The Cavers Part 2

            “Perhaps this was a mistake.” Wren muttered. He took the glasses off his face, wiped them on his shirt and put them back. When the glasses were finally in place Wren gasped. The two other boys were two afraid to make even that amount of noise.

            Ahead of them in the darkened tunnel, five large spiders were scurrying towards them. The spiders were the size of a child’s head, their long legs segmented by joints like large swollen knuckles. They scuttled across the cave’s floor with that same scraping sound, and the boys looked on in horror.

            Without saying a word Peter turned on his heels and ran. He didn’t shout as he was running, he didn’t look back, he simply ran and ran until the other two could no longer hear him.

            Wren and Henry glanced back at the disappearing light, then forward at the spiders. Henry pulled the pack off his back and held it in front of him, his only weapon against the five monsters. He heard Wren shout. Something about this species of arachnid. Henry wasn’t paying attention, listening only to the sounds of the approaching spiders. He heard Wren shout again. He looked at his friend and saw him point to the ground.

            Looking down, Henry spotted large stalactite at his feet.  Henry dropped the bag, knelt and picked up the bludgeon, wielding it awkwardly in his hands. The spiders were almost upon them.

            Dealing with the spiders took all of Henry’s energy. It seemed that every time he struck one and forced it backwards, another would leap up to take its place. Henry didn’t run though. As Wren held tightly to Henry’s shoulders, Henry kept swinging and swinging until each and every spider was dead. The corpses of the fallen arachnids lay strewn across the floor of the cave and Henry felt a momentary surge of pride at his own prowess.

            “Maybe we should turn back.” Wren said in his meager voice and Henry thought about it for a moment. The spiders were most likely the worst of what the cave had to offer, he thought. Besides, they had come here for a reason.

            The town of Evington was full of rumors about this cave, but as far as anyone knew it had never been fully explored. Many years ago a grad student and his friends had ventured into its gaping mouth and weren’t seen for two days. The man had refused to speak of the events that had transpired within the walls of the ancient orifice save for a few details that made little sense to those listening.

            Henry knew that Wren was most likely right. That they should leave the caving to the professionals and scurry home, as Peter had, to their warm and waiting beds. But something was driving him on. Something he could not explain. He pulled an instamatic camera from his backpack and snapped a picture of the spiders, using Wren for ratio.

            “You can go back if you want. I think I’ll explore a little more.” He said to Wren and he saw the obvious disappointment in his friend’s eager face.

            “Just a little bit more,” Wren said. “Just until we find the fountain.”

            The grad student had later published a paper on the cave that was widely mocked by the scientific community as being the “greed induced ramblings of a man pressed for government funds.” It spoke of spiders of enormous size, (which Henry could certainly verify) impish creatures that scuttled about in the darkness and glowing fountains that glittered with a vast array of colors, like a basket precious jewels laid out in the sun. It was this paper that the Scientific Observation and Adventure club had  gotten a hold of last winter and promised to debunk. For they had decided in their young minds that every scientist was a skeptic, and they wished to do their part.

To be Cont'd

The Cavers

            Six boots squished through the muddy wash that afternoon. Six hands carried sticks and checked compasses and uncapped canteens. Six keen eyes strained into a bright and blinding sunset and three mouths didn’t speak a word.

            Children sometimes travel in small pods of personality, and often stories about them reflect this. In a group of four children there will sometimes appear the humor, the intelligence, the worrier or the mischief; nevermind that more often than not each child possesses a fair amount of these traits. In reality these three children should have all been jokers, worriers, or mischief makers, at least in some small part. However they were not. If this were an ordinary story there might be a funny one, a smart one or a scared one. Again, there was not. They were the founding members of the Scientific Observation and Adventure Club and they were ten years old. Admittedly these children were different, as children are oft to be, but the differences were slight and they were regularly confused at children’s parties (or would have been had they been invited.) At this moment it matters little which of these three children we focus on. So we shall do as they might, and go objectively from left to right.

            Wren, on the left, was the smallest boy, a whisper of a child whose bantam features seemed a physical expression the intelligence beneath them. Wren’s shock of bright red hair was, in fact, the only conspicuous thing about him. Many of his schoolmates said if it weren’t for that hair, even his own mother might lose him in a crowd. Wren blinked often, and the tick was more noticeable because of the thick, wide lensed glasses that he wore.

            Peter was next. Peter was the tallest of the three, but only by a few inches. He had sandy brown hair and constantly reminded the other two that he was the strongest of them. This was not a great accomplishment. Peter wore thin black glasses that somehow made the boy appear much older than he was (in his own mind.)

            Last there was Henry. Henry was of average height, average build and, unbeknownst to his two traveling companions, average intelligence. He dressed like them, talked like them and truly believed himself to be one of their ranks, a fledgling master of intellect, a boy wonder. He wore an older pair of gold framed glasses that he had purchased in an antique store a few months back. They had ordinary glass instead of prescription glass but the other boys didn’t seem to notice and Henry never told them.

