 
Garden of Sin

A Novel by Keith Crews

**Copyright** © 2012

All Rights Reserved

ISBN#

978-0-9868245-7-9

Smashwords Edition

License Notes:

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

Dedication:

This book is dedicated to all the people that have and continue to support me.

Without you I am lost.

**Special thanks to** _Gavin Bennett_ **for proofreading this manuscript.**

A chore if ever there was one to be had.

Garden of Sin
Chapter One

Prescription Remedies

(1)

They sat in the palm of Cyril's hand like wingless fireflies, two pills that glowed with the promise to make everything good again. At least that's what the Travelling Man had said they would do. _"Fix what ails ya,"_ had been his exact wording. And judging by the wicked grin that had laid upon his mischievous little face, Cyril Emery knew they would do just that. It had seemed a ridiculous notion at the time to suggest such an outrageous claim but the more he stared into the soft ethereal glow of that supernatural prescription, the more the possibility intrigued him. _All right again---right as rain even---no more misery._

The temptation to gobble them up was near ravenous and to make matters worse he could feel that wondrous magic bleeding out of their translucent skin and into his hand like a dry leaf welcoming a soothing rain. But then there was more to it than that, it felt religious---no---worse---self-righteous. There was a mysterious danger inside those jade cocoons. Yet despite knowing better, he had not flushed them down the drain for how could he dispose of that which could make everything right as rain.

"Lord, give me strength," he whispered.

It had proven an incredible battle of will, but he had finally managed to set the emerald pills down onto the sink. Six years ago he had passed a kidney stone and the passing had entailed the kind of pain that you could never prepare for what Cyril likened to a _"real nut buster."_ He had howled like a scolded dog that day but nonetheless remembered that wonderful feeling of relief that had followed shortly thereafter. It was the kind of moment when your knees turned into wet spaghetti. That was the kind of sensation he was feeling right now: that dreamy calm after the storm.

"Saints be praised," he muttered as he wiped at his brow. His gaze met the deceptive pills on the porcelain. Their appearance had changed. The caps had lost their ethereal brilliance as if they somehow knew they had just been bested, humbled by a simple senior citizen who had been able to thwart off their incredible temptation, that which could make things as right as rain. "As Jesus resisted Satan in the desert," Cyril said, as he recalled the temptation of Christ by Lucifer as written of in the bible. "And the church said amen."

He suddenly had a vision of Galan Whicker as the Devil. The pharmacist raced around the burning streets of Orchard Cove, cackling like a madman, which of course he was. He danced a weird jig, his heels merrily kicking in time with his nasally laugh. He was a strange sight to behold, a lanky little devil out on a wild tear, his slightly hunched back rolled up inside a pair of red long johns, a three pronged pitchfork clutched firmly within his bony hand. This, while the wood tacked homes and dime-store tourist shops of Orchard Cove burned to the ground.

Cyril placed his arthritic hands upon either side of the sink and gently leaned in closer toward the bathroom mirror. A set of bloodshot eyes surrounded by a withered old face stared back at him. How had he come to be so old, so useless, and so alone? Those hazel eyes that used to smile so long ago were lost for an answer. Now they just looked questioningly out of the mirror, as if waiting for that final hour to pass so that they might never have to look upon themselves again, nor look upon that deep rooted pain. Those eyes had seen too much sorrow in their 77 years of life. His wife of 40 years had gone into the hard obstruction from malignant breast cancer and his one and only son had fallen victim to a drunk driver on the province's infamous Highway 101. Both of those events had been difficult to deal with, and were the sort of emotional damage that only hurt when you breathed and boy hadn't Cyril thought about remedying that condition. To stop breathing once and for all and to lie down inside the cold damp earth where nothing else could harm him. That temptation had easily rivaled that of the pills, and he still hadn't completely backed away from that idea yet. But then what would be the point? The grave was close enough as it was. There was no need to buy a ticket on that train when the final destination was on the next street over.

His weathered hands rubbed at his eyes, soaking up those tears that had not yet fallen. Everything felt on edge now, both nerves and sanity. Yes, death was on the next street over but from the curb's view it still looked a million miles away. Perhaps if he was lucky God would spare him that walk and just strike him dead with a massive heart attack, although he knew when it came to handing out favors the big cheese upstairs was notoriously cheap.

"You clever fiend," Cyril muttered "Cure a rainy day indeed."

Again his eyes found the pills. They were unremarkable now. Lackluster in appearance. But they still possessed a strange sort of treacherous beauty like a rattlesnake's eyes. This was the Travelling Man's patented snake oil, tools of an old charmer who poured bee taffy into everyone's ears and blew smoke rings up their backside. To Cyril, Galan was nothing but a used car salesman who worked on commission. The question, however, was what kind of a percentage did Mr. Whicker receive for doping up the entire town on his special brand of whammy juice? Regardless of the answer it would still prove that the Travelling Man was morally bankrupt, for he was an agent of spiritual bondage, and as such was evil to the core.

A few days ago, Cyril would have thought that such a notion was crazy, but ever since he had landed on the other side of the coin, he had come to understand a great many things. Of course deep down he had always suspected the little pill pusher with the tiny round spectacles had been up to no good but he had nonetheless ignored that mistrust of Galan, for, at the time, he had had no grounds on which to justify his suspicion. In fact Cyril had felt that his judgment of Galan's character was no doubt a result of his bias towards the medical community for having failed his late wife. All those poisonous chemo drugs they had given her, the ones that took away her hair, her vitality and intellectual reason. He had come to learn during those days that there were no miracle drugs, just miracles, in which case he and Patricia had both been passed over by the Lord.

Here, the Travelling Man had set up shop 13 years after Patricia had gone into the ground, and Cyril still couldn't help but wonder if perhaps the town's most popular drug dealer might in fact have some special remedy stashed away inside a glass jar that could have saved her. He had laid awake many a night thinking about just that, and every time his hand wandered through that cold emptiness on the other side of the bed he couldn't help but curse the name Galan Whicker. If only the old fool had pushed his cart of tonics into town earlier then perhaps she would still be alive today. But no, that son of a bitch with the dull moronic grin had arrived late and now there were only those lingering questions of what might have been.

But then there had been more to it than that---much, much more, for the Travelling Man was always on time and Cyril owned more of his wife's demise than anyone.

At the time he had tried talking to Maude about that bitterness towards Galan but for some unknown reason he had kept his silence. He guessed that there were just some things that sounded more reasonable in the hub of night than in the light of day. Maude probably would have understood that too, but then again there were just certain things a man had to keep to himself, especially if they were borderline loony tunes. Besides the idea that Galan had cures for cancer stashed away inside his potion bottles because in truth he was some sort of a demonic wizard was not something you actually told a friend but rather told a good psychiatrist. As for Cyril he had no desire to ride the Freudian couch and so he had kept his suspicions to himself. But then he did have those pills on the sink, didn't he? Weren't they proof incarnate that supported a supernatural connection to the pharmacist who called himself Galan Whicker? After all, what kind of medicine glowed whenever you touched it? What kind of prescription whispered sweet nothings into your heart and promised to set everything right again? However, such modest evidence was pale in comparison to this version of Orchard Cove for he was on the other side of the coin in a world that was his hometown and yet was not. It was the Land of Oz and the Travelling Man was the all-seeing, all-knowing, all-powerful wizard! If he had any doubt to the contrary then he need only look out the window.

