Tên tôi là Giang

Let’s di di mau!

Come on, let’s fucking di di mau

—-

Robert Lindsay woke up on the carpeted floor of room 103 at the Super 8 motel. A couple hours of restless sleep plagued by bone chilling nightmares of artillery fire and burning hooches, was still the best he’d managed since returning home five days ago.

The night had been for ambushes, and the day for shut eye. He'd been nocturnal for so long that rising and setting with the sun was proving to be a difficult task. One thing about boot camp was that they knew how to program folks into killing machines, but by God, they didn’t offer a hope and a prayer when it came time to reintegrate them back into society.

You’re a gook killing machine! A gook killing machine!

A lot of good that did when the gooks were seven thousand miles away. A lot of fucking good.

Robert got up, laboring his right leg that had taken shrapnel during a mission deep in A Shau Valley, and made his way to the small breakfast hall, where he poured himself a lukewarm cup of coffee and nibbled on a stale bran muffin.

Weighing heavily on his mind were his folks and Jenny Fitzgerald. In another life, another time, he stood stone faced in front of his old man, filled with piss and vinegar. Standing tall, chest puffed up with pride, as his father told him the stupidity of the decision he was making, and the lasting effect it would have.

You’ll never be the same, boy. No matter how hard you try to be normal, you’ll never feel right again. And for what? A losing war? Do you even know why you’re going over there in the first place? You think this is some John Wayne Gung Ho shit? You could die. Jesus, son. I went so that you wouldn’t have to. I sacrificed so that you wouldn’t have to!

Despite this, Robert hopped the Canadian border and volunteered in Plattsburgh, New York. A friendly recruiting officer shook his hand and told him about the importance of the decision he was making. He told Robert that a lot of Americans were defecting and crossing the border into Canada to avoid active duty. And that it was nice to see the reverse happening, too.

A Canadian fighting a war that wasn’t his to fight. Well, from what he was told, the damage of Communism spreading was a global threat. And last he checked, he was living on this spinning rock, same as everyone. So why wasn’t it his fight?

But now, he knew all too well how frighteningly right his father had been. Even after a few days, he watched out the window of the motel as folks carried on with their day as though their brothers, sons, cousins, friends, fellow human beings weren’t being blown to bits halfway across the world. Kids who weren’t even old enough to have a beer or place a bet were coming home in body bags. Old enough to die, but too young to live. He remembered Danson writing that on his combat helmet.

He couldn’t look at his father. He couldn’t look for fear of what he’d see looking back at him. Dead man’s eyes. That’s what Rickshaw and Devin called them back in Nam. And he knew he had it because once you saw the things you saw, you couldn’t unsee them. You couldn’t unfeel them. You couldn’t unbreathe them. You couldn’t wash them away like a great baptism. Those images, those thoughts, were projected out through your eyes. They were tattooed there like permanent damage.

Instead of going home, he walked down Main Street and stopped at Anderson’s Antiques. The proprietor of this dusty rank smelling antique shop was an old pal of his father’s, Reggie Anderson.

Inside the shop were old chipped rocking chairs, milk crates of vinyl records, toys, sofas, paintings, and at the back left-hand corner was Reggie, smoking a cigarette and reading the paper.

“Well, as I live and breathe. Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes” he said, coming around the counter with his arms spread out. He wrapped them tightly around Robert and followed the mauling with three hard slaps to the back. “A bona fide hero, in my little antique shop. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“It’s good to see you, Reg. I was thinking of the apartment upstairs. Could I rent it out?”

Reggie let out a long laugh before telling him his money was no good here. “Look kid. The apartment is yours, free of charge. A soldier’s discount. Mind you, the place is falling apart a little. But it’s fine to rest your head for the night. What are your plans anyway, now that you’re back in town?”

“I appreciate it, Reggie. And to be honest. I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

“Taking er a day at a time. Ain’t no sin in that. Have you been back to see the old man?”

“Uh, no. Not yet. I will though, soon.”

“Yeah, yeah, no doubt,” Reggie said. “You can take this here rocking chair, kid. There’s a mattress up there but nothing to sit in. We’ll get you a sofa too, in due time.”

He slapped Robert’s back again and held his hands there for a few seconds. “It’s good to have you back, kid. It really is.”

Robert looked at Reggie, whose hair was thinning and graying. His back was beginning to hunch. And he thought about coming into this shop with his father when he was a kid. How they would laugh and laugh, and even though young Robert hadn’t a single clue what they were talking about, he’d join in. He’d join in because they were men, and as a kid, all he wanted to be was a man. A strong, working class man like his father. Like Reggie.

The two of them would tousle his hair and Reggie would say, “You got yourself a good kid there, Billy. A real good kid. He’s going to do great things,” and his father would look down at him with a face filled with pride. A slight rise of the left side of his lip was all it took for the inside of Robert to feel like it was filled with a thousand butterflies that could lift his body off the ground.

And when the war came along, Rob watched his father eating his supper on his La-Z-Boy, bitter rage forming creases on his forehead. Walter Cronkite talked about the carnage in a place he’d never heard of. There were explosions, gunfire, grenades, and yes, there were body bags, too. But Rob was too young to think he could die. And now he realized that was how they got so many soldiers. Young kids who didn’t believe death would ever come knocking. But boy, did it ever.

Billy told the family how ridiculous the war was. How Ho Chi Minh wasn’t planning on taking over the world. How colonists had their foot on the throat of that country for so long that they were fighting back. That we would act the same way if colonists came into our country and tried to have their way with us. It was just Goddamn Lyndon Johnson who was in so deep that he couldn't pull them out now for fear of making him look weak.

He made a good point, but Robert didn’t want to serve for political ideological reasons. He wanted to serve because it was his time. And after his band The Freaks played The Dollar bar to a crowd of exactly three people, he wandered over to the closed antique shop and knocked on the door. Reggie answered, and there on that quiet evening, he told him he had to serve.

Reggie said, “Of course you do, son. It’s in your blood.”

That seemed like a million years ago.

How he wished he’d listened to his father

—------------------------------------------------------------

That evening he dreamed of the village in Quang Tri. How he looked around in disbelief that this was 1967, and not 1867, or 1767. These lives were so primitive, they were so simple.

There's a young woman named Giang, “tên tôi là Giang,” she says while offering a plate of rice. Robert gently waves his hand and shakes his head slowly back and forth. Schwarmy and O’Brien laugh as O’Brien slaps the plate out of her hands.

“Heeyyyy, Charlie. Come out. Come out, wherever you are,” Schwarmy is yelling with both hands cupped around his mouth. He puts his hands down and places them on the AK. He points it at women and children.

“Are you VC? What about you, kid? Are you VC? Hey O’Brien, do you think this little gook fucker is one of them?”

“Could be. They all look the same to me.”

They both bellow evil laughter. Robert is looking at Giang, who is attempting to pick up each individual grain of rice out of the dirt. By God, she’s beautiful, he thinks. And at that moment, he wonders if he’s on the wrong side of this thing.

He gets down on one knee to help, and she shrieks in fear. “No, no. It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.” She nods her head quickly, then resumes, not wanting to lock eyes with this man. Not wanting to trust him.

They clean up as much as they can, and she stands up, brushing her long black hair out of her face and holding the bowl tightly to her chest, fearing that at any moment, this soldier, who is playing Mr. Nice Guy, will knock it out of her hands and join his soldier friends for some laughter at her expense. But he doesn’t. He looks at her and smiles, and in the distance he can hear O’Brien, and Schwarmy calling out for VC.

They’re telling villagers who don’t understand that they’re about to get zapped if they don’t disclose the location of the Viet Cong that are hiding somewhere in one of these hooches.

His rucksack feels like a thousand pounds on his back, so he takes it off and rests it against a hooch that he believes to be Giang’s. Inside there are two children running around, chasing each other with little pieces of bamboo, and Robert thinks of the beauty of childhood wonder. How kids could find the good in anything and how he wished that one day you didn’t wake up to find it all gone. Never to return. That warm feeling replaced with aching worry, anxiety, and a deep hatred for what you allowed the world to do to you.

He follows her inside, and she turns around. She thinks for a minute about what she’s going to say and then tells him in English that her grandfather worked in California. She struggles to get it out, but he’s happy. Her English is much stronger than his Vietnamese.

“He says there’s gold in the hills and the water sparkles like diamonds”

Robert says that’s beautiful. He’s never been to California himself but once thought about it. Like many kids who are called good-looking one too many times in school, he thought he could go to Hollywood and make it in the movies. But here he was, a long way from those corrugated steel letters that overlooked the La-La Land.

Outside, the sound of artillery fire shakes Robert from his daydream in horrific fashion. Giang jumps and looks behind her to shield her children, except they aren’t there.

She shouts with a primal screech that makes Robert feel like vomiting, and if he had anything more than half a C-ration and a couple sips from his canteen, he’s sure he would have spilled it all over the hooch.

Bianh! Dihn! Bianh! Dihn! Bian! Dihn!

Giang runs outside, Robert follows closely behind like a shadow. He fears the worst, because in his four months of humping through mountains, swamps, and fields of grass that grew far above his head that had to be cut with a machete, the worst that he could imagine happened. In many cases, it was even worse than he could imagine.

Now is no different as he looks at two lifeless bodies in the center of the village. They’re piled on top of each other in opposite directions, like a human X. Their bamboo sticks next to them. Schwarmy is standing next to the bodies, a smug smile draped across his face, and Robert has never wanted to take the life of another human being so badly in his entire life.

Giang is running to them, her hair flowing behind her as Robert watches, lifeless like a statue. O’Brien has a zippo lighter that he took from the Reverend when he fell on Hill 106. The Zippo says, Jesus Saves, and he’s burning the hooches with it. The dry heat erupts the homes in seconds. Clouds of pitch black smoke rise like a dark omen. As Robert watches the clouds of smoke and sees O’Brien winking, a homemade cigarette dangling loosely from his mouth, two more gunshots echo with the screaming of villagers. Robert feels his body, he’s rubbing up and down his chest, his neck, face, and back to make sure that the bullets aren’t lodged in his body somewhere.

He isn’t hit. But Giang is lying with her children. Still. Robert can feel the salt from his tears stinging his sweating face. He runs over to Schwarmy, eyes of hatred and blood that’s boiling so hot his entire body is in danger of combusting.

With the butt of the AK, he smashes Schwarmy’s nose. And climbs on top of him, delivering blow after blow to his face.

Behind him, he can hear O’Brien and the rest of the platoon. Walker, Cross, Frankie, and Lem, yelling out as the village goes up like Pompei.

Let’s di di mau

Come on, let’s fucking Didi Mau

There’s no VC here. I repeat. There’s no VC here. Let’s go. Come on, let’s go!

He takes one last look at Giang and the children, before he’s pulled off of Schwarmy by Walker, and his head keeps replaying her voice again, and again.

Tên tôi là Giang

There’s gold in the hills and water sparkles like diamonds.

Robert screams her name, and downstairs Reggie looks up at the ceiling with a somber look. It’s 3 in the morning, and he’s already on his second cup of coffee. He’s dusting and reorganizing. Moving a chair from one dusty corner to another. Piling the jigsaw puzzles of beautiful landscapes into perfectly neat stacks.

Robert is still screaming.

Reggie thinks about his time in the service. A little cafe in the south of France. A cute little nurse named Marie. Reggie, smiling so much that his face hurt. Marie laughing at all of his strange Canadian jokes, and strange Canadian humor. He remembers a small birthmark just above the right side of her lip that looked like an apple. Her smell. Lavender wafting off of her and into his nose, calming him and making him fall in love with her.

Then the tanks. The explosions and Marie.

He can’t go see Robert because there’s nothing to say. Nothing with any form of truth, anyway. He’d love to go upstairs and tell him that it will fade, and she will be forgotten, whoever she is. But it wouldn’t be true. No, sir. Not true at all, Reggie thought as he took another sip of his coffee. Smelling lavender, and thinking about the apple shaped birthmark.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------

Robert came down the stairs at a quarter past nine. Reggie was showing an old woman some China from the 1920s. She seemed interested in the floral designs on the aged white cups, and Reggie was closing in on the sale. A little flirting, touching her shoulder, and laughing like she was the funniest person on earth. Her cheeks were flushed, and she was waving her right arm at him saying, “oh would you stop it?”

Robert smiled and snuck behind the counter where a half-empty pot of coffee was sitting on a burner. There were paper cups next to it, and he poured himself one. The coffee was old, no doubt, but he still went back for a second cup.

After a few minutes, the old lady left and said she’d return with her grandsons, who would help her carry it all. Reggie said, “fine by me, ma’am. Looking forward to seeing you.” Again, she blushed and left as the bell above the door dinged.

“You’re a natural,” Robert said, raising his paper cup and smiling.

“Did you see that diamond necklace? The old broad has money. That’s when old Reggie has to turn on the charm.” He winked. “Say, what are your plans for the day, soldier?”

Robert knew what his plans should be, and that was to visit his father. But he was scared, something that Reggie read on his face instantly.

“Look, kid. I’ve known your father for a long time. And I don’t know what you’re expecting to happen when you see him, but he’s just going to be happy that you’re home. He’s going to want to crack a cold beer with you. And you won’t have to say a word about the war, kid. Not a word. Your old man and I have sat at The Dollar for over twenty years now, drinking, laughing, sometimes talking and sometimes sitting in silence. But always, always knowing that we understood what was floating around each other’s brains and knowing that just having someone who understands is a lot better than trying to forget it, kid.”

“I know, Reg. I do. But every time I’m about to head over that way, I think about the way we left things. Him screaming, and me standing with my chest puffed out like I knew a fucking thing about anything. He knew, Reg. He knew.”

Reggie placed his hand on Robert’s shoulder and said, “Of course he did, kid. But you know what? Your father stood in front of his old man too after Pearl Harbour and told him he was enlisting. Your grandfather spent two years in muddy fucking trenches. He had words for your father. Being young, kid. Being young means being full of pride. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to serve your country. Not a thing at all. And your old man understands that, kid. I promise you he does.”

And with those words, Robert left the shop. His father was likely working, so he’d wait until the evening to go pay him and his mother a visit.

—————————————————————————

That evening, as he headed down Main towards his folks’ home on Union, a cool fall wind blew, massaging his face and making him feel good for the first time in a long while. He passed the embankment that overlooked the freight yard, and he remembered parking his old man’s Ford and kissing Jenny deeply. Kissing her and thinking that life couldn’t possibly get any better than that moment, and now, he was sure that was right.

Jenny was off to college, and he remembered her Dear John letter. The one that said she loved him, but time didn’t stand still because he wasn’t around. The world kept moving; it kept spinning, and her life couldn’t pause. She was going away, and if he wanted to visit her when he returned, he was more than welcome. But it would be as friends. Not as lovers. And she had attached a picture of them, standing on his front lawn, getting ready for prom. Jenny’s long blonde hair, and big smile. She had to get braces the week before, and he remembered her crying because of it. And when she came to his house to show them off, her eyes puffy and red, he thought she had never looked more beautiful.

A grunt buddy named Damien had looked over his shoulder, and said, “you got yourself a beauty there, Jordan. Don’t let her get away.” And he responded, “I’ll try, brother. I’ll try my best.”

Every block formed a memory in his head about childhood. Bike rides, and comic shops. Georgie Flannagan’s little malt shop on the corner of Evangeline and Mill Haven. The candy stripe swirling in front of Paul’s barbershop. He thought about going in there with his old man to get a haircut. His father went first and when Paul asked what he wanted, he told he wanted the “Daddy Cut”. He laughed, and so did his father. They walked out that day looking like twins, and he’d never felt so much pride in himself, in his family, and in his town.

Before he knew it, he was crossing up Union Street. Maggie’s German Shepherd, still barking behind a chipped white picket fence. “Hey, boy,” Robert called, “How are you, boy?”

The dog responded with a couple of happy yips and yaps, and Robert thought he would like one and wondered if Reggie would let him bring a pup to his small bachelor pad.

Then he was standing in front of his childhood home. The three story, old Victorian that was built in 1890. Faded auburn Cape Cod siding, and brown shutters on his bedroom window. The garden stones that formed a snake formation up to the three steps that led to the front door. His mother’s garden of beautiful blooming flowers, bright purples, and pinks, whites, and yellows, all sitting neatly in a bed of red mulch.

Robert stood, unable to move for a few moments. Then he heard voices coming from behind the house. He recognized the sound immediately as Bob Collins, doing color commentary for the Red Sox game. His father was back there. He knew the old man was sitting on his favourite patio chair, with a cold beer in his right hand, and a cigar between the fingers on his left, or hanging from his mouth.

Robert’s heart was beating madly as he walked past his Ford truck, where he and Jenny loved each other, and talked about the future. And as he came around the corner of the house, he saw his father staring out at the river and the Appalachian mountain range in the distance.

He had a pair of jeans on, and he was still wearing a dirty work shirt. Robert walked up the deck stairs, and his father looked to his right and saw his son, for the first time in almost two years.

“I heard you were back in town,” he said. And Robert nodded. “You lost some weight.”

“Haven’t been eating much.”

“Looks it.”

Then he reached into the cooler that was sitting at his feet and hauled out a beer, placing it on the arm of the chair next to his. He didn’t say a word.

Robert walked slowly to the chair and sat down. His first beer with his old man. How many times he had asked to have one with him when he was a teenager, and his father replying that once he was old enough, they could drink beer and listen to ball games all night. But not a drop until then.

He popped the tab and took a long drink, nearly downing half the can before he took it off his lips. He let out an exasperated, “Ahhhhh,” and placed the can back on the arm of the chair.

“How are the Sox doing?”

“Down two runs in the seventh. We have two outs, but there’s a man on first and third. Johnny Curtis is pitching. Needs to stop throwing that damn curve. His fastball can’t be hit.”

“Who are they playing?”

“Milwaukee. Damn Brewers are streaky, but when they’re hitting, boy are they ever.”

“Yeah. It’s been a while. I’ll need a refresher course.” He swore he could see a hint of a smile form on his father’s weathered face.

“You came to the right place. Your mom is at Bingo with Wendy Alton, and Becca Sherman. Should be back in an hour or so.”

“Okay.”

Then the two sat in silence for a while. Every time Robert’s can was empty, his father grabbed him another one and placed it in the same spot.

In his head, he could still hear the voices of the 103rd, but this evening they weren’t as loud. He looked over at his father and knew that inside his head there were voices, too. Good ones. Bad ones. There was always a war waging inside his skull, as there would be for him. But sitting there, he realized Reggie was right. He didn’t need to discuss what had happened, and his father didn’t need to tell Robert what he saw. The point was they had both been to different iterations of hell, and they both returned.

Robert looked at the view. The sun was a brilliant orange flame that was setting behind a mountain range that he had taken for granted his entire childhood. Smokestacks billowed from the paper mill as the water sparkled.

tên tôi là Giang

tên tôi là Giang

There’s gold in those hills. And the water sparkles like diamonds in the sun.

Tên tôi là Giang

Let’s di di mau!

Come on, let’s fucking di di mau

—-

Robert Lindsay woke up on the carpeted floor of room 103 at the Super 8 motel. A couple hours of restless sleep plagued by bone chilling nightmares of artillery fire and burning hooches, was still the best he’d managed since returning home five days ago.

The night had been for ambushes, and the day for shut eye. He'd been nocturnal for so long that rising and setting with the sun was proving to be a difficult task. One thing about boot camp was that they knew how to program folks into killing machines, but by God, they didn’t offer a hope and a prayer when it came time to reintegrate them back into society.

You’re a gook killing machine! A gook killing machine!