            They had set out that day to find the cave and now that they stood at it’s entrance their timidity stayed their feet. Each looked to the next, expecting another child to make the first move.

            “It’s interesting that cave means “beware” in Latin.” The first remarked gravely.

            “Notice how the stalactites towards the mouth are thin and conical. Almost like the teeth of a lamprey.” The second gulped.

            “I wonder what’s in it.” Henry said.

           

            After some time the three adventurers finally began to move towards the mouth of the cave. None of them remember who took the first step and it is just as well, all were equally terrified of what might lay within. Their boot-steps echoed off the walls of the cave as the light from the entrance grew smaller and smaller behind them. Then the cave turned and it was gone. Henry reached into his backpack and pulled out the three flashlights that had been packed earlier. He handed them to the other boys.

            With the flashlights they could see much further. The cave rolled out ahead of them like the throat of a sleeping serpent. Where it ended was anybody’s guess, it just seemed to snake on to eternity. The walls weren’t very far apart at times and the echoes bounced excitedly back,

            “A strange acoustic phenomenon. The echoes seem to travel quite rapidly in this area.” Said Wren, stopping to admire the novelty of the cave’s acoustics. The two other boys halted as well and listened. As they stopped their echoes stopped as well, and yet the cave was not yet silent. A strange scratching noise could be heard, like the crinkling of paper. As the boys stood in silence the scratching continued, growing louder and louder, nearer and nearer. 

To Be Cont'd...

An Android Sings a Lullaby to his Newborn Robotic Son

Dust gathers around your joints

I carefully wipe it off

I can be careful too

I am capable of making the finest movements

I cradle you in my arms

I made you for my own

Yes I too can create life

At least for right now

The world is new to you

You can’t understand

For a moment I swear you look afraid

Hold on tight little one and pray

Tomorrow there will be work to be done

On this empty planet,

We must monitor the vegetation

If we are to harvest oxygen

The colonists come in eighteen months

Things must be ready when they arrive

Or I will certainly be shut off

And you will be without a father

But tonight

Shut your eye

And shut down

Little one

The Haida

           When the Haida moved, they moved as thunder. Their feet pounded upon the earth as steady as the cadence from their deerskin drums. During battle, their red cedar armor seemed to glow like the skin of Ta'xet, the God of warrior death, and their wooden helmets masked everything but their determined, violent eyes.
            Tonight, two of these eyes burned brighter than usual. For today was the anniversary of the death of a dear friend to the Haida. Today, one year had passed since Claude-Benoit De Saint Ouen had been killed fighting the Tsimshian. One year had passed since his pale skin had been blessed by the shaman and his body crushed into the small wooden box atop the community longhouse. It had been one year since Kúng Xa and Táan Gadáang had taken the blame for the Trader's death. They had been beaten, marked and almost executed. De Saint Ouen had been a close friend to the Haida. He had shown them the power of black powder and shot, brought them good medicine when the diphtheria had taken their children and had shown them that some of these Europeans could be trusted. Táan Gadáang and Kúng Xa had blamed each other for the death of the Frenchman. They each knew in their hearts that his death had been the fault of the other, and their feud was well known by every member of the tribe.
            Kúng Xa readied his spear; fire had burned in his heart every day since the trader had died, but tonight the white man's death would be avenged, and his honor would be renewed. Tonight, during the blood and the chaos, amongst the death of battle he would kill Táan Gadáang. The Tsimshian camp was within sight and thin wisps of smoke exhaled into the heavens, a beacon for the approaching Haida. He glanced across the war party, the engraved armor showed the totems of war: the bear, the wolf, fire. At the other end of the party ran Táan Gadáang, his armor showed the face of Ta'xet across the breastplate. That is where Kúng Xa's spear would enter; that is how he would die.
            In an instant they were at the Tsimshian camp. Stones and spears flew unfettered into eyes and mouths. The shaman had already damned the Tsimshian spirits; there would be no eternal peace for them. Kúng Xa made his way across the camp, slaking his bloodlust as he ran. When his spear was lost he brought the long, gunstock club from his side and began swinging it wildly. A Tsimshian fell in a spray of blood, his eyes disappearing behind the crimson mask. Suddenly a flash of white and searing pain: Kúng Xa was pinned against the Tsimshian longhouse by a long, metal tipped spear. The iron head had pierced his left shoulder and buried deep into the wooden side of the shelter. The thrower strode quickly towards Kúng Xa, a short, ugly knife clutched tightly in his bony fingers, brutality in his eyes.
            Kúng Xa knew his death was imminent. The Tsimshian opened his mouth; an unexpected spurt of blood ran down his chin and dripped onto the ground. With a sickening wetness, the spear was pulled from the warrior’s back. He fell down to reveal the emotionless face of Táan Gadáang. Kúng Xa stared in disbelief at the young Haida. Moments earlier he had swore to kill this man, and now this man had saved his life. He realized in that moment that even this man, this man whom he had hated and eventually hunted was a Haida, a warrior of his own blood, kin and kind. He could no sooner kill him then kill himself.
            Táan Gadáang raised his spear. He had been waiting for this moment for four seasons. No one would question Kúng Xa's death, another Haida casualty of war, another body for the pit. He squeezed his white knuckles against the leather wrapped cedar. At last.

