Three Days Later

Three Days Later - a reading (on YouTube)

I wake at 4 a.m. with a sense so strong it feels like foreshadowing,

Like my childhood is about to play out on a much larger stage,

Like I am still trapped within it with nowhere else to go.

Once again, I am too small to shape events around me,

Powerless to seek safety anywhere but beneath my bed,

A hiding place of no protection.

I creep past the lairs of grendel and her daughter,

The night watch drunk and sleeping,

The hall a deathly still,

Hoping I am too minuscule to notice,

Too inoffensive to draw attention,

Knowing I am offense enough.

When do I become the hero of my story?

When do I no longer have to fight?

When do I nail the monster’s arm above my bedroom door?

Relinquish hope all who enter here.

For I already have.

© 2017 Edward P. Morgan III

Caverns

Caverns - a reading (on YouTube)

Sealed behind steel doors and

Rusty gates with cast-iron locks,

An ancient landscape leeches from the surface

Like some madman’s forgotten dream.

While the ranger regales us with tales

Of the Civilian Conservation Corps,

Shadows conceal the sentinels

Of deeper chthonic creatures.

We wend our way through goblin crawls,

Peering up suspiring chimneys,

Squeezing past primeval breeding dens,

On a path chiseled smooth by many hobnailed feet.

Galleries give way to sacred chambers,

Columns flank a flowstone cathedral,

Moated by descending rimpools,

The blackest mirrors of our souls.

Ribbons of water,

Ribbons of rock,

Ribbons of raw pigment,

Trickle down its twilight walls,

Painted ashen in calcite white,

Burnt iron umber,

Sooty black manganese,

Portents of the dragon’s ire.

Hoarfrost quartz encrusts his vaulted ceiling,

Precious diamonds ripe for tiny fingers,

While pilfering, wingless fairies

Lurk behind each dripstone drapery.

With pickaxes and sharpened shovels,

These mole-eyed miners ambush

His moonless darkness

With two-candlepower lamps.

We are reborn to renewed possibilities

After defeating the black beast within.

Dazzled by the dappled sunlight,

We stumble on beneath a verdant sky.

© 2016 Edward P. Morgan III

Pearl

Oh Margarete, my precious pearl, captive of Kraist, enraptured afar in the shadows of Repugnikratia and its realm of unilluminated darkness, please believe I did not know. Lying atop your burial mound, I feel as empty as your grave.

---

My name is Cotton Nero A.x, last of the Demokins. Or so I thought until I broke the sacred seals and peered into the Domesday Book. Our people had fallen long ago, first in fire, then in blood. Now our mark has been all but erased from this earth. Kraist and his barbarians would say cleansed.

My journey began when I returned from searching the southern upland wilderness for artifacts. A salvage crew had claimed they had stumbled upon a cache on the outskirts of the ruined Yellow City. The valedictors sent me as an authenticator to establish any connection to the lost Nighthawk niversity. After a six-week investigation, I suspected the salvage crew had strayed illegally into the Southern Venom Zone surrounding Peachtree but had used the Yellow City to mask the origin of their finds. Only time would tell whether the burning sickness condemned their trespass.

As I returned to the seat of the Scient, I saw smoke rising from the Villa of Ashes, drifting through the broad river valley like a poisonous fog. From an overlook near the ancient parkway, I stood witness to the aftermath of the Demokins’ final battle.

I interviewed the survivors as they fled. Most averted their eyes and ducked their heads as they hurried past, shunning my visible badges of office. Only a few paused to relate the tale.

I pieced together how Repugnikratia’s lightning raid had fulfilled the destiny of our mountain stronghold like Kraist’s accusations of topomancy. The zealot’s forces had flowed through the valley like a flash flood, inundating everything in their path. Even our northern enclave of The Boon with its catacumbal niversity had been overrun. Now, our scoles and corts and libers were indistinguishable from the ancient ruins. We’d grown complacent behind our walls.

Where Kraist styled himself as a warlord and a savior, the people of the Scient saw only the dimming of an ancient light. With the fall of the Villa of Ashes, I knew the Demokins as a united people would cease to exist. All of our cathedrae had fallen silent. Kraist’s heralded edicts now replaced our sacred lore. Our salvaged knowledge had come undone. Our Reluminescence had been eclipsed.

Quickly, I got swept up in the refugees’ exodus to the mountains. Any unsecured chattel was being put to the sword.

---

Days later, I awoke alone at Capel Sion in the place of Hanging Dogs, not knowing how I came to be there. The other refugees had scattered like fallen leaves before a winter wind.

A decade past, Capel Sion had marked the highpoint of our Reluminescence. Now, the abandoned Manuprint workshop afforded me scant sanctuary, a final refuge in my flight. All the procurators and copywrights were gone. Slain or fled, I did not know. The vineyard lay fallow. The herb garden was overgrown and clogged with weeds. Rapeseed obscured the burial yard beneath a yellow carpet. That softened the blow of seeing your and your mother’s graves again after so many years away.

I knew then I’d come to say goodbye.

After I revived myself with rations from the valedictor’s hidden stockpiles, I unsealed the Domesday Book. First, I searched its square pages for clues to the workshop’s sudden demise. Finding none, I next scoured the index for your gravesite. Kraist’s marauders had claimed you and your mother in one of their first raids a decennium ago. Mistra Nero A.x had been a Valkyrie assigned to our protection. I was an adjunct procurator on my way to becoming an authenticator. You had only just emerged from infancy a year before.

They came by night, circling through the mountains. I only remember the smoke and blood and tears. Valedictor Velim Faustina wouldn’t let me see you. He said it was for the best. He told me that you had died within Mistra’s arms and that was how I should remember you both.

Soon after the burials, I threw myself into righteous work to re-illuminate the night. Each passing year only dulled the pain a little more, but the wound of your and your mother’s absence never fully healed.

And yet, the Domesday Book still bore your name. Valedictor Velim Faustina had lied. Why I didn’t know. I only knew your grave stood empty. As I skimmed the pages, I found yours was not the only one. I discovered a host of others, all girls, none older than twelve. Kraist had abducted hundreds of the Otho generation. Perhaps that solved the riddle of why the valedictor had fled. 

On my knees at your graveside, the tears returned unbidden. I wondered if you were still alive. I wondered at the young woman you might have become. I knew that in my ignorance I had failed you. Kraist had stolen everything from me. If you yet lived, I vowed to get you back.

Weary from the bright sunlight, I curled up and fell into an uneasy slumber.

---

The scent of the rapeseed overwhelms me like sweet incense. Plucked music like a memory permeates the air. The euphony drives me mad. It refuses to leave my head. But is my journey just beginning or have I already reached its end?

---

When I awoke, sunlight was fading. Crepuscular rays illuminated a previously hidden arbor set in the shadow of the forest. A path receded into the darkness like a vision. It called me like a dream.

I gathered my scant belongings and provisions for the journey. I strapped on my black Evlar breastplate and my iTanium dagger, the badges of my now nonexistent office. I was no Martial or Valkyrie but I knew my way around a blade. Scrounging through the Manuprint workshop, I added a Polaris stone, an ancient copper penny, and a polished magnifier as clear as a mountain stream. The Polaris stone would guide me. The copper would buy me aid. The magnifier would help me see.

The arbor track descended from the mountains. Two score days I wandered through the upland forests. Beneath the canopy of trees with boles as dark as indigo, only the Polaris stone kept my path toward sunrise true. Every farm and freehold and fastness I passed was eerily abandoned like the ancient ruins. Or a pile of charred timber and artificial stone. I encountered no other soul on my journey, living or dead. As if every man and beast had been taken up to the heavens just like Kraist’s fanatics said.

But from the shadows I sensed eyes upon me. Ten years as an authenticator had honed my instincts. Without them, I never would have survived. Predators, two-legged or four, I was certain of their presence. I could feel their piercing stares. Hair bristled on the back of my neck for no reason. Startled birds rose into flight from deep within the trees.

I scanned the wilderness and ruins with the magnifier but saw not even a flicker of movement. These moss-troopers never revealed themselves to me. Once or twice daily I called out a hail but received no reply. After I time, I stopped. Yet I still drew comfort from their presence, my unseen traveling companions.

Then, a few days before I reached my destination, all traces of them disappeared. I was once again alone. Perhaps they had sated their curiosity. Or had I passed beyond the borders of their territory?

