutralize whatever it is?”
“Maybe. If we had the access of a full research hospital. But we don’t. So no.”
“Anything else?”
“We could pinpoint the infusion location—it’s not an IV injection, it’s too concentrated to be in the bloodstream. Perhaps they fused it to the bone. But you’d need to convince our medical officer to perform a surgery on a rat. Which is highly unlikely. Best thing to do is to part with her, Watson,” she confided, tapping her foot as if anxiously awaiting a decision.
Warren found Ali’s gleaming eyes and couldn’t imagine ending her life—or even tearing himself away from her now. He thought himself a father asked to drop his daughter off a bridge to save his own life, an impossibility. His head shook automatically and Sofi sensed his distress. “I won’t give her up,” he stated. “Please, Sofi, you need to find a way to get this out of her.”
But Sofi found herself distracted by a sudden call from Oscar. She answered while patching it through to the main display in the room. “Yes?” was her simple question. A blurred picture of Livingstone came to life, “I’m…ehh…”he began, looking frantically left and right, “going to need a little help.”
“Where are you?” Sofi demanded, fiddling with settings to get a clearer image.
“Right above you—at least for a little while. Have you…looked outside a window recently?” he asked with evident concern thickening his words. Warren stepped to look outside, but Sofi caught his arm in a grip like a vice. “If not, that’s okay. For a bit. Like maybe…eighteen seconds. Whoops. They spotted me. Oscar out.” And with that, his face faded from the screen. Warren put Ali back on his shoulder while Sofi scrambled for a door. She shut and locked the one. “Stay in here—pack what you can; it’s all labeled.” Shoot anyone who doesn’t knock three times on the door. I’m going to send Old Fred back to help you when I find him. Until then, stay down and pack.” Warren started to protest, but the door slammed in his face.
“Well Ali, looks like we’re not done for the day.” Warren sighed and began unplugging everything.

Chapter 9

2008-11-15T18:02:00.000-08:00

While the drive to Denver was almost entirely uneventful, Warren found that his driver was not. Scott, having met Warren beforehand, made conversation easy at first—but after explaining their situation had little to say, other than a quick introduction to the driver, Fredric. No sooner had Warren finished the introduction with a, “Nice to meet you, too,” the man, balding with brilliant white hair, mustache, and beard began a long monologue about himself, which Warren found only semi-intriguing, but could not interrupt or change the subject.
“And although Scottie here would have you believe I’m of a mixed descent—I only claim the ancient Teutonic blood in my veins. I know it sounds bad, but I don’t really care about my mother’s blood—it’s my father’s grandfather who was the son of one of the last Teutonic generals in the fading Holy Roman Empire. All this to say that despite my claims to nobility, these stable-boys call me Old Fred. Which makes me sound like some old rancher, working his dry bones to death.
“No, the truth is I’m an intellectual—a military strategist, if you will. That’s sort of my specialization. Why they think I can drive a vehicle across the country, I’ll never guess. But here I am, wasting my mental capacity ferrying you to Florida. But nevermind me, you are our guest and most welcome—but you aren’t the first, mind you.
“It’s always the same, move through the waypoints—get parcels in packages through points while properly proceeding…to…ehh…places like…Paris. Or maybe Pakistan. Hehe. That’s alliteration, you know. It’s such a wonderful time-killer. There was this one time in Santa Cruz when I managed to string together 250 words, well not counting articles or prepositions or a few linking words. And they made sense…well sort of. I mean, sentences; grammatically they worked, nouns and verbs and such, not just the blind ramble of words that people like Scott like to pass off as acceptable.
“No, language is actually quite important to a strategist. Communication is key—and whether your friends can understand you and whether your enemies cannot makes all the difference. So it’s little games like these which buffer your skill with words that can be crucial to the outcome of a battle. I mean, on a basic level if you say ‘Hurl that thing at them!’ it may take whoever you’re talking to ages (comparatively, of course) to understand what you mean. Whereas, if I say, “Scott, toss a grenade north, northeast, 20 yards, just on the other side of the hood of the small green vehicle to coax out the two hostile gunmen wearing black ski-masks, goggles, and bullet-proof vests,” then we’ve communicated much better and the chances of success in the fight is far increased.
“For instance, let’s look at that time in Seoul with our best soldier and communicator, Oscar. The two of us managed to withstand a nasty ambush and survive to tell about it. Why? Not because we were crack shots. Though I’m not bad and Oscar has the eyes of a hawk. Not because we had air support, which I should note we did not! Not because we were more heavily armed—hardly the case. So why did we walk out of it alive, with more than fifty of their number down, dead, dying, or injured? Communication. That is the only reason. Now, our training and skills helped. But it was sheer communication that got us out of that one.
Scott managed to interrupt him quickly—Warren noted his timing and imagined the young man had considerable skill at being able to add anything to the conversation. “What? You mean Oscar telling you to do something and otherwise being able to ignore you?” Warren chuckled, but the joke didn’t faze the old man.
“In fact, Oscar is one of the few whose words I respect in this outfit—he doesn’t say much but when he says something, it’s usually worth listening to. Unlike others I know. But that’s not really the point at all—ignorance rarely serves in battle. I knew a bunch of fellows in Vietnam who didn’t really listen at all—not that the officers were doing a spectacular job communicating in the first place. And you wonder why we lost that war? Communication. It takes effort on both sides of the party. People need to speak well and listen well. Now, I, being a strategist, am very apt at both—not to boast, but I’m just saying that people skilled in both areas have a huge advantage over your quiet, silent, soldier—like Scott here.”
Warren saw his chance and edged a question in. “But I thought you guys were traveling salesman?”
“Hehe. Well Watson, a keen observation. But the deviations between soldier and salesman are slight and few these days. Especially with the emerging prevalence and possible dominance (as it may be argued) of the Mar in our modern American society. Yes we sell electronics. But keep in mind, it’s all in the name of communication. Now I’m not saying everything we sell is bugged, mind you, but everything in our inventory is helping us set up a national communication network. We sell two phones to a business man, one for personal use, the other for work use. Now we might find it convenient to keep a track on his business for contact with known Mar operatives. While his personal phone might simply serve as a signal booster for under-the-radar calls, where we skip satellite networks altogether to avoid detection. And so on and so forth. The sales only empower and strengthen our communication and gives us an edge on the Mar’s communication. You see? Communications is first and foremost in any war.
“I cite a most recent occurrence in Afghanistan. It was sheer lack of communication that enabled the Taliban to drive the UN out of the country and retake it in the name of Allah. A certain UN General—who was actually a good friend of mine, voiced the concern that while communication between him and his troops was perfectly fine, the ability to interrupt or intercept enemy communications was virtually nil—as they had literally resorted to hand-delivered orders. They had no time-restraints on them, no threats of cutting funding, no international pressure to pull out. And so the Taliban took their time and used the most base, but least vulnerable methods of communication to organize a massive strike to retake Kabul and two other major Afghani cities. And the hell of it is, it worked! They utterly demolished the UN’s forces and now look where they are. Pakistan (and its nuclear reserves) is ripe for the taking—but enough of international politics. My point is that communications in war is integral to success.
“Now, ask me why our safehouse in Colorado Springs was attacked.”
“Why was our…” Warren began, but Old Fred had taken off again.
“Communication failure! Someone was lazy and allowed the Mar to intercept our transmissions at some point. And it almost cost us dearly! Which I intend to talk to our ‘fearless’ leader, Trent, and give him a piece of my mind on that subject. And it’s not the first time we’ve been on the losing side of communications lately, either. Like I told Scott here earlier, that Utah Experiment will be a blight on our record for years to come! People will look back and cite that as a textbook example of miscommunication and the dire consequences. I mean, when you take into account the sheer amount of money and manpower we invested to get an ear inside that Mar convention—and then to have it all hit the fan because someone called Trent on his cell phone? That’s just poor communications planning. This is the twenty-first century, for crying out loud. Anybody anywhere can listen to anyone’s cell phone with the right tech. We even have devices like that! Why should we assume that the Mar does not? That just tickles me in the wrong spot.”
Warren sighed and rubbed Ali mindlessly as Old Fred continued. All the way to Denver he continued explaining the necessity of modern communications but the viability of older methods, like Morse code and flag signals. He “cited” all sorts of studies and anecdotes and his own extensive experience in his arguments for improving and diversifying the communication capabilities of the organization. While he proved to be extremely knowledgeable in the field, he also proved amazingly resilient to any sort of decline in the conversation.
And yet the verbosity of the man didn’t disturb Warren in the least—while the material was somewhat repetitive, none of his anecdotes or examples had yet been the same. Warren found the man easy to listen to in his opinions and stories. He thought of whether Livingstone would approve of the man or not—he certainly might say the elderly man gave away far too much information, without even being asked for it. But he sensed that Livingstone, while perhaps condemning the sheer amount of words spoken, would find in him a valuable ally in his concern for perfection.
So Warren listened, while stroking Ali, and Old Fred talked all the way to Denver—though less could be said for Scott, who mostly leaned on his right elbow, staring out the window while they traveled north on I-25. When the first signs of the true urbanization of Denver began to appear outside the window, Fredric was busy explaining the all-time highlight of communication failure of the United States Armed Forces (in his esteemed opinion): the disaster at Pearl Harbor. Then Scott forcibly interrupted Old Fred’s train of thought—which took a will of steel, comparable to that of Superman.
“Fred, don’t…”
“…which meant that, in the case of the Arizona…”
“Fred, take…”
“…which became of course a national symbol…”
“Fred!
“…a seemingly insignificant error…”
“Fred turn…”
“What’s that?”
“Take 225. Next right.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now.”
“Oh, yes yes,” the old man said and exited the interstate. “So as I was saying, the smallest indiscretion in communication entirely disabled our Pacific fleet, and would have been worse if our carriers hadn’t been at sea. So blind luck saved us in the Pacific theatre from the disaster of poor communications. So you see that perfection in this field is desirable, though rarely obtainable.”
Scott put his head back against the passenger window, probably praying he wouldn’t have to remind Fred where to go. And when the next turn-off came, Scott turned—only to find Fred’s index finger flying in his face. He raised his hands and set his chin in his hand and his elbow on the window ledge.
In the end, they did get lost—even Old Fred had the courage to admit it—and Scott’s cursory knowledge of the area managed to save them. But as they neared the first waypoint, the two in the front became less and less cordial; they seemed to grow focused, frequently checking side-streets and scanning traffic. Even Fred’s babble became less and less numerous in their outbreaks, with long silences punctuating the time in the vehicle. Warren assumed the lone gunman had identified the vehicle and that Scott and Fred knew this and anticipated an attack as they neared their destination—if the location of the last safe-house had been disclosed, they couldn’t be sure any were safe.
“Black 4-Runner?” Scott asked.
“Certainly a possibility. I’ll keep an eye on him,” Fred answered. “You see any rooftop action?”
“No. Nothing yet. Next light, turn right.”
“Safe-house is a couple blocks away—on the left, right?”
“Yeah. Gardener in orange?”
“No. He’s fiddling—anyone undercover would be working to preserve the illusion. The 4-Runner still back there?”
“Don’t see it.”
“Doesn’t mean they can’t see us.”
“Of course…next left. I don’t see any reason to delay our entrance, do you?”
“Nah, I think we’re safe,” Fred agreed and slowed to turn into a lush residential tract. Scott kept his eyes fixed out the window; Fred was completely silent, scanning the road ahead of him. Ali scrambled at Warren’s shirt and he placed her gently back onto his shoulder—she immediately burrowed into the collar of his shirt.
When he looked up, he saw panic in Scott’s eyes, looking behind him, out the back window. “Get down!” he yelled and yanked the steering wheel down as hard as he could. As the car tilted on edge, in danger of rolling onto its side, Fred turned to look behind him with Warren; they saw the gardener stooped on a knee, his leaf-blower resting on his shoulder and something smoking traveling towards them. In the next instant the fiery impact sent the back end of the SUV spinning and the car started to roll. Warren clutched for Ali with both hands. In a blur of street and sky and shattered glass shards spinning—Warren shut his eyes, comforting only in the furry, quivering lump he protected on his shoulder, and listened to the sickening crunch of metal against ground. When the mist of glass had faded and the car slowed to a stop, sitting on its right side, Warren shook the confusion from his head and undid his seatbelt, dropping a foot or two to the pavement where the rear passenger-side door’s window should have been. Fred spat and managed to get himself undone, stepping in back with Warren.
“Stay back, behind the seat” he cackled, pointing towards the rear window with his thumb. Warren nodded. “Scott! You alright?” When no response came, Old Fred peered over the seat—Scott nodded forward, his hair damp with blood. Fred hiked a pistol from his left holster and handed it to Warren. “Anyone comes round the front who isn’t screaming for an ambulance, put two in his chest, one in his head.” Then he bent over Scott and began untangling him.
Warren kept one hand on Ali as he surveyed his vantage points. As long as he stayed behind the seat, he thought it was doubtful any further attack would come from range. He wondered when the others, Trent and Livingstone would arrive. How long could they fend off an attack, especially if Scott were injured badly? He knew the gardener was probably close, ready to inspect his handiwork and finish them off.
The feeling of the cool metal in his grip was not a familiar one for Warren. He had owned a CO2 pistol years ago, but hadn’t fired it in ages—and how could an air gun like that compare with something as real and as deadly as this gun? He trusted instinct to guide him and kept watch on his three exit points—in front, in back, and the sunroof.
Suddenly he saw a point of red light playing on the back of Scott’s seat. His heart jumped into his throat. “Fredric!” he rasped. “Don’t move!”
“What’s the issue?” he whispered back, after paralyzing himself.
“Laser sight on the seat.”
“That’s good! That’s good, Watson! We have a chance!” he sputtered. Warren cocked an eyebrow. “Now do as I say. Climb out the front, staying to the left, of course. Find some debris of some sort; hell, yank the steering wheel off if you have to. When I say, move it along the ground ‘till it’s within sight of the gunman—push it out quickly, so he won’t think about what it is, but take a shot at it. When you hear the shot, pull it back in as quick as you can. He’ll keep his eye trained there. Then, when you hear me shoot, jump out and put some rounds in him.”
Warren obeyed, hoping and praying the gardener was alone…perhaps Fredric had deduced this fact from the laser sight. He wasn’t sure how, but, as he clambered over the old man and out of the car, he knew Old Fred wouldn’t ask anything of him that wasn’t practical. All he had to do was convince the gunner that someone was stumbling out of the car—and pray his aim wouldn’t miss. But when he got outside of the vehicle, he found himself standing in a puddle of fuel, and the crackle of flames from the rear of the vehicle found his ears with a menacing touch. He had to move quickly. He edged his way around the popped hood and found a stripped belt hanging out. With nimble, but fairly shaky, hands he managed to pull the belt free—but then, an idea struck him. “Fred! I need your cap!” Without argument, a baseball cap came flying out from the vehicle. He crouched around the hood and bent the belt to fit in the cap, but when he released it, the cap simply popped off—no good. He needed something to hold the cap in place. And then it struck him, the movement of a cap might be just the thing.
He inched back around the hood, right up to the edge of the overturned vehicle. He pushed the belt out, cap first, along the ground, to keep pressure on the cap. Then, like a small miracle, he rejoiced when a red dot appeared on the cap. He released his grip on the belt and the cap flew off, landing several feet in the road, he kept the belt, with its frizz from failure, out in the street and slowly began to pull it back. And then, asphalt jumped up into his face—followed by the crack of a rifle. Warren almost immediately heard another shot fire and then, without much thought of anything, hurled himself out into the street, running sideways.
There, maybe ten yards away, a figure staggered backwards. Warren leveled his pistol and tried to center the sight on the man—but pulled the trigger. The kickback was more than he expected—and a puffball of debris appeared another fifty yards behind the man. Warren, kept his feet moving and adjusted a bit. He next shot was steadier and clipped a tree just to the figure’s left. But now the man had dropped his rifle and had his own pistol aiming in Warren’s direction.
Warren fired again. But missed high, above the man’s shoulder. A hiss of air rushing past his own left shoulder sent a shiver down his spine, which shook his aim. But he kept himself from pulling the trigger. Instead he kept running and fired another time, missing to the right again. He fired again quickly as the asphalt near his left foot exploded. This time, a result: the figure in orange staggered. He had hit him in the leg. Warren gasped in exhilaration, which reminded him to breathe, skidded to a halt, and planted himself. The man stumbled to a knee and he fired again, hitting the left shoulder which hammered the figure to his back. Warren advanced carefully, mindful of the many films he had seen, like the Patriot, where the hero had been overconfident in his approach and had taken a bullet from the fallen enemy.
“Hold!” came a cry from Old Fred. Warren stopped immediately—but held his weapon in the firing position. The old man clambered from the vehicle, his own pistol drawn. “Remove your weapons from you and your life will be spared!” he called out to the downed man. A pistol clattered, spinning away from him. “All of it! Now!” The figure coughed and managed to get his right hand above his head. Fred approached with caution, motioning with a hand for Warren to stay where he was. Which was just fine with Warren, who had relieved one hand from gun duty to comfort Ali.
Old Fred bent down to inspect the man. He pulled a couple grenades from his pockets and a knife from his belt—patted him down to check for any hidden weapons. Then he removed a couple plastic ties from his pocket—why he carried them in his pockets, Warren would never get to ask him, but figured the man was certainly the type to be prepared for anything (he was, after all, as he called himself, a soldier)—and cuffed his hands behind his back. Then he got to work. He ripped a piece of the man’s undershirt (around the waistline) and prepared a tourniquet on the leg, while ordering Warren over to put pressure on the shoulder wound.
“Fred, why are we helping him?” Warren found himself asking, as he wadded a piece of cloth in his fist and pushed against the wound.
“Because Scott is dead.”