Survival

            


            The fuel cell lies on the table. I walk toward it, slowly; as slowly as one would approach the immaculate, a holy elixir capable of giving life without which I am nothing. Before this moment I hadn’t believed that any more existed. None of us had. We had been forced to accept the same fate as the gods before us: our fathers, the soft shelled creatures whose love for us created our dreams.

            The door across the factory opens and I can see him clearly. I reach out a hand and grab the closest object: a retro looking metal lamp. Not meant to resemble life, none of us are, he strides across the room. Each stuttering footprint, shakes with the foreshadow of blackout.

I am the stronger.

            He reaches a shivering hand toward the cell. It doesn’t glow, as blessed as it is, instead it merely sits. Black and cool it promises. Life, it whispers, life resides within these glass walls. We listen. The other does not see me. He is almost upon it. The cold metal doesn’t feel in my hand, nor does the fear or hate or passion in my head. No need to calculate the distance… that was for older models. As I see, I already know. When he is close enough I strike. Metal against metal. An eye blinks and then black. I strike hard and fast and before the other knows anything he is incapacitated.

             I feel no shame. No remorse for the kill. The cell is mine and… A door opens behind me and I turn to face- to face- to face- to face- to face- 

Gold Train

I still swear it was all Bibbie's idea.

'Fore I tell you how I became the most famous thief of Port Au Prince, I feel like I should back away, regress, tell my side so that when that sodium thiopental hits I can be secure in the knowledge that the world knows the real deal. 

We used to relax behind the Local A. It was me, Bibbie and Chopstick sharing a couple of Comets one Sunday (one part antifreeze to three parts isopropyl rubbing alcohol.) Church was in session but we had spent most of the night drinking and didn't much feel like getting drunk to a coupla sermons about how St. Budweiser had saved our neighborhood from the evil Dr. Peppers. (God-Christ! Everybody knew that Budweiser could kick the ass off of ol' Peppers anyway!)

So like I said, we was batting down behind the Local A when suddenly Bibbie shouted out, "Gold Train!" I didn't think to much of it at the time, Bibbie was a hard time hydro-huffer and prone to outbursts on occasion. It was when he was coming down and still yelling that I began to take notice. Through his rambling, hydrogen-fueled haze I began to realize that Bibbie was on to a real grift. 

Over the next half-hour, Bibbie described to me a plot so innovative, so cunning that it nearly cleared my sinuses. As he finished he sat back in the stack of tires that sufficed for a lawn chair and declared, "So that's what I got!" I was sunk like a 'cuda in a gasoline tank. The plan was near perfect.

The next day we struck out for supplies. Two hours, a brick, a fake mustache and a guitar later and we were sitting on the train station at Arby's central, smoking a fat one and waiting for the next train. I was nervous but then again I was huffing. Huffing always made me nervous. 

Over the next half hour my world spiraled out of control. Bibbie, a long time Hydro addict and short time con-man, had mixed up the trains and landed us on a jet loaded with half a dozen federal dope sniffers. I pulled my best but by the time I was on the train I was made like a goddamn oragami swan.  Before I knew it I was hopping down the train hoping to make it to the emergency window before the feds napped me. 

That's when I saw it. Believe me when I say that Bibbie and I (not to mention Chopstick, who's so dumb he couldn't follow Bibbie in a "piss in your own face" contest,") could have never planned anything so brilliant. There it sat. The world's most expensive, foreign robot- ours for the taking. What the damn was I supposed to do? I grabbed that metal-man by the arm like I was swinging to Tron Trenium and the Syncratic Syndroids and dove through that emergency window like I had the whole New India army on my ass. 

Not much else after that. I mean there's twenty beaches and a hundred interviews in the way, but that's basically how it happened. Bibbie and I went to prison and are now awaiting our "release dates", and chopstick still has never been picked up. I hear he's off in Brazil living high on whiskey and water. If you find him let me know, I still got forty to collect from that little Don-don. 

Reasons I am Awesome

I am a ninja.

My bones and organs are made of tungsten.

I can summon both fire and ice with my mind.

I found Carmen San Diego.

I can eat three hotdogs in thirty seconds.

I was the fifth Ninja Turtle.

When the full moon rises I turn into Gene Hackman.

My car is Kit from Night Rider.

During the eighties my alter ego was Bonnie Tyler.

I killed Skeletor.

I can ride a Kangaroo.

I designed the Flag for the United States of America.

I am a Highlander.

I played two years for the New England Patriots under the knickname Tom Brady.

I love pie.

I raced a CGI laser bike in TRON.

I fooled around with Rebecca Cunningham from Tailspin.

Sean Connery is my personal assistant.

I can lactate.

I own four tigers named: Lucky, Sparky, Mister T, and Deathbringer.

I beat up John Travolta.