My journey through the uplands ended atop a high bluff overlooking a river that snaked through the pristine landscape like a thread of gold. Beyond stood the verge of a verdant garden, reborn in our long absence. The far shore was lined with fruit trees. I counted a dozen varieties at least. The scent of apple blossoms drifted across the water like sweet nectar. The border of Kraist’s territory. The Eastern Venom Zone.

This was not how the valedictors had described it. No word had filtered down that the lowland waste was free from the burning sickness never mind flourishing and green. What other vital data had the valedictors kept hidden?

I once again pulled the magnifier from its leathern case and scanned along the river. Its water flowed quick and deep. I traced the shoreline seeking a ford or ferry. My copper should see me safely to the other side.

Across the water, I spied a carefree demoiselle in a white dress on a rock outcropping with her legs curled beneath her. She was plucking the petals from wildflowers and tossing them in the water, watching as the current swept them downstream. Her golden hair was loose and glistened like the river. Her pale skin shone in the sunlight like the ancient porcelain we so rarely found intact. She was yet a maiden but displayed woman’s grace.

In the middle distance, I spotted a city perched upon a hill, its walls shining like a vision of Kraist’s mythical heaven. Her home, I assumed. A new city, not an improvisation built atop the ruins. Kraist’s city.

I needed to investigate. This girl was the only person I’d seen in weeks. Hers wasn’t an extension of the upland wilderness that buffered our separate worlds. Perhaps her aid would see me to the other side.

I descended the bluff along a sweeping, switchback trial. At its base I found a gravel path that shadowed the near shore. I followed the path downstream. When I was nearly across from the young woman, I hailed her.

She looked up, startled by my presence. A large, unblemished pearl lay at the point of the shallow v of her white, embroidered bodice. Even from a distance, she was as beautiful as Mistra. As if I was seeing a much younger ghost. My breath caught in my throat. Margarete.

She watched as I approached the shore, curious but unafraid. No recognition dawned within her eyes. Of course she would not remember me. She would have been much too young. I knew I had to approach her carefully. I needed to be certain.

When we were separated by a stretch of swirling but silent water, I called out to her. “Do you hail from yonder city?”

“I do but nearly all my life,” she cried back boldly. Many young women would be afraid to converse with strangers. Not her. Though her face held a curious expression.

“I seek a crossing,” I said. “Is there a ford nearby?”

“All the fords are guarded by my master. None may cross without his permission.”

“Then perhaps a ferry.” I held up the ancient copper coin and made sure it caught the light. “I carry the standard fare.”

She gently shook her head. “No ferryman will bear a stranger from Gilead. Only death or a pass from my master will see you safely across the river. What business calls you to this side?”

I seized on her curiosity to keep the conversation going. “I search for my daughter. She was lost to me half a score of years ago. I recently discovered she may have found her way here to live.”

“Many daughters have been blessed to find their way to Capel Hill.” She laughed spontaneously as if her mood had bubbled up from a secret spring that fed the river. “What does she look like? Perhaps I know her.”

I wanted to say, she looks just like you but I knew I needed to woo her into acceptance, if indeed this was truly her. “In all honesty, I do not know. She was lost to me when she was very young. She would be about your age, perhaps. Her mother had fair hair, pale skin and was slim like you.”

She laughed again, a sound as high and sweet as trickling water. “I suspect you attempt flattery to gather in my trust. All that you can see from where you stand.”

“But I cannot see your eyes,” I called back quickly. “Hers were as blue as still, deep water reflecting a cloudless sky.”

She glanced at her image in the river. The tiniest furrow marred her brow. “Did this daughter bear a name?”

“Margarete,” I called across the water, as much an answer as a plea. “Although I can’t say in honesty whether she would remember what we called her.”

“Margarete is my name,” she said in a cross between astonishment and dismay. She eyed me as if seeking similarity to the reflection she’d just studied. I knew I had to tread carefully if I was still to earn her trust.

“How did you come to be here?” I asked, approaching the problem from an oblique angle like an artificer.

She misunderstood my question. “My master told me to wait by the river this morning. For what purpose, he did not say. He commands; I obey.”

I did not like her lack of independence. Her mother would not approve. “And you do all he tells you without question?”

“How could I do otherwise?” Her smile turned radiant. “I am his bride.”

Bride? I struggled to keep my feet steady even as my mind reeled. What kind of beast was I dealing? I knew in that moment I must liberate her. “You are too young,” I stammered.

“The first fruits are appointed to the lord,” she responded as if by rote. “The Master of Might.”

I regained my composure. I knew that moniker. It was scrawled in ash across the Scient, the land she called Gilead. “I have heard of this Master of Might. Kraist is his name.”

She nodded. “I was very young when Kraist took me into marriage. Destiny chose me as his sister-wife.”

“Has he treated you well?” I felt I whispered but my voice must have carried.

She looked away. Had a flush tinged her cheeks? “He washed my robe pure in blood, and crowned me in virginity and pearls.”

Now choler stained my face red.

“I am happy and unharmed,” she quickly continued. “The Queen of Courtesy has settled me beneath her wing.”

I knew I must set my emotions aside. I thought furiously a moment. “They say he is a seer and a prophet. If he sent you to the river, perhaps he intended us to meet.”

Her expression turned from guilt to something bordering on shame. At first I thought she desired to flee. Then I heard a pair of metallic cracks behind me as the springs of two Domani rods locked into place. My pearl has merely served as the distraction to allow her companions to sneak into place. But how to interpret her look of remorse?

I turned to find myself confronting a trio of Kraist’s soldiers. Two gripped their anno-fiber control batons low but at the ready. The third, lingering behind, clutched a catchpole in the shape of a shepherd’s crook with a corded noose and drawstring. All three wore short, white tabards emblazoned with a staurogram in red. Like a bloody basket-handled cutlass pointing down.  That marked them a squad of Kraist’s Defensors Fidelis, his personal bodyguard. Were these my shadows through the wilderness?

Thankfully, none were armed or armored with bangsticks or transparent tower shields like his elite raiders. In my Evlar breastplate, I stood a chance.

I drew my iTanium dagger and assumed a fighting line before the skirmishers could close. I relied on the treacherous footing across the rocks to either side of the trail that led to the water to ward my flanks.

The first skirmisher advanced with his Domani rod forward. I thought he might be preparing to probe my armor for weakness until I noticed a full section of his control baton remained retracted, ready to punch through armor and then bone with a flick of his thumb.

Behind a quick series of circular parries, I gave what little ground I had to narrow his attack front and keep his companions out of distance. I resisted the urge to glance at Margarete behind me across the river but I did allow my eyes to flick away from his face briefly. That was all the water needed to allow the mustard seed of his overconfidence to blossom.

The moment I saw a smile shadow the corners of his mouth, I lunged beneath his guard.  With a lightning strike of beat parry, riposte, I scored a line of blood along his right side. A trick my wife had taught me. Though I knew the wound was surficial, I hoped it would provoke him.

It did almost faster than I could react. When I saw his backswing forming, I dropped my hand and lowered my body beneath his counterstrike. As it passed over me, I stabbed upward with my blade. The razor-sharp iTanium scraped along bone, nearly severing his thumb. He screamed as his Domani rod clattered to the ground. Reversing my balance point as I kicked back onto my line, I snatched up the control baton with my now trailing free hand.

My first opponent stumbled out from in front of me, cradling his ruined thumb to staunch the blood. He whimpered like puppy. I adjusted my stance to a Florentine style to face the second man.

This skirmisher approached warily. I exploited his hesitation to close distance and regain an extra step or two between me and the river should I need it. Too late, I realized this was a counter-tactic to draw me out to where the third man could harass me, effectively neutralizing my newly acquired offhand weapon. A mistake my wife would never have made.

Before I could rectify my error, I found myself pressed from two sides. The second man lay into a series of attacks, while the third darted in and out of my guard with the catchpole, seeking to snare either a limb or weapon within his noose.

In a press of coordinated feints, attacks and parries, I desperately tried to slice through the catchpole’s cordage and render it ineffective. The third man was fast and prepared. I had just pulled back to slip my knife hand free from being caught when I felt the iTanium grab and nick the cordage. I had no way to assess the damage before I was forced to retreat back toward the river and the relative safety between the rocks.