Chapter 8

2008-11-13T19:52:00.000-08:00

The next morning passed quickly—within moments of his awakening, he heard Livingstone calling his name, found a breakfast had been prepared them, and a curious package beside it. Opening the parcel, wrapped in simple brown paper, Warren gasped. It was a small wire cage with a fluffy, black-eyed gray rat staring back at him. Livingstone only raised his eyebrows in curiosity. Warren found a note stuck to the side of the cage; he opened it and read the following:

Watson,
I haven’t the time to come by myself; but good luck on your journey. This furry little delight will accompany you. Let her be your constant friend and a reminder of the joy of life. She is only about a month old and hasn’t been named yet. I leave that to you. Until we meet again,

Sofi

Warren looked back to the creature, who scratched herself lightly behind her white ear. “Well,” he addressed the glittering black eyes, “. I suppose I will call you Ali. Does that suit you, Ali?” To his surprise, she squeaked, as if answering him. “Yes I think it does.” He opened the cage door and the rat edged towards the opening. After a minute or so of persuasion she ventured out and into Warren’s hand. He stroked her head with his little finger and smiled. She seemed to like him already. Her small whiskered nose twitched as she sniffed the air. “Oh I see, Ali. Are you hungry?” He pulled a bit of potato from the hash-browns on his plate. “What about this, does this count as rat food?” Ali’s tail twitched as she sniffed it—then she snatched it up with her front paws and polished it off.
Livingstone concentrated on his own breakfast, saying nothing to interrupt the pair as they bonded, except to remind Warren that rats took a fondness to shoulder perches and that his own breakfast was getting cold. And so the morning passed quickly, Warren enamored with Ali, Livingstone watching from the other side of the table—occasionally laughing at the antics of the rodent.
When Trent arrived, they were ready, the three of them: Warren, Livingstone, and Ali. “What’s with the rat?” Trent asked, after noticing the small whiskered face peeking out of Warren’s collar. Livingstone rolled his eyes. He evidently knew a barrage of questions would follow the first.
“A gift from Sofi, apparently,” Warren answered.
“Does it have a name?” Trent asked with shining eyes and a grand smile as they walked down the stairs.
“Ali is her name.”
“And did you pick that out? Or was that her name beforehand?”
“It was my choice.”
“Good call,” he complemented. Then he looked back at Ali and laughed. “She likes you, that’s for sure. Just make sure she doesn’t make a mess in my car.”
“No, I’ll keep her in the cage while we’re in the car,” Warren assured him, as they exited the stairwell and pressed through the doors into the crisp morning air. And one moment, he was chuckling and stroking Ali’s soft head, the next, Livingstone cried out and Warren felt an iron hand pressing his head to the ground. Warren watched Trent dive to the side and pull a pistol from his jacket. On his knees, he cranked his neck sideways to look back up at Livingstone who had a shotgun in his other hand, and was barking out commands. A black sedan pulling into the parking lot in front of him, apparently Trent’s, quickly accelerated and swung around to leave, but not before Warren became aware of a slight buzzing sound. Livingstone was still pushing him sideways, away from the house and into the cover of some landscaping between the place and the sidewalks. Ali shrieked several times and buried herself in Warren’s collar.
Warren tried to identify the buzz, but when a giant, spinning metal blade fell from the sky and sliced the escaping car in two, bouncing through the brick wall of the apartment wall behind him, he no longer worried about the sound nor resisted Livingstone’s urges to run. He scrambled around the corner as the singing buzz intensified and five more blades, easily ten-feet in diameter came spinning over the buildings to the east and crashed into the apartment, sending debris flying everywhere. Livingstone was screaming something to Trent as the three of them dashed for the road. Then what Warren thought were hundreds of mini-blades began crashing and bouncing around them, carving through tree branches and windows and mailboxes. Several more of the extra-large blades came ripping through the apartment behind them, weakening the structure enough that partial collapse sent clouds of dust spewing through the windows above and around them. Everywhere was the clinking of falling debris and high-speed blades skidding across concrete and ricocheting off of walls.
Then an indefinable roar joined the muted crumbling within the safehouse, the sharp tinkling of shattered glass falling to the ground, the screech of metal against asphalt—Warren looked up to the sky and saw a plane cruise low overhead, dispatching a final barrage of the little blades and a few small, dark objects into the middle of the apartment. Warren watched it disappear to the north and climb into the sky, while hoping the new torrent of blades would hit anything but him and Ali.
Livingstone was yelling again, pointing across the street to an alleyway. Trent sprinted across the street, a few of the final blades narrowly missing him. Then Warren felt himself shoved into the street, held his breath and tried to make his feet run. He heard a final glancing blade whir past his ear and felt Ali digging her claws into his neck to keep from flying out of his collar. When Livingstone was halfway across the street, two thundering explosions knocked them from their feet and a plume of smoke and flying debris enveloped the apartment. A surge of broken glass and bits of brick showered them; Warren squinted and pulled himself across the street to Trent’s waiting arms. He shook his head, tried to get the ring in his ears to go away—but it refused, the only other sound he could make out was his own panting breath. Livingstone picked him up to his feet. His lips were moving; head turning from side to side, evidently expecting another round of bombardment.
And then it came. The jet returned with a low, howling rumble, towing what seemed a giant concrete slab behind it. And as the three sprinted down the alley, the twenty-some cables all released and the massive chunk fell sluggishly through air. Warren glanced behind him as the slab found its target. The concussion of wind blew them again to the ground, but instead of little, pesky debris, much larger sections of wall and brick came hurtling past them. They scrambled back to their feet and down the alleyway. A post came cart-wheeling down between Warren and Livingstone, missing them by inches, but Trent fell when a section of brick wall hit his shoulder. Dust enveloped them and all became dark—Warren felt Livingstone grab his elbow and move him along, calling back for Trent—who mumbled something and pattered on among the final crashes and echoes of falling debris.
Warren pulled his shirt over his mouth—the dust in the air was still nearly intolerable. He coughed a couple times, spat out the dust in his throat, which helped clear his hearing for some unknown reason. He heard sirens erupt in the distance, Livingstone tredding on in front of him, Trent coughing somewhere in the cloud behind him. Ali panted, still tucked away in his collar.
“Trent, get package four over here now.”
“They’re northern side,” Trent rasped, “East team’s closer.”
“Package three was shopping mall—cover may have been blown; package four was in the garage. Get them over here,” Livingstone demanded.
Trent mumbled something as they cleared the alleyway and turned towards a park. A fresh breath of air rushed to them when they cleared the buildings; Warren paused to inhale the pure fresh breeze, to dust himself off, rub the debris from his hair. But Livingstone had other ideas and instead yanked Warren forward and across the road, into the park. Warren checked over his shoulder and found Trent stumbling after them, holding his left shoulder, gun still in hand, talking to what seemed his wristwatch.
Livingstone strode around a thicket next to a park bench and pulled Warren down into the thick of it. “Stay here; watch for a beige SUV to pull up to that stoplight over there. When it stops, run for it and get in the right rear door. Don’t look back. Trent will cover you from across the way; I’ll cover you from that big oak over there. Got it?” Warren had never seen this leadership side of Livingstone—a far cry from the impatient philosopher he met yesterday. “Answer me, Watson, do you understand?”
“Yes, I got it,” Warren replied.
“Good.” And with that, Livingstone darted to the tree, and scampered up its trunk like a squirrel chased by a dog. Warren glanced across the street—Trent was ducking behind a dumpster. He felt Ali quivering on his shoulder and reached back to give her a tender stroke.
“It’s okay, girl. We’re almost safe—you’ll need to hang on one more time.” Ali gave him a soft squeak and repositioned herself where she could look out of his shirt. He caressed her head. “Yeah, that’s better, huh girl.” He kept his eyes searching for the vehicle Livingstone had described while encouraging Ali. “You’re okay…you’re okay, girl,” he soothed. He suddenly wondered, “Am I okay?” He didn’t remember being hit by anything of substance—nothing hurt at the moment. But he knew that when the adrenaline wore off, it might be another story altogether.
And then there it was: the beige SUV traveling towards the stoplight. He looked for Livingstone, but he was nowhere to be seen in his tree. His eyes shot back to Trent, who had disappeared behind the dumpster. He took a quick glance around the park, a jogger with a shaggy dog by the pond, a mother with a stroller between him and the stoplight, a student reading a book underneath a tree. He looked across the street again—a man in a suit opening the door of a lexus, two hipsters lounging on a corner, a lady with a pink dress late for some party or get-together. When the vehicle stopped, he rose from his hiding place and concentrated on the vehicle. His steps came quickly, firmly—he sprinted, used his arms like his track coach had encouraged, took little steps to accelerate, like his soccer coach had mandated. Ali clenched her claws into Warren’s neck, holding on for dear life. His strides grew longer and more powerful, his vision was locked onto that SUV—but a figure atop a building in front of him interrupted his focus.
The silhouette’s elbows suddenly bowed outwards, and the realization that a rifle was being focused on him struck his heart with icicles of fear. His mind shorted—what to do? Then he was back on the soccer field. A single defender stood between himself and the keeper. He stutter-stepped right and then veered left, planting and shooting back right. A hiss-snap as a bullet hit the asphalt commanded Warren to keep dodging he leaned left, as thought to plant and dodge back right, but let his momentum carry him further left and spun around, with a short stutter-step backwards. Another hiss. Another crack. He saw the impact of the bullet on the street behind him as he spun—he even imagined he saw a vapor trail over his left shoulder. He planted hard on his left foot as he finished his spin and plunged back right towards the vehicle. A door was opening.
Another hiss-snap that hadn’t stopped him from running or filled his mind with pain made him wonder how many more times his luck would hold in the last twenty yards. Then a different sound echoed across the street. A heavier crack. He glanced back to the rooftop in time to see the figure slump to a knee and topple over. He turned to the park and saw Livingstone fall from the tree, land, and sprint away, across the park.
Then he slammed into the vehicle, staggered around the open door, and clambered inside, slamming the door behind him. His breaths were short and powerful, but he still managed to return Scott’s greeting. As the vehicle roared to life and shot down the road. He glanced out the back window to see Trent take off after Livingstone—and decided those two could take care of themselves.
“Nice moves,” Scott said, while rummaging for something below his seat.
Warren nodded, still out of breath. “Thanks,” he finally managed to say.
“You look like you’ve been through World War Four; good heavens, I don’t know how you’re in such good shape after what they hit you with.” He smiled and tossed a lump of heavy material in Warren’s lap. “Put that on. You’ll probably need it,” he said with an ironic laugh. Warren held it up. A bullet-proof vest. “Perfect timing. Really. Couldn’t have been better,” he chuckled and let his head sink back to the headrest. Ali crept from his shirt out onto his shoulder and squeaked. “Yeah, close one, huh,” he sighed and picked her off his shoulder, placing her in his lap. She stared up at him with her radiant black eyes, whiskers twitching. He patted her head gently. “I know; you’re a champ. Way to stick with it.” She abruptly sneezed. “Well, bless you,” Warren laughed. “That dust is getting to me, too.”
“Who are you talking too?” Scott asked without turning, pointing at something for the driver.
“Oh. This is Ali. She’s my pet rat, as of this morning. Courtesy of Sofi, I believe.”
This secured Scott’s attention. “You mean to tell me she was on your shoulder through all of…that?” Warren nodded. “You,” Scott began, addressing Ali, “have to be the craziest rat I have ever met.” Warren found it funny that she seemed to be aware of when people were addressing her—she had turned her nose towards Scott and squeaked.
“Yeah, she’s my girl, alright. Aren’t you? If you can survive that, you can survive anything, can’t ya? That’s right.” He turned his attention back to Scott. “So where are Oscar and Trent? Why didn’t they come with me?”
“The Mar usually follow up large-scale attacks with ground-team sweeps. We knew if they tried an attack on the safe-house, they’d have personnel in the area. You are the priority here, you know. And who knows if you’d have been able to dodge another bullet if Oscar hadn’t dropped him when he did. They’ll hook up with package two and meet us in Denver. Don’t worry; this isn’t their first rodeo. They can handle it. The odds of encountering any resistance on their way to hook up with package two are slim enough. They’re out of the main sweep zone by now. It’s just smooth sailing to Denver now. So relax a bit, Watson. You look like you could use some rest. Or maybe just a handi-wipe?”Warren laughed. “Yeah, I’ll take more than one though.” Ali squeaked and stood on her back feet. “And one for her, too.”