His fingers hovered above the capsules to which the pills flickered to life, the magic inside waiting to be ingested. What harm could there be? It wasn't like it was rat poison? And maybe just maybe if he ate them the world would soften and his eyes would smile as they once had. But no! That would be taking the easy way out. His fingers wound up into a tight fist. "Lord, give me strength." He opened the bathroom mirror, hauled out an ivory handle straight razor and snapped open the blade. "You'll not tempt me you soulless bastard. It's time to find out what makes you tick once and for all."

He held a pill between his forefinger and thumb preparing to perform a makeshift forensic dissection. Again the colorful light bled out through the translucent skin basking the bathroom porcelain in an ethereal shade of jade. The razor's edge touched the tiny cocoon dead center to which the caplet replied with a barely audible squeal. The damn thing was crying out not to be cut open but he would have no part of that plea. He was determined to find an answer and this seemed like the only way to get it. Besides if he could discover the secret medicinal ingredient inside the prescription then he would discover the source behind Galan's mysterious power, or so he thought.

"Don't hesitate you old fool, just do it."

Carefully, he applied a gradual cutting weight to the pill.

Chapter Two

Sunny Days

(1)

It had been the driest summer on record. 30 plus degrees Celsius for the entire months of June, July, and in a couple more weeks August would be a clean sweep as well. As a result lakes were low, air conditioners were in high demand, ice cream cones had taken a fifty cent price hike, and most lawns had an unhealthy tendency to crunch underfoot. Gas had also gone through the roof, although its steep climb had nothing to do with the dry weather in town but rather a political dispute in the Persian Gulf.

As for Cyril, his blood pressure had gone up: 170 over 115. Not the greatest bit of news considering he was pushing 77 years uphill with a bad knee and a faulty kidney. But then what was an old codger to do? If he listened to what the quacks had to say then he would end up stuck inside a plastic bubble till the day he died, or worse a nursing home. Then what good would he be? Sure he may not have dug any drainage ditches lately but gosh darn it he could still tend to most household chores. Well not anything that involved climbing up a ladder, but if you needed the lawn mowed, the garden weeded, or the veranda painted, then Cyril Emery was your man. Hell he even helped his next door neighbor, Maude Landry bring in her groceries and trim her hedge on a regular basis. Although the summer heat had pretty much killed most of her grass, and as for that hedge it looked more like a brier patch of thick unruly thorns than a plush garden fence. Not much work there. But as for carrying in those groceries, well that was a weekly staple, and as a reward Maude would always fix Cyril a tasty treat for being such a considerate gentleman. Bear claws, strawberry shortcake, and by far his most favorite, tea biscuits. Together they would sit on the porch swing and talk about the old days, like when the road used to be little more than a gravel path and the elementary school across the street had been a dairy farm, or when the milkman still used to deliver bottled milk to the doorstep and the local doctor still made house calls. But more often than not their talks would inevitably turn to their late spouses.

Maude's husband, Harold Landry had passed away ten years ago from a sudden brain aneurysm. God rest his soul. He had been 68, big as a bull moose and had worked at the OC Lumber for thirty years where he ran the plank saw and wood planer. He had never been the sort of man to say an unkind word to anyone and the words Maude often used to describe her late husband were: _"a good Christian man."_

As for Cyril's wife, Patricia, she had passed away 13 years ago from a long battle with breast cancer. In life she had been a Catholic spitfire with an ingrained talent for reciting biblical scripture at the most inopportune times. Words of wisdom she had often used to help keep her husband on the path to righteousness lest he fall by the wayside and be consumed by the fires of Hell. True, Cyril had never been accused of being a good Christian man but then he felt Patricia had done enough praying for the both of them. Besides he never did anybody wrong, at least not intentionally, and that alone was probably why Patricia had put up with him for as many years as she had. Who knew? But then, overall, he wasn't a bad guy he supposed. Sure he liked to drink his beer and who in their right mind didn't bet on the Super Bowl for Christ's sake. In the end he had been a good husband, loyal, affectionate, and sympathetic to his wife's needs. He didn't need some guy in a toga and sandals telling him how to live a decent life because to a man like Cyril Emery that kind of know how was a given. As for Patricia she had understood him like no one else could and Cyril couldn't help but think that she probably knew him better than he knew himself. There were just some folks who had a gift for reading people and when it came to Patricia, she could read her husband as easily as a grocery list. She alone knew how to work him and she had even been so kind as to let Cyril think that he was actually doing what he had originally wanted to do in the first place. That took people skills and Patricia had those in spades. But she was gone now and so too was Maude's Harold. And aside from those occasional neighborly pleasantries and those old familiar trips down memory lane, they were both very much alone.

It was mid-morning. The summer heat had yet to reach its zenith. That would come in a few more hours, and when it did, it would be time to retreat back into the house and crank up the living room air conditioner. As for now the front porch was just comfortable and offered up the kind of dry heat that not only soothed an old man's bones but drove the arthritis out of his aching joints. He felt 20 years younger this morning. A scrapping 77 year old who only thought he was old. But that would change by midday when the heat zapped away his strength and laid him out like a sun baked jellyfish. Most mornings began on the bungalow's front porch where Cyril sipped store bought lemonade while he watched the neighborhood kids play baseball on the elementary school playground which sat directly across the street. As for that strip of leisurely real estate, it was a source of both entertainment and aggravation. When the sun went down the teenagers would gather and then it would get noisy and sometimes even violent. The sounds from the car stereos often made Cyril wish he were losing his hearing and not his hair. Many a night he had watched the cop cruisers round up the drunken trouble makers and then whisk them off to wherever it was that cops took kids when they had too much to drink. But other than the occasional brush with the local rowdies, the neighborhood was an overall good place to live.

Seniors populated the better part of the street. Their houses by in large had picket fences, tacky lawn ornaments, and porch hung wind chimers. Their daily news came from the morning paper and the good old reliable CBC on the radio, not that damnable contraption called the internet, whatever the hell that thing did. And as for the music that was often heard wafting out between the pie cooler window sills, it either rang of Christian gospel or from those old country and western greats such as Johnny Cash and Tommy Hunter. Overall things were tame for the most part on Harp Street, except when it came to Saturday nights. That's when even the old fogies let loose and walked across the street to the elementary school to gather for a serious hand of poker. Then it would be a no hold bars event of beer drinking and table drumming excitement. It was also a ripe breeding ground for gossip, and as for that bit of poorly spoken etiquette, as of late it largely centered on Orchard Cove's newest resident: Galan Whicker. But aside from the odd bits of speculation about the local pharmacist, there was that ever present rumor mill that delighted in the old grind: Who had died recently? Who just had surgery? Who had gone into Dexter's Nursing Home? Who had said what ill word and done what social slight to whomever? It was a veritable sewing circle set to the tune of second hand cigarette smoke, alcohol, and the old school fist pounders who slapped their cards down onto the poker table whenever they had a good hand.

It seemed the card games were all Cyril really had to live for these days, that safe little sanctuary of the poker tournaments. It was the place where he could forget that he was alone for a couple of hours. As for Patricia, she had never gone to those God awful things. A fine Christian woman such as herself would never have been caught in there. After all the tournament was a smoky den of iniquity, although at heart she equated its place in the grand scheme of things as being inconsequential. So she had allowed her husband to go to the tournaments, not only because it was a small transgression, but it also served to get him out of the house for a few blessed hours. Even a good wife such as Patricia needed a break from the old stick once and awhile, because the key to a successful marriage wasn't so much about always being together, as it was about spending some time apart.