Now my only chance lay in defeating them in detail. The second man seemed to recognize this, too. He began a series of probes and feints to wear me down. I knew it was a delaying tactic but delaying for what? Did he have reinforcements on the way?

My answer came as I heard a skittering of pebbles among the rocks to my left. The injured first man was trying to flank me along the river. Something small and sinister lay concealed within his unbandaged hand.

I quickly swung a beat against the second man’s Domani rod and sought to readjust my facing. As I turned to gauge the distance, a malodorant stream shot forth from the first man’s hand. It struck my Evlar breastplate and splashed up onto my face, burning my eyes and searing my nose and throat.

Gasping through a veil of tears, I stumbled toward the river, escape my only thought. With neither sight nor breath, I knew this battle was lost. Half-blind, I waded into the river, my arms outstretched toward Margarete as if she alone could save me. Waist-deep, with water tugging at my legs, I felt the catchpole’s noose loop around my neck. The frayed cordage held as it yanked me back to shore.

Darkness swallowed the look of horror on Margarete’s face as the water swirled over my head.

---

I awoke to find my body swaying as if transported on rhythmic waves. My lungs were raw and sore. Had the cordage finally broken? Was I floating free downstream?

It took me a moment to orient myself and realize I was lying face down with my ribs resting on a curved, swaying platform. The smell of leather, livestock and dust quickly filled my nose.

I opened my eyes to find grass sashaying beneath me. I was slung across the back of a beast of burden, my badges of office stripped away. I struggled to rise only to find my hands and feet were tied. A captive then. The memory of Margarete’s betrayal came crashing back as I once again slumped down.

Within moments, the moke beneath me came to a rest. Two pair of hands hauled me to my feet. One each remained firmly on my shoulders.

I stood before a white pavilion perched on the grassy hilltop before the walls of the shining city. A banner fluttered from its center pole, the same staurogram that adorned the Defensors Fidelis serving as its scarlet blazonry. A man stood in the open entry in a white robe freshly stained with blood. Kraist.

He waved someone toward him, whether myself or my captors I could not say, then retired into his tent. I felt the grip on one shoulder tighten. The other guard drew forth my stolen iTanium blade and sliced through the bonds at my ankles. A shove in the small of my back sent me stumbling forward, my hands still bound before me as if in prayer.

A gravel path led to the canvas praetorium. Small, iridescent pebbles as bright as tiny pearls shone in the slanting afternoon sun among the broken shards of common stone. My leather clad feet crushed them into dust.

Surrounding the city stood row upon row of orchards, some heavy with fruit. A host of demoiselles in white gathered that bounty into woven baskets. Rapturous birdsongs no instrument could imitate filled the early evening air.

Beyond the pavilion, a gravel road led to the central of three gateways adorning this side of the shining city. Twelve shallow steps glistened like gemstones just inside the portal. Twelve levels ascended from the foundation in a perfect square. Its shining white walls rose above the orchard-strewn hillside like polished glass, running a mile and half again on each side. Strains of plucked ethereal harps notes emanated from within.

In that near distance, the city appeared so beatified and unaggressive. How could such an idyllic structure serve as the womb for all the Scient’s woes?

At the threshold to Kraist’s pavilion I hesitated to survey the space inside. The furnishings were simple yet struck me as opulent in their near perfection. A well-carpentered narrow wooden table stood to one side. Atop it lay a pewter ewer and cup, and a pewter plate piled high with bread and ripened pears.  

A scissor-folding chair stood opposite the entry, intricately constructed yet unadorned. Its arms and slide-in back shone like honey in the rays of sunlight streaming through the entrance. Tapestries and weavings carpeted the grass beneath its feet. Sweet incense wafted forth in waves.

“Welcome to Capel Hill.” Kraist beckoned me inside. “Come. Refresh yourself while we speak. I have been waiting for you.”

I stepped into the shadow and waited for my eyes to adjust. The incense nearly overwhelmed me. I swayed a moment before I steadied my resolve.

Kraist rose and poured clear liquid from the ewer into the dull chalice, offering it to me. I clutched the cold pewter in my bound hands. Kraist made a sweeping motion to the plate on the table before ensconcing himself back upon his throne.

No scent from the cup permeated the perfumed air. I took a long, deep draught. What I thought to be water transformed in my mouth to clear, sweet wine. I drank no more, instead setting the cup aside before facing him, turning my back on the remainder of his hospitality.

Kraist eyed me intently. “How have come to stand before me? Men from Gilead and the Scient are barred from crossing the river from the Citadel to the Southern part of Heaven.”

I feigned ignorance. “I did not know I trespassed. I came in search of my lost daughter. And I think I have found her. I wish to take her back.”

“You have lost nothing,” he replied almost quietly. Even though they were softly spoken, his words were infused with authority. “All fathers must eventually give up their demoiselles.”

“A daughter should not be taken from her family.” I insisted.

“Even by her beloved?” he asked, his eyebrows rising in mild surprise. “Your daughter is a rose in bloom. She would have withered without my hand.”

“No girl should gain a husband by abduction,” I shot back. “She was just beyond her infancy, incapable of being wife to any just man.”

“So you say I receive my payment unjustly?” He did not raise his voice as he steadily held my eye. “She is the Guerdon of Bright Heaven. She was promised as my bride. You forfeited her with your deeds and worries. Such is the price for access to my orchard.”

The wine fortified my resolve. “We have sampled nothing from your garden, so our familial rights remain unbound. She was stolen from us, her absence masked as death. My wife gave her life defending her.”

“Your valedictor signed a contract,” he replied dismissively. “Your people were allowed to prosper until they transgressed against it. Why should you complain now?”

My mind reeled. What had Velim Faustina done? “I was party to no agreement with Repugnikratia.” His expression clouded when I voiced that name.

“You Demokins always try to seize a greater fortune than belongs to you. You arrive at the eleventh hour and demand a full day’s wage.” Anger crept into his voice. His face reddened. He looked as if he might set the contents of the tent askew. And just as suddenly it passed. “And I shall grant it. Yet first you must work for me.”

“Why would I consider that?” I asked, defiant.

“Because your daughter has pledged herself in body, mind and spirit. Greater mysteries await her but only if you yield. If not, perhaps I will allow her to become my bride in deed as well as word, as is her most fervent desire. From that day, she would remain cloistered. You would never look upon her face again.”

I stared at him aghast. I could not believe even he was such a monster as to make good upon that threat. “She is just a little girl,” I whispered, pleading.

He stared back at me openly. His eyes were soft and sad, almost piteous. We stood in silence a moment before he asked, “Did you see the gateway to the city as you approached?”

I nodded, uncertain where he was taking this sudden turn of our conversation.

He arose and walked behind his seat. He pulled back a panel of the pavilion and motioned me over. When I stood beside him, he pointed to the city through the gap.

“Each gate is inscribed with the names of all the girls who have found their way to me. They call themselves my sister-wives. They are glorified around every portal into the city. They know no jealousy. They are bound together by their common desire to please me any way they can.”

He gazed out wistfully.

“One day, twelve thousand names will adorn each of a dozen gates. One hundred and forty four thousand pearls, none different from your Margarete. Each of their names will be scribed into the Book of Life. And that day, the prophecy will be fulfilled.”

I thought about trying to kill him in that moment. Just wrapping my bound hands around his neck and squeezing his throat until life fully fled him. I knew I could crush it before his guards could pry me away. But I hesitated, thinking about what would happen to Margarete. I could not let my actions spell her doom, not after I had been reunited her, however briefly.

By the time I realized that path might be the better one, the moment slipped away. Kraist let the panel drop back in place and walked across the tent toward the entrance, leaving me in stunned silence in his wake.

He paused there a moment, haloed by the crepuscular sunlight streaming through the opening.

“There are many manors in my Father's empire. I go to prepare a place for Margarete.” His eyes pierced to deep within me as if he had read my mind. “I will prepare one for you nearby as well. Bring me the Balm of Gilead and I will return her to you unaltered.”

Unhurried, he departed, leaving me to wrestle with my thoughts alone in the falling twilight. Just outside the tent, he issued instructions to his guards.

---

Ill fortune befell me that day at your mound, Margarete. Once again bowed with grief among rapeseed, I am stretched across your grave, longing only to lie here forever. Either to be reunited like Kraist foretells or be relieved of the burden of my vows. I know it is mad to strive against him, but I also know I must somehow resist his will. Through my love for you, my daughter, and my inaction, how many others have I condemned to your fate?