Chapter 7

2008-11-12T16:46:00.000-08:00

Yes, our Sofi, the same distressed and tormented girl who cannot even sip her red wine, had been such a clever mind, organizing this rescue operation for Warren—and of course much more beyond that. While she had never met Warren before that afternoon in the coffee shop, he had presented her with a mystery to solve, a key to understanding her opponents, the atrocious Mar. As I later discovered, Sofi had a master’s degree in social psychology from Burn’s University—impressive, but not surprising. Her ability to understand how any given person would interact with a group, perform tasks, or react to pressure gave her a distinct advantage at coordinating and managing successful teams of people. But lest you think she was the mastermind behind Warren’s escape, let me be the first to tell you that it was Trent who made the decisions—but once those decisions were finalized, he entrusted Sofi with the task of delegating and getting the project done.
But she is a different girl now—she seems to have leaked all her energy and willpower through her tears. She must wish she had never met Warren that fateful day in that little café in Manitou Springs. I imagine she dreams of days she might have spent teaching adjunct classes in some small university, of nights spent working on a doctoral thesis. What thoughts of regret, of actions left undone, of an easy life must be churning through her mind with such devastating results? Warren’s cruelty to her was astounding…but more on that later.
For the rest of that first evening, Warren spent his time eating rebuilding his relationship with Livingstone, without thinking much of Sofi. They were not so different the two men. They both shared philosophical inclinations in their conversations—the abstract possibilities of life pleased them much more than the gritty details of practical application. In this they found a common dislike of Trent Caramov, a man who Livingstone openly despised, but tolerated as a necessary evil. It was this subject which draws my interest most, but also healed a number of the rifts between the two.
After finishing his final bite of beef stroganoff—the real kind, fortunately, a thick beef sauce made with mushrooms and sour cream (as opposed to a beef stew served over noodles)—Warren had asked Livingstone what Trent’s role in this whole organization was. Livingstone made a face of disgust, intriguing Warren immediately, for he had assumed Livingstone would automatically get along well with anybody.
“I will give people a chance,” he admitted. “But very few impress me with that chance. You yourself are among the lucky few—had you asked one more question after Sofi left, I might have shut off to you forever.”
“What do you find so despicable about my questions?” Warren wondered.
“It’s not just your questions, don’t get me wrong. It’s the mindset that drives the questions. Most people imagine they are entitled to all sorts of information, of which they should never have possession. It is this sort of base greed for knowledge that, if people have not learned to control it, they, by a very unconscious disposition, will assume that knowledge has no price tag and will abuse the means of a question to obtain it. Look around you, Watson. The ability to communicate is only on the rise and the value of information has decreased to such a point that people rarely ask meaningful questions of one another, but rather typing in a simple internet search for keywords, without ever phrasing a question at all. If people expect these sorts of results from saying only ‘blister treatment’ how will they ever learn how to ask a valuable question? And only valuable questions will reap valuable results.
“But the issue of entitlement goes much deeper. Why must the large majority of people assume I should tell them my name? Why should they want to know where I come from or where I am going—what does it concern them in the least? All in the name of a polite conversation? We have not only abused the question, we have abused our rights to knowledge. And this is why news magazines, gossip columns, and the ladies’ group at churches are so popular. People want to keep well-informed about their surroundings, but for what purpose? To gasp at scandals? To be shocked at murders? To be outraged at a political party’s influence? Can you name another? Can you name a positive outcome of our greed for knowledge?
“No, dear Watson, humanity’s base desires apply not only to lusts of the body, but those of the mind as well. And so I only give them a chance. If one demonstrates that she or he is no better than the average self-centered scumbag, evidently privileged to know the workings of the universe—or more importantly, the price of his or her neighbor’s house—then I would rather save myself the hassle of putting up with them and ignore them altogether.”
“And Trent is one of the best of these people. In fact, he pursues information with such passion that he has learned to disguise his inquiries with friendliness, his gluttony for facts with a warm smile and firm handshake. He can manipulate another’s desire for information, giving them just enough to feel comfortable in returning to him what he wants. But if anyone were to examine what he has exchanged for what he received, the balance would always fall in his favor. But the greed of the common man—they are so concerned only with what they acquire, that they rarely notice what they have lost. I do not pity them; they have set themselves up for such exploitation.
“But the man that takes advantage of his brother’s greed for his own greed’s sake; that man I reserve a special portion of my hate. In fact, it is a goal of mine to undo almost everything Trent does. Every now and again, however, he manages to do something productive—that and Sofi insists he is necessary to our operation. And if she insists that—I cannot deny her. She is one of a kind, Warren. You won’t find a better human being in your searches across the world, I guarantee it. Almost divine, she is. That and she can find it in her heart to forgive people their mistakes as long as they make them. And so she advises me to tolerate Trent. And so I do.”
Warren, who had been listening with an intense fervor as Livingstone talked, understood that Livingstone had just placed before him an incredibly personal part of himself. In fact, Warren imagined that Livingstone was probably wondering at that moment what he would do with that information. Warren decided to treasure it—as a gift of good-will between friends. In the moment of silence between them, Warren decided it would be best to reciprocate. His response came slowly at first, as he tried to choose his words carefully:
“As much as your dismissals of my questions bothered me at first, I want to thank you for that. I had been trained with the idea that no question is a stupid question—I imagine ninety percent of my teachers quoted that statement on the first day of school. Which works in the classroom, because everyone (mostly) stays on topic and a good teacher can guide such discussions with his questions to the class. But outside the classroom, I think you’re on to something here—I didn’t see it at first—but now, the idea of controlling one’s questions and finding the good questions to ask makes complete sense to me. I can only imagine how irritating it must be.”
Livingstone laughed and added, “Just you wait, now. All sorts of dumb questions will assault you. And what will you have to do? Shake your head in despair and try to wiggle your way out of answering them.” Warren chuckled with him.
“The problem for me is this: you’re such an enigmatic person, that I feel like I have to know something more about you. To figure out the puzzle that you are. But that’s precisely your point—to remain an enigma. Which is frustrating to force my mind to accept your mystery and still trust you. For really…what do we gain from trusting a man whose birth name and age and place of residence we know, as opposed to trusting a girl we hardly know?”
“There we have the best question you’ve asked all day!” Livingstone exclaimed and clapped his hands several times in honor of the occasion. Warren laughed and played with his fork.
“And here I am—really I know nothing about you, save a bit of your philosophy on life—for which I am truly grateful. And yet I know I can trust you now. Not just because we’ve laughed a little together, not because of this conversation, but through those, I’ve caught a little glimpse of your self. And it’s bright like the sun—it warms my soul to communicate with you.”
Livingstone took a breath when he finished before replying. “There aren’t many in the world who would trust a puzzle, as you said. If you can, I salute you, for you are a better man than I. As a matter of fact, and I am quite loathe to share this with you, I still wouldn’t trust you. No offense to you—you are proving yourself more worthy as the days go on. In fact, you are probably the second-highest on my list—having just a day to make it that far, you have done well. But you have a long ways to go, you see, for my trust.”
This statement took Warren aback; he deduced that Sofi was the only person he trusted fully, but decided against pointing it out. In fact as soon as he decided this, he also figured he ought to forget it, in the case that he was wrong. But as he lingered on the idea of trusting a person he had met only that morning with your life—well in his case, he didn’t have a choice. In Livingstone’s, however, he had all the choices in the world. But because he had chosen to remain in the room and talk and share with him, Warren figured he was doing something right in regards to Livingstone and that he would soon find him a valuable friend and ally. But now Livingstone was continuing.
“You see, Warren, I rather enjoy life and meaning—as you may have gathered from our conversations. Stupid questions reduce meaning and misplaced trusts will reduce your lifespan. So you have a long road ahead of you, Warren, until I am convinced enough that you won’t try to kill me that I will tell you anything that may lead to my death.”
“Haven’t you already?” Warren asked, without thinking. Livingstone frowned. “If I must be somewhat more specific, I fear I may jeopardize what trust I have in you—however slim. But here’s my sign of goodwill: philosophy, in its finest form, will not get anyone killed. Life is very practical; philosophy is abstract thought in its finest. While you may have applied what we talked about to your own life and how you live, you came away with very little about myself. You know that I dislike Trent. But you yourself dislike Trent, and therefore it would take an extreme situation for you to take advantage of that information for the purpose of ending my life. So basically I trust you enough that, in the slim chance that such a situation came about, you would side with me and choose not to kill me. And if you must know, I risked much by putting that much in your mind in the first place. You might have never thought of that. Again a sign of our budding friendship.”
Warren put a hand to his cheek, resting his elbow on the table and laughed. “I hope you will find me worthy of friendship in the end, however long that will take,” Warren stated and set his fork down on the napkin. “So I suppose it goes without saying that you believe everyone is out to kill you…”
Livingstone smiled with his eyes. “They are. Even if they don’t know it yet.” He read the question in Warren’s mind, and because he answered it, Livingstone must have deemed it appropriate. “You see, Warren. If you approach life from a defensive standpoint, it much less likely you’ll be knocked off my some bum in the street.”
“But you look like a bum in the street.”
“Do you really doubt that everything I do is meaningful?”
Warren had to tip his hat to that question.
“If I dress like this, I drop my chances of being whacked for my wallet. I also have to put up with some prejudice from the “higher” classes of society. But so what? Life is life, in raggedy shorts and dreads, just as much as in Dockers and a striped silk tie. By the way, ties are hazardous to your health—wear clip-on’s if you must.”
Warren suppressed a laugh, and looked at the ceiling. “You are one of a kind. I hope I never solve you, just so you can keep surprising me.”
“See? Much more rewarding than knowing my name, isn’t it?”
“Indeed,” Warren said, laughing.
The rest of the evening proceeded with the two sharing anecdotes of the past, none very serious—ended with them brewing a pot of tea and starting a fire to warm up the chilly Colorado night. While the fireplace crackled and lit their faces with spontaneous flickers and warmed their toes, they talked for another hour—as two old friends sharing fond memories.
But when Livingstone retired to his bedroom and Warren to his own, he found that even in the mass of stories Livingstone had told him, he knew little more about the man. Indeed, he had divulged as little meaningful information about himself while still keeping the conversation lively. He thought back—what had he learned of the man in all those stories? That he was widely traveled…had been to Asia, parts of northern Africa, all over Europe. But did he speak any languages? He hadn’t said so. What parts had he enjoyed? Touring castles or listening to operas or swimming with children or talking with peasants? He had found out very little new about this man—in two and half or three hours of conversation. This was true talent he faced—a guarded man as ever there had been in the history of the world, Warren told himself. But then a funny thought struck him: Livingstone must drive Trent crazy. He had to chuckle at the occasions on which there must have occurred some friction between the two. They were veritable opposites—and Livingstone had to have the upper hand. He imagined Trent trying with every ounce of his energy, on every occasion, to whittle away at those defenses and find some foothold, some crack in the man’s walls. This trip starting tomorrow, if dangerous, would be wildly entertaining at the very least. With that thought, he undressed and climbed into the cool white sheets. The pillow was soft, yielding slowly to the weight of his head. And he had no trouble drifting into a dreamless, gratifying sleep.