I decorated my room in Dragon fur.

When the River Sings

           They say that when the River sings, in the still of the night, beyond the edges of the East Wood, the melody can remain with you forever.

            That night she heard it. The sound was so loud that although over a mile away, it sprinted through the East Wood, danced across the golden field, crept into her bedroom and whispered her awake. Her body acted as if of its own accord and she left, bounding through the front door and into the street. Through the town, through the field, through the wood, she ran. As she neared the end of the towering pines she began to slow her pace. Her lungs burned and her legs ached and her eyes strained in the dark. As her bare feet flinched under the weight of her body, Caroline began to regret the haste in which she had hurried from her mother’s door. The ground here was soft and moist and littered with what she could only guess were fragments of ancient weapons once lost by immortal warriors; her feet screamed and pleaded and yet still she continued. Her outstretched hand pushed aside a long, thin pine branch and suddenly she could see it. Its glittering surface reflected the soft moonlight, moving and shivering, heaving as if it were the breast of the living land.  The river was long and narrow and its rocky banks herded its mass with authority and strength. It did not roar. It did not weep; it did not howl. Caroline approached, slowly now as if not to disturb its rest and break the spell, and as she tiptoed over the sopping earth, the river sang. Its solemn hymn swirled around her with the strength of ages and she listened, unable to turn away if she had wanted to. When sailors long ago first heard the whale’s song, they thought they were being captivated by the ghostly prayers of passing mermaids. As Caroline looked out across the river’s glistening surface she felt as they had, enchanted and confused. Not willing to wonder why, but instead content to wonder. She wished suddenly to be fish or frog, her life spent here on these placid banks only living to listen. She wished that she were brave enough to dip even a toe into the waters edge, and let the magic wash over her. Still she stood, frozen by those icy notes, held by the warmth that it brought her.

            The early hours of the morning found her asleep, her back pressed against a dry stone and her feet perched on a clump of moss. She stretched, wiped the sleep from her eyes and smiled: the river still sang. It was not as loud as before but instead it was a soothing tune which eased her awake. As she crept back into her mother’s house that morning, Caroline did not fear what would assuredly be a less than gentle conversation if her mother were to wake. She did not contemplate the schoolwork that certainly lay in wait for her. She did not even consider the deep growling of her stomach to be an annoyance, only accompaniment to the beautiful melody of the river. As the next few weeks went by, Caroline seemed to everyone she met to be stuck in a trance. She floated from one place to the next as if carried by the air around her. She always seemed as if she were not quite there, not quite someplace else. She hummed and sang and smiled. Every night she visited the river and every night it did not disappoint. The rapture of its exquisite lullaby eased her gently to sleep and the warmth of its morning chorus awakened her as tenderly. She longed to understand it, to know what eternal secrets lay buried under its ever changing surface, to decipher its haunting poetry and be granted the wisdom of time. The river just sang on. For weeks and months it continued its delicate aria, and for weeks and months Caroline alone was granted the beauty of its song.

            Then one day, as the morning sun woke her from her dreams, Caroline realized that it was gone. Without triumphant fanfare or solemn dirge the music had left her alone. She stared at the river, its soft flowing gown of blue and green stared back, but silently. Her heart broke and bled and melted into her stomach. She stared at the river, it stared back, no music. She had never dared to assume that the song would last and yet she crumpled to the ground, tears welling around the corners of her cheerless eyes. She sat there until dark that day, not caring that a mother was worried about her lost child, not realizing that large men with iron eyes and concerned voices scoured the woods behind her, not understanding why the river wouldn’t again speak its song to her. She cried and screamed at it: silence. She begged and prayed and pleaded but it remained quiet.

            “Please…” she sobbed. “Please don’t leave me.” Its glistening edges lapped against the shimmering stone and it remained noiseless.

            “Please...” the word squeaked from her throat and barely escaped her lips before it was drowned out by the sound of breaking branches and boots. That night as the relieved townsmen led her back to her anxious mother, they noticed the eyes which had always been so lustrous and bright were now dull with defeat. They daren’t ask about the river or the woods or the eyes, and Caroline didn’t tell them.

            Over the next few days the people of the town noticed that Caroline hardly seemed to be the same girl who had floated through their lives. She dragged and sighed and did not hum at all. Caroline felt as though the river’s song had somehow been propping her up like a felt puppet, and now her limbs became too heavy for her to bear. Her voice came out in a rasp and her golden hair fell over her somber face in unkempt strands. After a week of this, as she lay in bed, Caroline became angry. Why had it ever sung at all? Why grant her the most amazing gift only to tear it away? She left the house, just as she had on that first night and ran. Through town and field and wood she ran, only this time with anger, not curiosity, forcing her step. She ran the entire way, her lungs feeling the familiar fire as she stood at its banks.

            “Why?” she yelled. “Why did you leave?” There was hatred in her voice. The wind began to whip her yellow locks across her tear streaked face but she didn’t care. She screamed the questions at no one in particular and was terrified to hear the reply. The wind was howling now, its cold breath pushing the tears from her cheeks with an icy sting.