As for the poker tournament: today was Friday and the game wouldn't be until tomorrow night. So what Cyril had to look forward to this morning was watching the kids play baseball, and in a short while he would help Maude Landry carry in her weekly stash of groceries. That would prove the old fool still had some worth, perhaps not enough to climb a ladder but enough coin to haul a couple plastic bags up a few steps.

In the distance the sharp crack of wood connecting with leather made the kids across the street go wild. Whatever the young fellow's name was he had just hit himself a real grand slam of a homerun. Now the kid was showboating, strutting around the bases with his hat waving victoriously in the air. Cyril cracked the slightest grin as his thoughts wandered down memory lane. He had once been a hell of an athlete in his youth, a fastball pitcher with a killer curve. He had also been a competent quarterback in high school where he had played on a team called The Orchard Cove "Pumas." P-U-M-A-S...goooo Pumas! That's where he had met Patricia. She had been a cheerleader with great gams, pretty face and a tight uniform sweater that really showed off her assets. Back then he had asked her out after the Pumas had lost a particularly tough game to the Stellarton Storms. Later on in their courtship she had confessed to having felt sorry for Cyril seeing as he had fumbled twice in one quarter. Truth was it was raining that day and even the Storms QB had let the pigskin slip out of his hand at least once. Whatever the reason she had said yes to his invitation and when high school was over she had also said yes to his proposal.

It was funny how the mind looked at the past. Sometimes it had a tendency to exaggerate the mundane until a person had convinced themselves that a particular event had some cosmic significance. With Maude it had been romanticized so much that Cyril had eventually fooled himself into thinking that their meeting had been love at first sight when in fact he had first pegged Patricia as a good lay. Hardly gentlemanly and not at all romantic but it was the truth. Secondly, and this was one of those horrible secrets that he had never told anyone, at the time he had been very much in love with another. She had been the Anglican Minister's daughter and a high school hockey player's steady girlfriend. Back then her name had been Maude Shirley and she had stolen Cyril's heart with just one glance.

Maude had been prettier than Patricia and to Cyril she seemed to be the whole package and then some. What the guys used to call a _"walking wet dream on roller skates."_ However, back then Maude had never given him the time of day, even though they had sat next to one another in Mrs. Bixby's English class for their entire senior year. (Cyril had almost failed that course because of Maude by the way.) But now Maude smiled whenever she saw him and even brought him bear claws, strawberry shortcake, and by far his most favorite, those delicious tea biscuits. Yes, life was indeed funny with how it twisted, turned, and then wound back onto itself. Long ago there have been a time when he would have done anything to be with Maude, but now with 20/20 hindsight he would not have traded one day with Patricia in favor of his former flame, not one. Patricia had been his girl, and no one, not even Maude could ever hope to replace her. Tea biscuits or no tea biscuits. And that notion gave him pause for consideration: perhaps there really was such a thing as fate, and whenever you looked back to yesterday and romanticized events you were in fact regarding them through destiny's eyes. It seemed a wonderful sentiment and when you were as far along the path as Cyril was perhaps you had a tendency to sum up things in a way that allowed you to set your house in order before the Lord finally called you home. Anything that could rationalize away those failed choices and missed opportunities.

Across the street the homerun kid strolled past home plate and slapped a teammate a high five salute. The game was over and the score by Cyril's count had been 11 to 10. The players slowly filtered out through the chain link fence behind the backstop, some on bicycles, others on skateboards, effectively emptying the neighborhood to the lonesome whine from a nearby power line transformer.

The mercury on the porch post thermostat read 22 degrees but that reading was still in the shade. Cyril figured it would shoot up at least another 10 points once the sun got a good hard look at it. The buzz of the power lines stopped and was replaced by the sound of a car engine rumbling down the street. It was Maude's Impala. She was back from the supermarket with her haul of goodies. Cyril climbed slowly out of the porch swing, the bones in his left knee popping under the effort. His hands straddled his waist as he stretched out his spine like an old cat that had just awoken from a long nap. As the Impala rolled into Maude's driveway he picked up his cane and walked down the front steps past the thorny hedge that separated their properties while the sun blasted his eyes and cooked his well-seasoned skin. He hadn't put on any sun screen this morning, and knew that if he dawdled outside for too long, then he would end up peeling like a spoiled onion.

Maude stepped out of her air conditioned car and into the slap of what was shaping up to be one hell of a scorcher. She wore a wide brimmed hat over her silver hair, a white carnation pinned to its pinkish band, a white cotton dress hanging over her slender shoulders. To Cyril she looked like an angel, the one that got away, and for a brief moment he thought about how he would not have traded a single day with his beloved Patricia for anyone. Well perhaps in Maude's case one evening wouldn't have been out of the question. And then there it was: that old fool's sentimentality, and he had to admit that even after all these years he still felt something for her. Although the sexual heat once associated with his youthful fancy had mellowed into a heartfelt fondness that a man of advanced years kindly tended.

Maude smiled upon Cyril with an attention that was not in itself without some hint of mutual attraction. "Gonna be another hot one Cy."

"Melt the icing off a cake, I'd reckon."

"Or the snowshoes off an Eskimo."

Cyril smiled warmly.

"How's the knee today?"

He liked it when she asked about his health. It showed she cared, although, he always put up a front that said he was as strong as an August gale. "Knee's a regular kickstand, thank you kindly."

"But could it stand a kick," Maude replied with a clever smile.

"Nope, the only kick I could stand is a kick in the pants."

Playful familiarities had always been a form of foreplay with Cyril and Patricia, and as he stood beneath the sweltering sunlight exchanging pleasantries with Maude, he couldn't help but feel slightly guilty, as if he were doing something wrong, like cheating on his departed wife. A ridiculous notion, but it was nonetheless how he felt.

"Come to my aid once again, have you?"

"That's what we men do, my dear. We carry."

"And get carried away too, if I do say."

Cyril chuckled and Maude opened the car trunk.

(2)

Inside the house, Cyril piled the groceries onto the kitchen table while Maude stored them away. After all the wares had been placed into their designated nooks she went to the cupboard and took out two tall glasses and filled them both with ice tea from the fridge. The pair then sat down together to have their routine chat.

"Do you think this heat's ever going to end?" Maude took a sip of her ice tea and gave a sigh that displayed her exasperation with the ongoing heat wave.

"Come Christmas, by the looks of things."

"If only it would rain."

"Yep, need a real good thunderhead to clear the air. Sky's about as backed up as a tavern toilet on cigarette butts."

Maude gave him a tilted eyebrow which said just how tasteless she thought that last analogy was.

"I heard Victor McFadden fell down yesterday and broke his hip."

Cyril nodded as he watched the ice cubes inside his ice tea slowly disintegrate. "Probably drunk as a skunk on that potato moonshine he likes to make so much. They say that stuff would make a maggot sick."

"Well, if that's the case, then I guess he didn't feel any pain."

"I don't know what would be worse: the broken hip or the hangover from that crap he brews up."

"Maybe he should stop by and speak to Galan."

Cyril fixed Maude with a peculiar stare, one that conveyed a certain opinion on that particular subject.

"What is it, Cy?"

"Nothing," Cyril replied as he waved his hand in a nonchalant fashion.

However, this time it was Maude who offered up a peculiar stare. "My good man, how long have we known each other?"

Cyril sighed reluctantly because he knew she would keep on him until she had an answer. "It's just that everyone seems to think that Galan Whicker is a miracle man. Nobody, aside from the King of Nazareth can cure a rainy day."

"It's just a sign, Cyril," Maude said. "An advertisement over the pharmacy door. No one, least of all Galan, would suggest that he could actually cure a rainy day."

Cyril shook his glass slightly, a man troubled by unspoken thoughts.