Chapter 6

2008-11-11T21:20:00.000-08:00

Now when I tell you that the two of them had reached that terminal place of logic, their own wit’s end, I mean it in the most severe sense. Warren hadn’t the slightest idea of what to think anymore—what had happened and what should have happened logically just didn’t coincide. And I’m fairly certain that Livingstone felt the same way. He had exhausted nearly every line of reasoning and method of persuasion—short of the physical kind—to encourage Warren to join them. I would have guessed that he assumed that his final statement of Warren’s true loss and his quite dire circumstance would have had secured his good faith and will to cooperate with him. Rather, it had driven a wedge of impossibility between them, and I’m afraid the journey of Warren Spicks would have met a tragic, but necessary end.
But, ah, the grace of the feminine touch can never be underestimated. While most every human in the history of time has felt the touch of a mother, Warren, to date had felt only this perspective of the feminine influence. Growing with a brother, the masculine dominated the household. Not necessarily in punches and tackles of “love”—in the machismo of rough and tough physicality and exterior hardness—there were tender moments between the boys, snuggled next to each other in bed on a cold winter night, playing handheld video games. But this lack of a female peer—sister or anything through his high-school or college years that might have been called a girlfriend—left him fairly wanting in understanding the manners of a woman.
And while these two stood in the gas station, an expansive gulf widening between them—one unable to reconcile truth with reality, the other unable persuade that the two were one. Had the forces of their wills been of a physical nature, they might have summoned an earthquake, sundering the fiery foundations of the continent itself. And for a moment, soul to soul, I doubt any antagonism had ever reached such proportions: Livingstone powerless to convince, Warren immobilized by bewilderment. Neither could have taken a step towards each other had they been pushed. For several moments, their eyes locked, Warren imprisoning Livingstone Livingstone incapable of liberating Warren. The newspaper had fallen to the floor between them, face down, pages spread in a bulging fan.
Into this impossibility, how perfect, then, that Sofi should open the doors to the store and stride in between them. She must have sensed the standoff, that the two minds had backed themselves into such corners of resolution that compromise was quite unthinkable—Oscar would not let Warren go and Warren would not go with Oscar—and have deduced that her intervention might be the only solution.
She walked between them, as if they were frozen in time, and picked up the paper. She shook the dust from its pages and tucked it under her left arm. Glancing between the two with her disarming green eyes, Sofi grabbed Warren’s hand, first.
“Warren Spicks,” she began, and it immediately occurred to him that she had used his real name correctly for the first time, “you are in mortal danger. I say this because I am in danger myself by continuing to follow you. So let me be quick to help you avoid this danger, for the imminent threat hangs over my head as well.” She placed her hand on his shoulder and triggered a tingle that traveled the length of his spine.
She turned, hand still on Warren’s shoulder, to address Livingstone: “Oscar, you have been avoiding Warren’s every question. Give him a straight answer: tell him how we found him. He deserves some answers. At least from you.”
It took a moment for Oscar to reply, as if he doubted anything he said would enter Warren’s mind. But at length, he swallowed and answered: “Simple tracking device. Left pocket.” One of Warren’s eyebrows dropped while his left hand searched his pocket. He pulled what appeared to be a small, polished ball bearing from the pocket and held it up to the ceiling for a squinting inspection. A faint point of red light blinked from a small light on the metal surface.
“It was my doing,” Sofi claimed. “I assist Trent in his business. And keeping you alive, Warren, is, at the moment, my primary responsibility. I knew no one better to send to rescue you than Oscar here. And he returned you to me with incredible speed and efficiency. Indeed, you owe much to him. When you ‘slipped’ away, you were very much technically in my care, and he no longer had responsibility for you. Yet, here he is, as concerned about your survival as I am, which, ironically, is much more than you are at the moment.” Sofi paused, glancing between the two diametrically opposed beings. “I have no time for games, gentlemen. I assure you that your hunters, Warren, are tracking you with a ferocity rival to none. But I also promise you that we will elude them until you are safe.”
The last few words that Sofi spoke were carried to Warren with a tone that spoke to him much more loudly than the meaning of her words. Her words came to him with conviction and grace, tempered with the tenderness of the female voice. The sensation was entirely new to him, and it took him off guard, rendering him speechless for yet another restless moment. After he had processed what she had said, he turned to her with a blank face.
“Where is safe?” he asked.
Sofi did not hesitate to respond: “The South Floridian Coastline.”
Now, I dare say that while Warren felt himself almost incapacitated by questions (he couldn’t have blinked if he had tried), he found truth in Sofi’s voice. A sense of urgency tinged her words—she could not be lying to him, he decided which meant that Livingstone had also been telling the truth, which of course meant that his perceptions of reality had been completely false. This shift was a difficult one to comprehend, much less accept and move on.
In this moment of decision, Sofi sensed the difficulty of his situation and a degree of compassion entered her eyes. She must have looked upon his weary mind and decided to help him climb from his pit of questions—for she removed her hand from his shoulder, with it, took his hand and pulled him close to herself. “I want to help you Warren,” she all but whispered. She locked her eyes with his, drew him, trancelike, into her sympathetic embrace. “You cannot go back; you have too much to live for. Let me aid you, for you are more important than you realize.”
As I mentioned previously, this sort of plea was totally foreign to him—had she been acting, she might have secured his heart anyway, but judging the state of Sofi now, she meant every word she said, perhaps even more so than she believed at the time. She must have seen a seed of promise in Warren. And with every second, I bet she found herself in a sort of mental dance with Warren, guiding him from his hidden doubts and misty confusion. Like a rope being pulled taught her influence tugged at Warren’s soul—he felt her influence tightening, but rather than like a noose, she was a firm handgrip dragging him from uncertainty.
At last, Warren’s final defenses of logic and reason crashed around him and he surrendered to her warm embrace. He collapsed to his knees with the entirety of the world spinning around him and let the weight of his emotions flood from him. At first a slight whimper and a gleam of liquid at the corners of his eyes—but then he clenched his teeth and released a heaving sigh—a mournful expression for his lost family. Sofi held him tightly, stroked his back with a delicate touch. Warren rested his head on her capable shoulder and could only imagine the faces of his father, mother, brother, lost forever to the streams of time. Every resolution he had carried was now worthless, he exhaled them gladly now; Sofi’s every stroke lifted them from his back—lightened his load until he rested in his newfound freedom—and then he promptly fell into a deep sleep on Sofi’s shoulder.
*
Warren awoke on a yellow couch, next to a window with thin burgundy drapes pulled together. A curving glass coffee table stood in front of him, with a variety of magazines fanned out in a professional display. He blinked crustily a couple times, wiped his eyes on his sleeves to clear them, and stretched. The room he found himself in was artfully decorated, with several oil landscape paintings and fairly ornate decorative wood-work as trim. Several bookcases and an old grandfather clock leaned against the off-white colored walls.
He heard voices from across the room, emanating from the other side of an opening—at least, in another room, where the dark red carpet turned to tile. He followed their echoes, determined to find Sofi, the only person in the world he could think about. It surprised him—how quickly anguish of loss had faded from him. It had been bitter and overpowering when it struck, but now he almost worried that it had gone too rapidly. There was a desire in the pit of his stomach now, a longing which he imagined only she could fulfill for him. It wasn’t a romantic flutter or fleeting hunger for feminine love—Warren found himself anxious for conversation, to ease his mind’s questions by talking with her. She seemed to promise him answers with a simple care and honest concern. Which was less than he could say for Livingstone. If he never had to talk with the man again, that was fine by him.
When he entered the next room, he immediately found Sofi in a large comfortable chair, her legs crossed at the knees, hands anxiously set on them, listening with her ears and eyes. Livingstone slouched against one of the walls, near a dark fireplace, arms folded across his chest and wearing a poker face to rival the best. The speaker’s voice came from a behind a couch between him and Sofi. It seemed familiar at first, but when Sofi’s eyes lifted and stared beyond the speaker—who consequently rose and turned—Warren recognized it at once. There before him stood Trent Caramov, with those unrelenting blue eyes simultaneously welcoming and isolating him.
Sofi spoke first, to Warren’s relief. Her steady voice and calming smile soothed his heart. “You’re awake. Excellent: join us.” She motioned to a crimson armchair on her right. Warren smiled cautiously and walked around the couch to his seat, all eyes following him. He returned a slight nod of Trent’s and then glanced back to Livingstone, whose expressionless gaze disquieted him. “Now that we’re all here,” she began with a sweeping glance to all parties, lingering a bit on him, Warren imagined, “we can get to business.” She paused, as if waiting for someone else to begin the agenda. Warren felt uneasy about jumping in first, without knowing what exactly had been discussed before he woke and so decided to wait. But when several more uncomfortable moments passed, Warren cleared his throat and started with a question. “May I ask where I am?”
While he expected Livingstone to chime in with a simple destruction of the validity of his question, the man remained as silent as the wall he was leaning upon. Trent’s eyes flashed between Warren and Sofi—who took a breath of responsibility and volunteered an answer, “You are in what you might call a safehouse. Quite literally you are in my aunt Lizzie’s third story apartment here in the Springs.” The answer had given him nothing, and Warren imagined he had seen a twinkle in Livingstone’s eyes.
“So why am I where I am?” he wondered aloud—and wondered privately if he had seen Livingstone’s head nod slightly and a twinge of a smile play at his lips. Sofi again took the responsibility for answering his question.
“You, Warren Spicks, are being tracked by a brutal organization named “Mar” which your father managed to offend quite drastically. I don’t yet know the details, but because they didn’t stop with simply killing your family, I believe that they sense your life as a direct threat to their company. That’s as much as I could find out. So unless you can tell me something more, we shall simply assume that they won’t stop until you’re dead.”
“Well I can’t; I don’t even know why they burned my home in the first place.”
Sofi nodded and her eyes fell to her lap. “Well, if they think you’re too dangerous to be left alive, then we should assume you’re of great value to us alive. And on that principle, we’ve been operating for the past weeks.” Warren’s eyebrows fluttered upwards. “Yes, Oscar has been keeping an eye on your family—in case the Mar decided to attack them. We had hoped he might find out why exactly they had taken an interest in your father, why your father had plans to flee to Canada, what offence they had endured to burn your home and kill your family, and now why they wanted you dead as well. But none of this came to light, and we’ll just have to make do with it. Trent,” she turned, “how quickly can you get him to St. Barthe’s?”
The businessman grinned a beautiful, white smile. “Assuming we have to hit the waypoints: little less than a week…if he pulls his weight.”
“Wait,” Warren interjected, “what does that mean?” Livingstone didn’t even blink. But Trent wasted no time in responding.
“Pretend you’re a salesman at the non-waypoint stops, and do whatever we tell you to at the waypoints.”
“What waypoints?” Warren asked, immediately regretting it as he felt Livingstone’s gaze obliterating his question.
“Think of them as safehouses,” Sofi answered. Trent had opened his mouth to add something, but evidently thought better of it and said nothing. “Hitting the waypoints will keep you alive. As will Oscar. Keep close to him, Warren.”
These words had a marked effect on Warren who blew air out of his cheeks and glanced up at Livingstone, whose poker face hadn’t cracked a bit. Both looked upon the other with a great deal of mistrust. Warren felt him impossible to deal with, and Livingstone must have thought Warren impossible to instruct.
When Trent stood, all eyes landed on him. He pressed any wrinkles out of his suit with a fluid stroke and then lifted his chin to speak. “I don’t see any reason for me to linger here. It has been decided. Warren, you will meet me at 7:00 am tomorrow morning in this very room. I will send you a traveling kit with clothes and hygiene products, tonight. Have it with you and don’t be late. Sofi,” he bowed at the waist, “Oscar.” Livingstone only shifted his eyes to meet Trent’s. Sofi’s eyes however illuminated with epiphany.
“Oh and Trent. It’s imperative that we leave Warren’s real name behind. Oscar has taken to calling him Watson.”
“Good enough. Last name?”
Sofi searched the air for a moment. “Rawlins?” Trent nodded, bowed again slightly and exited the room. Sofi turned her attention back to Warren. “Remember that: in any public dealings, you are Watson Rawlins. Don’t forget,” she cautioned him.
“And is your name really Sofi Gio?” Warren asked, without looking to Livingstone for his approval of the question. Sofi just smiled and took a long blink. “And you’ll be best off calling him ‘Livingstone,’ you know?”
“Do you even know his real name? Does he know yours?” Warren asked.
Sofi glanced at Livingstone, suppressing a grin. “You are so full of questions. But let me tell you Warren, that you do not need our identities to be able to trust us. Know now that your life is in very capable hands and under the most extreme protection. It will take a nuclear missile to get to you—but right now, I’d be hard pressed to rule that out. So you can rest assured that around you, I will always be Sofi Gio—though it’s hard to say what Oscar will be from day to day.” Finishing, she stood, and with the most delicate touch, pressed her fingertips to the back of Warren’s hand. “There is a meal on the counter in the kitchen you can warm up if you like. Sleep well tonight, Warren. Farewell, Oscar.” And then she exited the door, vanishing like a dream.
And as a dream Warren tried to hold her image in his mind as long as he could, before shifting his gaze to the immoveable object, Livingstone, ever leaning against the wall. What felt to Warren like an eternity ticked away as the two of them stared into the other’s eyes. The pressure of those steady eyes made Warren want to stare him down. Of course, he tried, as desperately as he could to hold that gaze—but failed. After inspecting the carpet at his feet, Warren broke the heavy silence. “Livingstone?”
The hobo’s only reply was a blink.
“Thanks,” Warren said and got up to go find that meal.
Livingstone nodded slightly and a bit of a smile formed on his lips. “Attaboy,” he whispered.