A lot of good that did when the gooks were seven thousand miles away. A lot of fucking good.

Robert got up, laboring his right leg that had taken shrapnel during a mission deep in A Shau Valley, and made his way to the small breakfast hall, where he poured himself a lukewarm cup of coffee and nibbled on a stale bran muffin.

Weighing heavily on his mind were his folks and Jenny Fitzgerald. In another life, another time, he stood stone faced in front of his old man, filled with piss and vinegar. Standing tall, chest puffed up with pride, as his father told him the stupidity of the decision he was making, and the lasting effect it would have.

You’ll never be the same, boy. No matter how hard you try to be normal, you’ll never feel right again. And for what? A losing war? Do you even know why you’re going over there in the first place? You think this is some John Wayne Gung Ho shit? You could die. Jesus, son. I went so that you wouldn’t have to. I sacrificed so that you wouldn’t have to!

Despite this, Robert hopped the Canadian border and volunteered in Plattsburgh, New York. A friendly recruiting officer shook his hand and told him about the importance of the decision he was making. He told Robert that a lot of Americans were defecting and crossing the border into Canada to avoid active duty. And that it was nice to see the reverse happening, too.

A Canadian fighting a war that wasn’t his to fight. Well, from what he was told, the damage of Communism spreading was a global threat. And last he checked, he was living on this spinning rock, same as everyone. So why wasn’t it his fight?

But now, he knew all too well how frighteningly right his father had been. Even after a few days, he watched out the window of the motel as folks carried on with their day as though their brothers, sons, cousins, friends, fellow human beings weren’t being blown to bits halfway across the world. Kids who weren’t even old enough to have a beer or place a bet were coming home in body bags. Old enough to die, but too young to live. He remembered Danson writing that on his combat helmet.

He couldn’t look at his father. He couldn’t look for fear of what he’d see looking back at him. Dead man’s eyes. That’s what Rickshaw and Devin called them back in Nam. And he knew he had it because once you saw the things you saw, you couldn’t unsee them. You couldn’t unfeel them. You couldn’t unbreathe them. You couldn’t wash them away like a great baptism. Those images, those thoughts, were projected out through your eyes. They were tattooed there like permanent damage.

Instead of going home, he walked down Main Street and stopped at Anderson’s Antiques. The proprietor of this dusty rank smelling antique shop was an old pal of his father’s, Reggie Anderson.

Inside the shop were old chipped rocking chairs, milk crates of vinyl records, toys, sofas, paintings, and at the back left-hand corner was Reggie, smoking a cigarette and reading the paper.

“Well, as I live and breathe. Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes” he said, coming around the counter with his arms spread out. He wrapped them tightly around Robert and followed the mauling with three hard slaps to the back. “A bona fide hero, in my little antique shop. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“It’s good to see you, Reg. I was thinking of the apartment upstairs. Could I rent it out?”

Reggie let out a long laugh before telling him his money was no good here. “Look kid. The apartment is yours, free of charge. A soldier’s discount. Mind you, the place is falling apart a little. But it’s fine to rest your head for the night. What are your plans anyway, now that you’re back in town?”

“I appreciate it, Reggie. And to be honest. I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

“Taking er a day at a time. Ain’t no sin in that. Have you been back to see the old man?”

“Uh, no. Not yet. I will though, soon.”

“Yeah, yeah, no doubt,” Reggie said. “You can take this here rocking chair, kid. There’s a mattress up there but nothing to sit in. We’ll get you a sofa too, in due time.”

He slapped Robert’s back again and held his hands there for a few seconds. “It’s good to have you back, kid. It really is.”

Robert looked at Reggie, whose hair was thinning and graying. His back was beginning to hunch. And he thought about coming into this shop with his father when he was a kid. How they would laugh and laugh, and even though young Robert hadn’t a single clue what they were talking about, he’d join in. He’d join in because they were men, and as a kid, all he wanted to be was a man. A strong, working class man like his father. Like Reggie.

The two of them would tousle his hair and Reggie would say, “You got yourself a good kid there, Billy. A real good kid. He’s going to do great things,” and his father would look down at him with a face filled with pride. A slight rise of the left side of his lip was all it took for the inside of Robert to feel like it was filled with a thousand butterflies that could lift his body off the ground.

And when the war came along, Rob watched his father eating his supper on his La-Z-Boy, bitter rage forming creases on his forehead. Walter Cronkite talked about the carnage in a place he’d never heard of. There were explosions, gunfire, grenades, and yes, there were body bags, too. But Rob was too young to think he could die. And now he realized that was how they got so many soldiers. Young kids who didn’t believe death would ever come knocking. But boy, did it ever.

Billy told the family how ridiculous the war was. How Ho Chi Minh wasn’t planning on taking over the world. How colonists had their foot on the throat of that country for so long that they were fighting back. That we would act the same way if colonists came into our country and tried to have their way with us. It was just Goddamn Lyndon Johnson who was in so deep that he couldn't pull them out now for fear of making him look weak.

He made a good point, but Robert didn’t want to serve for political ideological reasons. He wanted to serve because it was his time. And after his band The Freaks played The Dollar bar to a crowd of exactly three people, he wandered over to the closed antique shop and knocked on the door. Reggie answered, and there on that quiet evening, he told him he had to serve.

Reggie said, “Of course you do, son. It’s in your blood.”

That seemed like a million years ago.

How he wished he’d listened to his father

—------------------------------------------------------------

That evening he dreamed of the village in Quang Tri. How he looked around in disbelief that this was 1967, and not 1867, or 1767. These lives were so primitive, they were so simple.

There's a young woman named Giang, “tên tôi là Giang,” she says while offering a plate of rice. Robert gently waves his hand and shakes his head slowly back and forth. Schwarmy and O’Brien laugh as O’Brien slaps the plate out of her hands.

“Heeyyyy, Charlie. Come out. Come out, wherever you are,” Schwarmy is yelling with both hands cupped around his mouth. He puts his hands down and places them on the AK. He points it at women and children.

“Are you VC? What about you, kid? Are you VC? Hey O’Brien, do you think this little gook fucker is one of them?”

“Could be. They all look the same to me.”

They both bellow evil laughter. Robert is looking at Giang, who is attempting to pick up each individual grain of rice out of the dirt. By God, she’s beautiful, he thinks. And at that moment, he wonders if he’s on the wrong side of this thing.

He gets down on one knee to help, and she shrieks in fear. “No, no. It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.” She nods her head quickly, then resumes, not wanting to lock eyes with this man. Not wanting to trust him.

They clean up as much as they can, and she stands up, brushing her long black hair out of her face and holding the bowl tightly to her chest, fearing that at any moment, this soldier, who is playing Mr. Nice Guy, will knock it out of her hands and join his soldier friends for some laughter at her expense. But he doesn’t. He looks at her and smiles, and in the distance he can hear O’Brien, and Schwarmy calling out for VC.

They’re telling villagers who don’t understand that they’re about to get zapped if they don’t disclose the location of the Viet Cong that are hiding somewhere in one of these hooches.

His rucksack feels like a thousand pounds on his back, so he takes it off and rests it against a hooch that he believes to be Giang’s. Inside there are two children running around, chasing each other with little pieces of bamboo, and Robert thinks of the beauty of childhood wonder. How kids could find the good in anything and how he wished that one day you didn’t wake up to find it all gone. Never to return. That warm feeling replaced with aching worry, anxiety, and a deep hatred for what you allowed the world to do to you.

He follows her inside, and she turns around. She thinks for a minute about what she’s going to say and then tells him in English that her grandfather worked in California. She struggles to get it out, but he’s happy. Her English is much stronger than his Vietnamese.

“He says there’s gold in the hills and the water sparkles like diamonds”

Robert says that’s beautiful. He’s never been to California himself but once thought about it. Like many kids who are called good-looking one too many times in school, he thought he could go to Hollywood and make it in the movies. But here he was, a long way from those corrugated steel letters that overlooked the La-La Land.

Outside, the sound of artillery fire shakes Robert from his daydream in horrific fashion. Giang jumps and looks behind her to shield her children, except they aren’t there.

She shouts with a primal screech that makes Robert feel like vomiting, and if he had anything more than half a C-ration and a couple sips from his canteen, he’s sure he would have spilled it all over the hooch.

Bianh! Dihn! Bianh! Dihn! Bian! Dihn!

Giang runs outside, Robert follows closely behind like a shadow. He fears the worst, because in his four months of humping through mountains, swamps, and fields of grass that grew far above his head that had to be cut with a machete, the worst that he could imagine happened. In many cases, it was even worse than he could imagine.

Now is no different as he looks at two lifeless bodies in the center of the village. They’re piled on top of each other in opposite directions, like a human X. Their bamboo sticks next to them. Schwarmy is standing next to the bodies, a smug smile draped across his face, and Robert has never wanted to take the life of another human being so badly in his entire life.

Giang is running to them, her hair flowing behind her as Robert watches, lifeless like a statue. O’Brien has a zippo lighter that he took from the Reverend when he fell on Hill 106. The Zippo says, Jesus Saves, and he’s burning the hooches with it. The dry heat erupts the homes in seconds. Clouds of pitch black smoke rise like a dark omen. As Robert watches the clouds of smoke and sees O’Brien winking, a homemade cigarette dangling loosely from his mouth, two more gunshots echo with the screaming of villagers. Robert feels his body, he’s rubbing up and down his chest, his neck, face, and back to make sure that the bullets aren’t lodged in his body somewhere.

He isn’t hit. But Giang is lying with her children. Still. Robert can feel the salt from his tears stinging his sweating face. He runs over to Schwarmy, eyes of hatred and blood that’s boiling so hot his entire body is in danger of combusting.

With the butt of the AK, he smashes Schwarmy’s nose. And climbs on top of him, delivering blow after blow to his face.

Behind him, he can hear O’Brien and the rest of the platoon. Walker, Cross, Frankie, and Lem, yelling out as the village goes up like Pompei.

Let’s di di mau

Come on, let’s fucking Didi Mau

There’s no VC here. I repeat. There’s no VC here. Let’s go. Come on, let’s go!

He takes one last look at Giang and the children, before he’s pulled off of Schwarmy by Walker, and his head keeps replaying her voice again, and again.

Tên tôi là Giang

There’s gold in the hills and water sparkles like diamonds.

Robert screams her name, and downstairs Reggie looks up at the ceiling with a somber look. It’s 3 in the morning, and he’s already on his second cup of coffee. He’s dusting and reorganizing. Moving a chair from one dusty corner to another. Piling the jigsaw puzzles of beautiful landscapes into perfectly neat stacks.

Robert is still screaming.

Reggie thinks about his time in the service. A little cafe in the south of France. A cute little nurse named Marie. Reggie, smiling so much that his face hurt. Marie laughing at all of his strange Canadian jokes, and strange Canadian humor. He remembers a small birthmark just above the right side of her lip that looked like an apple. Her smell. Lavender wafting off of her and into his nose, calming him and making him fall in love with her.

Then the tanks. The explosions and Marie.

He can’t go see Robert because there’s nothing to say. Nothing with any form of truth, anyway. He’d love to go upstairs and tell him that it will fade, and she will be forgotten, whoever she is. But it wouldn’t be true. No, sir. Not true at all, Reggie thought as he took another sip of his coffee. Smelling lavender, and thinking about the apple shaped birthmark.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------

Robert came down the stairs at a quarter past nine. Reggie was showing an old woman some China from the 1920s. She seemed interested in the floral designs on the aged white cups, and Reggie was closing in on the sale. A little flirting, touching her shoulder, and laughing like she was the funniest person on earth. Her cheeks were flushed, and she was waving her right arm at him saying, “oh would you stop it?”

Robert smiled and snuck behind the counter where a half-empty pot of coffee was sitting on a burner. There were paper cups next to it, and he poured himself one. The coffee was old, no doubt, but he still went back for a second cup.

After a few minutes, the old lady left and said she’d return with her grandsons, who would help her carry it all. Reggie said, “fine by me, ma’am. Looking forward to seeing you.” Again, she blushed and left as the bell above the door dinged.

“You’re a natural,” Robert said, raising his paper cup and smiling.

“Did you see that diamond necklace? The old broad has money. That’s when old Reggie has to turn on the charm.” He winked. “Say, what are your plans for the day, soldier?”

Robert knew what his plans should be, and that was to visit his father. But he was scared, something that Reggie read on his face instantly.

“Look, kid. I’ve known your father for a long time. And I don’t know what you’re expecting to happen when you see him, but he’s just going to be happy that you’re home. He’s going to want to crack a cold beer with you. And you won’t have to say a word about the war, kid. Not a word. Your old man and I have sat at The Dollar for over twenty years now, drinking, laughing, sometimes talking and sometimes sitting in silence. But always, always knowing that we understood what was floating around each other’s brains and knowing that just having someone who understands is a lot better than trying to forget it, kid.”

“I know, Reg. I do. But every time I’m about to head over that way, I think about the way we left things. Him screaming, and me standing with my chest puffed out like I knew a fucking thing about anything. He knew, Reg. He knew.”

Reggie placed his hand on Robert’s shoulder and said, “Of course he did, kid. But you know what? Your father stood in front of his old man too after Pearl Harbour and told him he was enlisting. Your grandfather spent two years in muddy fucking trenches. He had words for your father. Being young, kid. Being young means being full of pride. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to serve your country. Not a thing at all. And your old man understands that, kid. I promise you he does.”

And with those words, Robert left the shop. His father was likely working, so he’d wait until the evening to go pay him and his mother a visit.

—————————————————————————

That evening, as he headed down Main towards his folks’ home on Union, a cool fall wind blew, massaging his face and making him feel good for the first time in a long while. He passed the embankment that overlooked the freight yard, and he remembered parking his old man’s Ford and kissing Jenny deeply. Kissing her and thinking that life couldn’t possibly get any better than that moment, and now, he was sure that was right.

Jenny was off to college, and he remembered her Dear John letter. The one that said she loved him, but time didn’t stand still because he wasn’t around. The world kept moving; it kept spinning, and her life couldn’t pause. She was going away, and if he wanted to visit her when he returned, he was more than welcome. But it would be as friends. Not as lovers. And she had attached a picture of them, standing on his front lawn, getting ready for prom. Jenny’s long blonde hair, and big smile. She had to get braces the week before, and he remembered her crying because of it. And when she came to his house to show them off, her eyes puffy and red, he thought she had never looked more beautiful.

A grunt buddy named Damien had looked over his shoulder, and said, “you got yourself a beauty there, Jordan. Don’t let her get away.” And he responded, “I’ll try, brother. I’ll try my best.”

Every block formed a memory in his head about childhood. Bike rides, and comic shops. Georgie Flannagan’s little malt shop on the corner of Evangeline and Mill Haven. The candy stripe swirling in front of Paul’s barbershop. He thought about going in there with his old man to get a haircut. His father went first and when Paul asked what he wanted, he told he wanted the “Daddy Cut”. He laughed, and so did his father. They walked out that day looking like twins, and he’d never felt so much pride in himself, in his family, and in his town.

Before he knew it, he was crossing up Union Street. Maggie’s German Shepherd, still barking behind a chipped white picket fence. “Hey, boy,” Robert called, “How are you, boy?”

The dog responded with a couple of happy yips and yaps, and Robert thought he would like one and wondered if Reggie would let him bring a pup to his small bachelor pad.

Then he was standing in front of his childhood home. The three story, old Victorian that was built in 1890. Faded auburn Cape Cod siding, and brown shutters on his bedroom window. The garden stones that formed a snake formation up to the three steps that led to the front door. His mother’s garden of beautiful blooming flowers, bright purples, and pinks, whites, and yellows, all sitting neatly in a bed of red mulch.

Robert stood, unable to move for a few moments. Then he heard voices coming from behind the house. He recognized the sound immediately as Bob Collins, doing color commentary for the Red Sox game. His father was back there. He knew the old man was sitting on his favourite patio chair, with a cold beer in his right hand, and a cigar between the fingers on his left, or hanging from his mouth.

Robert’s heart was beating madly as he walked past his Ford truck, where he and Jenny loved each other, and talked about the future. And as he came around the corner of the house, he saw his father staring out at the river and the Appalachian mountain range in the distance.

He had a pair of jeans on, and he was still wearing a dirty work shirt. Robert walked up the deck stairs, and his father looked to his right and saw his son, for the first time in almost two years.

“I heard you were back in town,” he said. And Robert nodded. “You lost some weight.”

“Haven’t been eating much.”

“Looks it.”

Then he reached into the cooler that was sitting at his feet and hauled out a beer, placing it on the arm of the chair next to his. He didn’t say a word.

Robert walked slowly to the chair and sat down. His first beer with his old man. How many times he had asked to have one with him when he was a teenager, and his father replying that once he was old enough, they could drink beer and listen to ball games all night. But not a drop until then.

He popped the tab and took a long drink, nearly downing half the can before he took it off his lips. He let out an exasperated, “Ahhhhh,” and placed the can back on the arm of the chair.

“How are the Sox doing?”

“Down two runs in the seventh. We have two outs, but there’s a man on first and third. Johnny Curtis is pitching. Needs to stop throwing that damn curve. His fastball can’t be hit.”

“Who are they playing?”

“Milwaukee. Damn Brewers are streaky, but when they’re hitting, boy are they ever.”

“Yeah. It’s been a while. I’ll need a refresher course.” He swore he could see a hint of a smile form on his father’s weathered face.

“You came to the right place. Your mom is at Bingo with Wendy Alton, and Becca Sherman. Should be back in an hour or so.”

“Okay.”

Then the two sat in silence for a while. Every time Robert’s can was empty, his father grabbed him another one and placed it in the same spot.

In his head, he could still hear the voices of the 103rd, but this evening they weren’t as loud. He looked over at his father and knew that inside his head there were voices, too. Good ones. Bad ones. There was always a war waging inside his skull, as there would be for him. But sitting there, he realized Reggie was right. He didn’t need to discuss what had happened, and his father didn’t need to tell Robert what he saw. The point was they had both been to different iterations of hell, and they both returned.

Robert looked at the view. The sun was a brilliant orange flame that was setting behind a mountain range that he had taken for granted his entire childhood. Smokestacks billowed from the paper mill as the water sparkled.

tên tôi là Giang

tên tôi là Giang

There’s gold in those hills. And the water sparkles like diamonds in the sun.

She was dead. The surprise of it was plain in his eyes, though there was no one with him to see it. He had somewhat expected it, her demise, had prepared himself for it, but it is different to be there, to take death in through one’s own senses, the awful stillness of it. Laid bare, she looked for all the world like the carcass of some desert animal, her kinetic energy sapped, her flesh weathered, dusted, and torn like carrion, her skeleton bleached by the sky. She had always been small, but she was even smaller than he remembered. The whole valley seemed smaller. Isn’t it strange, how time shrinks the warmer memories while expanding the cold ones? Still, she retained a shadowy reminder of beauty past, of the racetrack the boys lovingly called, “The Dirty Girl.”

Telling his age, Robert “Croc” Odell had been here the day she was born. Robert was thirteen when the boys came swaggering back from their service in the second big war, returning home with newly acquired skills, cognitions, and with an itch for adventure sparked by a passion to live which had been handed on to them by those who had not. Many of them came home seeking jobs of course, but others of them were simply searching for something to do, their purpose at a seeming end, if their lives were not. Eldridge Langley was one of those types. Robert’s brother Custis somehow caught word of what Eldridge was doing here that day, and being a good older brother, Custis brought Robert along to enjoy the fun. In so doing, Custis implanted the racing bug into the younger sibling he‘d long since begun calling “Croc” due to the thick spectacles which near-sightedness forced his younger brother to wear.