"There's more, isn't there?" Maude probed. "What is it, Cy? Tell me."

At this point, Cyril's feelings towards Galan Whicker had not yet fully taken form, at least not into something he could intelligently articulate. It was just a strange suspicion and perhaps a form of misdirected resentment. But why would he feel that way towards a man he had never even met, let alone laid eyes upon?

"Honestly...I don't know," Cyril confessed. "There just seems to be something---"

"---Off about him?"

"Yeah, that's it...maybe...I don't know."

"Have you spoken with him yet?"

"No. Have you?"

"I'm thinking about checking out the store," Maude replied with a bit of curious excitement. "Beth Montgomery said she and Ike had gone in there a few days ago to get some rheumatoid medicine, and now they're both feeling incredible. No pain at all. Can you figure that? After seeing all those fancy high priced doctors in the city who couldn't do anything for them, here, a pharmacist in a small town comes up with the answer."

Cyril smiled softly. He liked Beth and Ike well enough and was glad that they had discovered something to help alleviate their aches and pains. Suddenly, his hand began to rub his knee, and he couldn't help but wonder if there was something good old Galan had stashed away inside his snake oil shop that could put out that miserable fire beneath the burred plate. "Well...good for them."

"But?" Maude could sense the provision in his response.

Cyril gave an indecisive shrug. "Like I said, I don't know."

That was the truth.

"Well now, I've never known you to form a preconceived opinion about someone you had yet to meet." Her blue eyes almost looked wounded, as if she couldn't believe that this kind hearted man at her kitchen table could ever do anything wrong. "What's with you? Are you sure that something else isn't bothering you?"

Patricia's headstone jumped into his forethoughts. The image came with memories of the hospital cancer unit, his wife's mastectomy, and those poisonous chemo drugs that stole her hair and made her sick to her stomach. All those expensive pills and sharp needles with their modern day wonder drugs weren't worth shit at the end of the day. Was his bitterness with the medical establishment and those purported experts who worked in that field? Hell yeah! But still---Galan Whicker---just the name itself put Cyril on edge, made his gut tighten, his eyebrows hunch. Why was that?

"I'm getting old Maude," Cyril replied. It was yet another truth spoken, one that was aware how the mind went when you climbed over a certain wrung on the birthday ladder. "My ideas are borderline senile. Like you said earlier, men get carried away."

Her expression was concerned for a moment, but then lightened. "Yes. They most certainly do."

Cyril took a sip of his ice tea and then set it down on the table. "You're going to see him?"

Maude nodded. "I was curious about what the store looks like inside. They say it's quite quaint."

"They?" Of course Cyril knew who _they_ were: the folks at the grocery store, the beauty salon, St. Paul's Catholic Church, and of course the poker tournaments. Hell, even Cyril could tell you a little bit about what Galan's store looked like, even though he had never driven past it. However, that was not entirely true. Cyril had conducted more than his share of business in that end of town over the years. Before Galan had set up shop, his pharmacy had used to be a tiny real estate office known as _"Eden's Acres."_ Back then, the realty hub had been little more than a plywood shack. But according to the gossip hound party line, Galan had put a few bucks into the shanty and really spruced it up. Now it was a state of the art one stop shop for all your medical and domesticate needs.

"Everyone's visited the store," Maude replied as she tipped her glass back and forth, the ice cubes within making a pleasant clinking sound that put Cyril in mind of crystal stemware.

"Of course they have. God knows folks don't have anything better to do these days?" He took a large swig and finished off his ice tea. A sharp pain from the cold went to his temple, but he never showed any sign of discomfort, not a man who was a strong as an August Gale.

"Thirsty?" Maude asked, a bit of a laugh escaping her full lips.

"Parched," Cyril replied, although that statement was anything but sincere. He was just peeved, and what was worse, was that he couldn't really figure out why. Perhaps he was going senile. However, he had no desire to discuss that topic. "Poker tournament tomorrow."

"Are you going?"

"Wouldn't miss it. Are you going to grace the event with your presence?"

"I have a score to settle with Pat Conway."

This time Cyril cracked a smile. "Who in Orchard Cove doesn't have a score to settle with that idiot?"

Maude hunched her eyebrows. "He's a good man. It's just that he comes off a little bit---"

"---Arrogant...self-centered...a know it all?"

"I was going to say a man who isn't afraid to express his opinion."

"That's a polite way to say what I just said."

"No it isn't."

Cyril shook his head and spun the ice in his glass. "Well, what kind of a score do you have to settle with his greatness?"

"He's an excellent poker player, Cy. I've never beaten him, and to my knowledge, I don't know anyone who ever has."

Cyril squirmed uncomfortably in his seat because as much as he hated to admit it, Maude was right. No one in Orchard Cove had ever beaten the son of a bitch in a hand of poker, not even Cyril who in his own right was an excellent card connoisseur. Suddenly, Cyril's irritation over Galan had switched over to his card playing nemesis, Pat Conway.

"Every dog has his day," Cyril assured, although he wasn't sure if such a familiar wisdom was actually true or not. Personally, he thought too many people hid behind clever cliché's in order to avoid taking matters into their own hands.

"And if I have my way, Pat's day will be tomorrow night." Maude's tone was anything but confident, but rather lighthearted.

"Before I die, I'd love to see someone snatch that damn ace of spades that he's got stuck inside that stupid looking panama, off his head."

"It's his crown jewel."

"That ace he's got wedged up there should be a joker."

Maude laughed softly. "Do I detect a note of jealously?"

Cyril gave a curt laugh. "Call it an honest sense of healthy competitive spirit."

Truth told: Cyril wanted more than anything to be the one to snatch that damn spade from Pat Conway's gray panama. Damn if he didn't dislike everything about that man, like the way he always tinkered with that miserable playing card atop his hat, or the way he snapped his thick fingers whenever his opponent was trying to decide if they should hold them or fold them. Those little eccentricities and quirks designed specifically to throw off your game and to make you think that you were a slower thinker than he was. Those mannerisms weren't just rude they were infuriating, especially when a man had a belly full of beer and a head full of frustration. Not that Pat Conway had much to worry about from the frail frames that attended the weekly poker tournaments. No one was going to mess with the ace of spades, especially when his greatness was only 58 years old, as big as a dump truck and had mitts on him the size of prize winning hams. Besides, everyone knew what a bully Pat Conway was, especially Cyril. Years ago, Pat had beaten up Cyril's son Daniel for no apparent reason at all other than he could, and boy wasn't that a sore spot with Cyril. Here, his beloved son, both meek and mild had been killed on the province's infamous highway 101 all those years ago, and yet a big moron like Pat Conway was still alive and kicking despite all the misery he continued to leave in his wake. It wasn't fair, but then life was unfair. It took what it gave and what it gave it only gave out sparingly, as if happiness was a finite commodity that had to be rationed lest Heaven fall from grace and Hell hath dominion over all creation, amen.

"Oh, competitive spirit, I see how it is," Maude said with shrewd smile.

Cyril's cranky disposition softened under the glow of her warmth. She was a handsome woman, still beautiful, and although he may have been desperately lonely, he could not escape the shadow of Patricia. Widower or not, he was still very much married. He rolled up the sleeves on his blue cotton shirt and gave her a daring stare. "Care to take me on my dear...you know...sharpen your skills for even bigger game?"

She smiled playfully. "Not today, Cy. I've got an errand to run over on Haven."