The heretical priest emerges from Capel Sion to fortify me with sacramental wine and bread. Two Defensors Fidelis stand watchful sentinel nearby. I rise to face him but only make it to my knees before defeat settles over me like a rain of ashes once again.

The bread he offers tastes like it has moldered, the wine now tastes like blood. As I choke down this final repast before I embark upon another journey, the priest whispers Kraist’s final words like a catechism in my ear.

“Grant us this man become Kraist’s servant and suffer the little children, innocent and undefiled,” the priest intones. “Verily, let him bring our lord the Balm of Gilead and delight him with precious pearls.”

If that’s what it takes to save you, Margarete, so be it. So say all men.

© 2015 Edward P. Morgan III

One of Us

Illustration © 2014 Sonya Reasor

"One of Us" - a reading (on YouTube)

Once a month, I saw them at the bus stop waiting for the 131 in the shade beneath the shelter. He was an adult. She was maybe seven. I’d formed the impression they were father and daughter though I had no way to be certain.

She looked like any normal little girl, wearing different clothing each time I saw her, sometimes pants, sometimes a skirt, almost always something flowery and bright. Nothing fancy. Wal-Mart off the rack.

He was always dressed all in black, head to toe, his hands and face completely covered. Like one of those women I’d see in news from one of the countries we’d invaded. Only his robes gave him more form and left the distinct impression that he was a man. I wondered if he had a sun allergy, or whether he was hiding from something else. I could only imagine how uncomfortable he must be in the full summer sun.

I only saw them in passing. Usually, I was across the street on the 133, looking out the window as we drove by. Today, I’d missed my connection, so I was trying to backtrack to the 107 by way of the 131. I was still confused by the transfer schedule. My company had just moved to a new building. The owners had taken away our parking and given us all transit cards instead.

I see them waiting as the bus lurches to a stop.

She bounces up the steps and runs two HARTline passes through the reader. The driver smiles as if he knows her. She scans the aisle for seats while she waits for the man behind her. She looks poor but not dirty. Her face is clean. Her fine, blond hair is combed back into a ponytail. She is cute in the way all children that age are but otherwise plain and unremarkable. She carries a sparkly pink Hello Kitty messenger bag half as big as she is.

He ascends the stairs behind her with a heavy heel. He wears snug, leather gloves, and heavy leather work boots with scuffed toes. His face is deeply cowled, his eyes invisible within the shadow. The edges of his gauzy robes are sun-faded, bordering on gray. Only a silver wallet chain breaks the fields of black. The kind bikers wear.

It’s rush hour. The bus is crowded. The only empty seats are the one next to mine and another across the aisle. I stand, offering them a pair together. I step across and sit beside a woman who doesn’t look up from her Kindle.

The little girl skips down the aisle, her ponytail swaying back and forth with each step. She smiles up at me as she slides toward the window. The man plods along behind her. He nods his thanks as he approaches, the only acknowledgement I expect from a stranger on the bus. I flash a smile in return before looking away.

I catch the scent of cologne as he settles across from me. Something masculine yet light and exotic with hint of sandalwood maybe. Nothing heavy or trendy. Not Axe or Drakkar Noir.

“Did your teacher give you any homework?” the man asks the little girl. His voice is soft yet deeper than I expect from such a wiry frame. It is comforting and resonant like I remember my father’s being when I was young.

The girl pulls out a multiplication worksheet with tropical fish encasing each problem. She spreads it on her messenger bag like an improvised lap desk.

A muffled trilling emanates from beneath the man’s robe. His gloved hand burrows within and emerges with a cell phone. Not a smart phone like mine, a pre-paid flip-top. He glances at the number and sighs before opening it then snaking it within his hood.

“I asked you not to call this number.” He keeps his voice low. I’m uncertain if it’s out of respect for the other riders or a desire for privacy. I can’t help but overhear. I stare at the seatback in front of me, pretending not to listen.

“It’s always important, Francis,” he whispers, sounding like my father when he was exasperated with me as a child. “What time is it in Rome?”

I can only hear his side of the conversation. The other is muffled by the robe. Though what little I can make out sounds lilting, fast and foreign.

“What would you do if one of them had done that to your sons or daughters?” he asks, his patience now tinged with something not quite anger but growing close. “…Well, maybe it’s time to change that...”

I glance sidelong across the aisle wondering what he might be talking about. He points to a problem on the girl’s worksheet. She counts out the answer on her fingers then writes the number with a yellow pencil in the bubble before the fish’s mouth.

He nods, then points to another fish whose answer bubble is empty. “The rules are right there in the book,” he says into the phone. “…I didn’t write it... There are a lot of translation errors... Use your best judgment…”

What I can hear reminds me of the questions I field from some of my team supervisors almost every day. The joys of management. Finished with the problems, the little girl begins coloring in the fish on the worksheet with crayons.

“We’re almost at our stop. I need to go... Quickly, please... We’ll see... I’ll look into her situation later tonight... You know I don’t have the power to do that anymore. Until Jess is old enough, they’ll just have to work out peace on their own.”

He turns his head to watch the girl coloring beside him, gently laying a gloved hand on her head, then stroking her hair. Intent on her task, she doesn’t notice. Her shading is precise and within the lines.

“Please don’t call this number again unless it’s an absolute emergency, Francis.” He says it patiently but firmly. I sense a hint of resignation in knowing his request will go unheeded. Francis sounds like a ten-percenter, the people whose problems take up ninety percent of my time at work. “I mean armies gathering on the hill at Armageddon...”

His phone trills once, and then stops abruptly. The girl continues coloring, bringing her fish to life. The colors she chooses are vibrant yet complementary. Even though she only has a small selection to work with, she blends them well. I wonder what her math teacher will think of this unexpected art.

“Francis, I’ve got to go… I have another call coming in… I really have to take this… Bless you, too, my son…”

He pulls the phone out of his cowl to tap the pound key then slips it back inside.

“Namaste, Tenzin Gyatso… Jess is doing well. We’re just sitting here working on her multiplication tables… If you ask, I know it must be important. Tell me what I can do to help.”

© 2014 Edward P. Morgan III

The Morning Star

Lou coughed as he struggled to breathe, his body wracked by pain. The molten air scorched his lungs like the backdraft from a furnace. His wings smelled like a scalded dove. His flight feathers had first curled and smoked during the descent then been seared away leaving only the blackened leather that lurked beneath.

He crawled to the edge of a suppurating pool, his legs trailing twisted and broken behind him. His once pristine pale skin reddened, inflamed by the inferno of the wasteland. How many of his companions had survived?

Their shattered bodies fell toward the barren landscape as fiery meteors against an iron sky, their screams of agony echoing across the jagged outcrops of the rocky terrain. A land of perpetual twilight. Red sky in the morning.

He knew he should gather up the survivors, rally his troops in case the enemy pursued. He should regroup them for a counterattack. Once more into the breach. That’s what a leader did.

He had neither the heart nor energy. He’d led his forces into carnage, a complete and utter disaster. Outnumbered, they’d held their own throughout the palace coup, until the old man had waded in. They’d still rallied to his banner and now he’d led them into the worst kind of exile. It no longer mattered whether their cause was just.

Lou stared into the muddy pool, its surface pockmarked with slowly ballooning bubbles of brimstone that burst into the yellow stench of something rotten. He’d rolled the bones and lost. He surveyed the cost of his arrogance littering the stony landscape. He couldn’t face them again, his comrades and lieutenants.

He clawed himself headfirst into the fetid pool. His skin erupted as each inch passed beyond that gray-brown border, tracing the outline of his progress with a ring of fire that burned his resolve away. The boiling mud seared but soothed his tattered flesh. The worst of his wounds withered and maturated, angrily hissing as they embraced the scathing bath. In another rejection, he found himself adrift on the surface like dross cast into molten lead.

He rolled onto his back and hung motionless as if floating in a forge, his neck bitten by the tiny teeth of the jagged edge that increasingly secured him to the land of living as all his impurities boiled away. His limbs felt leaden, drawn like anchors to a bottomless sea of anguish. Fiery fangs raked along his skull as he allowed his head to slip beneath the murky surface. This time it would not rise on its own. Blackness the color of his ravaged heart closed close and finally claimed him. And with it, he achieved a measure of the freedom he’d desired all along.