Eldridge Langley had really done it. He’d “borrowed” a bulldozer from the interstate highway construction site and had driven the thing all the way out to Rockbridge using every bit of it’s 12 mph top speed so as to get there unseen by the sheriff or his cronies. Eldridge expertly maneuvered the behemoth tractor off the highway and onto a flat stretch of government land just off of Rural Route 7, where he commenced to clearing, grading, and scraping. The cigar puffing Eldridge was loudly engaged in this work when Custis and young Robert arrived in their flatbed farm truck to see what he was about, and to help if they might, but mostly the pair sat on the the truck’s tailgate and cheered him on as both the Churchill cigar clutched between Eldridge's jaws, and the Caterpillar tractor he'd lassoed, fumed out their own distinct, stinking gray smokes through overworked exhaust flaps in protest against being so rudely manhandled on a Sunday afternoon.

There having been a training camp in the lower valley during the war years, I am perfectly aware that one of the many and best things that the U.S. Army has going for it is a knack for discovering a man’s talents. It is how Eldridge wound up a Seabee rather than an infantryman, not that being a Seabee had been any less dangerous for an American in the South Pacific. Hell, fully half of Eldridge’s unit had been lost on The Canal. In the same way, Robert’s brother Custis had wound up in the motor pool, and his Uncle Charley, who could bark a squirrel with a .22 from twenty-five yards away, was made a sniper. But as it turns out, those same traits which can make a man a soldier must also make a good racer, ’cause every damn one of those Rockbridge Valley rascals who made it home in one piece not only could drive fast, but they would... anytime, and everywhere. If it’s doing the same thing over and over again that gets you called crazy, then what do you call someone who does it over and over while going faster and faster?

A durned fool of a race car driver, that’s what you call him.

When the sheriff finally told Eldridge to get the hell off the county roads and find a racetrack somewhere, Eldridge one-upped him. Mind you, for a twenty-one year old kid who had already built three airstrips atop volcanic islands all while under enemy fire, building something so simple as a racetrack didn’t seem like a big deal. So Eldridge did it. He built himself a track right here in Rockbridge, never-minding that he didn't own a tractor to grade it. Eldridge's racetrack wasn't paved. Nor were there any bleacher’s at Eldridge’s track; nor concessions, nor pit crews, nor scoreboards, nor rules, nor spectators, nor prize monies, nor any need for numbers on the sides of the cars, as those few in attendance knew exactly which car was whose. Nope, Eldridge’s racetrack was every bit as plain and without “show” as the airstrips he’d built in the South Pacific had been, but also like them, it was plenty functional. In the beginning the boys generally went at it two cars for ten laps, and the slower car had better get the hell out of the way. There was little need for civilities like helmets or seatbelts, as young men who survived war cannot be hurt. All that really mattered was that the man in the lead knew he’d won. That was how it was back in them days, and the old folks who disapproved kept themselves away from Rockbridge Valley on the theory that what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.

"Give the boys their fun," even the prudish types remarked. "They've certainly earned it."

Born tinkerers, it was the army taught our Rockbridge boys how to build cars, and how to make them go faster. How to turbocharge them I mean, and how to bore out the valves, and to increase carburetion so as to squirt more fuel and air for increased combustion and therefore power… hence speed. But they were also smart kids who made up for their lack of formal educations through hillbilly innovation and invention, learning tricks of their own by fusing common sense with old fashioned trial and error. They raced the original American muscle; Ford flatheads, Chevy small blocks, and Dodge “Firepower” V-8’s. The Rockbridge racers built them fast, and they built them loud. The upper valley roared come Saturday and Sunday afternoons as the boys turned out to flex their mechanical muscle, kicking up dust and denting fenders. Sheriff Robertson showed out himself one Saturday, to the delight of everyone in attendance, wanting to test his government issue flathead against the boys’ home-styled modifications. But the sheriff didn’t show well that day, which led to Custis leaving the family farm to make better, easier money in town on the payroll of the sheriff’s motorpool. Sheriff Robertson had not shown well that day, but he would never again be slow when it mattered. Custis Odell saw to that.

I said before that there were no spectators, but of course it wasn’t true. Aren’t there always those few rubberneckers who can’t not see a good wreck? That was young Robert, back in those days. He would stand a good ways back from the track, alongside those few who were foolish enough to want to witness the craziness of it, far enough away that they’d have plenty of time to run when one of the boys got sideways, which happened often enough, and not even a guardrail to slow them down when they left the track. And if a car took to rolling those few spectators would run back into the danger zone, hurrying to yank the unfortunate driver out with the fear of a fire in them that somehow never sparked.

But those simple days couldn’t last, could they? Even in a timeless valley like this one change is the one constant. It is easy now to see, looking back, that those times were far too happy to last, but it was not so obvious in the moment. As the reputation of Eldridge’s track grew, the weekends brought more and more people to it. Like shavings to a magnet hotshot drivers from the surrounding counties were drawn in, hauling their own souped up muscle cars to the upper valley strapped to contrived hay trailers, or inside old horse haulers, followed by the family and friends who cheered them on. The possibility of even a tiny dab of local fame was such an unavoidable intoxication that soon, out of necessity, rather than two cars duking it out one-on-one there were now five or more cars at any one time giving battle out on the nearly egg-shaped half-mile oval, and soon after that ten or more cars. Sensing opportunity, it was Sheriff Robertson who began to organize things; putting up guardrails, charging admissions, and offering prize monies. This was about the same time when big brother Custis married Liza Weyandt and handed young Robert the keys to his prized Dodge, at Liza’s insistence. But either way, there never lived a sixteen year old who wanted a set of keys more.

Young Robert loved those older guys more than anything, but he was different than they were. Not having survived a war Robert thought differently than they did, and he did things differently. Robert wasn’t one of those older, harder-edged guys who got their kicks bumping and banging away at each other down along the bottom of the racetrack. Young Robert set his goal to win.

First off, Robert was just a tyke when Custis first saw him in his new googly-eye glasses. The glasses were why Custis saddled him with the nickname ”Crocodell,” or simply “Croc” most of the time, but it still played out when his last name was added along with it, as in CrocOdell, a play on "crocodile." It also turned out that Croc Odell made for a great racing name, somehow reaching the audience through the tinny, carnival P.A. speakers when no other name seemed to make it past the roaring of the engines. It was nothing for some farmer clear across the lower valley to hear an excited Sheriff Robertson hollering into his microphone from his makeshift press box, “… and in the outside lane here comes Croc Odell chewing up the competition! Odell pulls even with the leader in the final turn… and it’s Croc Odell taking the win by a nose!”

But Robert worked hard for all those victories. No one worked harder than that kid. Friendless but for Custis and the boys, the younger Robert took time on weekdays to go to the track and practice, something the older guys would never have dreamed of, running laps all on his own, timing those laps in his head, and filling the upper valley with daily thunder. Robert searched until he found the fastest grooves, marking them so that they could be found and used even when in the confusion of dust and heavy traffic. Enlisting help, Robert and Custis mounted the one hundred gallon tank they used to water the cows to the bed of their farm truck. They rigged up a valve near the cab so that Custis could drive around between races, or “heats” as they came to be known, spraying the clay down until it was slick as snot. They tied old tires behind the pouring water and used them to drag any ruts driven into the clay smooth again, allowing Robert the surface he needed to slide the Dodge racer Custis had given him gracefully through the turns, steering with the throttle, rather than releasing it. Using these strategies Robert raced away from the beaters and bangers, and he won… a lot. With the increase in prize monies, Robert took on his Uncle Charley and Jesse Tipton as a crew. The three of them carried Custis’ motors out on the road, chasing ever bigger dollars at ever bigger tracks. Over time the trio made them all, following the paychecks to Bristol, Martinsville, Richmond and Nashville. They hauled that old Dodge all the way down to Rockingham, Darlington, Myrtle Beach and even Jacksonville. Once they made it clear to Daytona, giving the beach a run, and scoring themselves an unlikely top ten finish down there against against the "big boys."

But there was nothing that compared to their little Rockbridge Raceway. It always called them back home, the racetrack that had been so good to them all… except, that is, for the one who fathered it. Eldridge Langley broke his fool neck the very first night under Sheriff Robertson’s brand new lights, not long after the concrete wall had been built to circle the track and the wooden bleachers built. And just as Eldridge had done for his buddies back on The Canal; everyone shed a tear that night, said a quiet prayer, and then went back to racing. They did so because “that’s what Eldridge would have wanted,” was what they said to one another. Isn’t this world just a wild, man-eating beast, wars or no wars?

But bottled thrills are intoxicating concoctions that, once drunk, are difficult for a country boy to re-cork, until tight-roping the edge of death becomes not only tolerated, but encouraged, expected even. Faster, longer, and bigger meant that progress eventually found it’s way to Rockbridge, along with seatbelts and helmets, and that worst of all things… promoters. Eldridge’s little country race track took on a new identity with him gone, almost as if it had killed Eldridge so that it could grow outside of him. But irregardless of how it grew, as with anything that isn't dying, grow it did.

But just like anyone else’s, the old dirt track’s glory days went by fast, and were few. The old girl rests idle now, her catch fence rusted, her megaphones sagging, her bleachers rotted and broken. Custis is gone, and Eldridge of course, and Uncle Charley, and even Sheriff Robertson. All of the people and personalities that made the track great are gone to time… and so, for all intent and purpose, is Rockbridge Raceway itself.

But she is different than they were, isn’t she? It would not take much to bring her back, to give her new life, would it? A couple of high-spirited good old boys could do it. Two flat-topped kids with greasy jeans, greasy t-shirts, and greasy fingernails. Two youngsters with a dollop of the old courage and a pair of fast cars is all it would need to bring her back. In fact, just one car could do it, really. Or even one truck, if the man in it took the notion. She might live again, ”The Dirty Girl” might, which was why Robert Odell had returned to her today... to see if she might be resuscitated, or rather to find out whether either one of them, him or her, might have a spark left inside them, and possibly to give the valley back it’s lost thunder. The calm is a deafening noise for one so accustomed to making thunder.

I can’t say I know exactly what Robert Odell was thinking, or feeling, as he sat there that day looking the old track over, but I think I know him well enough to have a pretty good idea. The drive out would have been plenty enough to exhaust the age-spotted hands driving the old truck. One of those hands probably shook, gripped almost helplessly upon the steering wheel, the other upon the shifter. And who knows? The hand resting on the shifter might have lifted up to swipe something away from a misty eye as it looked over what had become of his only love, having to edge up under a clinging pair of bifocals to do so. Robert’s decibel damaged ears were likely tuned to the reverberating echo of Custis’ mechanical skills as he sat, thrilling to a symphony which played on in the truck’s low rumble long after Custis was no more. And Robert might have released the brake, allowing Custis’ motor to idle the old truck in through the opened gate and onto the raceway’s time worn clay. And just as the truck’s rumble was haunted by a youthful Custis, the very act of being on the track again would have undoubtedly created a shadowy mirage of Eldridge Langley in Robert’s aged mind, fabricating ghostly images of a young man with a Churchill cigar expertly working the levers high atop a Caterpillar tractor as he labored out his love.

Having witnessed it on many occasions, I would call it likely that Robert used his bony knees to keep the idling truck in it’s lane as his shaking hands fumbled a cigarette from a shirt pocket. Whilst pinching the filter-less Pall Mall between dry lips his eyes must have squinted pitifully against the sun and smoke as, just like in olden times, his body became one with the truck’s mechanizations; one foot pressuring in the clutch, one arm grinding reluctant gears into place, the other foot increasing the throttle, the eyes searching the rearview for lead-footed rednecks, a mouth drawing in smoke as the ears waited impatiently for the RPM’s to peak so that they might begin it all again, only faster this time. He is old. The machine is old, but the two know each other well. They have cared for one another these many years, and have somehow become old together.

The truck would likely have gathered some speed on the backstretch. An elbow might have hung out the window, it‘s shirtsleeve beating against the wind, the pair circling fast enough now that man and truck would have had to lean together into what was once turn three, though grass is grown up now along that embankment. At the old mark Robert would yank the wheel down, just as though it was a Saturday night, way back when. And the truck would want to respond. It would try to slip into a slide, it really would, but it is too old, too tired and too heavy. The truck is too weighty, it’s tires too grooved, it’s speed not nearly enough, so that instead of performing a graceful slide through the turn it bogs, it’s right front tire finding a drainage rut in the un-maintained clay and bounding upward, only to fall back into another, but with the throttle still mashed and the engine still roaring and the transmission still torquing and the tires still fighting for traction atop the broken clay; it is hopeless.

Over she goes.

There is barely a sound now; a hiss from a shattered radiator is all, and the whir of a well-greased wheel as it spins lackadaisically upon an upturned axle. And from down below the shattered steel what might have been a gasp. Whether that gasp was emitted from man, truck, or racetrack, who is to say? I certainly cannot, though I can say that I am saddened by it, and forever the lonelier for it.

It is done. His race is run. The great “Croc” Odell is dead. The upper Rockbridge Valley has fallen silent once more… though down below a worm writhes, and up above a buzzard circles.

The next “heat” in the Valley has begun.

The End

of another “racing against life” story by Charles T. Morris.

Smoky eve undressed screeching crimson winds

Blood moon swaying sinking curls brushing steel

Monoliths; bombers cruised bruised skies.

stars

Charged hypersonic fighter jets, plasma

Full of serenades, Dark Tower showered

Shallow shadows: world spit me out, fell back to

Entropy, pills, and pornography. Gaul

Heights center of gravity, what holds me up?

John Cowells watched nights collide, blue moon… rounds

Rolled in rusty cylinder, journals stacked

Up to Oblivion, quarter filled bourbon,

Taste never budging. He wrote the only

Girl he could imagine, one before Hellfire

Out in Dallas? Pink City? her my last

Care in this domed state. He wrote nights, lost

Days of sleep- an obsession driving him.

Stale UTOPIA night fell deep into

Lovestruck sheets; he cut empty gem pages

With diamond tipped pen, every word a moment

Closer to realities dictated by

A fairytale love. another parade

Of drones and Legion Rangers, surveillance

Swayed away a dwindling writer’s block;

Manic fist clenched shimmering inky dweller,

Stellar pilgrimage to ego death; she was

Out in New Navajo, galloping like

Josey Wales, battling giants, Major

Dick Winters amongst gory poppy fields:

An infinite war of love and hell. He

Wandered memories of his dear mother

Wrapping him before leaving for DC.

Dagger cut, hours venture to insanity.

The Machine crackled wicked vinyl pops,

Voltaic rhythm etched rigid landscapes

Against hole-punched walls, galactic shutters

Assail solar winds, warping time through borrowed

Sleep, tomorrow seeks today venture noble

One; Cowells peaked blinds divide; Interstellar

vacuum awoke him from his afternoon

Hibernation, depressants and valium:

Analog God silence suicidal

Idealogue, repent! repent! four walls

Judge closer, days wasted, hold on to what

You can't, soon she'll leave, love's reprieve. sorrow

Sweet, digitize for an hour or eight, just

Enough to make crickets chirp, shirts stay on

For weeks, showers optional, misery

Like a hawk swooping as I begin to stand.

Fade away Flower of Evil, burn! shrivel!

Before destruction

of Empire

Council carved Legions;

Became one

Under

Canvas skies.

(~7000 words, Fantasy) - Bio at the end

Living the life of an adventurer had been good for him. The pumping of adrenaline, the thrill of victory and the ecstasy offered by the places all over the world enticed him. As he lay there staring at her eyes, he saw his death. Yet in her eyes, he also saw love. He had heard people say that when you are about to die, your whole life flashes in front of your eyes. That was not true. He saw only her. She was his one true love and his last vision on earth.

He walked into the pub with his hood covering his head. He was a tall man with a broad frame but it was his crossbow and sword that attracted quite a few eyes. He looked at the barman and raised two fingers. The man nodded. He knew who was under the hood. He smiled knowing that the man under the hood was a generous tipper. The adventurer lowered his hood as his blond mane fell forward gracefully to cover his eyes. Immediately, a lot of the womenfolk turned to stare at him. He simply smiled. The stares did not bother him. He was used to awes and the stares and had had his fair share of women. Several men stared at him with contempt. The man looked untidy and weary but he had a charm that diverted the attention of the women they wanted to impress.

He sipped his drink slowly enjoying every drop touching his tongue. He loved the whisky served at that pub. He closed his eyes and enjoyed feeling the drink all over his mouth. After the warmness was lost, he swallowed. As he did that, he slowly pushed the other mug to the young brunette who walked forward to talk to him. She had been the first woman to pick up the courage to walk up to him. Taking the mug, she stared speechlessly at his perfect face slowly reaching forward to touch him. She leaned closer to him and ran her fingers over his beard. As he offered no resistance, she began to feel his sculpted body within his coat. After a sip of the drink, she loosened up and settled herself on his lap and moved her lips close to his cheek. He paid no attention to her as she planted a wet kiss on his cheek. He had a second drink which he finished much faster. Gently brushing aside the woman who was now nibbling his ear, he pushed a gold coin at the barman and muttered, ‘Keep the change’

Women at bars were not his type. Even if they were, he had no time for them now. This was a boost for his ego. He was comforted by knowing that he was still attractive and he had given the woman a free drink to make him feel that way. He had to meet his employer and mentor, to present him with the prize of his latest adventure. He moved majestically towards the door, pulling his hood back on. People stared at him in silence. He walked to his horse. He stroked its mane gently. This was not the horse that he rode on usually. He looked at the object that he kept in his pocket.

It was the prize of his latest adventure. He looked at it as the memory of the entire journey came into his mind. He had waded through an ocean, crossed a dangerous desert and reached an oasis halfway across the world for that prize. He had lost his beloved horse, Snowmane in the pursuit of the object. He was closer to Snowmane than he was to most humans. A twelve-year bond had ended and he was still getting used to riding a different horse. The adventurer had raided the tomb of King Cryseus of the Outland to find the healing crystal that he held in his hand. It was now time to deliver the treasure.

He walked with his steed towards his employer’s place. He was known to all in this place. Within moments, he had passed the sentries of the palace and was in front of King Arden. He did not kneel but bent down to look at the floor intending to bow. The solitary room, the king’s private chamber, had the familiar smell of incense and flowers. It was something that had never changed in all the years that the adventurer had known King Arden. A lot of work went into creating such a setup. The king had a dedicated area in his garden where he grew a special flower. It was harvested daily and boiled in a chamber within the palace. The vapour passed through a system of pipes where the vapours were mixed with incense which was burned throughout the day. The vapour combined with the smoke and passed through a filter which kept the particles away. The fragrance was calming and was diverted to several areas of the palace by the same system of tubes. A fortune was spent in maintaining this setup but the King was fond of it. A King could have whatever he wanted.

‘You are early’, said the king looking surprised to see the adventurer.

The adventurer nodded, now looking the king in the eye. He quickly caught a glimpse of the north-east corner of the room. His sharply trained senses would not miss anything. The king’s only son lay huddled on a bench. His face was void of any colour. It was gaunt and the man was shivering. The last time the adventurer remembered seeing him, the prince was about to set on a journey to establish trade with the nearby island of Oryza. It was the prince’s first mission so there was a lot of attention to the departure. King Arden had ensured that it was a grand celebration. It was the same day that the adventurer had set out to find the healing crystal. Unlike the prince, his departure was quiet. He preferred it that way.