Haven was the shortest street in town, a dead end street that met up with the rocky shore along Orchard Cove Harbor. For the most part it was a residential area. There weren't many businesses on Haven, just the Tumble Dry Laundromat, Grab and Go convenience store, Duggan's Pawn Emporium, and of course, Pestle & Mortar Pharmacy. Given the limited choices offered on Haven it didn't take a genius to realize where Maude was going.

"An errand?" Cyril was obviously fishing for more information to which Maude could not help but grin.

"Oh, I can't help it, okay. I want to see the inside of Galan's store for myself. I'm curious."

"You know what they say about curiosity?"

"Yes," Maude replied. Her grin widened as it always did whenever she had a clever remark sitting on the edge of her tongue. "It kills cats, but thankfully I'm just an old bird."

Cyril shook his head and smiled. "No you're not, you're an absolute dear."

She tilted her head and briefly gushed, the smooth span of her cheeks blushing ever so slightly. It made her look 30 years younger and Cyril couldn't help but think of his beloved Patricia. It felt as though she were in the kitchen looking over his shoulder, not so much spying on him but rather encouraging him to reach out so that he might not be alone. But it was too soon to embrace that fool's religion better known as romance because he just wasn't ready. Besides, love was for teenagers not seniors with bad knees and weak kidneys, not to mention that Maude was a good friend and he had no wish to lose that connection. Aside from the poker tournaments she was all he had, and when you had been kicking the can down the road as long as Cyril had, you learned that when you pushed too hard for something, you sometimes pushed it away.

Cyril stood from the table and adjusted his shirt that was now dry of sweat. "I'll leave you to your chores madam." He bowed politely and tipped an imaginary hat on his head. "Good day."

Maude bowed her head and offered him a seated curtsy. "Thank you fine sir, but if his lordship isn't too busy, perhaps he wouldn't mind escorting a lady to Haven."

Cyril suddenly felt that odd feeling take hold of him. What was it? Was it suspicion of Galan? No, it was simpler than that. The truth concerned those drugs that Galan and those of his professional ilk sold. If there was one thing Cyril Emery had no desire to look upon it was another damn pill bottle. He had already seen enough of them as it was, especially those horse sized pills Patricia had used to slug it out with the big C. It was that aversion to medicine that had sent Cyril's blood pressure through the roof. He had stopped taking his prescription shortly after Patricia had passed away, and as a result his arteries were on the verge of having a major rupture. But then he didn't care if his radiator hose blew or not because at heart he had already grown tediously tired of life. If he kicked the shit pail today, then so be it. As far as Cyril was concerned he had lived a full life or so he hoped. Sure he harbored a few regrets, like not going to college or buying more stock in technologies or learning how to play the piano or not seeing more of the world, but there was nothing so critical that he felt he had been cheated or short changed by his domestic history. After all, choices created circumstances and circumstances denoted choices. They were a marriage of Newtonian Law: action and reaction. As for Cyril, he had played life's game as straight as he could and in that knowledge he had made peace with what _was_ along with what would inevitably _come_. In the end, his house was in relative order, and in a little while, God willing, Mr. Emery would lie down next to his darling wife and beloved son and sleep the sleep of a man with a clear conscience. Of course there were a few things Cyril would very much like to see pass into being before he finally cashed in his poker chips. And one of those things had to do with the card perched atop Pat Conway's gray panama, that miserable ace of spades, that black feather in his cap, the stupid card he always tinkered with whenever an opponent had to make a tough decision. Deep down Cyril knew it was a childish preoccupation but it was nonetheless how he felt. Truth told he would have given his left nut and one good kidney to be the one to pluck that stupid card out of Conway's miserable hat. And if there was any justice, tomorrow night would be that night.

However, there was that issue of Maude Landry. If Cyril died, then she would be short one more friend in the world, and God knows they had both seen more than their share of friends and acquaintances die over the years. It seemed that every other week they were going to a funeral, but then he supposed that was the flow of things when you moved in seniors circles. Death hovered close enough that you could feel its cold breath on the nape of your neck every waking hour of the day. What Cyril wanted to see pass into being for Maude was not realistic, but rather a wonderful scenario as seen through the soft lens of a daydream. He desired to see her made young again, to be happily married and forever spared the pain of death. But that would never happen. Maude would linger and then time and age would take her down into the ashes and dust where all things must go after they've served their purpose.

He regarded her with considerate eyes that were not without a hint of despair. "Thank you for the invitation my dear, but I've an errand of my own. And it involves catching 40 winks on an old recliner."

"Suit yourself you old party pooper. Go off and saw your logs for the fire."

"Too hot for a fire madam, but I reckon those logs would fix me a fine sheep paddock."

Maude shook her head and laughed. "I'll see you later, Mr. Fix It."

Cyril gave her a playful wink and then headed out the door.

(3)

Outside, the sun baked the neighborhood inside a sticky temperature that was in excess of 30 degrees Celsius. To Cyril it felt as though someone had wrapped his rickety body up inside a steaming hot towel. The short walk back to the house had been just long enough to make his arm pits run and the stem of his lower back stick to his blue cotton shirt. Today was shaping up to be a real jalapeno sky scorcher, perhaps the hottest day this summer. The humidity had already added its share to the misery by driving the index up at least another 10 degrees or so until there was absolutely no hope in hell of finding a comfortable place to escape the heat. 99 percent humidity mixed with 30 plus degrees of hazy sunlight had a tendency to burn the skin like napalm. If Cyril wasn't careful he might die of sunstroke or perhaps even spontaneously combust. With these kinds of harsh elements who knew. What he did know, however, was that the temperature had grown considerably worse since his short visit with Maude. Until the mercury took a steep decline he would be confined to the house where the air conditioner would preserve his withered old hide like a side of beef hung up inside a meat house locker.

As he mounted the steps he noticed that the buzzing power line had returned. Why was it that those damn things always seemed to sing in hot weather? Perhaps they also liked to bitch about the heat just like everyone else. Inside, he closed the front door and paced towards the living room. The air conditioner had dipped the house interior down to a blessed state of cool, which not only soothed the skin, but also made his head sleepy. He sat his tired posterior down upon his favorite corduroy recliner and then laid his head back for a quick nap. Despite the coolness of the house there was still a terrible heat to be felt. The fire under his knee cap easily rivaled that of the sun's glare outside. Maude's errand had him thinking that perhaps he should have gone with her to Pestle & Mortar Pharmacy to seek out a remedy to quell that screaming joint. In spite of his resentment towards the pharmaceutical industry, by in large he nonetheless could have used an ointment or God help him a stinking pill to settle down that aching pain inside his leg. Aspirin, Tylenol, anything that could toss a bucket of water onto that smoldering ember. He drew in a deep breath, enjoying the taste of cool air, and tried to put the discomfort out of his mind. It was virtually impossible but still he managed to slip down into a deep web of sleep where only a faint shadow of that boiling pain was able to follow. Little did he know it would be the last sound sleep he would ever have.

Chapter Three

Errand

(1)

Maude stood on Haven's short stretch of pavement surveying the activity along the boulevard. Through the Tumble Dry's Laundromat window she could see an obese woman with long oily hair dumping coins into a cash register. Maude imagined that the temperature inside that store, what with its propane dryers, would be next to unbearable. Behind the front glass of Duggan's Pawn Emporium, she could see a teenage boy haggling with a greasy salesman over the price of an electric guitar. Inside the Grab and Go a pretty young girl sat behind a cluttered counter of porno magazines busily chewing on a piece of gum while reading a trashy romance novel. Other than that everything appeared to be business as usual along Haven Street---that was except for one thing: there was a new addition to the street's short lineup of buildings, and that picturesque establishment was none other than Pestle & Mortal Pharmacy.