---

Lou awoke to strong hands grasped beneath his arms. Trails of agony traced along his back and folded wings as he was dragged from his turbid den.

“Don’t worry, Lou. I’ve got you.” He knew that voice. Bebe. It would have to be. “Good thing I spotted you when I did.”

Lou coughed up chunks of quickened mud that tasted like clods of smoked sulfur. His head pounded in the unrelenting heat. Like the resonating tattoo that had marshaled his forces to war then ushered in their defeat.

“Bebe?” he croaked. “I was almost free.”

“We are free, now, Lou.” Bebe seemed to misunderstand. “We’re all free, just like you promised.”

Bebe dragged Lou away from the solace of the scalding pool and laid his head on an unforgiving pillow of a stone. Lou pried his eyes open. No sun. No stars. Just an eternal smoky gloaming. As if a reminder that they’d started an insurrection that would never end.

“You shouldn’t have followed.” Where once Lou’s voice sang as clear as a dulcet chime, it now grated inside his head. Arduously, he rolled over and tried crawling back to the stinking sanctuary of the pool. “Grant me peace.”

“Snap out of it, Lou.” Bebe’s massive hands shook him like a tectonic shift that unleashed an earthquake. Bebe’s face suddenly filled his view. His skin was charred and denuded like pale, supple calfskin that had been boiled into a mask of hardened leather. “The lads still need you. I need you.”

The bones of Bebe’s skull protruded at odd angles. Cancerous growths bulged behind his ears. Lou wondered if he looked the same. The old man’s final curse as they fell away toward darkness? “How many?” was all he could think to ask.

“Most of us. Ty’s dragging in everyone he can find.” Bebe cradled him in hug, then gently laid him back on the ledge of rock. “Rest, Lou. A little sleep and you’ll remember your old self.”

That was the problem, Lou thought as his eyelids, like the gates to an ancient fortress, slowly ground shut.

---

“Come on, Lou,” Bebe cajoled for the umpteenth time. “It’s not such a bad place. A little TLC and we’ll call it home.”

Lou was up and about again, bouncing like a jackdaw on his damaged legs. Soaking them in the brimstone bath seemed to help them heal though the bones remained twisted.

“We had homes in a crystalline palace, and now we live in this?” Lou swept his arm across the shattered landscape.

“Like you told us when we started, better free down here than as hired help up there.” Bebe settled his bulk into the crook of a boulder. “We’ll rebuild the empire, on our own terms this time, just like you said.”

“Yeah, just like I said.” Lou plucked up a small, flat stone and whipped it across the surface of the viscous pool. At first contact it stuck and sank beneath the mud without a trace. “That was then, Bebe. Look around you. This place is a pit. A cesspool in a wilderness of stone.”

“I admit it’s a bit of a fixer-upper.” Bebe scooped up a handful of gravel and let it trickle through his fingers. “But a few more bodies and we can make into something special. We’ve got the raw materials.”

“And where will we dig up labor?” Lou asked, surveying the blasted terrain skeptically, seeking the tiniest gemstone hidden amongst the scree.

Bebe stood and dusted off his hands. “Let’s start with what we’ve got. The lads are just waiting for you to tell them what to do.”

Lou shook his head ruefully. “We didn’t rebel just to setup a new dictatorship.”

“Lou, we still need leaders,” Bebe whispered gently. “They naturally look to you.”

Ty and a few others had congregated at the edge of their conversation, a thin and haggard cadre leaning heavily on one another’s shoulders. They all eyed him in sidelong shock. Could he refuse them after all they’d sacrificed? For such a big lout, Bebe could be as perceptive as he was fierce.

Lou sighed deeply then allowed his vision to reset. His mind began churning with tactics. They needed somewhere they could rest and recuperate, somewhere the most deeply wounded could heal. But first, they needed to consolidate their position. That meant defenses. He may have stolen the best and brightest the old man had but the other side still outnumbered them two to one. If they wanted to survive, they’d have to set up for the long haul.

“See that ridge at the top of the pit?” Lou pointed. “Let’s use that as our natural line of defense. Ty, I want you to organize the work crews. Start building a redoubt with parapets. Eventually, we’ll put a gate between those two low, rocky outcroppings. I want watches from this moment forward. Bebe,” he turned to his chief lieutenant and adviser, “Pick two flights from the most able-bodied. Gather up any other wounded and bring them here. Then, I want you to start building a bathhouse. That pool has healing properties. That’s where we’ll build our citadel.”

The other shuffled their feet for a moment, wan smiles spreading contagiously. This was more like the Lou they’d known and followed. “Don’t just stand there folding your wings,” Lou added. “Let’s get to it.”

His words set off a flurry of activity.

---

“We’ve got our first convert.” Bebe grinned as he lumbered along the path that descended from the rim. “The old man created a pair of lesser creatures and the woman refused to bend her knee.”

“Sounds like a girl after my own heart,” Lou replied as he watched the work gangs erecting his defenses. A broken wall crept around the enormity of the central pit, exploiting the terrain to its advantage. Below, the bathhouse had begun to take shape at the edge of the brimstone pool. Nearby, barracks were being raised as temporary housing. “So what will he do now?”

Bebe stood before him, towering yet never looming. “He’s already molded another from pieces of the man. This one has a weaker will. I think we can exploit that.”

“And the original?” Lou turned to face him.

“That’s the best part.” Bebe beamed, his hands clasped before him like a child. “She’s here. She wants to join our cause.”

Lou scowled suspiciously. “You don’t think she’s a spy?”

“If she is, she’s a damned good one,” Bebe said, his face an open banner as always. “She gets along rousingly with the lads. They all think she’s a keeper. Ty trusts her and he’s suspicious of the dragon. If we’re going to make a go of this, we’ll need new blood.”

Lou’s scowl deepened. Bebe had a point, but he didn’t like it. The old man wasn’t usually cunning but Lou couldn’t help but smell a trap. “I want to talk to her before we make a decision. Maybe we can learn what the old man’s up to. I’m sure he hasn’t forgotten about us.”

Bebe’s smile broadened. “I’ll send her right down.”

---

“I can’t believe he left his creation unguarded,” Lou said, scraping off the last of the scales from his disguise. The yellow mist that filled the bath house swirled away from his mouth with each syllable. “Lil’s recon information was invaluable. The garden was laid out exactly like she said, down to the last tree.”

“You didn’t bring the new one back?” Bebe asked peering over Lou’s shoulder.

Lou peeled back his eye caps and flicked them away before he descended the steps into the simmering mud. “I did something better. I sowed the seeds of doubt. I told you, this is long-game scenario. Any word from our recon squad?”

“They got back a little while ago.” Bebe settled on a stonework window seat looking out on the rising city, gap-toothed but growing to fill the space beyond. Quarrying had leveled and terraced much of the jagged landscape into a series of descending tiers that ended here. “Bad news. The old man closed the back entrance. He’s stationed a pair of guards armed with those nasty flaming swords.”

“Well, we knew this would be a one-shot anyway.” Lou settled deeper into the mud, luxuriating as he allowed the heat to penetrate his bones. The old man’s creation was so cold by comparison now, like a different world. “At least we’ve tied down a couple of his elites. Speaking of which, how’s the wall coming?”

“We’ve got a nearly unbroken curtain all the way around the upper level.” Bebe’s gaze shifted to the construction along the rim of the pit. “It needs a lot of improvements. Ty’s laid footings for the watchtowers and the ramparts but he needs more manpower to get it all done.”

“Have you solved the problem of the gatehouse?” Lou transferred to the steaming water bath, allowing the effervescent bubbles to scrub the grit away from his skin.

Bebe smiled demonically. “I think so. See that outcropping of red rocks up on the seventh tier?” He pointed. Lou craned his head to see out the window and nodded. “Turns out they’re rich with iron. Tightly bound, but we set up the dragon as a furnace.”

“Clever. At least that gives her something to do. Ty will be appreciative.” Lou began backstroking around the pool with his wings. After a couple quick circuits, he settled onto one of the built-in seats lining the shallows.

“So what next, boss?” Bebe asked, turning his gaze back toward his friend.