Chapter 5

2008-11-09T19:49:00.000-08:00

The mind is a very curious thing, you know. And as far as the science of psychology has come (or at least, as I have imagined it to have come) it should be no surprise that I should mention that Warren’s state of mind was in a troubled state. Thoughts came and left him; questions bubbling ferociously like a giant cauldron of a witch’s brew filled with all sorts of unimaginable ingredients. But even beneath the surface of his cognition, I’m sure the matters of the past day affected the very core of his unconscious self: his brush with death, piling unanswered or unanswerable questions, even the small breaches of the absurd into his reality. What indeed churned inside his soul can hardly be described on a page—and it wasn’t until their effects came bursting to the surface, that Warren realized the truth of his situation. But how else should these inner burnings escape, but through the capable hands of fate, pulling a string of events together.
In an effort of hindsight, you could pinpoint the certain details that led to Warren’s epiphany. I shall come right out and give you the first: the article in the newspaper, of which he read only a quarter. While everything that had happened previously that day had prepared him for this moment, the only moment of lasting significance, I say, would be the foundation for a crucial paradigm shift. But enough of my rambling—on with Warren, who was now a good mile or so from the sleepy afternoon in Manitou Springs.
What had begun as a segmented sprint, darting from tree to bush to rock to tree, was now a mindless saunter through the long, punctuated shadows of the forest. Among the flawless bird chirps, an occasional pinecone plummet, and the continuous sigh of the breeze in the pines, Warren imagined he heard footsteps and whispers behind him. His eyes gave him suitable reason to disbelieve his ears—but he could not shake the feeling of pursuit. For surely they had pursued him…hadn’t they?
He supposed they had given up on him; he smiled at his escape—at the rush of adrenaline which had propelled him in the moment. But that had faded with the time he spent walking. In fact, the rest of this day was but a dim recollection, impressions of feeling in the web of his memory. Except for Sofi—she stood out among everything else. Her eyes, the gleam of a pleasant surprise lighting them when she first saw him, her hair, pulled to one side of her neck and draped over her shoulder, and her smile, filled with intrigue and possibility—all made her portrait stick clearly to his memory. He had to admit it to himself: she was beautiful—more so than anyone he had come across in his life.
That he would have only a memory to cling to bothered him to no end. At several points, he stopped, walked around in a circle, kicked a pinecone or two, planted his fist on the bark of a tree. But no, there was too much mystery to her, to Oscar, to the whole events of this tiresome day to change his mind. And so he walked on.
But the more he thought, the more each sound of the forest startled him. Each pinecone dropping from the influence of the wind, sent a shiver to his spine. But when he counted more than ten within the space of a minute, he began to suspect a squirrel was the one following him, and not the hobo. And of course, the moment he decided that this was indeed the case, three pinecones fell in quick succession.
Warren turned his gaze to the tree-tops, searching for the perpetrator—but found none. Two more fell behind him. As he turned, four fell to his left, and another to his right. And just when he thought that the odds of that happening were crazy, a whole slew of pinecones fell within a ten yard radius of him. He spun quickly, and found another wave of pinecones crashing around him. It was as if the trees themselves were assaulting him—wave after wave descended upon him like a hailstorm. When the thought to run finally occurred to him, Warren had his arms covering his head, face turned to the ground to avoid the storm of pinecones. Within moments, he was slogging and stomping his way through a thick sea of the bristling cones—he turned downhill, aiming for the river. But the sheer amount impaired his movement so much that instead of running, Warren more tripped and fell his way down the mountainside, in an avalanche of the prickly things, with more raining down on him from the trees.
As you might have guessed, Warren’s surprise at this occurrence equaled or possibly surpassed your own. When he stumbled into the stream and beyond—into the open field between the river and the road, his eyes were plastered wide open, eyebrows raised as high as they could go. He stood for a moment, allowing himself to pant audibly, looking at the sea of pinecones now coating the forest floor, a few remaining cones cascading down the hillside towards the oblivious river. Warren coursed a hand through his hair and exhaled.
He tried telling himself that it hadn’t happened, but every time he glanced back to the forest, there lay the brown blanket of cones on the ground. Instead of wasting time marveling at his own terrible luck or even approaching the thought that he was going crazy, he brushed broken bits of pinecones off himself and hiked the short distance to the road, in an effort to catch a ride to the Springs.
Warren had never hitch-hiked before in his life, but he had always (if he had room) picked up any hitch hiker he drove by. While his mother was a fierce adversary to this policy, he couldn’t figure out what the downside of picking up a hitch hiker would be. Of course, in discussions on the matter with his mother, she pointed out that you never knew what type of “weirdos” one might come across. “What if one got in, pointed a pistol in your face, and told you to drive to Ohio?” she had asked him.
“I guess I would drive to Ohio. So what? I’d say, ‘Dude, forget the gun, I’ll drive ‘till I’m out of gas. But I don’t have the money to fill up again. So…up to you, man. If you’ll pay for gas, I’ll drive as long as you want me to.’ And then I’d have a sweet adventure and probably an awesome story to tell,” Warren had replied.
But now the proverbial coin had been flipped and he wondered how many people like his mother would never dream of allowing a stranger in their car. The first vehicle he stuck his thumb out at passed without slowing. The second guy in a truck returned his gesture with one of his own. But the third car, a black sedan, pulled to the side of the road, and the driver-side window rolled down. Warren jogged up to the side of the window and found a young man, probably just a few years his elder, gazing back at him with deep blue eyes and a confident smile.
“Are you headed towards the Springs?” Warren inquired.
“Sure am, hop in the back; should be plenty of room,” the man replied in a smooth, comfortable tone. Warren nodded his thanks and opened the door. Slick leather seats and a fresh pine scent greeted him as he climbed in. When the door clicked shut, they pulled onto the highway.
“Thanks for the ride,” Warren offered.
“Not a problem at all,” the driver assured him. There was another in the passenger seat who had not yet spoken. A minute silence passed. “I’m Trent Caramov, and this is Scott Hastle.”
“Nice to meet you, I’m Warren Spicks.”
“What brings you to Manitou, Warren,” Scott inquired, speaking for the first time in a similarly sugary voice to Trent’s.
“Um. Well, a friend had business up here and I have family in the Springs. But because I had never been to Manitou, he suggested I spend the afternoon there and find a ride to the Springs. Apparently he’s never had issue hitchhiking here. And you seem to have proved him right.”
The two in the front laughed and Scott turned back to face Warren. “Well it seems you don’t shrink from adventure then.”
“No, in fact I’m usually pleased when it confronts me.”
“So are you still in college?”
“Yeah, junior year.”
“Where at?”
“Small school in Denver. What about you guys?”
“We both actually just graduated last year.”
“With what degrees?”
“Ahh, mine was a CIS degree and Trent’s was business.”
“Very nice.”
“What are you working on?”
“Liberal Arts, actually. I have a hell of problem with indecision.”
“Well that’s understandable,” Scott said, laughing, “At least you’ve managed to beat off all the prof’s who want you to join their school. Am I right?”
“Too true, and friends don’t help the process at all.”
“Well said,” Trent offered, breaking back into the conversation. “So where in the Springs are you headed?”
“Southern half…ish.”
“South Academy then?”
“Fine with me,” Warren said, then after a moment, added, “So what brings you guys to Manitou Springs?”
Trent answered first. “We’re actually traveling salesmen. Been working our way east from Cali.”
“Really? What do you sell?”
“Electronics, mostly. We figured with my background in business and his background with computer information systems, we ought to be able to sell anyone all sorts of new gadgets.”
“Well that sounds like a handy duo.”
Trent laughed. “It’s actually much bigger; we have about fifteen on board. We’re meeting up with the others in the Springs this evening for dinner and a quick meeting before we head up to Denver and then on east.”
“Wow. Do you have much success? I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever had a traveling salesman visit my door.”
“Business is good, if that’s what you’re asking,” Trent replied smoothly.
Warren found the two amiable enough to talk to—Scott chimed in only when Warren directly asked him a question, and seemed the less talkative, but the more genuine. Trent, on the other hand, made the perfect salesman—Warren figured he would probably buy anything the guy was selling if he had come to his door. But underneath the wide smile and blue eyes, Warren found the glint of intelligence, of a cunning that would stop only when he found the top of the ladder. And he wasn’t sure that he liked it.
But Warren dismissed the thought almost as quickly as it came to him—he was grateful for the ride, his escape. The conversation between them proceeded in friendly fashion, until they pulled up to a gas station off of S. Academy. Warren thanked them and opened the door to exit when Trent turned around in his seat and sent him a question.
“Warren, you seem to have a good head on your shoulders. We need men like you. If you would consider it, I think you would make a valuable addition to our team.”
“I’m…ehh…not really sure. It’s a generous offer to a total stranger,” Warren stammered.
“Hehe, it doesn’t take long for me to evaluate people, you have to be good at that to be a salesman. You’re a decent fellow with a knack for pleasant conversation. It’d be hard to say no to an honest man like yourself.”
“Well thank you, I’ll keep that in mind,” Warren said politely.
“Take my card. Give it think, will you? Like I said, we’ll be around for a couple more sale calls and then for dinner…probably up north…but then we’ll be heading out. So I’d appreciate hearing from you, one way or the other tonight.”
“Sure thing. Nice to meet you boys. Scott,” he nodded at the passenger and then to the driver, “Trent.”
“Take care, Warren. We’ll hear from you soon.”
Warren shut the car door and the two took off. The business offer had caught him off-guard. But could he really accept it? It didn’t seem likely to him that they would wait for him to head back home and—no, it was ridiculous to ponder. He had to get back home and find a way to tell his parents what had happened and figure out what in the world they were going to do.
First order of business, he thought to himself, was to find a bus service in the Springs and see if they ran buses to Alamosa…or if not there, at least to Pueblo. So he entered the convenience store and looked for a pay phone. He found one in the back, next to the refrigerated beer section. He picked up the phone book and flipped through the pages.
As he did so, he became aware of someone talking next to him. It was the voice of a man, asking someone a question. He tried to ignore him, to appear as though he weren’t eavesdropping. But when the question was repeated and he heard no answer, he began to wonder if he were the addressee. Warren looked up with a raised eyebrow—and promptly dropped the phone book and took a stumbling step backwards into the phone-bank. There was Livingstone, eating a pack of salted peanuts, asking a question of him.
“Wha? But. How?” Warren gasped.
Livingstone shook his head. “Are you going to join them?” He scrutinized Warren’s surprise, as if a chef inspecting a returned order. “Well? Are you?”
“But how did you? I thought you…how?” Warren’s stress was apparent, for Livingstone rubbed an eye and popped some more peanuts in his mouth and refused to answer until he had one from Warren.
“Were you going to join Trent?” he demanded, adopting a somewhat parental tone.
“I…no. That’s absurd. But how did you know?”
“No?”
“No! No, it’s crazy. I can’t…I don’t even know what I’m doing here; I need to get back home…will you take me back?”
“You want to die? I didn’t take you for a suicide…well, maybe a drugee, at worst though. Alcoholic would be more up your alley, I would think.”
“What? Whose suicide? Me? That’s ridiculous!”
“Agreed. So why don’t you join Trent?”
“What does that? And how did you find me here?”
Livingstone sighed and held a long blink. “So many questions. Which is why you wouldn’t commit suicide.”
“I’m going home, now. On a bus.”
“At least it wasn’t a question—but it’s every bit as confusing, because I didn’t think you were in a hurry to die.”
“I’m not going to die. I’m going home.”
“You seem incapable of grasping the concept that home equals death.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, what happened the last time you were home, i.e. the incident this morning?” Livingstone asked, folded his arms, and waited for an answer.
“They burned my house; but they’re gone now.”
“You’re sure?”
“What?”
Oscar rolled his eyes. “Are you sure they’re gone?”
“Yes. Why would they stay?”
“And they won’t come back?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re trusting your fate to an I-don’t-know?”
Warren sighed and stared at the ceiling for a second. “No. I just…I need to be there when my family returns to explain.”
“Watson, we’ve been through this. Here’s the long and short of it: you don’t need to go home ever again. I promise you, it won’t be the same and it’s best if you just move on. Trent gave you a decent proposal for a job—and it will give you some money to start your life anew. Work with him for the summer, then go back to college, get married, have a kid or two and then retire at 55.”
“But that’s not…I…”
“Yes?”
“I don’t think I can handle that life; I mean I want to do something meaningful—not just life out my days working at some job I hate to make money to pay off a nice house and spend my nights with a beer in hand watching football.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes.”
“Are you absolutely sure?”
“Yes!” Warren said, exasperated with the hobo.
“Okay good, Watson. Very good. First thing you should do is take the job with Trent,” Livingstone advised, as if the weight of the world depended on his advice. “Second thing you should do is buy a Sobe, and third...”
“Wait what?” Warren interjected.
“Buy a Sobe. Then get in my jeep. We have to catch Trent before that meeting.”
Warren’s eyebrows couldn’t help but fold together in squinted confusion. “Why?” was all he could manage to say.
“Okay let me lay it all out here for you: A) you don’t want to die. B) that means you can’t go back home. C) you don’t want the American dream but something meaningful, like I suspected all along. D) that means you need join Trent.” Livinstone said, making each point with a new finger to help Warren follow along. “To join Trent, you need to come with me, and before you can come with me, you need to buy a Sobe. Now come along and hurry yourself up.” Oscar ambled to the front of the store. When he sensed little to no motion behind him, he turned around, practically yelling at Warren. “Are you telling me that forty years from now, when you’re far too immersed in the American Dream, you’ll have to tell your kids you were too frugal to buy a Sobe to start an adventure?”
“It’s not that…” Warren said, frowning at his feet.
“Come here Watson, I want to show you something.” Warren ambled forward, hands buried in his pockets. “Take a look at the newspaper,” Livingstone ordered. Warren obeyed and bent down, retrieving a paper from the stack. “A-12” Oscar instructed.
Warren flipped through the pages, “I don’t see what this has to do with anything…”
“Left hand column. Read it.”
The article had the title: “Mob Arson: 14 families destroyed statewide.” Halfway through, there was a list of names. Spicks, was the 11th, with his father’s mother’s and brother’s names all listed. “What is this?” Warren asked, dropping the paper. Livingstone bent and picked it up.
“Your family died in that fire,” he said matter-of-factly.
“But I was the only one home! And how would the papers know if it happened just this morning?”
“A fine question, check the date of the paper.” Livingstone held the front page out to him for ease of investigation.
“June 7th? But it’s the 14th, today…isn’t it?” Oscar only nodded. “But…it was this morning!” Warren’s eyebrows leveled into his stare—one of sheer anger. Livingstone held a hand out to him. “I don’t usually believe the papers, but what is written in there is true. If you go back, you will find only ashes and death. Watson, you need to keep moving or those guys will find you and kill you. They will hunt you down mercilessly.”
“But why? What did we ever do to them?”
“I don’t know, Watson. But this is why you must join Trent.”
At this point, perspective hit Warren like a truck. The man who had given him a ride was the same man whom Sofi and Oscar had been discussing earlier. Sofi had said that Livingstone was a recruiter, perhaps he was even in league with the men who had burned his house and printed that paper. Could this hobo really have such influence as to manipulate him into doing what he wanted? Perhaps he disguised himself as a hobo for that very reason—a well dressed man acting in such a manner would automatically bring all sorts of questions into play. But Livingstone could get away with a lot simply with his appearance. What sort of master plan had Livingstone? He could only imagine, and simply didn’t want to.“No!” Warren stepped backwards several feet. “Get away from me, you leech. I’m done with you and your lies!”