Maude's eyes squinted beneath the sun's pervasive glare as she set her sight upon the neighborhood's latest attraction. Pestle & Mortar's arched windows reflected the day's garish light with a hint of rainbow, the white satin curtains exuding a comfortable brand of small town quaintness. The siding was that of cedar shingle and aged to decorative perfection. Each slat looked handpicked as if to assure that there would be no twist of knots that would otherwise blemish the wood's seamless grain. The roof pitch was steep and covered with European pantiles, which put her in mind of the Italian countryside. But aside from all these complimenting features, it was the sign above the white hand painted door that captivated her attention most of all.

A sturdy iron bar mounted to a beam within the forward wall supported a large slab of white marble. This exquisite hunk of stone was engraved like a tombstone, except that a colorful assortment of quartz crystals lay cemented into the indentations. The glistening letters assembled words which ultimately read:

Pestle & Mortar Pharmacy

Cures for a Rainy Day

It was a wonderful accessory to the building, a symbolic banner that denoted a sense of timeless reliability. Yet despite all the modern conveniences and construction materials, this building nonetheless felt ancient. But there was something else about this shop, something subtle like an old familiar telltale scent. She wasn't sure if Pestle & Mortar was the source of that delicate odor, or if it originated elsewhere but she could nevertheless detect a faint scent of apples. At first the discovery gave her a sense of foreboding as if an old hidden fear that had lain forgotten for an age untold had just suddenly come to be realized. However, this unease swiftly departed, leaving her with a sense of calm or dare she say of coming home. There was something almost magical about this place, something she both understood subconsciously and perhaps even spiritually. She tried to think back to the last time she had stood on this strip of road, back to when this place had been Eden's Acres. There seemed to be a hole in her memory, a gap that was unable to recall exactly when Eden's Acres had actually been a functioning enterprise. It was a strange moment of confusion for she could not remember a time when Eden's Acres had ever been open for business. She was also at a loss to remember anyone that had ever worked there. But how could that be? Everyone in Orchard Cove knew everybody else's business, so how then was it possible for her not to know of anyone associated with Eden's Acres? But as she pondered that mystery she was suddenly confronted by another: she could not recall what Pestle & Mortar had looked like before all the renovations, for that period of history had also fallen into the same dark pit of her memory. Suddenly despite the sweltering heat she felt quite cold as a feeling of vertigo swept over her. She walked forward and put her hand on the building as to steady her balance, and as she touched the cedar shingles her wooziness along with her concern faded almost instantly. In fact she was quite certain that she did indeed know someone who had worked for Eden's Acres all those years ago---she just couldn't recall their name at the moment---and she was also most certain that she had a picture of what Pestle & Mortar had looked like before the renovations in one of her photo albums at home. Yes, it was all logically explainable. She had just had a brief moment of forgetfulness---that was all. And so with her sense of reality having reasserted itself, at least for the time being, she steeled her spine and proceeded toward the front door, mindful of that delicate sweet scent of apples beneath the driving heat of the demon sun.

(2)

The small silver bell atop the door chimed as Maude entered. The store's gathering of patrons acknowledged her with the sincerest of smiles along with an almost tangible resonance of happiness and well-being. Perhaps this tiny shop of dime store remedies had somehow managed to bottle up those coveted commodities otherwise known as joy and good health and then subsequently sell them to the masses. It was a loopy notion but as she reciprocated a smile she felt that maybe anything could be purchased within the walls of this cleanliest of sanctuaries. Once again she felt that sense of coming home---an odd account to describe a place that she had never actually set foot in before, but that was how it felt: like walking into your childhood house after having been away on some long tiresome journey.

She nodded a good day to everyone, to which they all replied in turn. Then, as if on queue, the shoppers simultaneously went back to pecking through the aisles in search of that special cure for what ailed ya. Maude almost laughed when she saw the choreographed effort, for the throng looked rehearsed, a troupe of actors heeding an offstage direction. But aside from the strange but pleasant atmosphere of the store and the good nature of its customers, there was something else that rallied her attention: it was that delicate bouquet again. The scent was a tantalizing sweetness, fresh, medicinal, and something else, something she could not readily identify, an odor that was subtle, yet overpowered everything else in comparison. But what was it? Could it be a type of exotic flower, a spice, or perhaps scented oil? Whatever it was, it put Maude's mind at ease and elevated her mood to a state of near bliss. If only Cyril had come down here with her, then he too could have experienced this euphoria. Perhaps later she would talk him into doing just that.

She moved along an aisle of colorful bottles and cute bow ribbon packages, aware of just how light her feet felt upon the store's shiny linoleum. She felt like Ginger Rogers in a motion picture musical simply titled: _"Happy Lady."_ She let her fingers glide over the exotic inventory, whose brand names and purposes escaped her ability to translate. The entire overhead was written in a foreign language, the text symbols a grouping or stylish calligraphy that resembled Arabic or perhaps Asian script characters. The discovery spoke to Galan's practice of holistic medicine for such a collection of prescriptions was surely a conglomeration of herbal remedies that had been shipped in from wild exotic locales.

Suddenly, the bell over the door rang, and this time it was Maude Landry welcoming the newest patrons with a broad endearing smile. Three children ranging in ages 9 to 11 had entered the store and they did not waste time dawdling about but rather crossed the floor with the kind of haste that denoted they were on a very specific mission. Together they made a beeline for the store's back wall where a golden arched sign read: " _Candy Shack."_

Maude stepped past a few window shoppers until she had an unobstructed view of the children. The threesome anxiously gathered up windmills with sugar stalks, vanilla wax clown figurines, caramel crackers, chewable licorice ribbons, jellybeans, and a peculiar assortment of chocolate molds that kind of resembled Arabic text symbols. The kids jiggled and danced excitedly as their small hands continued to raid the stand's glass jars of gums, toffees, and candy coated peanuts, which were then stuffed into their pant pockets until they could carry no more. And when at last they had taken their haul of delicious goods, the store's proprietor, Galan Whicker, cheerfully emerged from behind a black curtain of the store's solitary backroom office.

His arrival was met by cheers from the children.

Mr. Whicker, a somewhat feeble old man, smiled upon the young tikes as he leaned over the counter, the deep blue eyes behind his bifocal lenses inspecting their purchase with pleasant attention. One of the children, a little girl in pink cotton shorts and a white tank top, fumbled awkwardly for a coin that lay buried beneath a mound of jellybeans within her left hand. With a little help from Galan, she awkwardly lay the shiny quarter onto the concession store counter as payment. Maude shook her head comically. The cost of that many treats would easily be in excess of 20 dollars. However, much to her delight, she was both shocked and deeply touched when Galan not only accepted the quarter as full payment, but also gave the little girl 15 cents back in change. Together, the children laughed gleefully and said in unison: _"Thank you Mr. Whicker!"_ Then as quickly as they had entered they bolted out of the store and into the garish light of day to celebrate their good fortune. It was at that moment when Maude's eyes met Galan's and together they shared a friendly smile. However, his having been caught in an act of kindness had caused an embarrassment, and so he bashfully bowed his head and then eagerly set off to attend the needs of his adult customers rather than remain and bask in the glow of his latest good deed.

_Oh, if only Cyril had come_ , Maude thought, _then he could have seen just how misplaced his doubts were in regards to this quiet unassuming man._ But alas Mr. August Gale had logs to saw for the sheep paddock, and as such he had missed a wonderful opportunity to assuage his misgivings and that was unfortunate. Maybe if Cyril had been here and seen Galan at his best, then Mr. Emery might have purchased some medicine to ease the suffering in his knee. But he was absent without just cause and she feared that that stubborn disposition of his would ultimately prove to be his undoing.