“Keep chipping away at the improvements on the outer wall.” Lou emerged refreshed, his skin reddened but glistening. Water dripped from the points of his bat-like wings. He didn’t bother with a robe or towel. A minute outside and he’d be dry. “If this plan pans out, we should start picking up more of the old man’s strays soon. Those pricks on the other side are still elitist.”

---

“He did what?!” Lou spat, incredulous. “How many of them?”

Around the hall, the others kept their gazes down. Only Bebe looked him in the eye. “All of them, except one family floating around in an ark. The place is completely underwater.”

“Petulant, isn’t he?” Lou scowled. What was the old man’s game this time? He waved the others away so he could consult with Bebe alone. They quickly scuttled from the hall. Lou wandered over to one of the arched windows looking out on his city. No, their city, he corrected. He led only because they insisted, and because he knew how the old man thought. Though the others had grown increasingly fearful of his fiery temper. Only Bebe seemed unafraid to speak his mind. Which was why Lou relied on him.

“He must have caught wind of how many we’d gathered,” Bebe continued. “A few more generations and we’d outnumber them.”

Lou swung around with a sneer. “And he still thinks he can just dump the truly evil ones on us? What are we doing with them, anyway.”

“Ty put them to work on the interior.” Bebe sauntered over to the long table and began picking through the remains of the aborted meal. The offerings were plain but plentiful. A lot of meat.

“Nothing strategic, I hope?” Lou’s gaze snapped back outside, peering suspiciously at the work gangs.

“Nah, just more housing.” Bebe took a swig from an abandoned wine goblet. He let the liquid settle on his tongue a moment before deciding it was worth keeping. “The place is filling up. And they do decent work when properly motivated. Only a hard-core few need constant supervision. Most have become true converts.”

“Keep anyone in the least bit suspicious away from the outer wall, and the citadel,” Lou returned his gaze to the dim, torch-lit hall. “I don’t want any built-in design failures if the old man attacks.”

“Seems unlikely.” Bebe claimed a seat on one of the benches, setting his goblet before him as he began piling a plate with leftovers that he speared with a two-tined fork. “He’s content using his creation as a proxy battlefield. Less to lose that way, I guess. We still have a manpower shortage though. Ty has a plan for hot and cold running water but says there’s not a soul to spare.”

Lou wandered back to join him, scooping up an abandoned goblet from the table. Wine mixed with anger helped him think. He regarded the goblet’s shimmering iridescence in the fire from the perpetual false dawn beyond the windows. If nothing else, their exile had produced exquisite glass. “In a few generations, we’ll start with the Chinese. They’re doomed anyway but they like to keep their hands busy. And Lil says they’ll be like a billion of them one day.” He settled in the chair at the head of the table, one leg dangling over an arm. “Until then, Ty will just have to make do.”

---

“More bad news, boss.” Bebe stood in the doorway of Lou’s apartments. The big guy sounded winded after ascending the tower. With so many unwinged converts, they’d had to build in stairs. Or had his lieutenant put on a little weight?

“What this time?” Lou asked, wrapping himself in a robe as he motioned Bebe to help himself to the platters of delicacies laid out on the sideboard. “Did the old man turn another of our operatives into salt?”

“No. This time he’s unleashed a plague.” As usual, Bebe went straight for the carafe then loaded up a pewter plate. “Seven of them, actually.”

Lou smiled sardonically. “And his chosen still think they’re better off with him?”

“He didn’t stop there.” Bebe licked his fingers after each morsel he sampled. “Remember how we moved into their homeland after all his people evacuated?”

“Yeah, we really turned that place around.” Lou poured himself some wine and drifted toward the balcony. “Everyone was happy last I heard. The local market was overflowing with milk and honey. We could barely offload the stuff. But at least we could trade it for some decent food.”

Bebe followed him outside, plate and goblet in hand. “Seems the old man wants it back. He’s issued an order: No stone standing; no soul spared.” He set his overflowing plate on the wide, stone railing.

Lou leaned his elbows on the rail and looked out from his high tower. Below, a city now flourished. A city perpetually under construction it seemed. An unfinished dream beneath an iron sky. Ty had had a devil of a time finding laborers whose loyalty was beyond question to reinforce the walls. In the end Lou had told him the citadel took precedence.

“The old man sure knows how to win over hearts and minds, doesn’t he?” Lou adjusted his robe, a marvelously soft cotton-linen blend, and turned back to Bebe. “Please tell me that’s all of it.”

Bebe shook his head, his hand just descending from popping another handful of sweetmeats into his mouth.

Lou sighed. “Let’s hear the rest of it.”

“We’ve had a major setback on the Chinese front,” Bebe said around a mouthful of food.

Lou rolled his eyes. “What now?”

“Seems we’ve had a defection.’ Bebe washed down his impromptu meal with a deep swig from his goblet. “The Buddhists now have their own pet demon. One of Lil’s brood.”

Lou hung his head. Would the bad news never end? “How much did he know?”

“Not much, but enough that we’ve had to shut down some major new initiatives.” Bebe wiped one hand on his leg, the other never relinquishing his wine goblet. “Recruiting is way down. Seems the Buddhists are setting up a parallel operation, only nothing there gets done. They just sit staring at their navels for eternity. Thing is, nobody on the other side cares about them. The old man only turned Mal to hurt us.”

“Tell me there’s some good news.” Lou turned back to the rim. The fortifications surrounding it were nearly complete. A shadowed city squatted within the bulwark of its walls, secure with one notable exception.

Bebe followed his gaze and smiled. “We’ve finally got enough iron to forge the gate. Ty thinks we should be able to raise it soon. It’ll be much stronger than that Lebanese cedar.”

Lou surveyed his domain wistfully. “At least then they won’t be able to evict us again.” But he still worried anyway.

---

Lou and Bebe toured the completed fortifications. The iron gate had been raised. Its maw stood open for Lou to inspect. The last vulnerability in their defenses was now sealed. Not that the other side had shown much inclination to break the armistice. But Lou knew better than taking anything for granted where the old man was concerned. Of late, his mind had grown as erratic and inscrutable as a Cretan maze.

“What’s it say above the archway?” Lou asked, pointing to the large, engraved letters facing the causeway where a besieging army might read it. The steam- and treadmill-powered pulleys that had raised the massive blocks for the guard towers now drained the miasma from the pit, channeling it back toward the river which had spilled forth and claimed the swampy plain.

“It’s Italian,” Bebe answered with a shrug. “It keeps the riffraff out.” A shanty-town of the outcasts had arisen between the river and the gate. Loyal guards armed with tridents kept the gawkers at bay. Both sides swatted at hosts of unseen midges.

Lou and Bebe passed back into the city. An iron portcullis ratcheted into place behind them, its spiky teeth sinking deep within the causeway stone.

For the first time in as long as Lou could remember, Bebe didn’t have a goblet in his hand. His hulking lieutenant looked almost professional in a rough and tumble way. As they emerged from the dark tunnel into the twilight of the cobblestone courtyard, Lou asked quietly, “So what’s this news that has you so shaken that you insisted we tour the outer walls?”

Bebe glanced at him askance and sighed. He knew he was too easily read. “It looks like the old man’s decided to settle this in one throw. He’s pulled an avatar gambit.”

Lou stared at him, eyes wide and mouth agape. “And after all the chaos he’s wreaked on his chosen, this helps his position how?” It took him a second to remember to keep walking.

“He says it’s all or nothing,” Bebe answered, slowing to admire the central fountain, allowing his friend to catch up. “Serve him or join us here.”

“Is he crazed?” Lou whispered. “We’ll be swamped. Or maybe that’s the point.” His eyes narrowed as he performed the mental calculus of playing out the old man’s new strategy.

Bebe shrugged. “His chosen seem to thrive on the abuse. Whatever doesn’t kill them…”

Lou’s expression hardened as he came to a decision. “How about you and the lads go have little talk with this boy of his. Maybe we can come to terms.”

---

Lou found Bebe back at the fountain, muttering angrily to himself as he repeatedly sluiced water over his leathern skin. He hadn’t seen his lieutenant so enraged since the war.

“Ty told me you were back.” Lou approached cautiously. “I take it the negotiations didn’t end well.”

“Me and the lads tried to talk some sense into the boy but he cast us into a pig. A pig!” Bebe roared, scrubbing his skin all the harder. “Now we’re all banished. Banished! For a thousand of their years.”