The prince looked quite the opposite of what he was now. He looked confident and could not stop smiling on that day. He walked with pride and arrogance. Now, the adventurer could see the shadow of the man who was destined to rule the land. The prince now lay curled in fright.

‘Have you?’, began the king.

‘Yes’ , said the adventurer presenting the crystal to the king.

The king gasped in relief and rushed from the throne towards the adventurer. He snatched the amber crystal from the adventurer and looked at it fondly. The crystal was a few inches away from the adventurer’s eyes. It was yellow in colour but the material was semi-transparent. Within the amber crystal, he could see several tiny gold spots. For a moment, King Arden looked at the crystal like it was his new-born. After a very long silence he spoke, ’Stay in the palace for a while young man. We shall meet a little while later. As for your reward......’. Kind Arden looked around for attendants but nobody was nearby. He walked towards the door but the adventurer shook his head. King Arden was like a father to him. He had been living on the streets when the King came across him. The adventurer had saved the Queen from an accident in the marketplace. The King had taken him in and treated him well. He was never treated like a son but he was loved. The adventurer was grateful. He never sought anything from the King. King Arden was not perfect but the adventurer continued to serve him loyally. He had no trouble finding gold and Arden was generous. ‘What happened to the prince, my King?’, asked the adventurer.

‘That can wait till the evening’, said the king raising his hand to dismiss the adventurer. Over the years, the adventurer realised that he had mistaken the king’s gratitude for love. Over the years, the King used the adventurer to gain more treasure but the adventurer did not mind. He could not forget that the king took him in that he had nothing. Despite not seeing eye-to-eye with the king on many things, he continued to be loyal to him. He always had a place to stay in the palace.

He was escorted to the guest tower in the palace. A warm bath had been made for him with fragrant oils and bath salts. He bathed himself and found a delicious feast awaiting him. After eating sumptuously he was made to rest with soothing music. He slept like he hadn’t in days. He had dreams that made him smile in his sleep. He was sleeping in a soft bed after more than two months.

As he relaxed, his weapons were taken to be polished and sharpened. He slept the entire day and when he woke up, he realised that it was almost evening. The sun began to set as he slowly opened his eyes. A palace maid stood beside him. In her hand she held a platter with ale and snacks. In her eyes, she feasted herself on the adventurer as he stretched and yawned. Taking notice of her, he accepted the platter and showed her out of his chamber. When he had enough refreshments, he dressed up to meet the king.

It was a long time since he last walked without weapons. He felt exposed and vulnerable. He walked briskly towards the king’s chamber. He was allowed into the chamber by the sentry who closed behind him.

The king had brought a table to the centre of the room. The prince lay on the table covered with a blanket and his eyes cold. There were dark circles around his eyes and his skin was pale. There was pain in face as he twitched from time to time. The king had a goblet in his hand and nodded as the adventurer stepped into the room. He took a deep breath and stared at the prince.

‘When you last came to visit me, my son was leaving to establish trade with Oryza. It was a good journey. Oryza is not far from here. I had sent him on an easy mission to give him a taste of success. He exceeded my expectations. The mission was successful. My boy signed his first trade agreement. When I received the news, I was proud beyond anything in the world. To the north-west of Oryza lies Kraghon, the island of the Venom women’, said the king and choked. The adventurer tried to talk but the King raised his hand to stop him. Clearly, King Arden wanted to talk.

The adventurer had heard rumours about Kraghon but he waited for the king to continue.

‘The island was once a beautiful kingdom. My grandfather’s father had flourishing trade with the people of the island nation. It was ruled by the young Queen Electra, the prettiest woman the world has ever seen. She was so beautiful that she could tempt the Gods yet she was so just and humble. As she reached the age for marriage, many sought to marry her but she refused all proposals. Kings, warriors, merchants and holy men tried in vain to convince her to marry them. The entire island was blessed with beautiful women. You must have heard this mentioned in many poems in even faraway lands. Following their Queen, the young women of the island rejected marriage too. Their beauty was so enticing that most men could not comprehend this. The women were irresistible. Enraged and driven by lust, several men attacked the island to kidnap women. After protecting their women initially, the men who were natives of the island also joined the invaders. It was one of the most brutal invasions in history. What was done there was so bestial that all written records were erased to save people the shame of their descendants learning about this. Those poor women were hunted like animals for sport and ravaged. This continued until only the queen and a handful of her fraternity remained. She was valiant but she knew that she could not overpower the invaders. Seeking no alternative, the queen and her fraternity prayed to God to save them. God appeared in front of them and offered to drive the men away but the Queen wanted him to destroy every man on earth. God would not grant this request and told them that man and woman were parts of nature’s balance. God would not let the sins of a few affect all men in the world. The Queen even offered herself to convince God but she was denied. Cursing him, the Queen turned to the devil. The devil was cunning. She asked if the queen would like to destroy the men herself for what they had done. God implored them not to accept the devil’s offer but in vain. The Queen was filled with so much grief that she could not see reason. The devil offered them agelessness and multiplied their beauty so that they could seduce anyone. She gave them the power to confuse minds. It is rumoured that anyone who saw the Queen would instantly become her slave. Finally, she gave them poison in their lips. Their ultimate weapon came to be known as the kiss of death. God begged the queen to think one last time. But vengeance had clouded her soul. From then on, there was no turning back. The Queen watched from the top of her castle as her army of seductresses destroyed the army that attacked the land. Very soon, they paid the price for siding with the devil. They began to lose their minds and soon, they existed only to kill men’

The king took a deep breath and had a goblet of wine to drink. He did not offer the adventurer a glass. The adventurer looked on as the king calmed himself to continue. He had heard the story once before but he had not believed it. The king took a deep breath and continued.

‘Every man who stepped on the island met a brutal death. A hundred years passed beyond which people could not tolerate the plight of men. Kraghon is at the centre of many trade and travel routes. Any man who stopped there was killed. People from various parts attacked the island over the years and cut and burnt whomever they caught. This was very difficult as most men were seduced and turned against their comrades before they could attack. To seduce a man, all the Queen had to do was look him in the eye. Tens of men died for every woman that was killed. Very soon, only the queen remained. Combined with her natural beauty, she was even more powerful. After all, all she had to do to hypnotise a person was to look into their eyes. Fifteen years of trying to hunt and the men of the world decided to avoid the island. The island is the only place in the world that contains a special fruit called Red Berry. It is said to be sweeter than any fruit on the planet. In many kingdoms, the island has been the main topic of talk in bars. Men dare each other for a test of courage and skill to go into the island and return with a Red Berry. Not many have been fruitful. My child tried to do it so stupidly. He went in with a group of men to try and slay the queen’, said the Kind sadly. He stared blankly at the adventurer. This time, the wine did him no favour. He took a deep breath and lifted the blanket that covered the prince. His left leg was severed at the ankle and it looked nauseating.

‘What happened?’, asked the adventurer in shock.

‘He was tempted by people at a bar in Oryza to find the Red Berry. Foolishly, he accepted the challenge. He and his crew of fifteen others went into the island. There …’, the King broke off for a moment, unable to continue. He took a deep breath and finally spoke in a sombre tone. ’She turned his men against him. He fought bravely but it was fifteen men against my little boy. She came to him and mocked him. He fought as hard as he could but he had to run away to save himself. He was found on the shores by the remainder of the crew from the ship. My ancestors were one of the few people responsible for the first attack on the island. She recognised him for whom he was from his crest. She mocked him and left him as his men killed themselves.

The king stroked the prince’s hair and spoke, ‘I have understood this much from his muttering. I pray that nobody has to go through what my son went through. Hearing him was painful. I can only imagine his pain. I sent you to find this crystal for a different purpose but I now have use for it’, said the King gravely.

He brought a huge goblet to the table. From inside the goblet, he took the crystal. The usually amber crystal now had a bright yellowish glow, dripping with the liquid from the goblet. The king placed the crystal in a box and poured a little amount of the glowing yellow fluid in the goblet into a smaller vessel. He poured the liquid drop by drop on the severed foot. Each drop fizzed as it touched the wound. The prince groaned, too weak to scream from pain. Slowly skin started to grow back as the king made his son drink from the goblet. His body relaxed and his face calmed. He slowly fell asleep as the king stroked his hair.

‘I want you to kill her’, said the king abruptly.

‘What?’, croaked the adventurer in disbelief.

‘No more ruthless killing. No more lost lives. No more lost sons. No more. Take one life to save many’, said the king. The man looked at the adventurer. For the first time, his eyes sought obedience.

‘Your majesty’, began the adventurer nervously, ‘I am an adventurer. I am not an assassin. Besides, she did this only to save herself. I see no reason to kill the woman.’

‘No reason?’, asked the king in disbelief. ‘No reason?’, he asked again, except that this was an anguished cry. ‘Is this not enough?’ screamed the king furiously pointing at the prince. His foot was growing back slowly as the king spoke. ‘Fifteen people have lost their lives. You always tell me that you will do anything for me. You said that you owed me. Were those mere words?’, asked the king tearfully.

The adventurer looked the king in the eye. The man had lost his sanity on seeing his son’s plight. The life that the adventurer had was the one that the king had given him. Everything that he had was due to the grace of King Arden. He had enjoyed the favour of the king for quite a long while. The man had been the father that he never had. The adventurer had been uneasy about their relationship for quite a while. It was clear now. The King saw him as someone he could command, nothing more. He could not wait to see his love for the man fade away. He would do as he was commanded but he had to move on for the sake of their relationship.

The adventurer looked straight into the eyes of the king and spoke, ‘I have always looked at you as the father I never had. I will do this for you. I will do all that I can to stop her. I do not know if I will succeed but I will make an attempt. I do not know if I will succeed but I give you my word that I will make an attempt in which I will end her menace. I do not want to kill her but I will make an attempt because you asked me to. That is unfair by my conscience but I will either stop her or die at her hands. I shall leave in a while but I will never return to this kingdom.’

‘My boy!’, exclaimed the king in shock.

The adventurer raised his hand to silence him and spoke, ‘I shall leave tomorrow by dusk on foot. I will meet you in the morning. I have made up my mind. Wish me a good adventure, my King’. The adventurer bowed to the king and left for his chamber.

He refused to see anyone for the remainder of the day. He gathered his weapons and lay in his bed staring at the ceiling. He knew that he would never see the palace again regardless of the result of his adventure. When it was almost midnight, he went to the place that gave him the spirit of adventure as a kid. The dimly lit library offered pleasant warmth as he entered it. He looked for books on the destination he had to reach. He found a handful of books and began to read. It was almost dawn when he returned to his chamber to rest.

He was woken up sometime before noon by a chill breeze. He saw Arden sitting opposite him with a gaunt look. He seemed to have been there for a while. The king had never been to the adventurer’s chamber before.

‘Look here, my lad’, he began as the adventurer rubbed his eyes and wished the king. He held the adventurer’s hand and spoke, ‘Forgive me, my lad. Perhaps I was a bit emotional yesterday. I don’t want you to do this. I would never impose anything on you. I want you to stay here with me. Forgive this old man for asking you such a thing. Please stay with me.’

‘I really want to do this. It will be my best adventure. I want to see this woman who can seduce even the Gods. I want to visit this island. I have always seen you as my father. You had every right to ask me anything you wanted. You have but to name what you want from me, my king.’

Sensing finality in his tone, the king embraced the adventurer and said, ‘This palace will always be open to you’

He got ready to leave when the king thrust a glass vial into his palm. The adventurer looked at the king questioningly. The king spoke, ‘This is some of the potion made from the healing crystal. It will heal any wound. Take care of yourself, my dear lad.’

He bowed one last time to the king and set off on his journey. Three days later the adventurer was nearing the island of Kraghon. The ship he sailed in stopped a mile away from the island. He believed that a boat would be detected and refused to take one. He dived into the ocean and swam like a shark. He swam towards the shore to a point where the trees were dense. He reached the shore and stood awed at the scenery. The island was lush green and trees grew as they pleased, uninhibited by mankind. About a mile from the city stood the walls of the city. It was the fortress of Queen Electra. Plants had grown all over the wall and almost concealed the entire wall. The only visible structure was a tower from the palace on the farthest corner. It was probably the Queen’s tower that he had read about. It was the tower from which she watched her army prey on the invaders. He moved cautiously to avoid detection. In a matter of minutes, he had scaled the wall of the city. He was ready to shut his eyes at the slightest movement. He knew that as long as he did not look into her eyes, he would not fall under her spell.

A forest stood beyond the wall. The books in the library had no information about this. The walls of the castle enclosed a huge city that would have rivalled King Arden’s. There was a river running through it. The reflection of the blue sky on the clear water and the reflection of the trees on the banks offered it grandeur. The adventurer stood mesmerized on seeing the spectacle. This view alone was enough to incapacitate a man. He found a tree whose branches were well concealed and mounted it to rest for the night. The tree gave him a good view of the waterfall from which the river flowed. For seven days he waited with not even a glimpse of the queen. He set a camp cautiously over the One the eighth day, he was shaving his beard when he heard the fluttering of wings. He mounted the tree and took out his scope. Then he saw her. She truly was the prettiest woman in the world. She had stopped ageing at either her late teens or her early twenties. The birds and animals of the island were now her subjects. They moved

with her like escorts. The whole scene was spellbinding.

He watched her closely as she disrobed and stepped into the water. She stepped into the water gracefully. She smiled with childish delight as she waded the water and swam like a majestic swan. Her body was slim and her fingers were slender. The diamond rings on her finger glittered. She was used to being alone and she had no reason to expect threats. Her eyes shone brightly and made him realise why she could seduce people by just looking eye to eye. Her hair extended to her waist and was as black as the night. He knew then that he could never kill her. She looked so very beautiful and smiled an elegant smile that could be paralleled by none.

He wanted to go to her. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to caress her. It was silly to try to kill this woman. She was to be worshipped and cherished. His arm felt heavy and he dropped his telescope. Only then did his senses come back to him. He realised that she knew that he was watching her. He had not been spying on her. She had carefully laid out a trap and he had now lost his cover. He was no longer a secret visitor to the island. He mounted the cliff that was nearby and did the only thing that could defend him from the queen. He stood there awaiting her. He did not want to attack.

After seeing her, he was not sure if he could.

He waited for hours but she did not come. He walked down the cliff cautiously at dawn the next day. He went back to the tree from which he had spied on her. He looked around for signs of any movement when a hand touched his shoulder. His heart began to beat so hard that he felt that his ribs would break. He wanted to do nothing but to turn and look at her face even if it meant instant death. He shut his eyes as tightly as he could as she turned him around.

‘I am not here to kill you’, said the adventurer.

‘I am not sure you can do that, love’, she said in a beautiful voice and a haughty tone.

‘Open your eyes and look at me’, she said.

He shut his eyes tightly and asked, ‘Why do you want to kill every man on this island?’

‘Why talk of all that?’, she asked. He could sense that she was walking around him. She placed her hands on his shoulder as she moved around. She was confident. She knew that she had caught him. This time, there was no haughtiness in her voice. She hissed, ‘Men deserve to die. You do too’.

He did the only thing that struck his mind. When he felt her move behind him, he ran. He ran as fast as his legs could carry him. From the corner of his eye he saw that she was beginning pursuit. He ascended the cliff with lightning pace. He stubbed his toe on a rock and stumbled forward. She was gaining on him. She gave a yelp of delight when the ground below her gave way. It happened so fast. The look of delight had not left her face as she began to fall. The hunter was now the hunted. The adventurer dived forward to catch her before she fell into the pit that he dug for her. He managed to catch her by the hand but realised that he was looking at her in the eye.

For a moment, he waited to lose his senses but nothing happened. Her eyes widened in shock. His eyes slowly moved downwards. Protruding from beneath her chest was a huge wooden spike. That was when the adventurer realised that he had become a murderer. ‘No!’, he screamed. Mustering all his strength he pulled her off the spike and put her on the ground. The woman panted heavily and he knew that her breathing would stop at any second when he realised a bulge in his pocket. He felt his pocket and took out the object. It was the vial containing the potion made from the healing crystal. Quick as a flash, he poured half of it on the wound and the remainder into her mouth. She looked at him in fear as he poured the potion into her mouth and winced for a second. She brought her hand upward and clutched his collar and then, her body became limp. Just before she passed out, she saw tears in the man’s eyes and then it all went black.

***

Seventeen days passed. The adventurer looked worn out and had not bothered to shave or sleep. Thanks to the potion, her breathing had not stopped. However, she had not opened her eyes. He laid her on the bed he made for her with grass and leaves. He had nursed her wounds and covered her body with a blanket. He was next to her, night and day. For every cough, every sniffle and every deep breath, he checked for any sign of consciousness. He waited for a long time and finally without being able to go on, he passed out from exhaustion.

When he woke up, she was sitting with the blanket covering her on the other corner of the tent he had made for her. He stared at her and she at him for what seemed to be hours. Finally he spoke, ‘I am sorry.........’

She raised her hand to stop him and spoke. It seemed as though she had not spoken in a long while. ‘My name is Electra’, she said.

‘I know’, he nodded. He was terrified that he was looking at her eyes but he did not turn away. He knew that it was pointless.

‘You remind me of men who used to live here, the good ones. They were the kind of men who did not see women as objects of lust. That was until my father was alive. After that, they changed. We drove them out and became what I am today. Men have wanted us for our bodies and have hunted us to satisfy their lust. But .... ’, she said and stopped to look at the wound inside the blanket. The wound had healed completely. She covered herself and spoke solemnly, ‘I thank you for saving my life. You were not obligated to but I am grateful’

‘I am sorry for the type of men whom you have seen but not all men are like that. You have killed many innocent people due to your thirst for vengeance’, said the adventurer.

She looked at him with surprise. The adventurer was nervous as he spoke but he was not nervous about speaking his mind. He was honest and that was refreshing. Reluctantly, the Queen and the adventure began a conversation. Very soon, they became comfortable.

They spoke from then on for hours. Neither of them had ever laughed so much in a long time. It was a new experience for both of them. Finally, she walked up to him and held up to his hand.

‘What are you doing?’, he asked, looking dazed.

‘I am the Queen of this land. You have saved my life. I owe a tour of my palace to my saviour at the least’, she said gratefully and kissed the man on his cheek. It was one of those moments when you know that it is right. The adventurer was surprised that she kissed him. She was so beautiful. He could not believe that she was the one who had killed so many people. He moved forward to her lips but she stopped him with a terrified look. He wondered if he had misunderstood her when she quickly kissed his other cheek. ‘My lips are poisoned, love. You will die the moment my lips touch yours. That is the price of my agelessness. I don’t want to kill you. I want to be with you’, she said as she embraced him.

‘You haven’t seduced me have you?’, asked the adventurer still looking dazed.

‘If I had, you’d be dead love’, she said calmly.

‘You truly are beautiful’, he said as she blushed crimson red turning even more pretty. She took him on foot towards her palace. The walled citadel consisted of four marble buildings, one of which was her private palace. It must once have been a properly planned city. There was a place for everything. Water from the river was diverted to reach the dwellings. There was also a system of drains that emptied into the river just outside the citadel. The adventurer was amazed by the architecture. Even King Arden’s kingdom did not have such planning. Just like the rest of the island, the palace too had plants grown all over it but somehow, that increased the beauty of the palace. They reached the highest tower and looked out the window as they embraced. The queen of Kraghon had found her mate.

Three days later, they lay on the bed as he held her palm and stroked her fingers. He kissed her fingers and spoke, ‘How are we going to do this, love? You are ageless and may live forever unless someone kills you and I am a mere mortal. How are we going to make this work?’