Maude drew closer to the prescription counter. There was something so familiar about Galan that she could not help but feel as though they had met before. There was a warm aura that seemed to embrace him like an invisible halo, an angel fashioned in the form of a modest man.

"Hello good people," Galan said with a bright smile that made him look unusually young for his age. "What can I do for you fine folks on such a glorious day?" He laughed an endearing laugh and gestured to the woman standing next to Maude. "You first, Rose. I saw you come in before the rest."

Maude recognized Rose Gladstone immediately. She was Cheryl Reese's daughter, and if memory served Maude correctly, Rose had two sons, David and Kyle, and both boys had inherited their late father's diabetes. They were a nice family, but plagued more than most when it came to misfortune.

"Yes, Mr. Whicker," Rose said.

Galan tilted his head to the side and grinned. "Please my dear...call me Galan."

"Of course...Galan...I just wanted to stop by and say thank you. You see, I've taken my boys to the doctor and he said that their diabetes had gone. Can you believe it? Gone as though it weren't ever there....a God given miracle."

Everyone in the store began to clap and cheer at this wonderful bit of news, for it was a remarkable moment: moving and inspiring with all the sweeping emotional drama of a Hollywood tearjerker.

"How can I ever hope to repay you, Galan?" By this time a well of joy felt tears had found the corners of Rose's gray eyes. "Please, tell me, and I will see that it is done."

Galan placed both hands aside his slender hips and became quite serious. "Just do as I told you to do, Rose. Do that, and that's all the payment I'll need."

"But it seems so little in light of what you've done for us," Rose said as she sobbed softly. "Surely there must be more that I can do?"

Galan shook his finger as if mildly scolding a child. "Now you mind me, missy-may. I'll decide what payment is enough. Now you run along home to your family and give them all a big hug. You hear me?"

Tears wandered down Rose's flush cheeks as she leaned across the counter and gave Galan a quick peck on the cheek. "God bless and keep you, dearest Galan." And with that, Rose Gladstone departed the store, lessened of both emotional burden and monetary debt.

Galan blushed with a deep shade of cherry that made him look even more angelic, the red in his face extending up to his thinning white hair. For a man he was sort of owlish looking: wise beyond his years, observant of everything around him, keen of mind and wit. The round spectacles on his face were a wonderful compliment to his character traits, those both physical and perceived. In stature he was neither a stout lumberjack nor a tower of ivory but he nonetheless exuded a formidable presence whose energy most likely was an extension of his immortal soul.

"Ah," Galan said as he clapped his hands together. "Now then...who's next?"

He pointed to an attractive young woman that stood off to the side next to an aisle of what might have been nutritional supplements. The girl bore an ill-favored look, which Galan detected immediately. He quickly drew round the counter, whispered something into her ear, which seemed to put her a bit more at ease, and then led her into the room behind the black curtain so that they might have private council. But before leaving he apologized to the few people in line and assured them that he would be back presently.

The sense of gloom that surrounded the young woman and her secret predicament gave Maude pause for concern. Yet despite that vein of compassion, she could not stop smiling. She felt it odd to be so mindlessly happy for no apparent reason and it gave her worry that she might be losing her sanity. Fortunately for Maude, however, whatever strange energy dwelled within Pestle & Mortar's odd assortment of gatherings promptly took care of that silly notion and put her thoughts at ease. It was the smell. There was something _heavenly_ about it.

"I know her name," Maude whispered to herself. "Carol...no...Cindy...Cindy Tremblay."

Maude now recalled that the girl lived at the edge of town with her father. His name was Chuck and rumor had it that he had a fondness for beer. Other than that, there wasn't much that people knew about the Tremblays, except that the mother had died years ago from some mysterious ailment and that Cindy and Chuck didn't really socialize and pretty much kept to themselves for the most part. But then none of that matter at the moment because Cindy looked troubled, and as a result, Maude couldn't help but wonder what was wrong. Of course it was human nature to engage in such speculation if only to explain away the world around us, but still, her curiosity felt like prying. Maude had no desire to be a busybody, even if that failing was limited to the realm of her own thoughts. But if there was something that she could do to help, then that was a pursuit worthy of her time. However, Cindy's dilemma, if that's what it was, was not a matter for Maude to inquire about. The girl, while young, nonetheless deserved her privacy, and so there was nothing Maude could do except lend her the concern that one human lent another in a time of trial.

"Mrs. Landry...is that you?"

Maude turned and watched the tall lanky figure of Myron Bishop slouch down the aisle in his oil stained coveralls and fraying work boots. Myron pumped gas for a living, and as far as everyone in town knew his wife Mary collected disability on the account of her being so morbidly obese. Maude felt Myron was a pleasant enough man, although she didn't really know much about him. Most of their encounters over the years had been in passing at the local poker tournaments. The only thing she really knew about him was that every playing card hand that poor Myron seemed to touch turned to shit. Cruel as it was, such was some people's lot in life: to always lose no matter what quality they were prepared to pay forth.

"Oh hi, Myron. How are you?"

"Fine as wine," Myron said merrily and in a voice that sounded a bit dim of wit.

Maude often wondered if Myron was perhaps a touch slow in the head. "Where's Mary today?" Aside from being disabled, Maude was well-aware that Mary Bishop was Orchard Cove's local gossip queen. In fact Made recalled that Cyril had once remarked that the woman had probably been born with a phone wedged into one ear and an empty glass for listening through walls in the other. Maude tried not to think about that statement at the moment, lest she start laughing.

"She's home cooking up a ham for supper," Myron replied.

"Oh," Maude said with a nod. She felt it was always best to take interest in someone else's life, rather than to bore them with the details of your own. Besides it was better to keep the laundry sorted and in the basket until the guests left, at least that's what Maude's mother had used to say to her when she was a child.

"Cozy spot, isn't it?" Myron noted.

"Sure shootin."

This response had come from a skinny elderly lady that was also waiting in line, a woman that Maude had only seen on rare occasions. Her name was Katie something or other and she lived on a farm on the town border. She wasn't much of a church goer, nor a poker player by popular account, but rather what most folks in town referred to as a _"porch hermit."_

"Yes," Maude replied politely as she cordially drew Katie into the conversation. "Haven't I seen you outside of town?"

"Yes," Katie replied with a _"how do you do"_ nod. "My name's Katie Birch. My husband and I own a farm on the outskirts of Orchard Cove. We grow corn and tomatoes along the big highway. Got us some 60 acres and a fine old fishing pond to boot."

"Sounds nice," Maude said.

Many a time Maude had wished that she and her late husband had purchased a cottage or a large strip of land to live on, something secluded and well out of the way. Peace and quiet seemed to be a luxury these days, especially with all the trouble they'd been having with the local teenagers across the street at the elementary school. Booze and public drunkenness for the most part, but Maude suspected there were probably drugs there, too.

"How's the crop fairing these days?" Maude asked.

"The dryness is a real curse," Katie replied with a genuine sigh. "Reckon it's gone and killed most every seed we planted this season. Together the twist of corn stalks and wilting tomato plants looks like Hell's half-acre. Hard pressed to grow a pinch of weeds, let alone a decent haul of crops these days. The sun's all but killed the heartiest thicket on the back lot, too, and they'll likely be dead before the end of summer come, by gosh."

"Sad to hear," Maude said with a click of her tongue. "My garden and hedge are all but dust as well. Seems nothing is going to break this heat wave, save winter that is."