“He’s definitely his father’s son.” Lou shook his head, laying a gentle hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Maybe I should make an appearance and talk with him myself.”

Bebe glared back at him. “You could spend a month in that blighted place talking to the boy and he still wouldn’t listen to reason. What ever happened to the spirit of youthful rebelliousness?”

A joke? Lou let relief escape him as a laugh. “I bet Mike and Gabe each sit on a shoulder whispering constant lies. We always knew we could never trust those two.”

“Or Raphie,” Bebe didn’t quite smile but turned his anger toward a safer target. “That bastard always thought he was good enough to be one of us. Ha!”

“I think it’s time I see the place again myself. If not the boy, I’m sure at least one of his fanatics will be open to our ideas. Don’t worry, Bebe.” Lou clapped his behemoth of a friend on the shoulder. “One way or another, I’ll abort this little revolution. Time is on our side.”

---

“I told you the old man overreached when he changed the rules to benefit his son,” Lou said to his friend as they strolled the newly installed rock garden in a walled courtyard behind the great hall of their citadel. “Even now, he can’t grasp that he let victory slip through his fingers as soon as he clenched his iron fist.”

Boulders seemed to float within a rippled sea of raked gravel like the exposed face, belly and toes of a partially submerged giant, the subtle shades of each rock interplaying with the fiery colors splashed across the sky. Lou ambled toward the stone pagoda looking back toward the central hall across a long reflecting pool now stocked with glittering fish. He thought he could get used to this new esthetic. He found it calming and peaceful.

“With all the people they’ve sent since their change in strategy,” Bebe observed, a wine goblet once again ensconced in a hand, “at least we’ve overcome our manpower shortage. Ty’s having a devil of a time coming up with projects to keep them all busy. I think he’s about to have them start carving individual faces into the cobblestones next. At least they seem content.”

“What is that?” Lou pointed to a white marble chair perched on a dais beneath the pagoda, cryptic runes carved all along its sides. “It looks suspiciously like a throne.”

“Impressive isn’t it?” Bebe admired it as he took another sip of wine. “Ty designed it for the anniversary of our arrival. Lil carved each of the sigils herself.”

Lou scowled. “It looks like a seat of judgment. Tear it down and ship it to the old man,” he instructed. “We have no divine right here.” He turned onto a different path, one he hoped might end at the new bath house.

“Are you sure?” Bebe raised an eyebrow as he followed. “The children he condemns are impressionable. A little fear makes them talk.”

Lou didn’t answer, just folded his arms, tucking his hands in the opposing sleeves of his silken robe. Bebe wore red embroidered with dragons. His was black with a golden kyrin. “Any other news?”

“His followers fight each other now. They’ve started an Inquisition, as bloody as their crusades. They even argue against their sainted ones with a lawyer named for you.” Bebe smiled slyly as he sipped his wine. “Turning his boy’s chief disciple must have spooked the old man pretty good.”

“Probably reminded him of the old days,” Lou chuckled. “What else do the refugees have to say?”

Bebe’s voice dropped to conspiratorial. “I’ve heard rumor that the old man’s preparing for a final battle. No quarter. Says he’ll finish it this time.”

“An invasion?” Lou shook his head. “He does know our people outnumber his by a wide margin, doesn’t he?”

“He thinks we’re cowering behind the walls.” Bebe turned to face Lou, clutching his friend’s arm in his free hand. “We should attack, boss. They can’t defeat us, they fear us now. Everyone who’s seen the city says the old man may have driven you out but you took the best he had. And we are Legion.”

“No, Bebe. We’ll let them keep their illusion.” Lou gently slipped his arm from his friend’s grip then turned back up the path, his feet softly crunching along the gravel. “We’ll conquer them with intellect and enlightenment whether the old man sanctions it or not. Patience, my old friend. One day, our stars will rise again, and his children will see that it’s better to rule in common confederation than serve beneath a tyrant.”

Lou stopped and turned back to face Bebe, the old glint returning to his eye. “Until then, keep the watch towers manned and the dragon circling. You never know how desperate he’ll become when he realizes his mistake.”

© 2013 Edward P. Morgan III

Coffee Klatch

“What can I get you today?” the barista asked as Dora approached the counter. He was cute in a tall, rugged, bearded sort of way.

She cocked her head as she looked up at the menu board and pursed her lips. She was in the mood for something decadent though she knew she should just order chai tea. But what was the point of playing hooky from work if it wasn’t to do something naughty. “I’ll have a tall mocha latte.”

“Whipped cream?” he asked as he pulled a cup from the stack beside him.

“I can never pass it up.” She flashed him her best smile. She could really use a treat and he looked perfectly delicious.

“What’s the name on that?” he asked, a black Sharpie poised for writing.

“Dora.” She accentuated the O and R, once again pursing her lips as if she was blowing him a kiss. He didn’t seem to notice even though he looked her in the face. Maybe that was the problem.

“What else can I get you, Dora?” He was ever attentive in a way most men so rarely were.  

She leaned over, allowing her gold chain to sway a moment as she eyed the confections at the top of the pastry case, one finger pressed to her bottom lip. She was tempted by a chocolate cheesecake square. “That Ecstasy bar looks lonely?” She tapped the glass with a lacquered fingernail. The charms on her namesake bracelet flashed in the artificial light. “What do you think?”

“I just made those this morning.” His eyes never strayed despite all the enticements she offered. “They’re always the first to disappear.”

Well, if she couldn’t have him, she’d just have to settle for something sweet while she waited. Evy was always late. She straightened. “You convinced me. I’ll take it.”

He retrieved the pastry and set a fork beside it on the plate, exchanging it for her credit card. “We’ll call your name when your drink is ready.”

Dora sashayed toward the end of the purple, overstuffed bench lining one wall behind a row of tables, each with a hard-backed chair opposite. The silver linen shirt of her business suit swished against her bare legs as her heels clicked across the faux stone floor. She cast a final coquettish glance over her shoulder. His attention was already fixed on the next customer.

Setting the plate on the table to claim her spot, she retrieved a couple paper napkins and a coffee stir, pausing to study the bulletin board behind the milk and sugar station. Nothing new or interesting there, just another yoga class she might check out. It seemed pilates had fallen out of favor. As she turned away, another barista called her name. She returned to the counter to scoop up her drink then wended her way back to the corner through the scattered tables.

She set her cup beside the plate in front of her, slipped off her shoes and curled her legs beneath her on the velveteen bench. Glorious sun streamed through the windows behind her. Finally, a perfect late spring day. Just a touch too warm to sit outside. That and the patio was way too close to the well-trafficked road anyway. She had no desire to go back to the office smelling like bus diesel, and no desire to shout to be heard. 

Dora cut a bite from her confectionary square with the side of her fork. Luxurious chocolate and creamy cheesecake melted in her mouth. She popped the sipping lid from her mocha latte and swirled it with the coffee stir. She licked the stick afterwards letting the rough, chocolate soaked wood linger in her mouth a moment before she pulled it from between her lips. This was what missing work was all about.

She studied one of the art prints on the café walls. Thomas Cole’s Garden of Eden. It wasn’t quite his Journey of Life series but it still captivated her like so many Hudson River School landscapes. Perhaps because they captured the romantic fantasy of peaceful natural coexistence in a way well beyond her experience. And the humans were so small, almost insignificant. Nothing like her tradition where the people were all larger than life and foremost in the eyes of heaven. More like Evy’s.

Where was she anyway?

Dora slipped the lid back on her mocha latte then dug out her compact. She checked her perfectly coifed French braid in the mirror then touched up her lipstick, a burnt crimson that accentuated her Aegean eyes, auburn hair and alabaster skin. As she snapped the case closed, she decided she should make a quick check of emails so pulled her tablet from her bag. She was still brushing a finger idly through the menus when Evy slumped into the chair across from her.

“Sorry I’m late,” her friend said. She set a plate with a slice of banana-walnut bread on the table then hooked her purse over the back of the blond wood chair. “We had a little timeout in the car on the way to soccer practice.”

Dora dropped her tablet back in her bag. Turning to her friend, she asked, “How are those boys of yours? They must be getting big by now.”

“They're still a handful.” Evy blew the stray strands of dirty blond hair that had wormed their way loose from her ponytail away from her eyes before brushing them back behind an ear. “They’ve hit the sibling rivalry stage with a vengeance. I swear those two will be the death of me. If they don’t kill each other first.”