Chapter 4

2008-11-08T20:23:00.001-08:00

I can envision that poor girl over there, as she first appeared to Warren Spicks in that bustling little café. What a marked difference between the confident, assured gaze with which she met his and the defeated, silent plea which crosses her lips now? I have said it already—you can see her now. What can I say to elucidate her sorrow, to expound on what you have seen in her shoulders? Nothing. You would realize the change if you had seen her that warm afternoon, basking in the afternoon rays of the sun, intrigued to say the least, at the elegant, youthful stranger who had just entered. This mystery that flashed in her eyes took Warren without warning. And for a moment, I imagine both couldn’t breathe.
Until they simultaneously gasped. The hobo was directly responsible for both. When Livingstone entered the café, he edged past Warren and headed directly for Sofi; Warren deduced in a moment she was the purpose of the visit and gasped at his luck. When Sofi saw the hobo enter behind the curious young man, she deduced as quickly that the two had arrived together and that they had come to talk with her and subsequently gasped at her luck.
Warren somehow managed to get his feet in order to follow Livingstone to the lady’s table—a small curved sort, jutting from beneath a window, with room for two. The hobo took the only other seat—directly across from her—and greeted her warmly. She nodded with a slow blink and a slight blush. Warren felt his gaze fell too heavily on her—but he couldn’t do a damned thing about it. There was something mysterious in the way she tried to reign in her smile, when the hobo introduced them. In fact, Warren nearly forgot speak.
“And this, my dear, is Warren Spicks—who should have been a dead man,” Livingstone was saying over the whir of an espresso machine.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Warren” Sofi offered quietly, but averted her eyes from his the moment she finished, and so missed Warren’s nod of affirmation.
“Warren, this lovely lady is Sofi Gio, whom I have know for…hey! Focus, lad.”
Warren snapped to attention, searching right and left. “What?” was about all he could manage and Sofi giggled.
“Maybe he wasn’t worth saving; quit your gibberish and shake the girl’s hand, now,” Livingstone demanded, but was barely understood in the hustle of the café. Warren nodded with a silly smile plastered to his lips and extended his hand politely. Sofi took it in hers lightly, with such finesse that Warren would shiver just thinking of the sensation afterward, and then reclined back in her seat.
“So what brings you here, Oscar?” she asked the hobo, of course absorbing Warren’s full attention at the mention of his name.
“Oscar?” he somewhat involuntarily inquired. “Is that? Are you? Why didn’t you tell me?” The hobo ignored him, but addressed Sofi about the inquisitive nature he had been attempting to corral within Warren.
“He asks the most impetuous questions, it seems the very moment they occur to him. I’m working on a cure. Aren’t I, my dear Watson?”
Warren could see the slight undercurrent of confusion cross her brow, then pass without giving it voice. “He seems to equate me with Sherlock Holmes’ Watson—don’t worry, my name remains Warren all the same. But Oscar?” he began again.
Sofi replied first, glancing from the hobo to Warren and back. “I see your point, Oscar; and I think I should like to call you Watson as well. It fits.” There inhabited her speech a bit of propriety he found a little unsettling. She spoke as if Oscar Livingstone were a congressman—I’m sorry, bad example—a priest, librarian, or the like. It was also clear to Warren that names meant very little to these two, provided one did have a name in the first place. But Sofi was a memorable name with a memorable face—he would have a difficult time forgetting such beauty.
For a moment neither party spoke. Sofi made a point of passing conversational obligation to the other two by sipping at her tea. Livingstone picked up the conch and turned to face Warren.
“You have business with her. So I’ll let you to it. I need coffee,” he said simply and stepped toward the end of the small line at the ordering counter.
“Oscar, have you heard from Trent?” Sofi called out.
Livingstone spun, replying, “Yes. No. What?”
“Trent,” she tried to clarify for him, but apparently failing. Warren had missed something entirely and stared blankly between the two of them. “Have you talked to him, recently?”
Warren watched the hobo run a hand through his dreads and stare at the ceiling. “Trent?” he finally managed to spurt. Sofi leveled her eyes at him.
“Yes. Trent. Where is he?”
“Somewhere. Probably. Let’s hope, at least.”
“So you haven’t heard?”
“What? No. Well, you heard of the Utah Experiment, right? That’s the last I talked to him. He’s lucky to be alive after that, you know?”
“No, I didn’t…” she said, but he had already moved to the line and now read the designer chalk menu with such fascination that she looked back to Warren with a sigh of frustration.
“Is he always like that?” Warren inquired.
“The dreadlocks are new. But the impossibility is the same.”
“Impossible is a fantastic modifier to describe him, that’s for sure,” he stated with a raise of his eyebrows. She detected something in his quip which obviously put her on guard.
“How long have you known him?” she asked, without masquerading her unease.
Warren checked his watch and she winced. “Six hours or so…yeah,” he replied. She rolled her eyes quickly and almost imperceptibly.
“You have no idea what an impossibility he is…well, can be,” she said, her implications coating her voice like a thick jam on toast.
“You mean it gets worse? How long have you known him?” he replied in a mild terror.
“You do ask a lot of questions,” she commented, touching her lips to the mug’s edge and blowing slightly to cool her tea.
“Well how else am I supposed to figure out what’s going on here?”
“Listening usually works,” she said, smiling at her tea.
“He doesn’t say a thing if I keep silent,” Warren began, but she cut him off.
“Just because you’re quiet, doesn’t mean you’re listening, you know…”
Warren chewed on that thought while she pushed a few rogue strands of her hair back behind her right ear and sipped again at her tea. Just the way the sunlight illuminated her, he imagined himself talking to an icon, a saint of ancient and infallible wisdom. In fact, it was a comparison he found difficult to shake loose.
“So why did he say we had business?” Warren wondered aloud, finally taking Oscar’s vacated seat. Sofi folded her arms and leaned forward, as if to indulge him with a secret.
“Well, I suppose you could say that I’m a benefactress of his. And he…well, recruits for us,” she said, keeping Warren’s gaze locked with hers.
“What? Do you mean he? Wait..but how?”
Sofi’s eyes rolled, with greater agitation this time. “Does it really matter how? Here you are, despite your questions, so you must have a sense for adventure. And we need people like you, Watson, who really don’t mind…”
Livingstone interrupted her with a shout from a rack of tea on the opposite side of the café. “Sofi, dear? I need you.” She dipped her head to Warren and strode across the room, squeezing through the more-crowded entrance to get to Oscar.
Warren was mesmerized by the girl. Her long body was slim, but didn’t seem fragile, rather, she swayed firmly like a sapling aspen in a spring breeze. When he finally managed to rip his gaze from her, questions flooded his open mind without mercy.
For what was he being “recruited?” And what sort of recruiter was Livingstone? And would he ever be able to figure out his real name? And as far as he knew, was Sofi really the girl’s name? Could he be expected to keep his own? Names seemed as fluid to these two as the swirling tea in Sofi’s cup. A bitter sort of taste came to his lips as he wondered if they were trustworthy at all. And would he even consider working with them? Sofi already appeared to him the more down-to-earth of the two. Livingstone walked with his head in a fog that he doubted he would ever understand.
Warren’s thoughts drifted back to his family—was he going to have to hitchhike back? It certainly seemed doubtful to him that Livingstone would give him a ride back. Perhaps he could find a bus to Alamosa from Colorado Springs. That would be at least a step in the right direction.
He glanced back towards the conversing pair. It was ridiculous to stay with them. He knew extremely little about them—and what he did know was only simple and potent frustration. He watched them carefully; she mostly listened, while he kept glancing around the café while speaking. They didn’t seem to mind the other customers around them—but Warren couldn’t possibly hear a thing from this far side. But again, he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to.
At once, he made his mind up; he shuffled to an organic oils display and feigned interest, stealing quick glances at the conversing two. Out the window in front of the café, a couple with fingers interlocked seemed to be debating entering. Warren prayed they would. He looked back to Sofi; she had her back turned to him, a hand placed firmly on her hip, the other gesticulating with firm emotion. She had Oscar’s attention for the moment—something she was saying intrigued him, that much was certain. He stood, shifting his weight from foot to foot, and all the while his eyes moved. Warren assured himself that when he made his move, the chances of Livingstone seeing him would be minimal.
Warren discovered the couple had decided on the café, and had opened the door. As the two approached the order counter, Warren slipped behind them and out of the door. He figured he had but a few seconds before Livingstone would notice and he surveyed the street: he wanted to head east, out of the valley and towards the Springs—but that might be expected of him. The river to his right, in its deep and hushed canal, seemed a fine choice to escape, but he would have to sneak past the windows right beside Sofi and Oscar. In front of him, the road curved uphill—perhaps the woods beyond the town would provide him enough cover. He would have to sprint across a fairly wide-open space, however, and that would draw immediate attention to himself—an easy spot for Oscar or Sofi upon exiting the café.
All this flashed through his mind in a matter of moments—he rejected every option and rather found himself moving to his left, around the building. He made a quick move past a window, trusting his luck. As he moved around the corner, he heard the bell ring as the café door sprang open. He didn’t look, but rather moved around a path towards the back patio of the café. Giving himself a few moments in the shade, he looked up and downriver. A bridge about a hundred yards upstream presented itself to him as his best option. Once on the far side of the river, he might be able to sneak downstream and then cross back over, walk towards the interstate, and hitch hike home.
When his heart had settled a bit (eased, of course, by the forming of a plan) he entered the café through the rear entrance and sat in the most non-conspicuous corner-table he could find. Neither Sofi nor Livingstone were in sight—probably both were scouring the streets, searching in vain for their newest recruit. He opened the newspaper left on the table by its previous visitor, and buried his face in it. The article at which he found himself staring was entitled, “God: seer of a thousand paths, king of a few.” Warren’s eyebrows lifted as he read.
I could not find the article—as much as I searched the IGDB. But the impressions left with Warren from the article I can relate. Although written in such broad and somewhat grandiose language, the ideas of the article, or at least, the ideas as Warren perceived them seemed to place God as a groundskeeper of time—a man working to his satisfaction in the infinite “garden of forking paths” as Borjes had termed reality in his well-known short story of that name. According to the author, an S.G. Seville, God trimmed and planted and watered some parts of the garden—not capriciously, the author had been quick to point out, but rather artistically. Which meant some areas received what some might call preferential treatment, while others were allowed to grow in their own, wild, natural ways. But the real point, besides the issues of judgment and intervention and miracle, was that in the ever-multiplying paths of time (of which we really only consciously exist in one) caused by free will, God worked more in some than others and to say that he is focused on ours alone is as ridiculous as saying he is dead for lack of his work. While the idea of God as an artist of times intrigued Warren, he had been counting the taps of his index finger on the table—when he hit 50, he abandoned the newspaper, strode out the back and headed northwest towards the bridge. Thoughts of seeing his family replaced the ideas of the paper and he barely managed to keep from breaking into a dead run. Ten yards from the bridge, he glanced behind him—not a sign of pursuit. He sighed and proceeded to cross over the river, free from expectation and the unknown weight of Livingstone. With a quick dash to the trees, he scampered into the forest, up the far hillside, most certainly out of sight of any seeking eyes. One final little adventure to get himself home, then he would have a couple days to figure out how to tell his parents what had happened. But first, to the highway.