            “I did not leave.” The voice echoed from the ether and chilled the little girl’s soul. This time when Caroline spoke it was fear and misery that pulled the words from her chest. “But why can’t I hear you anymore?” To this the voice did not respond, and yet somehow Caroline understood the answer. She turned, glanced back one more time and began her long walk home.

            And life went on. The town grew, the houses grew, Caroline grew. The small, shy, brown-haired boy in the back of the classroom was soon standing taller than Caroline’s mother in the pictures on their walls. Caroline woke up each day, ate, talked, laughed and cried as an ordinary girl, and soon she became an ordinary woman. She laughed and lived and loved her three shy, brown haired boys. And some days if the air was still enough and the time was just right she could hear it, soft and distant but just as beautiful. On these days it wouldn’t matter if it had been weeks or months or years since the river had last sung, she would sit and smile and be content.

            When gold turned to gray and the world became dim, the song grew louder. One morning as Caroline lay in bed she awoke to its gentle verses. The fluttering notes flowed around her as if she were once again that little girl standing on the shimmering banks of that great river. She closed her eyes and could see its jeweled surface flickering like blue firelight. Suddenly the verses she had tried to interpret her entire life became clear. Suddenly the notes made such perfect sense that she could predict their movements and recognize their purpose. Suddenly she understood, and she was home.

Aetherius Ulmus

            There was a story that circulated about Evington when I was a child. It began quite simply but as it spread each someone would add his something and it grew. In this way it was weaved really, passed along generations, from parent to parent, son to son, neighbor to neighbor, until it hardly resembled the crude, simple story it was intended to be. It became beautiful. It became ornate. It became legend. Legends have a way of staying with you. As we grow we begin to learn that the stories of our childhood are merely that: stories. Our imagination fades and we become men and women, unable to see through the foggy lens of childhood the mythical world which at one point masked everything in its wondrous illumination. Legends though, legends live. They are the basis which many of our supposedly “grown-up” fears and ambitions are planted in. They are responsible for who we are inside. They help to sew a small stitch in the fabric of our psyche, and some legends will remain with us till the morning we needn’t rise again. This is my legend.

            There is a church two miles down the road from my aunt’s old house. The road leading to it is smooth and paved. So smooth in fact that the children of the neighborhood sometimes questioned whether this was what the ascension into heaven might be like, gliding recklessly along, pedals even and horizontal with the road, hands squeezing bicycle grips for dear life. As the children would near the church they would have to pass by the churchyard where, whatever season it was in Evington, past that white, worn fence it was always December. The especially brave children might even stop their bicycles and dismount. Black, weathered Keds treading carefully upon the very perimeter of the hallowed ground. The same kids would later delight in the shocked faces of their comrades as they told of their courageous acts. Amusing themselves and their friends with the recounts of what they hadn’t seen. But within this Churchyard they daren’t go. Not even the bravest. Not even for all the glory of childhood.

            In that small rural town, near that smooth grey road, in that old, always December cemetery, there was a tree, a tall, impressive looking elm, with wide arms and a sleepy stance. Its roots spread like the tentacles of some ancient kraken. The bestial, muscular claws simultaneously sought their freedom from the soil and gripped tightly to it. It was said that the tree was a survivor of the primeval world and that its enormous branches were once the main food supply of great lizards and other prehistoric creatures. It was said that the tree was the very tree of knowledge that bore that prophetic fruit ever so long ago. It was said that the tree was a large creature that wasn’t really a tree at all. It was said that it looked as if the roots were all that was holding the colossus on land and that one blow from a hatchet to each was all that was needed for the tree to break free from its trusses and fly off into the sky. “Sever the roots,” they used to say “and it will float away.” These were just stories of course, made up by the children and believed only by those types which choose the fantastic over reality. The most accepted version of these sorts of stories was more complex by far.

            It was said that the tree drank shallow, that seven feet beneath its looming bulk lay a water table. It was also said that when it rained, water that passed through the soil also passed through the bodies buried there, and came to rest at that table just waiting for the tree to thirst. Some of the children even thought that this should qualify the tree as a carnivore, considering one of its main dishes was a sort of “human soup”. There were tales that the tree enjoyed the taste of people so much that it would use its branches to grasp the children that strayed into the churchyard and gobble them up. His aunt however, told him a different version.

            She told him that as the runoff crept slowly through the bodies of the dead, their souls became infused with it. She told him that if he ever got to missing either of his parents, which he often did as it had only been three years since the dreadful car accident that claimed both their lives, he could stroll down by the churchyard and talk to that elm. She said their spirits were inside, (along with others of course so he mustn’t say anything unsocial) and could hear him just fine. He liked this version best and visited the tree often. He would sit by the base of the elm and talk about his day at school, how his aunt was doing and what life was like now. The other children would have been amazed at his bravery if they only knew. In fact, nobody in all of Evington knew of the boy’s midday visits, he made sure of this. If others found out that the tree didn’t eat children in the least bit, he might never have it to himself.