‘I will live as long as you do, love. We shall have many children each with my beauty and your heart and valour. When you die’, she said looking directly into his eye, ‘I will too’

They had not told the words ‘I love you’ to each other and the adventurer felt that they did not need to. Some things were better left unsaid. She placed her head on his chest and closed her eyes. He glanced downwards at her flawless face and stroked her hair as she smiled, enjoying his touch. He glanced downwards at her flawless face and stroked her body. He had found another person who loved him for who he was and she had found someone who loved her for something more than her looks. Life was perfect on the island that had no other people. Electra was the treasure the adventurer had been searching for his whole life. They fell asleep locked in embrace but were rudely woken up by the chirping of birds. The adventurer opened his eyes lazily as the queen rushed to the window pulling on a robe as she went. She returned with fury.

‘People’, she said splashing water from the bedside table onto her face. ‘People with weapons’, she said as the adventurer rushed to the window and looked at the shore with his telescope.

‘Wait here for a while. I will finish them in minutes’, she said moving towards the door.

‘Wait’, said the adventurer holding her hand and continued, ’The ship bears the crest of my homeland’. It was King Arden’s crest. ‘I will talk to them’, said the adventurer.

Convincing her that he could reason with the invaders, the adventurer dressed up and left to meet the people giving her his telescope. He ran towards the people. On seeing him, they lowered their weapons. Heading the group of eleven men was the prince. He looked weary but his eyes shone brightly. He reminded the adventurer of the arrogant boy he used to be.

‘Your majesty’, he called as he moved forward, ‘The king wouldn’t want you here’

‘I am the king now’, said the prince gravely. He paused for a moment. ‘Have you found her?’, he asked hopefully.

‘Killing her will give you nothing’, said the adventurer, understanding that the prince was there for revenge. It had only been a few days but he knew how much regret Electra had due to her vengeance. She was ridden with guilt despite her powers. He did not wish King Arden’s son to go through that.

‘My father said the same. He asked me to leave the woman alone’, barked the prince.

‘Yes your majesty. I am sure that he would have. Your father was wise’, said the adventurer.

‘That is why I killed him’, said the prince angrily, ‘Now tell me if you have found her’

The adventurer looked at the prince in shock. The prince had killed a man he considered as a father. He had killed the man who was both a teacher and a mentor to the adventurer. His heart now fumed with rage. ‘Not until I am dead, you heartless brute!’, he screamed, unsheathing his sword and holding it with his right and his crossbow in his left.

‘Fool. Don’t die for that whore. I shall forgive you for your insolence and spare you if you tell me where she is’, said the prince, taking out his own sword.

He needed no time to make up his mind. The adventurer kicked the prince hard on the chest and swung his sword at the prince’s companions. Three heads separated from bodies in the first few swings and the adventurer had shot an arrow into the eye of a fourth man. He sprinted towards a nearby tree as seven men pursued him closely. He kicked hard on the tree and swung his sword as he rose up in the air killing two more men. He landed awkwardly and turned to face the five men when he heard a movement behind him. He moved instinctively but the prince’s sword grazed his thigh making a deep cut. The adventurer flung his crossbow at the prince as he fell to the ground. The five men surrounded him with raised swords as the prince fell to the ground with a grunt.

As they moved in for the kill, he swung his sword at the knee of the nearest man putting him in the way of the other four swords. He rose to his knees as he pushed his sword into the heart of the man in front of him. Moving his head away from the next man’s sword, he plunged his sword into his neck. As he let down all his defence in that move, he waited for a sword to strike him from behind but nothing happened. He turned to see the men drive their swords into each other’s necks. Standing behind them was Electra clad in a warrior’s attire. He saw her eyes and lost track of everything. Her power was intense. She shook him roughly to bring him back to his senses. He turned to look at the prince. The prince aimed his crossbow at Electra and got ready to fire a poisoned arrow. His heart almost stopped in fear as he flung his sword at the prince instinctively. Almost at the same time, the prince fired his weapon. He dived at Electra and pushed her out of the way. When he lifted his head off her, he was pleased to see that she was safe. He turned to look at the prince who had been impaled by the sword thrown at him.

He attempted to get up but he could not. He looked down. The poisoned arrow had struck him right below the knee. Then the pain hit him. He wanted to scream but no sound came out. Then he heard a scream. Her scream hurt him more than the poisoned arrow. She hugged him tightly and cried her heart out.

‘It’s alright’, he said with a smile. ‘You’re alright’

‘You .... Look ’, she tried to speak but she choked.

He would die soon as the poison was spreading. He was losing feeling below his hip. They did not have the healing potion anymore. He spoke to her despite the pain in a calm whisper, ‘I’ve been with women before but there has been no one like you. The three days that we have been together was like being in heaven. I have no regrets. I have someone who loves me’, he said and he kissed her full on the mouth. They kissed with passion for a few wonderful seconds. When they broke apart, he said ‘I love you’ and seeing love in her mystifying eyes, he dropped dead. The adventurer, who grew up an orphan, died as the king of Kraghon.

Days later, the search party from Arden’s kingdom arrived on the island only to find the Queen of Kraghon dead. She clasped hands with a man they could not recognise. People soon inhabited Kraghon. To this day, in the tallest tower of the palace, one can hear the sound of a man and a woman laughing and chatting.

This is the story of how the Devil’s pact with the women of Kraghon ended. It ended with the only thing that he feared. Love.

*********************************************************

Author Bio : I am a banker by profession and a writer by passion. I am an aspiring novelist, currently building my writing profile by submitting my short stories to reputed publications and podcasts. I've recently signed up with a literary agent and am looking to get published next year. I am available on Instagram @VVRamanWrites

Mr.Grover yawned loudly as he glanced at his watch. 3:00 P.M. Won’t the time pass by faster. At work, he often observed a curious phenomenon where time seems to trickle, bit by bit, like maple molasses gently dripping from an old can the way it used to when Mr.Grover’s mom would make her delicious shoofly pies. God how much he missed those!. Despite living in New York, nothing hits the same way like your mom’s cooking, Mr.Grover thought. Lost in reminiscing, he almost missed the giant rock hurtling towards the window on his right side, framed like a beautiful shiny crunchy pecan in his mom’s pecan pie…. Wait, giant rock?

Boooom! The rock crashed right through the window and shattered his shiny new mahogany wood desk, luckily leaving Mr.Grover unscathed as he narrowly dove to the side. A large gigantic robot slowly comes into view, with special focus on the giant twin blades protruding from the fists of the robot and eyes that could shoot red hot lasers instantly. The gigantic robot proceeded towards the Griggins and Golgins Insurance Firm Building where Mr.Grover works as an insurance adjuster. As it approaches, mercilessly stomping on cars, trees, hot dog stands, and street lamps, a sudden figure in the distance zooms in, knocking the robot backwards.

“Don’t Fear Citizens, your savior is here, it is I, Nuclear Megapunch. With the power of my Radioactive Kapow, I will slay this mechanical monstrosity and leave it writhing on the ground. Now stand back, and watch how evil that hides from the light, fails to escape the stronghold of justice…….”

“Stronghold of justice, Nuclear Megapunch, Radioactive Kapow, really, who wrote this insufferable crap! And what’s with this weird obsession with this random side character, Mr.Grover and his mom’s cooking!”. Neil Gaddar angrily stood up and threw the unfinished screenplay on his desk. Behind him stood his assistant, a rather youngish man, still green, and unused to the legendary and explosive temper tantrums of the thespians. He cowered, as Neil advanced forward lost in his tirade. “I didn’t spend years of my life after Northwestern acting in shitty soaps to receive this pile of junk. I graduated from Northwestern theater, goddammit! “And the first real shot I get, my agent gets me this crap. When he said a superhero movie, I thought it would be based on the life and dedicated service of the Steward, not this childish nonsense with flying robots, I used to do Hamlet, and now I’m a glorified CGI jockey!”.

Neil’s assistant steps forward and stammers, “But sir, market research suggests that the primary target audience, children ages 8-16 prefer this sort of film. Most of the kids weren’t even around when the Steward disappeared 13 years ago. Also, we still aren’t sure what character you're getting, and regardless this is merely a draft, I’m sure changes can be made to your liking…”. Neil sighed loudly, and stepped away from his assistant mid-sentence to take a smoke break. As he left, he ruminated. Neil regretted his outburst, after all, he himself was still new in the industry, with this being his first major commercial film. But how could the screenwriting be so bad. To take a man like the Steward, a man so humble that he disdained the flashy nicknames younger heroes would give themselves, a man who upon discovering his powers sought to use it for the benefit of mankind, eschewing fame and recognition, a man like that in a movie like this was antithetical. But none of it was his assistant’s fault, he ruefully reflected. Neil was shocked at his outburst, as he prides himself on his calm demeanor and respectful manner. It must be the Hollywood air getting to him, already transforming him into those entitled privileged divas in the tabloids.

A couple of weeks go by, and one day both the director and the writers are fired by the producers and replaced with more seasoned and capable ones. When Neil heard the news from his assistant, he breathed out a huge sigh of relief. Finally, he would be able to act in the film he really signed up for. Getting the chance to play the Steward was a huge honor. He was a man, who long ago was working in a laboratory experimenting on CRISPR, when, to stop some bank robbers, decided to edit his genome to give himself super strength, flight, invulnerability, super speed, and some amount of control over gravitational fields. Since then, he’s been faithfully serving the city, keeping everyone safe, and thwarting the schemes of the Mastermind.

The Mastermind. Neil winced as he thought of him. Another reason why Neil deeply despised the original script. Contrary to how the script portrayed him, The Mastermind was no fun little comic book villain. There were no cheesy speeches, grandstanding gestures, or convenient blunders allowing the hero to be victorious. The Mastermind was a soulless criminal, who was so feared that at what point, statisticians estimated that 1 in 6 people in the city had lost a family member or friend to the Mastermind’s schemes.

No one really quite knew who or what the Mastermind was as he specialized in building complicated machines of mass destruction, nothing like the kaiju robot thing in the movie, a pale imitation of the very real threat of the Mastermind. Both the mastermind and the Steward disappeared after a furious battle that left the city of Northshore in ruins. The fact that the original directors and screenwriters were seriously planning on releasing a movie that disrespected the Steward’s legacy as well as cheapened the loss of life caused by the evil of Mastermind was astounding.

“Mr.Neil!”, Neil’s assistant called, “Casting is in, and it looks like you’re cast as the Mastermind. The role of the Steward ended up going to Matt Kasbith, apparently he was really thrilled to do this role.” Neil was surprised, this was definitely going to be a tough role. But if he did it right, he could achieve his wildest dreams. No one would ever laugh at him, no longer would he have to act with undisciplined hacks only interested in partying and whiling time away, it was time that he embraced his destiny.

“Is this a bad time? '' Matt Kasbith walked in. “No not at all, how are you, it’s really exciting to work with you” said Neil. Neil was in awe of Matt Kasbith. Coming from a similar background like his, working in soaps and random student films for almost 8 years, doing anything for the money and stability, he suddenly came on the scene 5 years, and starred in a slew of critically acclaimed and commercially successful films.

“Now listen, I don’t have much time, I have to attend a dinner. I’ve seen some of your earlier work, Neil, you seem like a promising young man. But here’s the thing. When working with me, it’s a whole ’nother level. You have to be at your best, and I’m not just your costar, I’ll decide on takes and if you can’t hack it, I’ll find some other young actor to take your place, you’re replaceable. Just remember that.” With that ominous warning, Matt left.

Over the next few months, Matt stuck to his word. During takes, the director, Assistant Director, and Matt would all scrutinize Neil’s acting, ruthlessly tearing him down, and a couple of times, even reducing him to tears. Neil was in shock, he knew the conditions in Hollywood would get bad, but he had no idea the extent to which everything would just pile on itself and crush him under the weight of his own hubris. But he had to succeed, this was life and death, he had a name to create for himself and he wasn’t going to stop at some mild pressure from work. In fact, the more he spent on set, he felt this weird sensation crawling around his insides, inducing anxiety and stress. It was so weird how literal frustration and anger appeared like a chimera, sometimes even in his dreams, swirling round and round his psyche.

One day, after a brutally painful day, where he fumbled several times during a lengthy cinematic monologue, untrue to the character but positively brimming with anger and vile sentiments, Matt furiously slapped him as hard as he could. He knocked Neil to the ground, and then turned around, and recited the monologue completely perfectly. Without another word or a glance at poor Neil lying on the ground, he then walked away.

When Neil drove home, still brimming with shame, anger, and humiliation, he was fixated on Matt’s performance. How does he do it? How does he deliver the dialogues so perfectly, with just the right inflection of voice, with emphasis on the right places, completely flawlessly on the first take. Wasn’t Matt just another TV serial actor, how does he do it? That night, instead of falling asleep and getting ready for the 6 A.M. shoot tomorrow in the meat freezer, Neil went down a Matt Kasbith rabbit hole. Matt Kasbith appeared relaxed and calm, expounding on the power of belief, and how he truly becomes his characters, whether they be disgruntled cowboys, shopkeepers, or police officers. Neil looked at tons of film analysis blogs, random internet forums, video interviews, wikipedia pages, and yet he found nothing. Until he saw a random interview from 2019, where, fresh from the success of his 3rd film, Matt Kasbith expounds on his fondness for method acting, a type of acting where the actor lives and acts like the character their playing, until it’s impossible to distinguish the player from the role. Matt Kasbith goes on to describe the work of actors like Heath Ledger preparing for roles like the Joker, how dedicated they went. Neil realized that that’s probably what Matt Kasbith expects of him, that in order to prove himself and make Matt proud, he would need to embrace the challenge. Neil knew that he would need to take method acting to a whole new level, and truly embrace his character. It was quite a strange thought indeed, and Neil had the realization of just how much filming this movie has changed him, his initial impressions on the Mastermind were really different indeed. But a job is a job, and it is time.

Neil found it difficult at first. Like all great actors, the true artist embraces the darkness of his mind, and Neil needed to tap into that. Day by day, he worked, starting small at first. Deftly side stepping grocery store scanners, laden with bags of hot cheetos and chocolate milk, and sharply shutting doors on old women on walkers, he was finally leveling up. No longer the pathetic loser who had trouble with enunciation and tonation, Neil decisively spoke his lines with a kind of confidence that only comes from grabbing Life by the throat. He looked back on the last 2 weeks with pride, as he saw his prowess increase. Matt too began to warm up to him, almost as if he instinctually sensed what I was doing, Neil thought.

As Neil walked out of set after a great shoot where he battered several extras around with a robotic arm, he slowly gazed outside. His eyes seemed to skim past the K-mart, Kohl’s, H and M, Wendy’s, and Olive Garden, in the shopping complex in front of the studio, and move, almost as if on their own accord, to the right, and fix on the Metrogoldman Bank. Big shots and famous oil barons would store their money there or so the legend says. It was like Lady luck and Gentleman Opportunity both met and showed him the path illustrated by a glowing line, leading straight to success, wealth, and power. But how was he going to go through such an ambitious undertaking?

Neil glanced at the Mastermind suit he was still wearing from the shoot. To his surprise, as he thought those words in his mind, the suit started to glow.. A disturbing thought occurred to him, what if this suit can read my mind. As soon as he thought that, the scarlet and purple bodysuit started to morph, a protective helmet suddenly encasing his head, and armor encasing his torso appeared at light speed. Twin dual laser swords appeared in both of his hands. He grinned to himself.

As he walked towards the front desk, people began to stare. He knew they must have been intimidated by the awesome power of his suit. A security guard approached from behind. “Sir, we allow no weapons inside the building, so I suggest you take off this suit at once”. He slashed the laser sword across a marble podium, neatly slicing it in half. As the top half slid off, the guard blanched and slowly backed away. Neil strode into the building like he owned it. What else can this suit do, he thought. He remembered reading in comic books as a kid that the Mastermind suit was a neural interface designed to be intuitive. He thought about flying and rocket boosters appeared from the footpads, propelling him in the air. He then rocketed forward through 2 walls, causing untold destruction before reaching the vault. The suit had a powerful proton cannon he could use, but that would only suffice for one layer and needed to be charged.

He remembered an old TV show in which he was an extra, where he played a security guard whose only line was “you’ll never get through the complex 3 layered vault!” to the villain. He shuddered at the recollection of his old acting roles. One of the key plot points of the TV show about how some of these old vaults were made out of the same steel that comprised ships like the Titanic, so the villain froze the vault to get in. “What if it were really vulnerable to ice?”. As if in response to that rhetorical question, a shoulder blaster appeared, slowly rising from the suit, and in unison, fired an ice blast at the first layer. The door came crashing down and shattered at his feet.

Now, for the 2 other layers. Neil slowly exhaled in disbelief and despair. In contrast to the sturdy old-fashioned nature of the first door, this new door looked incredibly modern. Neil scanned the exterior. Made out of stainless titanium, the door seemed impenetrable and impossible to break. A tiny passcode adorned the exterior, so small Neil almost didn’t even see it was there. Neil was in a dilemma, part of him was screaming at him to fly back and force someone to open the door for him. But something held him back. He knew the people in there were innocent, and weren’t part of this. Almost like a reflex, Neil’s fingers typed at the speed of lightning, the suit’s internal computer making complex calculations on the probability of the code being correct. Within 3 minutes, the screen flashed green, and the door swung open. Facing the last door, Neil slowly licked his lips, and activated the proton cannon. The air started to shimmer and particles stopped as the cannon drew from the powers of the infinitesimal particles surrounding us. Light started to grow, and the cannon fired, shattering the safe door. Neil rushed forward and shot a tractor beam towards the contents of the safe, holding them suspended in the air.

Sirens started to blare. Oh no, the cops were coming! Why are they coming for him, he’s not a criminal, he’s merely an actor, he thought. Neil was feeling so worried all of a sudden, what am I doing, he thought to himself. This isn’t me. But there was no time now, a voice in his head told him that he needed somewhere to go, he needed somewhere safe. He needed a lair.

To his surprise, he promptly knew what to do. Neil started walking toward a fire hydrant, and as he did so, he twisted the cap off, and it came off easily, sliding like butter. Neil then slid down the impossible small gap, and went down in a tube that transported him somewhere so fast it took his breath away. When he got his breath back, Neil walked out into a giant underground cavern featuring technological marvels and weapons he could only dream of. He saw plasma cannons, laser swords, technological suits capable of immeasurable power, spaceships, rocket ships, and even a time machine, but that looked to be defunct. With this kind of power, forget a bank. Neil could take on the U.S. army itself.

Ughhhhhhhh. Neil woke up in a ball, with worn clothes, half shaven in a corner of the lair. 5 months ago, he found this place, and now, it’s like he lives there. As time passed, he started to get horrible mental blackouts, forgetting where he was and what he was doing. He glanced at the display case proudly housing his mastermind suit. Or was it his? Why was it so powerful, a mere film prop. Maybe it wasn’t, maybe he was just dreaming or hallucinating everything that just happened. That would be a relief, Neil thought, as his life was literally spiraling. He barely knew what the hell was going on, or where he even was. He would randomly turn on the TV and see terrible footage of orphanages burning down or ransacked police stations, then turn around and notice scorch marks and bullet marks on his sleeves. He tried calling mental health lines, old friends, family, mentors, but an invisible hand always held him back. Other days he would gaze triumphantly at the news, calling up random radio stations to make ridiculous demands or boast about the Mastermind coming back, only to call them back and apologize. Reports came in that The League of Heroes recognized him as a credible threat, and that they were authorized to use deadly force, scaring Neil greatly.