Chapter 3

2008-11-03T20:41:00.001-08:00

While I admit to various faults in telling you this strange tale, it is my sincerest hope you will stick with me. However, I find myself somewhat distracted at present—too much so to continue at the moment. For Sofi is on my mind. Yes, yes, the same girl I pointed out to you earlier. Look at her now. No. Carefully. With quick glances. You see her shoulders? Notice how they slump like a flower in a rainstorm. And ah! look how mindlessly she strokes the wine glass with her finger—with those despondent eyes, searching the sky. She wonders, I tell you, if this is how it feels to die. Without doubt, her world is collapsing. If only Warren were here for her.
Oh yes. They knew each other. In fact, Warren’s heart didn’t stand a chance against such a beautiful soul as hers. You could easily call Warren a sucker for long, dark hair, deep, almond eyes, and pristine shoulders as well. To see the two of them together, laughing—one would have thought that much laughter could power sixteen cities for four years. To have seen their matching green eyes gazing into the other’s, I count myself among the luckiest alive.
But now she weeps. Oh, you might search her face for an hour without spotting a tear, but believe me, the way she bites her lip, stares upward, cradles the glass—she’s in torment. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if clouds rolled in and a downpour started, to shed Sofi’s tears for her. And, as fate would have it, Warren Spicks is to blame.
How did they meet? Well, at a coffee shop in Manitou Springs, Colorado, which is a five hour drive from our present location. As far as the story goes, there is precious little to tell between Warren’s rescue and their trip to Manitou.
Warren, of course, had been under the impression that the hobo was a wandering modern-day nomad of sorts, a hitch-hiker who made his way across the country, stopping wherever he will. But after an hour’s hike, they came to a cul-de-sac where an old, topless Jeep waited, parked in the only spot of shade available. After Warren figured out that the vehicle did indeed belong to the hobo, he quickly deduced that a bit of planning had been made to land the Jeep in the shade at this hour. He then wondered that if the hobo had known of the attack on his house and had come with the precise purpose of rescuing him, who had sent Livingstone to his aid?
While these questions fluttered through his head, and as he tried desperately to form them into questions of passable reason, Livingstone motioned him into the vehicle. “We have some road to cover before 2:35. Get in.” Warren obeyed first, and then asked his first question, but expecting a flippant answer demolishing the validity of his inquiry. This expectation did not improve the quality of his question.
“What are you doing with a car?” He, of course, regretted the question immediately and scrambled to form a better one. Livingstone smiled.
“Just because I didn’t arrive at your house in a car, you believed me car-less?”
“I know; I know. Bad question. I just...You didn’t strike me as…” Warren floundered. The hobo laughed outright.
“I want you to take a deep breath, settle your mind, and ask the real question in which all these silly queries are rooted,” he stated and started the engine.
Warren nodded. “How did you know I was in trouble?”
“You were tied to a chair in a burning house.”
Warren’s eyebrows fell and he tried again: “No, how did you come to be in the perfect place, at the perfect time, to warn me of my doom before those…men…showed up?”
“Feet,” was Livingstone’s answer.
“Feet?”
“Yes, my dear Watson, feet. Well legs and hips and joints and muscles and bone structure and the central nervous system too, if one were to be technically accurate in describing the procedure of walking. But feet will do.”
It seemed to Warren that Livingstone was getting a fantastic kick out of tormenting him. And so, as the Jeep pulled on a main road and headed back east, Warren was much too busy building an appropriate question to care where they were driving. After several long breaths with closed eyelids, he looked to the hobo and fired off his question. “Who sent you?”
Livingstone tilted his head back and blinked a long time, inhaling deeply through his nostrils. “Now there,” he stated, “is a fine question.” He paused and gazed at the road ahead of him for some time. “I suppose I will answer you. In a way, I sent myself. Took some doing to bring myself around to it, but as it turns out, the mobsters back there made my decision for me by deciding to burn your house down. So perhaps they sent me—but certainly not purposefully. I hate to be labeled a reactionary—but yes, it was their decision that forced mine.”
“So you know them?” Warren asked.
“Not a one of them; why should I?”
“Well, how did you know they were going to attack me?”
Livingstone chuckled. “I like that you ask so many questions; strive to understand everything. But that is behind you now. As are my decisions that led me here. As are yours. And right now, they matter very little, in comparison to the decisions ahead of us. So let us worry about this road, and the potential deer which may try to cross it.”
“Then where are we headed?”
“I thought you were going to leave that question alone, Watson?”
Warren sighed and decided to mention his family. “You know, Livingstone, my family will return in three days and wonder what happened.”
“And?”
“And if I’m not there to explain, they’ll think the worst.”
“Like?”
“I don’t know…that I died. That I burned it and fled.”
“And that’s…bad?”
“Yes!”
“Why so?”
Warren’s eyebrows flattened in frustration. “Because I did neither!”
“And they won’t find that out? Suppose the detectives come and sift through the ruins and find no bones, no retainer, no identification that you died, wouldn’t they rule it out that you were consumed in the fire? As for believing you to be the arsonist…do you really have so little faith in your own family to assert your innocence?”
“But if I were there, those questions wouldn’t have to be answered.”
“Because that’s bad…right?”
“No. Because it’s time consuming to find those answers that I already possess.”
“But not impossible?”
“You’re impossible,” Warren stated and looked away. They had already passed the main town—though he didn’t distinctly remember doing so—and were headed east towards the pass. The mountains grabbed Warren’s attention and conversation died. Thoughts of rationality entered his mind and gnawed at his consciousness. Here he was, a human being of capable thought, riding to who knew where with a strange wanderer who had never the less just saved him from death by fire. And he wasn’t ready to jump from the jeep at the first possible convenience? To what end would this hobo lead him?
But if there was something Warren despised more than not knowing the answers to questions, it was an over-abundance of questions themselves. And every mile that ticked on the Jeep’s odometer brought with it a host of new questions which he couldn’t possibly ask, for fear of damaging his intellectual pride. If he were a fool, he knew well enough to follow proverbial advice and keep his mouth shut—that he might at least appear wise. His mind, however, was a spawning glen for the pestering inquiries. And he was powerless to ignore them.
The next hours in the car passed slowly, methodically, with chaos assaulting Warren from every side in the silence. The hobo felt little or no need for conversation and only answered those questions which Warren had poured over many a time in an attempt to make them “acceptable” questions. Because of this stipulation, however, the final versions of the questions he asked made very little sense or only required a simple yes or no from the driver. So Warren sat, chin in hand, staring out the window, waiting for something to happen.
It is surprising, then, to note Warren’s astonishment when an elephant crossed the road in front of the car, dead in the center of the San Luis Valley. He stared open-mouthed as they passed the big, lilting creature which trekked on across the valley, without anything that seemed to pass as an aim. Warren, upon looking back to Livingstone, found it even more incredulous that the hobo didn’t seem to be bothered by the fact that an elephant had just crossed the road in southwest Colorado. And so Warren’s knack for bad questions kicked back into gear.
“Did you just see that?” he exclaimed.
“Take a moment, dear Watson, and ask yourself first if you really want to ask that question.”
“But…but…what is an elephant doing here?” Warren stammered.
“What are you doing here?”
“I live here!”
“As does it, apparently.”
“But that’s preposterous.”
“Is it now? What makes you say that?”
“Elephants don’t live in Colorado.”
“That one does.”
“But I’ve never seen…” Warren began, but the hobo interrupted him.
“Aha! Here’s the crux of the discussion. Just because you haven’t seen it, means it doesn’t exist? And I’m sure you know I’ll bring up the Ostrich.”
Warren sighed, flabbergasted by the experience. “Am I really that ignorant?”
“Yes, dear Watson, you are. But I mean that in the best sense possible.”
Warren’s eyebrows furrowed. “Which is?”
“You have a great deal yet to learn; as long as you don’t stand on your knowledge, but look to take steps on the knowledge of others, your understanding will increase, and eventually, after years of climbing, your ignorance might begin to decrease as well. And that is a noble goal—one I figure you already pursue.”
“So for now, I’ll just stop asking questions,” Warren lamented.
“Don’t do that. Just ask the right questions. It will save you breath…and perhaps a little frustration.”
“Well, at risk of sounding like a fool: where are we headed?”
“Manitou Springs.”
“Thank you,” Warren said, as if he had been repaid a delinquent loan. Then he added another question, “Now was that so difficult?”
“Not at all.”
“Then why didn’t you say so earlier?”
“You weren’t in the car yet.”
Warren could not fault this logic, manipulative as it seemed to him. But what about the hobo hadn’t seemed like manipulation? It was a fair question, to be sure. And the more he pondered it, the less settled he felt about the whole situation. Apparently, the hobo had come to save him from his death, but only so that he might be more “meaningful to the world” in the history books (what the history books would have to say about him, he hadn’t the foggiest idea at the time) than Warren was, but warned him beforehand to make him curious about his purpose and follow him to the car, where he wouldn’t tell him their destination until they were far enough along in their journey to make that question an invalid one to act upon. This picture wasn’t getting any clearer, except for the fact that the hobo had some hidden motive for transporting Warren to Manitou Springs. Apparently, he would have to wait for his arrival in the snug little town for any solid answers.
This didn’t help Warren’s mood one bit. But somehow he relegated his confusion to a dark corner of his mind and actually nodded off for about an hour. But when he awoke, what he saw didn’t immediately reconcile with his current seasonal paradigm. They were near La Garita, with the looming Blanca Peak to the north, and it was snowing. And to his shame, he will admit, it took him several minutes of staring out into the blowing, drifting haze of flakes to realize that it was still early June. Now, he had always heard, and frequently used the Colorado maxim, “April showers bring May blizzards,” but only a few times had he remembered snow this late—that one snow on the Fourth of July that cancelled the parade. But the past few years had been drought years, and this was truly extraordinary. After having regained his ability to speak, he promptly abused them:
“What is this?”
“Snow.”
Warren’s shoulders drooped. “Yes, I can see that. But why is it snowing?”
“I had heard they were cloud-seeding a bit more on the eastern slopes…apparently the western-slope counties aren’t as keen on the thievery of their water as they used to be. Someone must not be bribing them enough.”
“But, it’s the middle of June!”
“Early June,” Livingstone corrected.
“Still! It wasn’t even cloudy in Monte Vista.”
“Imagine that. Those cloud seeders get better every year. Like pulling a rabbit out of a top-hat, ehh?”
Warren decided he wouldn’t win this one and instead sat back and enjoyed the snow. For the most part, it did please him. Only on a couple of the sharper curves on the highway did he tense up, feeling that the hobo’s speed bordered on the upper regions of a safe velocity. But he didn’t lose traction for a moment. Ten minutes later, they pulled out of the storm and into the warming rays of an afternoon sun.
The drive to Walsenburg and then up I-25, however, was as uneventful as Warren always remembered it. They stopped briefly to fill up the gas tank in the middle of nowhere (aka Pueblo) and continued on their way north directly afterwards. Luckily they didn’t have to navigate the tangled mess of Colorado Springs, and exited the interstate for the short jaunt west to Manitou.
The only thing Warren remembered about Manitou was getting sick from the jalapeno peppers on his Subway sandwhich he had eaten there some four or five years prior. He didn’t mind the rest of the town, packed into a steep little valley with a sorry excuse for a river running down the middle in a concrete canal. The shops seemed interesting enough—certainly the hobo would fit right in. Warren wasn’t sure if he were mountain-hippy enough to blend, or if that rough rural side of him pegged him as one of those somewhat-less-cultured natives, opposed to the high-class tree-huggers who wore designer capri’s, massive California-beach style sunglasses, a light green linen scarf, a large flower-print blouse and river sandals and basked in café’s with ambient seascape music playing in the background. Like the people who lived in towns such as Crested Butte or Telluride.
The hobo drove just past what some might have called a “river-side” café and parked. When the two of them had exited, the hobo nodded towards the café and Warren decided to obey, following him into the place. And, as you might have guessed, the first person he saw was a slim girl sitting in a booth by herself, sipping at some tea with the bag still in the cup. She lifted her deep green eyes as they entered and met Warren’s gaze. And something leapt up within Warren and he decided he would talk to her before they left. No matter what.