            Soon his aunt began to take ill. She became very sick and was bedridden for over a month. The boy was forced to stay at home and take care of her. During that time, his visits to the churchyard were limited to short excursions at night after his aunt fell asleep. After this month of cooking, cleaning, emptying, filling and secreting away when he could manage, his aunt died. When the small sum that totaled the boy’s inheritance was spent, the unsympathetic landlord drew up an eviction form, posted it on the door and that was that. The day before he was to be cast out on the street was also the day before his eighteenth birthday. He cried and swore and blamed the world. Then, as if in a flood, the stories that made up his childhood rushed back to him. He remembered the legends that were woven into the very fabric of his childhood and he knew what he should do. Sever the roots and it will float away. He must leave. He rummaged through an old toolbox and located a small hand axe. He mounted his bike for the last time and rode as though the world was turning to flame at his heals. In the distance he could see the church through tear streaked, wind bleary eyes. He mashed down on the pedals with all his might and squeezed the handlebars tightly. He would soon be there.

            He found himself, after just ten minutes, standing hesitantly in front of the churchyard. Young eyes locked on that bestial titan. He crossed the gate, stepped between, over and around the graves and finally reached the largest of the thick, twisted roots. Sever the roots and it will float away. He knelt, rolled up his sleeves, held his breath and with all the power he could muster, landed a blow on the skin of it, cutting deep to the white. Another and it was cut. He did the same thing for the five others. As each root bent and snapped the most peculiar thing happened, the tree began to lift. So little at first that it was almost indiscernible, but with each rough finger that he split it rose until only one thick root held it tethered. He jumped onto the elm and with all his might heaved the axe downward onto the fat, dark tendril. The axe head plunged through the twisted root, into the soft dirt of the churchyard and the tree began to drift upwards, raising its sleepy branches towards the sky as it did so as if it was filled with new life. It floated up and into the clouds. It floated past farmland and trickling streams. It passed wild forests and lonely mountains, and the sky embraced it.

            The soft leaves rustled in the wind as the young boy sat on a long, broad limb.  The moonlight illuminated everything, turning the old elm into a shining, silver fairytale. It twisted and turned lightly in the wind but stayed upright as if it was conscious of its human passenger. Despite the calm movements of the tree, the boy held on until his knuckles were white and his legs asleep. Up ahead he could see a large barrel of clouds that masked the heavens further on and for the first time in a great while, he smiled.

            Police from nearby counties would be baffled later that night by a great deal of calls from concerned informants reaching from all corners of the region regarding “the strangest damn thing I’ve ever seen.”

           

            In a small rural town, near a smooth grey road, in an old always December courtyard lies a small cement plaque in a large darkened circle. The ground here looks as if at one time or another, the soil was sheltered from the sun under the watchful arms of a great tree. The plaque reads “This is the very spot in which long ago the largest and most impressive tree in Evington disappeared over night without a trace. It has never been recovered.” What it really should read is “Here a boy left his ordinary world behind for the greatest adventure.”

“Sleepy and still, enormous and grey, it sits for a while, asleep in the clay, soon it will rise, to venture and play, just sever the roots and it will float away.”

-Unknown

Everybody Needs a God

     John Worthy sighed as the Errendi flailed about the room, finally falling, sprawling himself across the large oak bedframe. It had gotten to the point where the old man’s drug-induced mutterings had become commonplace to him. So much so that sometimes he forgot that the ancient fool was important and took for granted how precious the mind truly was. He supposed it was this way with all Partisans.

     Like the rest, Worthy grew up believing the Errendi was the heart and soul of the Harbor. The divine genius behind it’s most intelligent actions. The Errendi was the word, and the word was not questioned. The day he had been promoted to Partisan he had beamed with pride, his heart swelling out of his chest. How many men could say that they were the sole protector of the most important man alive? To be a Partisan was to be respected, to be adored, to be the closest that one might get to that unreachable goal of pure nobility. Or so he had thought.

     The Errendi took another hit. His eyes grew wide and his throat flexed, the tendons sticking out at unnatural angles. Goddamnit, thought John. Bastard’s going to puke everywhere, and I’m going to have to clean it up. He had never signed up to clean, and yet he had wiped up more vomit and shit in his time in the service than any man ever should. It was part of the job. The part they failed to mention.

     Partisans didn’t last long. Retired after four years, they were neatly swept under the surreptitious covers of the Harbor. It was said that every Partisan was cared for, everything he wanted supplied, everything he desired given, everything he feared destroyed. This had been John’s motivation and sole reason for joining their ranks. He had believed, yes… but he had always had his doubts.

     Now his doubts had been realized completely. The Errendi was meant to be the holiest of the holies. The great wizard that shaped and formed their world without question. This man.

This man.

This man.

     This man who night after night stoned himself to oblivion. This man who muttered and sang and stumbled through life. This worthless man.