Up seemed down, down seemed up, and he wasn’t sure what the hell was going on. He would randomly either get furious phone calls from set telling him he was going to be fired, that he was a disgrace to his profession, or ones praising him for a great shoot, almost like the outcome of a cosmic coin flipped by an angry god. Viewing clips of his own performances, he scared himself. Strangely, throughout all this, Matt Kasbith stuck by him, saving his job many times. Matt had the talent of saying just the right thing to the right person and smoothing things over. Matt explained that great performers, including himself, go through this, as true acting is putting on a new identity, and there’s naturally going to be some resistance, but things always set in.

One day, Neil arrived on set, but to his surprise, he saw another man wearing a replica Mastermind suit. The director looked incredibly busy, coordinating a giant crane falling, as the other Mastermind started laughing viciously. “What is going on!”, Neil blustered. He strode confidently towards the shoot, and to his surprise, he saw everyone winced at his appearance. “Why did you replace me?”, he asked the director. The director took a while to respond, and seemed to mentally stumble over his words. Neil could tell that he was barely containing his rage. Finally, the director couldn’t hold it in any longer. “Do you know what the meaning of responsibility is! You are an unknown actor, and the entire success of the movie depends on you. You have an obligation to fulfill, and by not fulfilling this obligation, you’re jeopardizing the success of the picture. This was your only shot, and you blew it! Now, get out!”. Matt slowly walked away, dejectedly, and as he left the set, he thought he saw Matt wink.

“Thank god they didn’t ask for the suit back”, Neil thought. Nanotech crawled all over the Mastermind’s suit, replacing and repairing the A-grade steel, with otherworldly alien tech on his gauntlets. Neil was sitting alone in his lair, which, after being fired, permanently became his new home. For the first time in a long while, his mind was finally clear. All that mental wrestling, and hesitation over what was supposedly right was finally over. Neil knew that his purpose in life was a higher calling, something far greater than merely acting. Otherwise, why would the suit have chosen him? Filled with calm and cold certainty, Neil began laughing, quiet at first, but fueled by some sort of Hamletian Madness, began resounding throughout the dark cave.

“Calling all units, calling all units” garbled the police scanner stashed away in a corner of the lair that Neil had nabbed a couple of days ago. “C-15 code red. Armed robbers are infiltrating the West Central Bank on 31 Fold Street.” Neil smiled as he heard the sounds of sirens zooming past his lair. Perfect. Neil put on the Mastermind’s suit, and prepared to head out.

Thirty minutes later, Neil stood outside the police station, amidst the thunder and the rain. Based on his calculations, the diversion he set up would give him 2.5 hours, 1 hour for the police to get to the bank, and 1 hour to come back. He noted the thunderous outpouring of rain, sure that it would hamper their progress. The door slowly creaked open, revealing an array of cells filled with prisoners.

“Gentlemen, my name is the Mastermind! You may have heard of me, that I supposedly disappeared 10 years ago. But the truth is, I’m back. I’m inspired to take back what is rightfully mine. I need an army, and I want to extend an offer to you to join me, in my quest for glory”.

The prisoners looked around at each other, stunned at first, but then they grinned broadly. They slowly got up and began to clap as one. The clapping continued, but then was overshadowed by a loud rumbling outside. The skylight at the top of the prison opened, and colorful bright figures streamed in. The League of Heroes stood tall and proud, their naming belying their power and status. Neil’s eyes began to water as he recognized each one. Megaman, whose fists could punch through solid concrete, Morpheus, the god of sleep, Golden Dash, the man who outran death, and Super Knight, whose sword was sharper than the edge of obsidian. The computer system inside Neil’s suit began making furious calculations, assessing threat levels of each individual superhero, processing motion trajectories, and preparing counter measures. Good thing too, because before he could blink, they came at him on all sides. Neil released a column of flame, which the golden dash narrowly dodged, and then he shot lasers from his twin gauntlet blasters. It was no time to be scared, he thought, this was a time for action. Neil froze the floor around him, and as the golden dash returned around, he sharply skidded across the frozen floor, and crashed into the opposite wall, right into Morpheus, who was raising his hands to cast an incantation. Neil shook off the drowsiness and surged forward. But Mega Knight grabbed him, allowing for Super Knight to swing his powerful obsidian blade. As Neil saw the blade approaching, he activated his rocket boots, dodging the blade, and shooting himself and Megaman high into the air. Neil then took advantage of Megaman’s disoriented state to grab him, throwing him towards Mega Knight. Almost like time stopped, all of the heroes remained eerily still on the ground. Strange, Neil thought, he expected them to put up more of a fight. And weren’t there more heroes? He only spotted 4, Super Knight, the Golden Dash, Morpheus, and Megaman. Suddenly he thought of the wind curtain that inexplicably appeared earlier, and just like that realized he was trapped. A space opened, in thin air directly behind Neil, and the Sidestepper came out and grabbed the mayor, then vanishing to a safer location. Before he knew it, the league came at him with renewed force, and captured him. The menace of the Mastermind was over.

2 months later, Neil was languishing away in a solitary cell. He was surrounded by laser grids, and armed robots constantly scanning his mind for resistance but he had none. There was nothing left, his dreams were crushed, and everything was in ruins. Neil was so confused. He didn’t understand how method acting could lead to such a horrible outcome. It just didn’t add up. Where did all that specialized machinery come from, where did the actual Mastermind suit come from, why was he thinking he was the Mastermind and how did he discover the Mastermind’s lair, a secret kept from even the likes of the Steward. It was I, said Matt Kasbith, as he slowly walked in. “How are you able to hear my thoughts? '' said Neil, in surprise and shock. “Because I am the Mastermind. The truth is, 14 years ago, I disappeared because during the battle between me and the Steward, I hypersped us to Mars, and the shock of the interdimensional travel killed the Steward. You see, I was in control the whole time, and I knew that I could assume power whenever I wanted to. I disappeared after killing the Steward, because although the Steward was gone, I couldn’t possibly deal with an angered and grieved League of Heroes as well as the U.S. military with them. I had to make a new identity for myself, so I became Matt Kasbith. I toiled away for 8 years, with the sole purpose of finding a successor, someone who could take up the mantle for me, and revive the legacy of the Mastermind. The problem was that all of my previous associates shunned me. They wanted no part of the Mastermind. Despite the amount of money I put into it, and time, no one was willing. I grew older and older, and I realized how amazing being an actor was, but I couldn’t simply let the Mastermind die out. I needed someone foolish, yet impossibly determined, to take up the mantle. When I met you, I realized that you were the right person. So I hatched a plan. I hypnotized you, and slowly led you down the path of finding the equipment, of being desperate enough to become a criminal, all to lead up to this moment. I have succeeded beyond my wildest dreams, for you are now truly the Mastermind.”

With these ominous words, Matt slowly reached into his suit pocket, unseen by the guard’s eyes, handing Neil a mysterious remote, before opening a warp portal, and departing.

Etta closes the front door quietly, and with a shaking hand she reaches up and gently places the security chain into its receiver. She slides it to the right, and through the small window beside the door she watches as the two who brought her home pull out of her driveway.

The young quarterback and his oh-so-pretty girlfriend.

As the two drive off in Mr. All-American's pickup, a crooked smile works its way across the old woman’s wrinkled face. Her posture changes and she stands much straighter and taller than the hunched and mild-mannered little-old-lady who had fainted at the ceremony. The twinkle in her eye is not a pleasant one.

She crosses the foyer, walking toward the cellar door, and her quiet laughter is swallowed by the yellowing walls; its sinister chill is only heard by the grandfather clock she passes on her way.

"That was easier than I had hoped." This comment is made to herself, or maybe to some other inhabitant only she can see.

She opens the door and peers down the flight of steps which descend into darkness. Pulling on the string which hangs in the landing illuminates a single bare bulb in the small cellar below; her sharp shadow follows her down the stairs.

Gone is the quaint elderly cat-lady who the world above knows as Etta--in her place is a determined middle-aged woman with a cold and calculating mind.

Twenty years she has waited, biding her time. The ancient spell had been performed and the blood sacrifice made long ago.

Ten of them had been there tonight. It wasn't yet enough, but it was a good start.

Her own short-lived time as homecoming queen, and the disastrous prom night which had devastated her life, had been a long time ago.

The class of 1980--her class; the class she vowed to exact her vengeance on--had been grown and twenty-seven of their children had been preparing to graduate the year she had come out of the coma; this had been twenty-one years ago, in the marvelous year of 1999.

She had been too weak back then to do much more than plan, but she had found a way the following year to obtain her revenge. She would punish the bloodlines of at least ten of those who had hurt her. A time-capsule would carry her hate and anger across a gulf of twenty years, and she had planned, even then, to be present when it was opened.

A pentagram is still mostly visible on the basement floor. Painted in blood, it had been fresh back then, and the ten items had been consecrated and returned to the capsule the night before it was interred for its twenty-year nap.

She had paid the price and had been promised those cursed items would be received by the proper hands; earlier tonight she had watched in silent delight as these grandchildren of her torturers selected the items, one by one.

Her prom date in the long-ago year of 1980 had been Milton Frye, and she owed him the biggest payback of all. His son Peter had gone on to be a backup tight end for the school's football team and had donated his championship jersey to the time-capsule.

That jersey was now in the hands of Milton's grandson, Thomas.

Mr. All-American himself.

The thought of him putting on the jersey brings a shiver of anticipation to the twisted woman who kneels before the faded pentagram and lights a black candle.

* * *

Thomas shifts the truck into fourth gear as he climbs the freeway on-ramp. Allison scoots over next to him and places her hand on his thigh. She starts to move it slowly toward the inside of his leg.

"Damn it, Allison! You know I can't until after the game!" He watches a small smile flicker across her perfect lips. She is teasing him on purpose. "Look, you can walk home if you can't stop." Her sly little smile turns into a pout, and she slides away from him.

"Whatever. You'll wish you'd let me keep going later."

He is about ready to end things with her. She's hot, and really popular, but she's also dumber than a box of turnips, as his Grandma would have said. A great body and perfect lips can only let a guy overlook the rest for so long.

She turns on the radio and stares out through the passenger window as she begins to sing along.

Damn! Her voice is yet another reason to end it. She may look like a million bucks, but she sounds like a cat in heat. A suffering cat being forcibly taken by a big old tom.

This thought brings a smile to his face. "Hey, Alli…"

"What." Not a question, but a whiny demand for attention. He is really beginning to wonder what he ever saw in her.

"Who sings this song?"

"Duh. Final Spasm."

"Can we keep it that way?" He tries, unsuccessfully, not to laugh.

"You’re a friggin' jerk."

He takes the exit for the west side of town, where she lives. It isn't as nice as Maple Heights, but then his parents have been here their whole lives; Alli's folks had only moved here a couple years ago.

Thomas leans his head out and looks into the side mirror. "I may be a jerk, but I look good doing it."

"Whatever." Her favorite word.

He stops at the bottom of the off-ramp and thinks about spinning his wheels onto the surface street. Luckily for him, he spots the cop coming down the road and quickly changes his mind.

Allison turns to face him. "So, are you going to feed me, or what?"

Her voice is seriously beginning to grate on his nerves even more. "Sure. You can have the best they offer at the drive-thru window." He knows she hates fast food, but he's tired and just wants to go home.

"Ugh. Just take me home!" The whine has become almost that of a spoiled kindergartner.

"Fine." He congratulates himself on making it her idea as he turns toward her neighborhood. "If that's what you really want."

He pulls up in front of her house and stops in the street with the motor running. The look on Allison's face is priceless. She finally opens the door and angrily climbs out. She spins and faces him with one hand on the door.

"I hate you, Thomas Frye! I hope you die and rot in hell!"

He just blows her a kiss. She slams the door in his face and turns around. She is crying and covers her face as she runs to her front door.

As he pulls away, Thomas reaches back and grabs the jersey from behind the seat. "Yeah maybe, sweetheart, but not today."

* * *

Thomas pulls his truck into the garage and kills the engine. He pushes the button to close the garage door and leans over, picking up the jersey from where it sits next to him. It's still a little amazing he found it.

Holding it up, he turns it around to read the back. There on the shiny blue shoulder panel, bright white letters spell out the name FRYE and below that, the number 17 - his dad's old number. His whole life he has heard stories about the only game his dad ever started in high school. Closing his eyes, he can hear his dad's voice and almost see the game unfold.

--["There I was. The regular tight end, Mort Jacobs, helped get us to the state finals, but his appendix decided to pick this final game of the year to burst. That's why I was on the field that day." Thomas can hear the crowd in the stands and smell the dirt and sweat from the players on the field.]--

Thomas knows the excitement of starting a game, but to start in the game for the state championship--that must have been amazing. He has often looked through his dad's old yearbook at the team photo. His dad, sitting in the bottom row, looked younger than Thomas looks now.

#17 Peter Frye.

--[Thomas watches through his dad’s eyes as the quarterback fades back, looking for a receiver. Oh no! The other team is blitzing! He thinks fast and fakes a move against the safety. Two steps later he is past the only guy between him and pay-dirt. He glances back to let the quarterback know he is open, and he sees him release the ball. It is going to be close. The ball is pushed ahead of his pattern, and he knows that this is it. This play makes or breaks the game.]--

Thomas can feel the adrenaline coursing through his body as he sits in the cab of the truck. He has the jersey scrunched up in his hands and his face is buried in the cloth. With each breath, he inhales more of the past, and he relives it in vivid detail.

--[The score is tied, and the clock is inside one minute. As he crosses the thirty-yard line, he puts on the last burst of speed he has left in him. Turning his head back, he spots the ball. The safety is running hard behind him, but he has at least a four-step lead. The world slows to a crawl, and he tracks the ball as it sails in a perfect spiral toward the spot where he will meet it. It never leaves his line of sight as it floats gently into his arms, and he never misses a step. He secures the ball, clutching it tighter than he has ever held a girl, and looks back up-field. There are only three lines between him and that elusive yellow mark. Mentally he counts off the yards. 15... 10... 5... and then he's there. He breaks the plane of the end zone and the world catches back up to him.]--

Sitting in the quiet garage, Thomas throws his fists into the air. His eyes are still closed, and he is still somewhere else.

--[The state championship, 2000. The Millennium game. His teammates join him in the end zone as the final buzzer sounds. They have won 20-14 and are now the new state champions. Never mind that he hasn't started a single game all year; at that moment, he is the hero. His last second catch for the win will be the highlight of his football career, his high school years and in many ways, the rest of his boring life.]--

Thomas opens his eyes, and they slowly focus on the interior of the truck. This lucky jersey made that trip into his dad's personal history, and now it belongs to him. Getting out of the truck, Thomas gently folds the dirty, torn jersey and with tender, almost reverent care he places it inside his Letterman's coat.

He had been prepared to show it to his parents when he got home, but now he isn't so sure. What if they want to keep it? It's HIS now, and they can't have it!

Thomas feels his anxiety lessen as he zips his coat, knowing the jersey is safe and secure next to his chest.

What he doesn't realize is it is now almost midnight, and his parents have gone to bed. Thomas has been home, parked in the garage, for almost two hours.

* * *

"Frye! What is your major malfunction?!"

Thomas blinks and realizes he has dropped the snap again.

Coach Riley "Bulldog" Barker lives up to his name. The angrier he gets, the more like a barking dog he sounds. "We are playing Turner High this week, and you are dropping the ball like a little girl with an ugly cat!"

Thomas, along with every other varsity player on the team, learned long ago not to try and figure out the Bulldog's similes. They rarely made any sense at all. "Sorry, Coach." Thomas puts on his most sincere face. "I'll do better."

"You better!" The coach seems to gather himself. He walks up and puts his head against the helmet Thomas wears. "Look, Frye, you are my starter; you’re my go-to guy. I'm counting on you to carry this team on to its first winning season in four years. You gotta pull it together, son."

"I will coach."

The problem is he can't seem to focus his thoughts today. All he keeps thinking about is his jersey. He hid #17 in the top of his closet, but he keeps thinking his mom found it, and took it--which is stupid; she hasn't gone into his room in years. Not since that little incident when he was fourteen, and she walked in without knocking, while he was surfing his favorite Internet sites--that's a memory Thomas doesn't care to recall. What if she decided to put away the laundry? She normally leaves it folded on the table outside the bedroom door, but what if she decided today, it was time to hang something up?

"Dude!"

Thomas looks around and realizes everyone in the huddle is looking at him, waiting for him to call the play.

"Uh, Flying G, on 3."

"Huh? Thomas, what the hell? We haven't used that pattern since like third grade!"

Thomas steps back, and signals for a time-out.

Coach Barker is flabbergasted. "Frye! This is a practice! We don't have time-outs in practice!" The Bulldog is beginning to turn red around the collar and his voice has crept upward on the canine meter again.

In his mind's eye, Thomas sees his dad as he decides to go for a run. He starts to tie his shoe, but the lace breaks. Suddenly he recalls Thomas has a couple pairs of sneakers, and they are probably in his closet. Surely, he won't mind his old dad borrowing a pair of laces. And Hey! What is this? Why, it's his old high school jersey! Thomas watches in horror as his dad tries to put on the jersey and rips a seam out trying to pull it over his stupid fat stomach.

He begins to feel nauseous, and while he can see Bulldog is screaming something at him, he no longer even hears the coach. Instead, he turns and throws his lunch up all over his shoes.

"Oh, you gotta be kidding me!" The cords are standing out in Bulldog's neck as he turns around and throws his clipboard at the bench. "This is worse than grandma and her jellybeans!"

The team splits away from Thomas and the steaming pile of what used to be spaghetti.

"Frye! Hit the showers! Wilson! You’re in at QB, so get your hands out of your jock and put on the red shirt!"

As Thomas slowly walks toward the locker room, he doesn't notice the old lady standing in the shadows next to the small stadium's gate; neither he, nor anyone else, sees her malicious grin.

* * *

"Tommy! Dinner is ready!"

Gabrielle Frye turns from the bottom of the stairs and wipes her hands on her apron again as she makes her way toward the kitchen. Her kitchen is immaculate. She has made dinner for her husband and son, and her maid Natasha has been behind her, cleaning every surface she has touched the whole time. Gabby can see her reflection in the front of the stove as she carries the serving tray into the dining room.

Her husband Peter is seated at the table already, his Kindle is standing on its tripod to the side of his plate, and he is reading intently. "Something smells delicious, Gabs." He says this without looking away from the gadget.

Gabby smiles her indulgent smile and sets the big serving dish down on the tablecloth. She loves her family, but she loves her house even more. The table is an antique and the tablecloth itself is 1200 count linen. It is beautiful with sparkling cut crystal glassware, china plates and sterling silver flatware, polished after every use.

She sits down and daintily places her napkin on her lap. "Peter, you are going to have to talk to Tommy. He has been cooped up in his room all day. Something must have happened."

"Nonsense, Gabs, the boy is just being a teenager. He's fine."

As if on cue, the object of their discussion comes through the arched entrance from the hall. This is a very different looking Thomas from the boy she sent off to school. His eyes are bloodshot, there are lines on his forehead and his hair is a complete mess.

"Are you feeling okay Tommy?"

"I'm fine, Mother." This last word is stretched and sounds ugly coming from his mouth.

"Do you have a fever?" Gabby turns her head toward the kitchen. "Natasha, bring the thermometer from the master bathroom. I think Tommy has a fever, and I need you to find out."

"I said I'm fine!" Thomas slams his hand down on the table.

"Now Thomas, really." Peter turns his Kindle off. "Your mother is just being a mom. There's no need to get all anxious, son."

Thomas looks at his father, and the venom in his eyes is obvious to Gabby. She is almost afraid of this version of Tommy.