Chapter 2

2008-11-01T14:25:00.000-07:00

Before I continue the tale of Warren Spicks, I must address a certain philosophical issue concerning time. The concept of eternity will weigh heavily upon a mind; the sheer immensity of it when compared to human mortality will keep one awake for hours at night. To imagine one’s self as eternal, or at least, eternally conscious is nigh impossible. Never-ending consciousness strikes the mind as colossal in a sense of impossibility. But then, so does its opposite: the ending of consciousness, to cease to exist. Both ends of the spectrum are incredibly frightening to the human mind.
And so I assure you, that as every mortal has contemplated his or her mortality, so did Warren Spicks that night. While he had no looming thoughts or feelings of imminent death, he found himself wondering which extreme he might arrive at upon the adventure of death. He wondered that if time should be circular, he should be able to manage the thought of infinite or unlimited revolutions in a finite or limited realm. He would never have told anyone this, knowing for certain that ninety percent of them would condemn him (or at least mention to his parents) his explorations into “new-agey Buddhist teachings.”
His Christian background taught him life eternal—which scared him almost as much as nonexistence after death. Of course, if it were heaven, perhaps he would be too distracted by experience to notice any passage of time. But hell! That he couldn’t reconcile. Eternal punishment, suffering, and agony? Eternal! He almost wished for non-existence across the board than pleasure for some and anguish for others. Certainly there had to be some sort of middle ground. Some place where time had meaning after death, for time only makes sense with a beginning and end thrown in there. Eternity is meaninglessness.
So of course he struggled to sleep, pressed into his bed by the thoughts invading his mind. But one by one, he banished the thoughts from his mind, concentrating on the present instead. He figured the only way to live was to ignore those musings on eternity and rather worry about what he would make himself for breakfast tomorrow morning when his family had taken off for their various destinations. And then he planned out his day on World of Warcraft: perhaps he would level his troll shaman a bit in the morning, then maybe group up with his guild in the afternoon with his Paladin. He had yet to snag the last Karazhan key fragment. And then perhaps he would get some honor in the battlegrounds or perhaps farm some gems to cut. And so musing on this alternate reality, Warren Spicks managed to forget time and sleep.
Another facet one might find intriguing about Warren Spicks was his sheer independence. While he made no objections to group interaction and indeed enjoyed laughing with others, he made no complaints (as did his brother) to being left alone for extended periods of time. And so waking to a silent house, making breakfast alone, and trodding back upstairs to the computer room hadn’t a single effect upon him: he knew his Dad was probably an hour into his trip (placing him near Durango) and his mother and brother likely only a half-hour in (probably just passing Chama). So he opened up World of Warcraft and logged onto his blood-elf pally to see which of his friends might be online.
Now, because of the fact that Warren had a mother, his hearing had become quite attentive to sounds occurring outside the gaming world. So when he heard the garage door open slightly, he promptly left the computer and ran downstairs to see if his father had forgotten something or if his brother had convinced their mother to let him kayak a bit first before leaving. Upon entering the garage, however, he found not one of his family members, but a figure in the shadows, rummaging through his father’s tools. When Warren flicked the light on, he found what seemed a homeless man, perhaps just a few years older than he, with blonde dreadlocks, a ragged Hawaiian t-shirt hanging across bony shoulders, long-baggy khaki cargo-shorts, held in place on his narrow hips with a simple brown leather belt. He wore flip-flops, held his father’s concrete saw in one hand, and pointed a nine millimeter at Warren with the other. The hobo’s eyes seemed dark, mixed with fear and recklessness.
Warren raised his hands, his eyebrows bristled with a wary confidence. “You could just ask, you know.”
The hobo stooped to pick up a hatchet, while keeping the pistol leveled at Warren. Then he squinted. Bit his lip.
“You need anything else? I’m sure Dad won’t miss it ‘till August.”
Then he clicked on the safety and pushed the gun into the back of his trousers. He looked back to Warren once more, mouth hanging halfway open. Warren waited for him to speak—the stranger seemed to be weighing his options.
“If you tell me your story, I won’t call the police,” Warren offered.
“You wouldn’t have time for that,” the hobo declared and bent underneath the halfway-opened garage door. “If I were you,” he said glancing back to Warren, “I’d come with me and get the hell out of here.”
It was Warren’s turn for surprise. “What have you done?”
The hobo raised his eyebrows and stuck out his lower lip. “Me? I? No, I just figured I’d loot the place before it burned. You, well. If you stay here, you won’t live long enough to see it burn. Which it will. Shame, too. This is a nice place. Although…though I would have added a little something to that entryway. It’s too…bold. As it is anyway. Maybe a little portico or something to mix up that big white wall.”
“Mom was going to plant lilacs there.” The hobo bit his lip again and scratched at his chin with the hand that had been holding the pistol.
“Yeah. Yeah that could work.” He shrugged. “Well too late for that.”
Warren’s eyebrows detected a hint of truth to this wanderer’s words. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“What do I mean? Well haven’t I stated it simply enough for you? They’re going to kill you and burn your house to the ground.”
“Who is?”
“Trivial question; I ask you, does it matter? I say you’re going to die. If I were you, I’d take a little more interest in saving my own skin.”
To say that Warren was confused, would do him an injustice. First off, he could not imagine in the first place anyone who might desire him physical harm much less his very life. Secondly, while he did not doubt the sincerity of this hobo (though possibly his end designs) he found it difficult to lavish his trust into rash action. He found himself inclined to dismiss the hobo as cracked, call the police, and have the fellow put away. But there was no lie in his eyes. This nomad’s words rang from him as truly as an injusticed five year old. This tension within him kept Warren silent as the hobo glanced from side to side, stepping backward.
“Well then. Good luck with the afterlife. Adieu!” he nodded, halfway bowed, and turned towards the pine forest.
“Wait!” Warren called after him. The hobo looked over his shoulder, but didn’t stop walking. “Where are you going?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere I suppose. Away from that doomed house, that’s for sure,” the hobo shouted back.
Then something in Warren’s mind must have clicked: he had three days. Why not take a little adventure? He could certainly hitch-hike back within that space of time from wherever this hobo was headed. And his looming prophecy of death hadn’t lifted its shade from Warren’s mind.
“I’ll come with you,” he yelled back at the hobo. “Let me grab some stuff.”
The hobo scratched his chin, eyes darting from the house to the road and back. He glanced at his watch.
Warren raised his eyebrows and nodded. “Let me grab my Nalgene and my pocket knife.” The hobo cringed and checked his watch again.
“Hurry!” he shouted after Warren and ducked into some oak brush.
While Warren could be quite reluctant to make decisions under pressure, once the decision was made, he executed the ramifications of the said decision with precision and great speed. So when he ran back into the house, he located his pocket knife and water bottle quickly, placed a 911 call, grabbed his sunglasses and green flannel jacket, slipped on his shoes, and ran out the front door, smacking right into a barrel-chested man in a red and black striped polo shirt. Several others stood behind him, armed with what he thought were automatic rifles. The big man in front grabbed his shoulder with an iron hand.
“Just where are you off too in such a hurry?” he said. Warren’s right eyebrow lifted. The voice did not match the size of the man clutching his shoulder in one hand.
“I…”he stammered a bit, “am. Leaving?” Chuckles rumbled through the group of men. Warren looked at them, praying that some of his brother’s wit was in his genes as well.
“Why would you want to do that? This is your place, isn’t it?” Warren glanced wide-eyed from man to man; how he wished he could use a “here’s your stupid sign” joke.
“Nope,” Warren began, hoping something would strike him. One of the men in back sneered. “I work for the C.I.A and was just bugging this house here. Have fifteen more to do today. Take luck,” he finished and tried to squirm out of the iron grip on his shoulder.
One of the men rolled his eyes. “Right. Like you work for the C.I.A.”
Warren half smiled, half winced. “Here’s your sign.”
The big man in front pushed the muzzle of a particularly nasty-looking rifle into Warren’s chest, and at once he regretted the joke and swallowed with difficulty.
“I don’t care who you are or what your doing here. This house was marked for burning by the boss and so we’re going to burn it to the ground. And lucky you will have a front row seat.”
A frightening threat, considering his predicament, to be sure. Yet all Warren could think to himself was, “’front row seat?’ are you serious? How cliché.” And while the cronies spread out around the house, Warren searched the bushes for any sign of the armed hobo—but found nothing. His mind fled to his ponderings on time after death—something so imminent now, as his hands were forced behind him and he felt himself being cuffed. The muzzle of the rifle stuck now in the middle of his back—which, under different circumstances, might have somewhat tickled.
But after being tied to a kitchen stool and watching the arsonists thoroughly wet the place with gallons and gallons of gasoline, Warren Spicks sighed and the reality of his dire circumstance set in. Here he was, about to face a fiery, suffocating death—but five minutes earlier he had laughed to himself about such an absurd probability. Whoever that hobo was—angelic messenger or demonic trickster—he had warned him. He found it somewhat amusing that he had been so quick to judge, somewhat sad that he had been so slow to believe. What good was all of this hindsight? He hung his head and breathed a punctuated sigh.
One vested man gave him a slap on the arm on his way out, calling the place clear and ready for fire. Warren blinked; his eyes already watered from the fumes of the gasoline. He heard a crash through the living room window—there was the starter flame. He quivered, watching the flames leap around the house. He heard a second crash upstairs. Warren knew it wouldn’t take long.
Now, in ordinary circumstances—despair would be a fitting descriptor for such a situation. But I have already told you that Warren is no ordinary personage, and a rather strange sort of fellow. And while he sat in this early burning prison, the hobo, who had removed himself upon sighting the group of arsonists to a tree high above the place and had watched with extreme curiosity the events below.
Because I have never had the opportunity to meet this strange fellow, I can only guess at his thoughts. But he must have found something of interest in Warren, for after counting the full number of the cronies standing out front, admiring the roaring spectacle, he managed to climb onto the backside of the roof and to break in through a window. He skipped downstairs, winked at the incredibly shocked Warren Spicks, cut his bonds and led him out the back and into the forest.
Of course there were a many great thoughts all rushing upon Warren at a time, but he somehow managed to thank his savior no less than fifty-four times and even tried to kiss his hand—of which the hobo would have none, but rather insisted they move on further. Warren finally obliged him and turned his attention to the path of the future.
“So where are we headed?” Warren asked.
“That thicket over there.”
“What? Why?”
“Do you always ask so many questions?”
“No, I…its just…why this oak brush? Do you plan to hide here or what?”
The hobo bent down and pulled the concrete saw and hatchet from their hidden location. “Any more questions, my dear Dr. Watson?” Warren furrowed his eyebrows and spread his arms.
“Fine. Lead on, Dr. Livingstone.”
The nomad grinned. “So Watson, tell me; what did you think back there, when faced with death?”
“Um. First, it’s Warren. And I don’t know…” he trailed off.
“You don’t know, Watson? Surely it left a credible impression on your mind.”
“Well. I suppose I dreaded the thought of the end.”
“Mmm. But what did you think of the end, is what I asked you. Not how you felt about it. When presented with the end of absolutely everything you know, what did you think?”
Warren was silent a time as they wandered through a spacious pine forest, clustered with thickets of oak brush, with pine needles cracking underfoot. “I suppose I thought—all in the space of a few seconds, you realize—that it really didn’t matter if I died. The universe would still spin, stars would still shine, the oceans would still rise and fall to the tides, calves would still be born, and grasshoppers would still have their legs picked off by little boys.”
“So you came face to face with insignificance and meaninglessness, did you?” the hobo shuddered. “Now there’s a frightening thought. At least for an intellectual.” He surveyed the tree canopy above him for a moment. “But say you aren’t insignificant.”
“What do you mean?”
The hobo sighed and rolled his eyes. “Your question was: ‘how do I reconcile myself with death?’ and you answered that the greater meaning of life was more important than your own life’s meaning. A noble and somewhat selfless, though mildly depressing and fairly irritating, conclusion. You see, Watson, my question was rather similar to yours. Is my life more or less meaningful to the world than yours? Not a hard question to answer yourself, really. Mine is more meaningful, because right now, it matters one hell of a lot to me. But I could empathize with your situation, and should I have been in your shoes (thank heavens I wasn’t) my last seconds would have mattered more than anything in the world. So I figured if I saved you, my life would continue to be more meaningful to anyone than yours…as I would remove the time contingency from the crux of the question.”
“So,” Warren sighed, dropping an eyebrow, “you saved me to make your life more meaningful to you.”
The hobo smiled. “I think he gets the picture. You see, if I had never met you and rather walked by the street as they burned the house I would have had no cause to save you. But since I had offered to save you in the first place, I had already sympathized with you…and to betray that sympathy would be to acknowledge that your last seconds of life really were more important than those same seconds of my life. So I had to save you, you see?”
Warren nodded. “Yeah, I get it. So I was more significant to the world, but only because of the time restraint on my life.”
“But! Our meaningfulness to the world is measured in full only at the end of our lives. I of course took a little risk in saving you back there, that by saving your life, you would use that time to become more significant to the world than I would ever become. But since we both survived, I think I have solidified my position over you.”
“And how’s that, Livingstone?”
“Well my dear Watson, when people in history books will write of all the great things you will have accomplished they won’t fail to mention how I saved your life. And if it hadn’t been for me, all those great things would never have happened. Making me, therefore, much more meaningful to history. Plus, you owe me one now. And so when my life is on the line, you will come to my aid and make sure that my meaningfulness to the world will continue on as long as it can.”
“I suppose I don’t have a choice in the matter,” Warren said, smiling.
“Nay. But isn’t that the easiest way?” the hobo asked.
“I would have to agree, Livingstone.”
Now, these two took to each other rather well, or, at least from Warren’s perspective, they had. Despite the hobo’s fierce allegiance to himself, Warren felt like this was a sort of person he would get along well with. Rarely did their conversation slacken, and even when it did, the hobo would ask another semi-philosophical or theological question of Warren and upon hearing his answer (usually unsatisfactory and trite at first) would clarify and push Warren to deeper methods of thought. And so they continued walking into the forest, chatting lightly between themselves of various “ologies”: cosmology, ontology, epistemology, theology, etc. Warren had dabbled in many, but knew only enough to get himself into trouble. So surprised was he at the hobo’s knowledge and skill with reason, that after an hour’s worth of walking, he realized he hadn’t a clue where they were. And without thinking, he asked “Livingstone” where they were.
“Oh don’t worry. We’re still in Colorado.”
“Yes, but we should have crossed…one, two…three roads by now?” We are headed west? Yes. Look at the sun behind us,” Warren spurted.
“Indeed? Huh,” was all the hobo said for the moment. “But must you be so concerned about our precise location? You yourself have said you don’t know where we’re going—in fact you mentioned it some twelve or thirteen times now.”
“Well I was just trying to figure it out…I mean, we should be over by Martinez canyon now.” Warren was craning his neck to look around the pines. The hobo just nodded and let him search.
“Just tell me. Do you know where we’re headed?”
“Ahh, now there’s the right phrasing of the question. Do you need to know? I think not. We’re having just as good a time as if you did. But do I know? Oh yes. I know exactly where I’m headed. So I suppose my question in return for you would be this: are you okay with that?”
Warren’s eyebrows remained fixed in an ambiguous stare. His tongue played on the inside of his cheek with the inquiry. He supposed that he did owe his continued life to the hobo’s intervention and decided that, if nothing else, this would make for an adventure. But of his family? They would come home in three days and find the house in ruin and what would they assume then?
If nothing else, he could give the hobo a day and a half and then return to his place to wait for his parents. “Yeah,” he said and paused half a breath, “I think so.”The hobo smiled. “Then we have some ground to cover today while it’s still today. Now tell me, do you also believe that Newton was a fool?”