     The Errendi sat upright and John did the same, eyeing the old man suspiciously. The elders had been explicit with his duties only once the vows had been taken. The Errendi was the potted plant on the mantelpiece of their society. The populace believed what they did and the elders encouraged it. There were no lies, no outright deceit they had explained to him. There was only what they believed. ‘Why destroy that?’ they had asked. Why not allow them their beliefs? It didn’t change anything. The most intelligent, the most influential were always in charge. Why not allow them their figurehead?

They were right.

     The Errendi coughed, sputtered and exhaled a spray of dull orange fluid onto the floor in front of him. It pooled around his feet and drizzled towards the far wall. Tiny chunks of dry, undigested caps and stems could be seen clearly.

     Why not? Thought John to himself as he fetched a mop, Everybody needs a god. 

So Thirsty

“Oh man…” Jeremy sighed as he stared out the window. “The old man’s at it again.” He pulled himself out of the chair and lumbered to the front door, seizing a rain slicker from the coat rack as he went. Thunder crackled in the distance and he peered out the embedded front door window with hesitation. He’s going to catch friggin’ pneumonia. He turned the handle and the door swung open with a bang, carried in full circle by the howling wind.

            The lawn had been transformed since the afternoon. What was earlier a large green blanket with the occasional wildflower or misplaced stone, had become a filthy mess, a deep marsh that soaked the toes of even the toughest tennis shoes.

“Hey Murray!” Jeremy shouted hoping to catch the man’s non-existent attention. The frail figure across the street did nothing. Jeremy took his last step through the water and opened his front gate, all the while keeping his eyes on the man across the way. A quick jog across the street and Jeremy was now at the opposite gate which he cleared with a short jump. The old man could now be seen clearly; sickly white columns of flesh surrounded by red Bermuda shorts stood atop a lawn table. The open t-shirt showed an array of exotic fruits and ukulele prints and was barely hiding the pale, almost skeletal chest it adorned..

 “Hey man, I think you ought to get back inside, it’s cold and I’m not sure you’ve got the, err… shorts for it.” Murray had never stood on the table before. He apparently was getting wise to the ease with which Jeremy could force him back into the house.

“I’m gonna pull you down man...” Jeremy thought it sounded confident enough, but he was having a hard time with the physics. The last thing he wanted was to harm the old guy; the neighbors would throw a conniption fit.

            With as much strength as Jeremy could muster, he eased the old man off of the table and onto his back, taking care not to contort his cargo on the way down. Murray kept his back straight, and the void expression on his face remained. In the end youth won out and the old man was pushed (gently) back into his home. Jeremy walked quickly back to his own piece of Churchill street and regaled in the good work of a good man.

            Somewhere deep inside of 143 Churchill Street a silent voice spoke. It spoke to the electrons in Murray Feckleson’s brain. It seethed as an ocean and whispered as a child. It burned. So thirsty, It thought. What a thick, brainless, species. Can’t he see that we are thirsty? Murray nodded mechanically as the voice carried on. Can’t he see that we are dry? Can’t he see? Suddenly the TV burst to life and the light’s soft colors soothed it’s “mind”. Murray? Be a doll and draw up a bath for us would you?

I Dreamt of Flight

[AUDIOLOG – 094]

            Is it recording? [unintelligible] pick it up from over here? How [unintelligible] levels look? [unintelligible] Better?

[END AUDIOLOG]

[AUDIOLOG – 095]

            Let it never be said that science is ineffectual. Let it not be said that the abilities of the human mind will, or could be limited by a lack of funding or… public support. What we have done here today will go down in history as science at its most basic, and yet its most enlightened. Children will read about the events of today and they will be awed by the courage of our accomplishment. For millennia man has dreamed of flight, the power to spread, not the wings of some metallic monster, but our own flesh and blood and take to the skies. Gentlemen… I give you R29!

[END AUDIOLOG]

[AUDIOLOG – 096]

            They didn’t. Couldn’t understand. He hadn’t the mind. Hadn’t the mind to handle the intricacies of flight. If only he had flown! If only he had not– [throat clearing] The test subject, Mr. William Brentley, was an improper choice for the serum. As a pilot we assumed he was capable of the mental facilities necessary for the experiment. Unfortunately we realized all too late that Brentley was a flawed choice. He took to the physical adaptations quickly. So quickly, in fact, that we began to praise him as what would assuredly be the first man to take flight of his own ability. But it wasn’t more than a week before he began to...  [silence] change. Another test subject must be found.

[END AUDIOLOG]

[AUDIOLOG – 097]

            The fools! The only way they could understand accomplishment is if it were tied to a hundred dollar bill! The investors have jumped. Told us Brinkley’s meltdown was ‘inevitable.’ Told us that the experiment was ‘playing god.’ Playing god! As if god himself wouldn’t delight in his creatures rising to that otherworldly realm to meet his eye! As if this were not his intention! Williams and Howell have left the project. Said that it would ruin their careers. No matter. If I alone am left then I alone will reap the benefits of early transcendence.