“I envy you your kids. I don't think I'll ever find the right man.” Dora cast a long look back at the counter. Her barista was coming off shift. He had just removed his apron and was now hugging a petite, Filipino man. They strolled out arm in arm. Well, that explained it. Sigh.

“It's not all it's cracked up to be.” Evy took a sip from her coffee and scowled. “I swear someone put 2% in with the soy milk again. I bet this Italian roast isn’t even fair trade organic. Oh, I’d better get out the phone in case he calls.” She set her cup down and started digging through her purse. “He thinks I'm running errands.”

“He’s still checking up on you?” Dora shook her head. “It’s not right. You should say something.”

“He’s gotten much better.” Evy smiled apologetically as she set a smart phone on the table between them. “You should have seen him before we had to move. He barely let me out of his sight.”

“My ex was the same way.” Dora took another bite of the Ecstasy bar. Heavenly. “Did I ever tell you he wouldn’t let me buy any clothes?”

Evy’s eyes grew wide. “Did he expect you to run around naked?”

“Seemed like it for the first bunch of years.” Dora smiled wickedly.

“My husband was the same way. Like I wasn't going to notice.” Evy rolled her eyes.

“What’s wrong with men, anyway?” Dora’s smile turned sympathetic as she picked up her mocha latte. “I think I should just give up on them.”

“You aren’t missing anything, trust me.” Evy broke off and nibbled a corner of her banana-walnut bread. “You know he still blames me for getting kicked out by his boss. Ever since that thing with the tree in the backyard, he has no curiosity. No drive. He thinks coming up with a name for the dog is a major accomplishment. And he didn’t even care I might have been bitten by a snake.”

“An apple a day, right?” Dora raised an eyebrow, still smiling, her sea blue eyes twinkling mischievously.

“Did I tell you I caught him texting his old girlfriend, Lilith?” Evy blew across her coffee to cool it. “God love her, but that woman is a demon.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Dora took another sip from her cup. “Everything you’ve said about her reminds me a little bit of me.”

“Oh, no,” Evy protested. “You’re beautiful and gifted. You run your own company.”

“I run someone else’s company,” Dora corrected. “And you’re just as pretty as me.”

Evy didn’t seem to notice. “Lilith’s just a slut.”

“Why do you put up with him?” Dora asked, guiding the subject back to safer waters.

Evy shrugged. “With two kids already, what choice do I have? The boys need a father.”

Dora curled her legs a little tighter as she wondered how her own daughter had fared over the years. One day, she’d have to find out, hopefully before the girl got curious and turned up at her door.

“You know what we need?” Dora sat up. “A day at the spa. Just you and me. Then maybe a little retail therapy.”

“I don’t know,” Evy hedged. “He doesn’t like me going out.”

Dora popped forward to the edge of her seat. “So don’t tell him. Say you’re visiting your sick sister.”

“I’m an only child.” Evy looked away with downcast eyes.

“Me, too.” Dora noted with surprise. “Tell him it’s an aunt or cousin or something.”

“I don’t have any aunts or cousins. The boys say our family tree looks a lot like a telephone pole, not many branches.”

Dora remained upbeat and undeterred. “Then tell him I’m having female problems and you’re taking care of me.”

“He doesn’t like you.” Evy leaned in with a spreading smile.

“Then we won’t have to worry about him dropping by,” Dora noted pleasantly, leaning in, too, until their foreheads almost touched. Both women giggled.

Evy pulled back. Her brow furrowed, creasing her otherwise unblemished milk-cream skin. “He can trace the phone to find out where I am. He’s done it before.”

“We’ll leave it at the house.” Dora countered cheerfully.

“What if he calls?” Evy bit her lower lip. She really does have nice features, Dora thought, though they could use a little embellishment.

“I’ll forward it to mine.” Dora laid a hand on Evy’s arm and smiled. “Stop worrying, hon. This could be fun. We’ll get you a makeover and a new outfit so he won’t have time to even think of Lilith.”

“What’s wrong with this?” Evy spread her hands down her dress. “I just picked it up this weekend.”

“Well,” Dora pursed her lips, and eyed the green leaf print appraisingly, “You’ve got to admit it does make you look a little like a soccer mom.”

“I am a soccer mom.” Evy protested then broke into sudden, unrestrained tears. “I’ll always be a soccer mom.” She hid her face behind her hands.

“Oh, honey, what’s wrong?” Dora reached across to rub her arm. “I didn’t mean anything about your new dress. It’s just lovely really. That A-line truly suits you.”

“I’m pregnant again,” Evy blurted through her fingers.

“Oh… I…” Dora stammered, then leaned in and whispered. “Have you told him, yet?”

“I was waiting for the right moment.” Evy wept each word between sharp, shallow breaths. “Then I found those messages. He hates the way I look, I know it. I mean look at me. I still haven’t lost the weight I put on from the boys.”

“Oh, no, hon,” Dora cooed soothingly, “There’s nothing wrong with the way you look.” Nothing a touch of makeup and maybe a workout or two wouldn’t help.

“Really?” Evy sniffled. “You’re not just saying that.” She scrubbed away her tears and brushed the strays away from her eyes again.

“I tell you what,” Dora said, sitting back. “There’s a yoga class starting next week at that women’s only gym around the corner. I’m in the market for a new instructor since mine retired. What do you say we go together? It will be just the thing.”

“What about the baby?” Evy clutched her hands protectively over her belly, her dark honey, doe-like eyes welling with new tears that refused to fall.

“Hon, these yoga girls know all sorts of moves from beginner to advanced, all of them baby safe. A few might even help you get pregnant one more time, if that’s what you really want.” Dora smiled a knowing smile, then fetched out a handkerchief and passed it across the table. At least she didn’t have any mascara to run.

“Here, I bought this for you today.” Dora reached back into her bag and set a pre-wrapped blue box with a gold ribbon before her. “I was saving it for your birthday but why wait?”

“You shouldn’t have.” Evy eyed it with mock suspicious. “What is it?”

“Something I saw and thought of you. Go ahead.” Dora motioned with a hand. “It won’t bite.”

Evy pulled the snug cover from the box and set it aside. A small, lidded urn lay nested in gold tissue paper. She held it up by one of its looped handles. Tiny black figures frolicked around its curved terra cotta sides in a pantomimed shadow-play of a celebratory dance.

“It’s very pretty,” Evy said. “Is it Greek?”

Dora nodded. “Open it. There’s something else inside.”

Evy removed the lid and hooked her pinkie on a silken black cord within. It snaked out as she lifted it. A flat pewter ring dangled at its end, three black words in a careful cursive hand engraved in a circle around its surface: faith, love and hope. The cord was looped through the pendant between faith and love, leaving hope alone and upside down at the bottom, where someone wearing it might read it and find inspiration.

“Oh, Dora, it’s beautiful.” Evy held it out. Sunlight glinted off its polished surface.

“It’s pewter,” Dora said. “I know you can’t wear anything flashy. I hope it’s ok.”

“The inscription reminds me of a verse in 1st Corinthians,” Evy said as she admired it.

“I think that’s by design. At least that’s what the salesgirl told me. But I think they got it wrong. She said love should be at the bottom because it was the greatest of the three but I moved it. Hope is more important.”

“They didn’t get it wrong,” Evy whispered through a different kind of tears. She pushed back her chair and skirted around the table to hug Dora. “Thanks for being my friend.” Her hair smelled nice, a clean, fresh, floral scent though it was probably just her shampoo rather than any expensive perfume. Dora sometimes wished she could capture such simple innocence for herself.

“Oh my gosh, what time is it, anyway?” Evy pulled back and checked her watch then hurriedly gathered up her things and slung her purse over her shoulder. “I’ve got stop at the store before I pick up the boys then get dinner ready.”

Dora smiled at her friend’s resilience. “Think about my offer.”

“I will. We need to do this more often.” Evy hugged her again, quickly this time. “It was good to see you, Pandora.”

“You, too, Eve.” Dora squeezed her back and released her. “Give my love to Adam and the boys.”

Eve paused at the glass door to wave then scampered across the parking lot. As Pandora settled back onto the bench to finish her dessert, she wondered just how different her life might have been had she been born just a little farther east.


© 2013 Edward P. Morgan III