"Yes, Father." Thomas turns toward her. "I am very sorry Mother. I am fine. I do not need Natasha to take my temperature." His voice is now quiet, but cold.

"Well, good." As Natasha enters with the digital thermometer in hand, Gabby waves her off and she backs out of the room. "Now, Tommy dear, I hope you are hungry. I prepared your favorite." She smiles as she reaches out and lifts the lid from the serving dish. "Spaghetti!"

Thomas jumps backwards, almost toppling his chair in his haste to get away from the table. "You did this!" He screams at both his parents, who sit and stare at him dumbfounded. "You are trying to get me out of the way now, is that it?" Small flecks of spittle are flying from his mouth as he screams, and his eyes have become those of a trapped and wild animal. "Well, it's not gonna work, do you hear me? It's mine! You had your chance, and now it belongs to me! Just leave me alone!" He throws the beautiful mahogany chair at the wall and runs up the stairway, slamming his bedroom door. The click of the lock is the only sound left in the house below.

Gabby turns and stares at her husband.

"See?" Peter gives a small smile and reaches for the spaghetti. "Teenagers! There's just no living with them."

* * *

Thomas doesn't quite know what to do. He has locked the door, thrown the deadbolt and placed his chair in front of it, balanced at a forty-five-degree angle, the back firmly under the doorknob. He checks the window locks again.

They aren't getting in - I should have known it was them!

Sitting down on his bed, Thomas gently spreads the jersey out on the blanket next to him.

I knew he would be jealous! He had his day in the sun; it’s only fair that I get mine too!

He can see himself wearing #17 in the sunshine as he throws the game winning pass. He can even hear the announcer's voice.

--["Frye takes three steps back... scrambling out of the pocket to his right... and... Oh! That was close, the right tackle almost had him! Thomas arcs away to his left... Here comes a huge defender! Frye extends to his left... he spins on his left foot... He pulls back and throws a missile across his body as he goes down!" It's a 65-yard bomb, right at a pair of defenders matching his wide receiver stride for stride. Before he hits the ground, Thomas sees the ball spin its way between the opponents. It finds the only spot it fits, without being batted away.]--

He closes his eyes as the wind is knocked out of him, but from the sound of the crowd, he knows he did it! His receiver tucked it home and rolled into the end-zone headfirst.

The jersey chose ME! Not you!

He glares as he looks toward the floorboard and the people he calls parents.

I used to think you loved me! I finally see you both for who and what you really are. You probably planned this all from the day I was born. I'm not even a son to you, just a means to an end; a way for you to get the jersey back after you abandoned it to that vault. It didn't deserve that!

Thomas rips his tee shirt over his head, picks up the jersey and pulls it on. He scoots back onto his bed and reaches under the pillow.

Let's see them take it from me now!

The blade on the machete--stolen from the gardener's shed--shines bright and clean in the glow of the overhead light. The glow in his eyes, however, is a malevolent and deadly orange.

* * *

Steve Burdwell leans his forehead against the side of the ambulance and tries to breathe. He has been riding around in this meat wagon for fifteen years, and he's never faced a scene like this.

The kid in the back of the police car out front is some special kind of monster. He is just sitting out there, covered in blood and gore; handcuffed, he keeps rocking back and forth, saying what sounds like "Flying G in a tree."

The lights may be on, but Burdwell doubts there's anybody home. Anybody sane, anyway; no sane person could have done what this boy has.

The parents--what’s left of them anyway--are on the dining room table. Parts of the live-in maid are on the stove; more are in the oven.

It's hard to say exactly how long it has been since he chopped them up, but from the insects swarming the place and the dried texture of the blood spatters on every surface in sight, it has been at least a week.

Steve would have been fine cleaning the mess up. He could handle blood, vomit, piss and shit; hell, he could handle almost anything. At least he used to think so. Before he saw bites had been taken out of most of the pieces of flesh... many, many bites.

* * *

Thomas sits quietly on the bunk in the small, padded cell. His arms are tightly bound around him, the straight-jacket buttoned, snapped and tied-up tight. On his face is a slack expression, and there is no light in his eyes now. Over the straight jacket is draped an old dirty jersey. It was the only way they got him to stop screaming.

--[He smacks his helmet hard and joins his teammates as they run out onto the field. Looking up he sees the game clock stands at 1:25, his team is behind 24 - 20, and it is fourth down. Now or never time. He steps into the final huddle and joins his brothers for a heroic last-ditch attempt. They are at their own 35-yard line, and it looks hopeless.]--

"Frye! Thomas Frye!" The orderly gets no sign of recognition from Thomas. The doctors are calling it catatonia. "You better hope you never come back, you evil son-of-a-bitch. This is a death penalty state, and you got three of them to serve."

--[Thomas steps up to the line, and as the ball is snapped, he can hear the announcer's voice: "Frye takes three steps back... scrambling out of the pocket to his right... and... Oh! That was close, the right tackle almost had him!"]--

As the orderly leaves, the tray of food sits and grows cold on the floor of the padded room.

------------------------

©2023 - dustygrein

Though a skeptic regarding paranormal events, a haunting at some derelict looking building (long since razed to the ground) captured my overactive imagination birthing the following flash fiction, which summons into the supernatural realm most pronounced about five weeks hence with the onset of Halloween 2023.

While shuffling off to Buffalo (another name I use to call the bedroom here at 2 Highland Manor Drive), an impulsive whim found me rifling thru notebooks of very early writings from yours truly.

Back some decades (perhaps an amount of time approximately equal to the half life of element named Ghost Buster), typed document unexpected spilled forth from a heavy duty three ring notebook binder.

Upon rummaging among zany typed efforts of literary amateurism, these myopic eyes stopped short when espying a stapled composition about four pages long. The material in question refers to the title of this piece de la resistance.

There appeared to be a beginning, middle and end, which degree of completion would absolve me to ponder a theme for self subscribed daily assignment, which discipline forced refinement of a verbose harried style, and not always swiftly tailored.

Hence the brief preface now allows, enables and provides this wordsmith to segue-way into the core firmly identifying lodestone of material (making alterations to hone clarity, favorability, and integrity) before releasing completed fictional story into cyberspace.

A primal fear coursed through my body, and haunted every fiber of my slight (slip of a young man) corporeal essence every time I passed the burned out hulk of what used to be the discount lighting and fixture store located at 3714 Germantown Pike, Fairview Village, Pennsylvania.

An emotion of fright gripped my psyche most prominently when I drove past the dilapidated, hollowed out scorched structure after the bewitching hour of duck. This palpable quotidian uneasiness best characterized as an eerily foreboding, ghostly sensation. Phantasmagoric phenomena purportedly populated these premises prior to the pyromaniacal torched act of Mongolian Vandalism.

Twas at twilight nocturnal sweeps of the clock, that the heavily damaged wing of the building stirred like some dormant, huge monster. The charred ruins of unsold merchandise, collapsed rubble heap, crumpled corrugated roof material, and twisted (sister like) beams of steel appeared to lumber silently and stealthily along the ground analogous to sinister beast in search of prey.

Braggadocio got the better part of this ordinarily overly cautious young man (asper fools rush in where angels fear to tread apothegm).

Abe Zion (my best friend since kindergarten) double dared ourselves to test our comfort zones, and apply exposure therapy under apropos weather conditions.

Thus, when came a ferocious, dark and stormy night (nsync with thee refrain "It was a dark and stormy night" is an often-mocked and parodied phrase written by English novelist Edward Bulwer-Lytton in the opening sentence of his 1830 novel Paul Clifford. The phrase is considered to represent "the archetypal example of a florid, melodramatic style of fiction writing", also known as purple prose.

Actually, we struck up this mutual pact on a recent pitch perfect, gloriously sunny spring day to prove paranormal phenomena a confabulation, where nature played trick or treat with vulnerably susceptible rudimentary precinct of individual human mind.

We agreed on this deal (after watching an episode of Let's Make A Deal on television based on similar context). While brimming with testosterone roaring swagger, both of us sought to accomplish a twofold objective. We wanted to put to rest this unfounded rumor, that evil spirits inhabited the abandoned , abysmal site, to test fledgling manhood by carrying out this adventure of daring-do.

When the rush hour traffic diminished on this most tempestuous, torturous, tumultuous evening, and no oncoming vehicles could be seen approaching from within our severely restrained minimal visual range, and the last traces of fearful silhouettes from passing headlights dissolved, we parked the car (a 1970 VolksWagon Beetle – that would be worth a mint today) within a secluded area of brush.

Each of us dressed appropriately in sturdy rainwear then walked the short distance to the forbidding, dismal, decrepit shell of a burnt offering with portable phones, and other paraphernalia in hand. Naturally, we conveniently ignored the NO TRESPASSING sign. Just a little bit of the heebie jeebies gave goosebumps as four light as a feather legs gingerly stepped over yellow plastic construction stripping cordoning and marking off perimeter of danger regard this condemned property.

Upon approaching what used to be the doorway to the store, we found the entrance blocked. Long (and fostered) animal nests, cobwebs, and thick vegetation impeded further progress. This dense brush needed to be cleared. Both of us unclasped the scythes and created (NIKE) swishing motions in an effort to minimize upsetting the resident flora and fauna ecosystem, who rightfully owned provenance to this territory.

Once a passage got cleared wide enough for slender framed teenage boys to slink through, the mission resumed. As told, donned cladding bolstered top of the line waterproof gear. Also lugged thru this morass comprised backpacks filled with ample food and drink. Entrance made into the inky black ominous void, whereby every sensory nerve cocked, primed in case an ill fate triggered necessity to escape.

When suitably acclimated to the pitch black environment did attention turn toward the raging tempest (that would no way fit inside a teacup), and ferocious roar outside indicative of horrible creatures, (where the wild things lurked) evident via cacophony of sounds.

Amidst this earsplitting maelstrom, a faint yet sharp noise (similar when people toast and clink wine glasses together) punctuated infinitesimal brief silences between the bagging and rattling din.

The following day, I arose and perched myself in the top of the library tower to enjoy my coffee, my book, and the cool morning air. This was one of my most treasured places: a small platform reached by ascecnding a spiral staircase encircled by various maps, charts, and codices, looking out over the garden and the marshy fen just beyond, where the river had flooded about thirty years ago and washed out the brittle higher ground. Looking in this direction, you could watch the Sun as she rose over the edge of the horizon, the dim outline of Fordham vanishing into her brilliant yawn. On this particular morning, I sat cross-legged on this upper platform and propped open the windows before me and behind. A gentle wind tickled the back of my neck and encouraged me to continue facing the East. There were kingfishers singing to one another just outside the window, hovering over the small pond at the south end of the garden, taking turns diving at the glint of shallow scales.

Mornings like this always enliven me to think of hope as a courageous and natural thing. I like to think of myself as optimistic on a regular basis, but in practice I often need a reminder of the beauty in the world—a prompting to look to the East.

Having completed my ritual, I bid ado to the Sun and descended the stairs leisurely, making my way to the kitchen. Iseult was already there cooking some eggs and sausage, which had a pleasant, but very plain, aroma. I always found it amusing that despite her unmatched expertise in herbalism, she very rarely made use of them in the preparation of food.

‘Good morning, love,’ I said to her. She smiled at me, and immediately called me over.

I thought for a moment that she wanted to kiss me or something of the sort, but as soon as I got over to her, she pushed the spatula into my hand and said, ‘Finish this up for me, would you?’ then bounded out the door swift as a deer. I stood still for a moment, then finished the eggs (adding some parsley, salt, and bell peppers) and sausage, made our plates, and set them on the table.

I could see Iseult just outside the door, frolicking through the orchard near the garden. She promptly returned with about twelve apples in her arms and one in her mouth. She dumped the apples into a bowl, and then sat down next to me, finishing her apple while she rifled through the pages of a book that I had not noticed before.

‘What’s that,’ I inquired.

Without swallowing, she said, ‘Romakin—he wrote a book.’

‘Ah,’ I said, not very surprised, ‘of course, Romakin. I thought dead men told no tales?’

‘No, not Ricard,’ she corrected. ‘I’m talking about Ivan, his grandfather. Besides, Romakin, or his doppelgänger, clearly isn’t really dead at all.’ She offered me her half-eaten apple and I graciously accepted. ‘Ivan Romakin settled in Fordham with his wife and daughter in 1872, but before this, they came from the West. Ivan wrote a novel—this novel—about a man and his wife travelling through the desert. It’s called The Fool’s Farren’.

Here she paused to chew and swallow a piece of sausage, all the while attempting to read my face, while I exuded a simple aire of curiosity. I knew what she was driving at, of course. But I also loved when she looked at me so unabashedly, and I did not want to give her cause to look away.

She swallowed her food and continued, ‘I’m willing to bet that was at least inspired by their journey across the Wastes of Gehenna.’

I sat and pondered this for a minute. ‘That would make sense. But I don’t rightly see its relevance to our present mystery.’

‘Neither do I,’ replied Iseult. ‘I’m just starting to gather information. Also, it has been a fascinating read so far; I never knew Romakin was related to so talented a writer.’

‘I should think my family history would recount the arrival of the Romakins,’ I said. ‘We settled near Dunna Cairn at the beginning of the eighteenth century, and moved to Fordham just before the wars began.’

‘You should look into that.’

It was this strange tale that began my inquest into the history of Barley House. I knew my family arrived in the area before anyone else, but this house was not built until 1881. The Romakins were not foreign to the stories of my forebears. I could remember as a child hearing my uncle say, ‘The Romakins may be recent arrivals, but they are an old family. Don’t speak with them unless you have to. But if you do, listen carefully.’

‘What luck,’ thought I, ‘that the one Romakin I ever met was unable to speak with me whatsoever!’ Now, however, it appeared that my old teacher’s mutism may prove a hindrance to our ambitions.

Approximately half past noon, I found myself plodding down the road toward the Romakin residence. They lived in a little thatched building just outside Fordham, to the South. It is for this reason that I doubted Iseult when she implied that Romakin came from the cemetery, for their house was just beyond it, in the old regions of Fordham, near the church. But the tombstone was a strange and undeniable piece of evidence that something odd was at play.

I stopped at the cemetery simply to confirm my wife’s discovery, and having resolved myself of its validity, turned to depart and continue my sleuthing. The moment I turned, however, I came face to face with none other than the man himself!

‘Ricard!’ I called out, after a start, ‘I am glad to see you, old friend. Please, let me speak with you.’

His face was clearly concerned, as it was the day before, and his eyes glanced fervently about him. He signed, ‘Not here. Come.’ I immediately obeyed. Who could do otherwise in so intriguing a circumstance?

With a pleasant chill to the air and the hairs on the back of my neck responding accordingly, I followed the old man around the church and down the street, toward his family home. This part of the town was mostly residential or broken down. People liked to be nearer to the market, so the houses were run down and many were uninhabited. As we approached Romakin’s property, I went to turn in at the gate, but the old man caught my arm, shook his head, gestured for silence, and indicated for me to keep following.

We walked farther than I anticipated, and I began to grow uncomfortable. What could this man mean by his behaviour? Clearly something was amiss. He was supposed to be buried, not leading me through dusty alleyways where the living rarely trod. My heart grew steadily more anxious, and as Romakin weaved left and right between buildings that even I did not recognize, I began to become as vigilant and paranoid as the man before me appeared to be.

Suddenly, we came to a halt. We were in a low corner between two houses, and after glancing around many times and positioning himself such that he could flee at a moment’s notice, Ricard Romakin opened his mouth and spoke.

Yes, he spoke! This mute who had been mocked for his grunts, who had been forced to adopt a language of signs and gestures, this strange and mysterious creature whom I had only ever known as my beloved teacher, quite pitiable, not very confident, was here before me with a voice as powerful and unhindered as the greatest of orators from the days of Ancient Rome, speaking to me as though I were his equal in verbiage and rhetoric. I felt, of a sudden, as though I were a child in the schoolhouse, and here was my teacher, ready to discipline the mockers and to demand respect and admiration.

Thus he spoke to me on that day, in that alley, with the voice of a god:

‘My dear William, it is so good to see you. It is so good to see! Why, if I had not been so wrapped up in my inability to speak, I would have been able to recognize how very blind I was. But this is beside the point. You must listen to me, son: Fordham is not safe. You and your wife are not safe. You must speak with Her. The child of Charybdis can translate for Her, but you must be willing to listen. Iseult has been kept in the dark, but she holds the legend to Her words as they come through the conduit. I have died, my son. I have died, and I will swear it again: I have certainly and indisputably died. Yet am I here to speak with you upon this day. Guard your heart against the trials ahead, for there shall be three, and they shall not be easy. I am truly sorry that you are to be put through this. The Barolim are the keepers, and you are a Barol. I know the words were not passed to you, but the key was, along with the house. No matter what happens, no matter how dismal things appear, no matter your suffering or your doubts, you must NEVER surrender Barrow House. Do not lose the key! Do not admit the man with the crooked hat! William, I implore you, heed my words and do not fail.’

Needless to say, I was quite shaken up. I stuttered, ‘Y-you can talk!’

‘William,’ said Romakin sternly, grasping both of my shoulders and holding me firmly, ‘do not fail.’

The world became strange then. When you look at a man, you notice his face, but you also notice a duality of things. Two ears, two eyes, two nostrils, two lips, two arms, etc. And all of this is normal; you don’t think twice about it. You think, ‘Yes, of course, here is an individual, and in many ways this One is Two.’ But then this goes one step further, and you know you are crossing a boundary from which you fear you may never return. Suppose, for instance, that not only were their two nostrils and two eyes and two ears, etc., but that each individual component was hosted upon its own head, so there was not One that was Two, but rather Two that each had One, and without warning, you yourself became Two, and you could look at your own eyes. That is a rough approximation of what began to happen to me, and the sky rolled back, and the world shook like an earthquake, and I watched in horror as Mr. Romakin split himself in two, and one was silent and the other was incessantly loud. And in a moment, everything was two, and suddenly one again.

I was alone. It was night. Romakin was gone, and I stood facing an empty wall at the back of an alley in a place where no one lived in old Fordham. I turned rapidly, wondering at my predicament and what had just occurred. I felt my face, and there was one, not two. A sigh of relief came forth without permission, and I caught my breath in fear. How long had I been standing here? Had I gone to sleep? Where was Romakin? Had I imagined the entire encounter? I could answer not one of these questions, and so I simply began to move towards home. The last glow of the day had finally vanished. Half the moon was concealed, and darkness was still stretching across his face. I shivered, pulled my jacket about myself, and pushed through along the dark road until I came back to town, through the abandoned square, and back onto the path towards Barley House.

It was an unnerving walk. The wind was brisk, and the darkness nearly complete. The quarter moon graced my eyes with shadows that vanished when I looked their way, like a cruel trick of paranoia. I heard dead corn stalks and twigs being crushed underfoot in the cornfields to my right. I caught a fleeting scent of blood after the sound of a whispering and a short, sharp cry occurred to my left. I have since tried to convince myself that the footfalls behind me were my own, echoing off the wind, but there was in truth nothing to catch a sound and throw it back, nor were my footsteps so heavy as those that trod the road directly behind me.

I turned around at least five times before I gave up all courage and began to run. Never had the road home felt so dark and foreboding as it did on the sly moon’s night, when dark clouds concealed the stars and the hint of rain and torrent tantalised the hairs on my arms. But, at last, I arrived at home, burst through the door with haste, and found myself immediately on my back, face to face with Iseult, who had just in a flurry of movement wrenched my left arm back by the wrist while striking me across the jaw and tripping me onto my back, subsequently pressing the cold edge of a dagger against my throat.