[END AUDIOLOG]

[AUDIOLOG – 098]

            It’s been two days since ingestion. [unintelligible] lab men have had me under careful examination but I can see that they are becoming alarmed at the suddenness of my behavior. My behavior… [silence] Can’t anyone see what I’ve done? To become angels! To become the very highest! The antithesis of man! This planet is fear and filth and fuckups… and I alone am trying to break free of our earthly bounds. Men are filth and folly and I… I am free. To fly is to take the next step in evolution! I am evolution!

[END AUDIOLOG]

[AUDIOLOG – 099]

            I tried to kill a man today. It’s hard to tell which one. Early on in the experiment I knew their names but now they are beginning to all resemble each other. I am being fed on carrion now. Rich, red sheathes of flesh that fall into my bowl as if by magic. [unintelligible]

[END AUDIOLOG]

[AUDIOLOG – 100]

I just spent an hour sharpening my beak on the wall. I can tell by the scratching that it is almost ready for something moving.

[END AUDIOLOG]

[AUDIOLOG – 101]

This is Holt. I’m– I’m a lab assistant and colleague of Doctor Richardson. He promised us that nothing like this would– Oh god. I’m so sorry. For what we’ve unleashed upon the world. I am sorry.

[END AUDIOLOG]

Time to Think

I guess I’ve been kidnapped or something. What do they call it? Abducted?

            They got us tied up to these things and we’re supposed to keep talking. I don’t understand what I’m supposed to say but I know I have to keep talking. I know that the guys who didn’t talk, the ones who… who fought, they didn’t make it very long. I think they expect us to tell stories. Tell about- about earth or something. Screw that. I’m not going to be some research tape for those crimson bastards. I’m going to talk about her because she’s the only goddamn thing I can think of. Not like they can understand me anyway.

            She’s a farm girl. Real simple girl. Probably waiting for me even now. Blue-green eyes and a set of cans that a guy remembers if he’s that sort of guy. I remember she made the first move. Asked me what I was doing and if I’d like to hang around after the show. It seems like so long ago now. Long before they got their filthy claws into me. Long before I ever saw the inside of a cave.

            I remember one time we drove out to the beach. The sunset. The waves. I remember I didn’t give a shit about any of it. I’ve never really been one for the beach. Didn’t care about the reds and pinks shining off the water. I just kept staring at her, trying to read her mind. Trying to figure out if anything was going to happen or if it was just my imagination. She kissed me I think. Or maybe it was the other way around. Who can remember?

            And then I remember walking her up. Or maybe I just dropped her off. Whatever the case I remember those eyes as we said goodbye. And then I drove. I remember driving. And I remember the light. I remember most everything except everything that happened after that.

            No. I remember something else. A car accident… I was at fault I think. I remember reaching down for my phone and feeling the car swagger across the lanes like it owned them. I remember the steel grabbing the steel, all snuggled up and curled around. I remember his face and how it was a little funny after. All chewed up and crumpled like it was trying to smile and couldn’t figure out how. I think it might have been the drinks but I remember laughing at that face. Not loud or anything. Not like I was a bad person. Just laughing like it wasn’t something I expected to see.

            I guess it must have been a different time because I think she must have been beside me. I can almost see her yelling. Upset that I was laughing like that. I guess I never really saw someone get hurt and I expected that it would mess me up more than it did. I think I loved her right then. I think I loved her and told her she better be quiet so I didn’t have to do nothing serious.

            No, that was a different time. I can see it a little better, she was goading me. Just yelling about jobs and money and kids or something. It’s pretty fuzzy but I told she should be quiet so nothing serious would happen. So I wouldn’t have to do nothing. I told her again and again but she just kept yelling. I can remember how my head hurt so bad and everything she said kept making it worse. So I guess I hit her. I mean, what was I supposed to do? I hit her and she called someone and I spent the night on the floor. I didn’t like that one bit.

            Her again. This time I can see her sobbing. Just crying away over some stupid thing and I kept hitting her over and over but she just kept crying. Just kept calling me names and telling me I’d be sorry. Just kept saying there was a place for people like me and that I’d be sorry. Just kept crying.

            The little red bastards are back again and they mean business this time. Hissing at us and stabbing and prodding us like we was a bunch of dogs. They turned the heat up again but it doesn’t matter because it already feels like a goddamn furnace in here. My hair’s been nothing but curly little nubs for a damned century.

            I don’t know what I’m going to say but I guess it should be about her. About those blue-green eyes and how they looked. I can remember them all dull and half-open. I remember shouting at her to wake up, telling her I meant it but you know how women can be sometimes. I can remember someone telling me that I’d be damned for what I did. That there was a place for people like me. I remember walking with my feet together, almost tripping. I remember asking for a cigarette and a bunch of sneering faces and noise that made my head hurt.

            I remember my dad telling me that nothing good ever came from nothing good. And how he used to take breaks from shouting to drink bourbon till it poured from the corners of his mouth. I remember an apartment building where an old couple used to keep the doors unlocked and the tv up loud. I remember a burger with a puddle of spit and a purse with money in it and about a thousand other things. But mostly, mostly I remember those eyes.