‘William!’ she cried suddenly, and wrapped her arms around me. ‘Where the hell have you been? Jesus, I about killed you just now.’

‘I don’t rightly know,’ came my meagre reply. ‘But listen fast, for Romakin is indeed alive, and something miraculous has happened.’

Iseult listened closely as I recounted the events of that day to the degree I could remember them. I did my absolute best to speak the exact words of Romakin, for they had clearly been urgent, and left off at the end with my strange awakening at dusk and the disembodied oppression I felt on my return journey.

‘“The Man with the crooked hat?”’

‘I know,’ said I, feeling reaffirmed by the mere fact that someone else now knew what had happened and had not concluded that I had lost my mind. Of course, it was Iseult, and I wasn’t entirely sure her own mind wasn’t lost on a semi-regular basis. ‘It’s… weird.’

‘It is strange…’

We sat for a few moments in silence, each processing the information over again.

Iseult spoke first, ‘What did he mean about Her? How could we possibly know who “Her” is?’

‘I don’t know,’ I replied. After a moment, I said, ‘but Romakin hadn’t spoken for years before today, and he spoke clear and confident, as though he had never been mute. I suppose there are ways of knowing when the time comes.’

‘Don’t forget,’ said Iseult, ‘he said she would need a translator. The “child of Charybdis”. Who could that refer to? Charybdis didn’t spawn any children; she was just cursed by Zeus and made into a monster.’

‘Darling, I don’t know. To be perfectly honest, I am utterly exhausted, and as soon as you tell me about your day, I would like to simply go to sleep.’

‘That sounds like a fine idea,’ she said. ‘Auntie woke today in a fit. I had the physician come to check on her; Mel was acting up again. I spent most of the day working on some remedies for poor Henrietta, worked on that murder mystery I’ve been writing, and then fretted over you, wondering if I should go out and search.’

‘Most exhilarating, dear,’ I yawned. Iseult followed suit, and we walked together up the stairs and to the bedroom. But not before locking every door and window (complete with salt lines and the occasional sigil), and looking repeatedly out at the fields that never cease to move in the dark winds, but flow like the murky waters of a midnight port.

Sleep did not come easily to me, and for some time I lay awake, turning the events of the day over in my mind. So brief, I thought to myself. And yet so very full. I looked over to the woman beside me, and watched her shoulder rise and fall with each ephemeral breath. She always slept like this, curled up on her side. When awake, she would sprawl out, stretch her body across the entire bed, stake her claim. But once the night grew quiet, and the vigilant star began to sputter upon the candle by which I read most nights, she would grow smaller, condense into this tiny form, legs guarding her stomach, arms pulled against her chest and covering her throat. Without fail, her breath would quicken, then slowly return to a gentle rhythm.

I made sure the blankets guarded her from the chill, and rested my hand upon her arm, my forehead against her back, feeling her breath. It was soft, deep. She was at peace. Closing my eyes and lying near beside her, I found myself at sea, and the waves moved with each respiration of this incredible women at my side. I lifted each thought, each fear, to the railing of the ship and let it fall into the rhythm and the cold and the dark. Weightless in the wake of this task, I too leapt into the waves, and sank into the deep, where I observed many strange things: a great mouth and churning water rushing into it; a light that moved within; Iseult, eyes open and wet with tears; Romakin laughing madly with a cracked mirror beside him and a shadow; and all pulling apart like bread dough, then returning, melding, shifting, pulling, and softening again, curling into itself underneath like a mushroom cloud from the old wars, splitting into everything else and nothing at all.

Jane

I have long fallen in love with my cozy little cottage, sitting just right outside the skirts of a lively, bountiful forest. Softly humming a little tune, I thinly slice the freshly baked loaf of bread sitting on my kitchen counter. The toasty smell wafting in the air summons deep rumbling sounds from my empty stomach. My mouth waters as I spread a generous amount of light, velvety butter on my bread

Just as I am about to wolf down my buttered bread, I hear panicked shouts right outside my door. Slightly disappointed, I snatch a slice and rush out the door.

A young boy, anxiously crouched over the limp figure of what appears to be a young girl, is desperately crying out for help.

Dear god.

Upon noticing that the two children are severely malnourished, I rush forward and crouch down. I am shocked by the cuts and bruises covering their thin, tiny bodies, but I am forced to collect myself to address the most pressing matter at hand.

I look into the boy’s eyes and give him a comforting nod, “Don’t worry, I’m here to help.”

Upon hearing the word “help”, the young boy promptly faints with relief written all over his face.

What a strong, caring child.

With as much strength as I can muster, I carry each child into my humble abode. I slowly trickle some water into their mouths until both of them regain consciousness, “Shh, shh. Don’t speak, please try to stay calm and just eat.”

I use two fingers to pull off bite-sized pieces from my fluffy bread and gently stuff each piece into each of their mouths, one at a time.

“There we go, you guys are doing great!”

At last, the color has begun to flow back to their faces.

I lift the children into my bed, and I quietly tuck them in. The muffled cries of my grumbling stomach and the lonely, half-eaten loaf of bread end up forgotten as, overcome with exhaustion, I collapse onto the ground.

Ren

The body sitting and resting on my back feels as light as a corpse. I’m even more worried about the fact that Em hasn’t said a word for the past few hours, behavior that is drastically different from her usual talkative self. But her silence is understandable, considering our circumstances. Only a few days ago, we both decided to run away from our orphanage without so much as a morsel of a plan in mind.

We may be starving and looking death in the eye but I don’t regret my decision at all, and I’m certain Em feels the same. The “orphanage” was more like a match factory disguised as a home for orphans; the “caretakers” trained all of us how to handle the matches without regard for our safety at all. Em and I would’ve been able to endure it all if not for the horrendous disease that was rapidly spreading throughout the den. They called it phossy jaw. And little Mary was the very first victim. The sight of her violently shuddering on the floor with a swollen, decomposing jaw before drawing her final breath has been burned into my mind, haunting me to this very day. I refuse to let Em fall victim to the same demon. She was my ray of sunshine, my only source of comfort in that hellhole.

Despite the burning pain flaring up from my bony feet, I trudge forward one step at a time, telling myself one step forward is one step closer to freedom. When I see the distant lump sticking up from the ground gradually enlarge as I step forth, adrenaline rushes into my veins and I muster what little strength I have left to sprint towards it. My heart is thudding fast and loud as a drum, and I haven’t had enough water to sweat but I can feel the heat rising to my head.

As I near the door, I pause mid-step.

Wait a second. I don’t feel her breaths anymore.

Up until now, Em’s soft breathing had tickled my neck like a feather, and my notice of its absence sends my heart six feet under. I slowly set Em down on the ground and I check for heart beats, breathing, anything indicative of life. My heart drops even further.

No, there’s no way. We’ve already come so far. It can’t be…

I cry out in anguish and let out a guttural scream, a desperate plea for help.

As if to answer my cries, an angel descends from the heavens and gifts me the comfort of her aid, ““Don’t worry, I’m here to help.”

Please. Please save us. Please save Em.

And my world is suddenly sucked into a pitch-black darkness.

Ren

“Please, Miss Jane, let us help out around the house!,” I plead, “You already let us stay here free of charge, and you refuse to accept so much as a few words of gratitude, the least we can do is pull our own weight!”

Em eagerly nods in agreement, eyes full of energy and brimming with joy, “You’ve taken such good care of us for the past few days, and you’ve even offered us a place to stay, we are more than willing to offer our aid!”

Flustered, but evidently pleased to see the improvement in our health, Jane gives us each a light pat on the head, “Well, if you two insist.”

I grin, “You won’t be sorry, miss, I promise we’ll be useful. We’re willing to do anything if it means we can help you!”

Jane laughs, but I catch a hint of worry in her eyes, “My dear children, while I appreciate your help, you mustn't make such promises to just anybody.”

“Oh, but Miss Jane, you aren’t just anybody!”

Jane affectionately ruffles my hair with a warm, glowing smile, “That’s nice to hear, dear Ren, thank you for your kind words.”

But it’s true.. you saved our lives.

At this moment, I make a solemn vow.

To protect Jane, no matter the cost. To protect every hair on her head, from her cozy, fireplace smile to her cheery little hum.

Jane

It’s only been a year and I’m already used to living with my two little helpers, Ren and Em. They fill my little home with so much life and joy that it feels as though they have been here from the very start. I absentmindedly wrap my fingers around the wooden handle of my pitcher to fill some glasses with water, and end up pouring out some air.

I sheepishly turn my head to look around only to discover that both children have witnessed my embarrassing slip of the mind.

I sigh, “Please forget what you just saw.”

Ren and Em, visibly suppressing giggles, vigorously nod several times and burst out the door with half-eaten loaves sticking out of their mouths. I can hear their giggles pass through the door to dance in my ears like a musical tune, and I can’t help but grin.

I slide a rope through the handle of the pitcher and secure the two ends in a tight knot, then slip on the makeshift necklace.

I call out, “Ren! Em! I’m heading into the forest to refill the water, alright?”

Em rushes back in through the door to cling onto me with a hug, “Miss Jane, why don’t you let Ren and I do it? You should stay here to rest!”

I pat her on the head, “Thank you for the offer, but I can’t let you two do all of the work, can I?”

Upon seeing words of protest beginning to form in Ren's mouth, I quickly hush him, “Besides, it’s quite unhealthy to stay inside all the time. I’d like to get some fresh air every once in a while. Don’t worry, my dears, I’ll be back in no time!”

Jane

Humming, I lower the mouth of the pitcher into a gurgling stream and wait for a rush of cool water to flood in.

I notice some movement out of the corner of my eye but I choose not to pay it any heed, dismissing it as a wild creature or gust of wind.

I should gather some berries for jam…

With more water slipping out than rushing into my pitcher, I set it aside and cup my hands to drink straight from the stream.

The sensation of cool, refreshing liquid blessing my dry throat only leaves it begging for more.

“Nnngh!”

A sharp pain abruptly pierces my chest and my body is thrown backwards into the rough bark of a looming tree. A concerningly dark cloud of smoke is emitting from the throbbing point of pain on my chest and my vision blurs as I start to feel a little woozy.

I shudder in response to a booming voice in my head that shakes my soul to its very core, commanding me to “SLEEEEEEEEEP.”

Em

The light, tapping footsteps approaching the door spark excitement in my heart, and I dash over to the door to greet Miss Jane.

I creak open the door and run, barefooted, through the dirt to throw my arms around her neck, “Miss Jane, what happened? It’s pitch-black outside and we were worried sick!”

A sickeningly sweet voice trickles out of Miss Jane’s mouth, and a shiver runs down my spine, “My sweet, sweet child, there’s no need to worry about me. I assure you, I am perfectly fine. Look, I have the water right here!”

Something doesn’t feel right.

“M-Miss Jane? Are you sure you are feeling fine?”

Come on, Em, what’s wrong with you? How could you even think of doubting Miss Jane?

I shake my head at myself, but I fail to control my shaking limbs.

Miss Jane smiles and puts her hands on my shoulders, “Of course. My dear Em, why don’t you call me mother? I don’t mean to impose but I truly see you as my very own daughter.”

I freeze in shock, and a warm fuzzy feeling starts to melt away at my irrational suspicions, “Miss Jane…”

I hear a soft creak behind me and the smell of Ren’s chicken soup fills the air. Ren must’ve overheard our conversation, because he’s standing in the doorway with his jaw hanging.

*SMACK*

My stinging cheek causes tears to uncontrollably well up in my eyes. The warm, snug feeling that had filled my heart slipped out through the fresh cracks.

I look up in disbelief with a hand on my cheek, “M-Miss Jane?”

Ren put himself between me and Miss Jane, “Miss Jane, please calm down and let us right our wrongs. What have we done to anger you?”

“Please, call me mother,” replies a sugary voice dripping out from a twitching smile.

“M-m-,” Ren starts, but is interrupted by a harsh outcry.

Miss Jane, doubling over as though she were punched in the guts, let out a soft groan, “GO AWAY! GET OUT OF MY SIGHT!”

Jane

I-I can’t control my body. It feels as though I’m a stranger in my own body… and my presence is being forced aside by another one.

This other… “being”... seems to have access to the entirety of my past memories…

The demon in me drags my feet forth while lugging along the increasingly light pitcher of water, leaving a wet trail behind.

Though I remain a spectator of my physical form, I can tell that the perpetrator is becoming increasingly comfortable in my body, a disturbing thought that further alienates me from my own flesh. I can sense the demon’s intense craving for life essence, as the energy is gradually sucked out of my soul.

And then it hits me. Oh god. The children. I have to protect the children. I have to fight for control.

I struggle and try to wrestle down the conflicting presence in my mind, and I must’ve taken it by surprise because, to my elation, I am able to take back control. My excitement and relief is unfortunately interrupted by the excruciatingly painful sensation spreading throughout my body at an alarming rate. My momentary display of weakness gave the devil a chance to snatch back control, and so I am once again a mere witness of my corpse.

I fight with all my might but can only gather enough strength to regain control for mere seconds at a time.

As my home comes into view, I am forced to make a decision.

If I use my short moments of control to explain my situation or tell the children to run away, they will only insist on staying to help me out. I refuse to put them in such a dangerous situation. I must scare them off so they will run away of their own accord.

Ren

Em, with her sweet but wary smile, cautiously approaches Jane with a steaming hot cup of honey lemon tea. The sweet and citrusy fragrant is soothing but also acidic, like the calm before a storm.

“M-mother, Ren and I made this tea just for you!,” Em accidentally trips over a crack in the floor, causing some of the hot liquid to spill over the edge of the delicate cup, into her quivering hands.

“EM! Are you alright!?,” I dash to her side and cradle her hand in mine, “Let’s run it through the cold stream.”

Jane’s head whips towards our direction, “YOU CLUMSY, FILTHY BRAT! You better stay here to clean up the mess!”

Em, slightly trembling, wobbles into my arms and starts to sob, “R-Ren… what did I do wrong?”

“Nothing, Em, you didn’t do anything wrong,” I tightly wrap my arms around her and lightly stroke her hair to calm her down.

What went wrong? We’ve already gotten this far away from the match factory. So why? Why haven’t we been freed? What more must we do to secure our freedom? Our safety?

I should’ve known it was all just a facade. The whole situation was simply too good to be true. I was a fool to think that Miss Jane would be any different from the other adults. She only wants us here to work for her.

Jane

It pains me to see the devastation and betrayal swimming in Ren and Em’s eyes, but I must force myself to harden my heart if I am to save their lives.

I am using every single drop of strength I have to keep the devil in check, but I can feel its growing thirst for the young lives that are constantly within arms’ reach. So far, the devil has resorted to countering my efforts by using honeyed words to convince the children to stay. But such trickery can only go so far. Love and trust must be earned, and once they are lost, they are not easily regained.

The thought relieves me, but it saddens me all the same. It seems I still have a long way to go before I become selfless enough to completely close off my heart. Despite knowing that everything I am doing is for the sake of the children, the selfish side of me just wants to spend what little time I have left in control of myself with them as their mother.

Though, ironically, the idea was devised by the devil to fool the children into staying, I have come to find the idea rather endearing after giving it some thought. Truly, Ren and Em are like my very own children, and I love them with all my heart.

Oh, what I would give just to hear them call me “mother” one time. Just once, for real, and to me.

Sigh…I’m getting weaker by the day. My body is increasingly slipping out of my control… I have to think of a solution before I am forced to give in to the devil…

A little voice that I have long pushed to the back of my mind called out, “Oh but there is a way to protect the children.”

I know… I know what I must do, but I can’t bring myself to do it…not yet… not while there’s still hope.

Em

Snuggly huddled in bed with Ren, I turn to face him, “Ren, I’m scared.”

“Me too, Em, me too…,” Ren sighs, and I can hear the exhaustion in his voice, though it’s too dark for me to see his expression.

“Did something happen to Mi—I mean mother?,” I ask in a shaky voice, “She was so kind and sweet before…”

“No, Em. She was never kind or sweet. It was all an act.”

I try to hold back my tears, but I can’t hide the tremble in my voice, “D-do you really believe that?”

I can hear the regret in Ren’s voice, “Oh Em, please don’t cry, everything is going to be alright, I promise.”

His words of comfort only serve to break my fragile dam, and the falls come pouring out.

To my astonishment, rather than embrace me in an attempt to calm me down, Ren joins me, and we mourn together.

Ren

All of this started the night Jane came back from the forest with the pitcher of water…I wonder what possessed her to show her true colors. Perhaps she felt that after gaining our trust, we wouldn’t dare to leave her side no matter how poorly she treats us. She speaks sweet nothings to us and hands them out like candy, but I refuse to be fooled.

I let myself get lost in my thoughts while drowning in silent tears until I finally drift off to sleep.

My consciousness dissolves into a blinding flash of light and the silhouette of a strangely familiar figure slowly emerges from the curtain of radiance.

“Miss Jane?”

I see Jane comfortably seated in a soft field of grass while affectionately watching Em, who is grinning from ear to ear, jumping and twirling in circles without a care in the world. Em enthusiastically runs into her arms, and giggles in glee, “Mother, why don’t we collect some flowers to make some tea?”

Jane crouches and lightly squeezes Em’s hands, “That sounds wonderful, Em.”

A hooded figure with black feathered wings suddenly flickers into view and wraps its arms around Jane’s waist.

Jane’s eyes widen and she aggressively kicks at the mysterious abductor. The towering wings begin to flap and Em wails as she grips onto Jane’s hand so tightly that her knuckles turn bone-white. Despite her efforts, Jane’s fingers inevitably slip out of Em’s hands. As the two approach the clouds, Jane closes her eyes as though resigning to her fate.

I break out of my frozen stance and yell, “Mother, come back! You’re getting too close to the sun!”

The stygian figure shoots up with Jane in their arms, and the wings burst into flames. In the blink of an eye, the two descend in the form of ashes raining down from the sky.

Jane

I’m running out of time. I’ve been stalling for long enough.

The shimmering, teardrop stars spread across the dark veil over the once sunny skies call me forth, into the abyss.

It’s time…

I wrap my feeble life force around my soul to bind it to my body once more. The burning flames scorching my soul are nothing compared to the feeling of having my heart shattered into innumerable pieces.

I crack the door open as quietly as possible, but pause a half-step out the door. In spite of better judgment, I slip back into the house and step across the floor on my toes to peek into Ren and Em’s room.

They look so peaceful.

I smile melancholically as I watch the bodies slowly rise and fall with each deep breath. And then I notice their tear-stained eyes and soaking wet pillows. The sight of their sorrow tears apart my heart but it also steels my resolve.

Without further hesitation, I step out the door and fall under the mercy of the night sky. In a trance, I return to the home of the devil, heading deeper and deeper into the looming trees. My bone-deep pain continues to grow as I near the stream where I was cursed.

I step into the burning cold of the running water and I follow the direction of flow. It feels as though I am walking on a trail of sharp shards of ice, but each step lifts a ton off my shoulders and lightens the load on my shredded heart.

The devil is fiercely clawing at me from the inside, but I have never felt so at ease. I hum softly with the whooshing water and harmonious chirps that pinch the biting cold of the air and cut through the otherwise dead silence of the night.

I can tell that I’m nearing the end when I start to hear rushing water crash into the rocky earth far down below. The rumbling drums tell me the falls are waiting for my arrival, and I quicken my pace to reach them.

I sprint with the current as I am drawn in by the chasm beckoning me forth. When my feet finally reach the edge, I curl my toes and free my soul.

I jump.

At last, my fallen heart has been gifted the wings to soar once more.