"Be a _long_ time a coming and no use whence it gets here," Katie said. "Can't grow anything come December, aside from icicles."

"Ain't that the truth," Maude said in agreement.

Just then, Galan and that somber looking Cindy Tremblay emerged from his back office. The girl toted a pink pill bottle in her hand along with a look of questionable relief. And of course, Maude couldn't help but wonder what could possibly have such a pretty young thing so out of sorts. After all, she was in the spring of her life, and yet she looked near ready to fall into an open grave. No one that young should be straddled with that much misery.

"Come back and see me next week," Galan said as he waved her easily along. "Things will be better by then. You set yer watch by it."

The girl paused in the doorway beneath the tinkle of the door's silver bell and regarded the pharmacist with a look of somewhere between terrible anguish and infinite gratitude. "I will, Mr. Whicker. See you then."

"And don't forget our agreement," Galan winked playfully.

At this reminder, the girl looked a bit awkward, as if she was uncertain about something. She then glanced at Katie Birch and frowned slightly. Still, she smiled, shook her bottle like a maraca, and then stepped out into the driving heat of the afternoon sun to attend to whatever it was that had her so out of place.

Maude pondered the mystery of the extracurricular business that Galan had negotiated with this his latest customer. Would it be some form of payment---a barter system perhaps? It seemed odd but then given the generous nature of this endearing man, Maude was most certain that those hidden details no doubt rang of some form of philanthropy.

Galan set his attention on Katie and raised his eyebrows. "Now Miss. How may I be of service to you?"

Katie shrugged slightly. "Just feel a sore throat coming on, that's all."

"Ah," Galan said, raising his chin and pursing his lips in an act of contemplation. "Cold...flu perhaps...hopefully something minor, eh?"

"Hopefully," Katie reciprocated.

"I'm sure it is," Galan winked, the deep laugh lines around his Mediterranean blue eyes creasing.

The charismatic little pharmacist turned his back and ascended a stepladder that sat against the side wall. He climbed three rungs and then let his finger hunt through several labels until he settled upon a greenish-yellow bottle. He plucked the potion from the shelf, climbed back down and then plopped the prescription onto the counter before Katie with a confident thud.

"This is Mayan," Galan explained. "It's made from a very rare root and spice. It stimulates the immune system. I guarantee it will get rid of any cold or flu Mother Nature can whip up, as sure as molasses tastes sweet on bread."

Katie picked up the bottle and examined it. "What's it called?"

"Ah...Dawn Ripple," Galan replied.

A short laugh escaped Katie's thin lips. "Dawn Ripple. Sounds like a kind of ice cream."

"Yes, of course, a kind of ice cream," Galan said with a grin.

Katie tucked the bottle into her canvas purse and withdrew her wallet. "How much do I owe you, sir?"

Galan fixed her with a careful stare and briefly let his attention touch Maude and Myron. "I'll tell you what. I'm a fool for corn. It's my favorite food in the whole wide world. Why don't you drop me off a few ears this week and we'll call it even."

Katie's expression was that of mild astonishment. She was expecting to be out of pocket 15 to 20 dollars, but here she had basically gotten her treatment for free. "Sad to say, there's not much healthy stock to choose from this season. Sun's all but had its fiery way with the grain."

"A few coarse ears or a few sweet ones," Galan assured. "It's all just as fine with me, my dear. Don't you fret the quality none. My palate isn't so delicate when it comes to the yellow kernel."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely."

"Well then...I'll see to stuffing a sack with our finest haul before the sun sets."

"Excellent," Galan said with a beaming smile. "I'm sure they'll be delicious."

With that bit of pleasant business done, Katie took her ice cream bottle of _Dawn Ripple_ out of the store and home to where she was quite certain that her virus, or whatever the hell it was, would be dealt with swiftly thanks to Galan's exotic Mayan remedy.

Maude turned to Myron and touched him gently on the shoulder. "Why don't you go ahead of me...I'm in no rush."

"That'd be right kind of you, Mrs. Landry," Myron said with a tip of his hat. "Ya see, Mary's suffering something awful she is and I'd like to get back home with something that will help her...well...ease her condition."

Maude winked and nodded with a sympathetic smile. "Then you see to getting her some medicine pronto and tell her I said hello. No one in town wants our dear Mary to suffer, now do we?"

"No ma'am," Myron winced. "Nor does the good Lord above, I reckon."

Galan took his attention from Maude and focused on Myron with a semi-serious stare. "And you sir. What bit of business would you have us do this day?"

"Actually sir, it involves my wife, Mary," Myron replied.

Myron glanced at Maude timidly. Whatever ailment had brought him to Pestle & Mortar, it must have been of an embarrassing nature: a case of hemorrhoids or explosive diarrhea perhaps. Maude suddenly had a vision of Myron's four hundred pound plus wife letting a shotgun blast go between the bed sheets, and as such, she couldn't help but feel her stomach roll slightly. She tried not to listen to anything else Myron had to say for both their sakes.

"She's been..." Myron leaned forward across the counter and lowered his voice into a whisper. "A bit backed up lately, even for Mary."

Galan nodded. "I see."

Myron continued to whisper. "It's always been a week between, well you know, movements, but she's hasn't gone in over a month now."

Galan raised an eyebrow and clicked his tongue. "Well now, that's a bit long to carry the topsoil, isn't it?"

"Hell yeah sir," Myron replied. "And the gas...dear Lord Doc...it'd gag a maggot."

"Constipation with flatulence," Galan whispered, a finger pressed thoughtfully upon his full lips. "I've got just the thing."

Once again, Galan mounted his creaky step ladder and withdrew another potion bottle from a seemingly endless colorful array of mysterious potion bottles. It was hard to imagine how anyone could remember let alone find anything amidst such a stockpile of random confusion. However, Galan did so without the slightest hint of hesitation, his thin finger sniffing out each remedy within a matter of seconds each time that he went to the well.

What an amazing memory this man must have, Maude thought.

Galan returned to the counter and placed a purple bottle the size of a healthy grapefruit into Myron's calloused hand. "Tell her to mix a teaspoon of this herb into her tea, twice a day for three days," Galan instructed with a shrewd smile. "And I guarantee you, my good sir that you'll see a remarkable change in the little misses, lickety-split. Why, I'd go so far as to say that you might not even recognize her."

Myron sighed because if there was one thing he would very much like to see it would be a noticeable change in his spouse. God, the gas was killing him, so much so that he had taken to sleeping on the couch. However, that kind of pungent swamp fume dug deep into the furniture as well and almost peeled the paint from the walls, and when you added the heat and humidity on top of it---YOWSA! It was like living inside the guts of a rendering plant.

"Thank you, sir," Myron said.

"My pleasure."

"What's the damage on this here recipe?" Myron asked, as he dug out a ratty leather wallet from his soiled coveralls.

Galan adjusted his round spectacles a smidgen further up his thin nose. "Please understand...this remedy comes all the way from South America. A small native tribe in a remote corner of the Andes cultivates it for their ceremonial needs."

"Ceremonies," Myron repeated, not entirely sure if he should trust something so far removed from what he felt to be a nation of mainstream science. At the moment, the treatment sounded a bit more like a witchdoctor's prescription rather than a proven product.

"Yes," Galan replied, waving his hand nonchalantly. "They believe the herb to be a key ingredient in virility rights. But its uses serve multiple purposes, I assure you."

Myron nodded, hunched his eyebrows, and pretended to be an intelligent well-read individual as he continued to study the glass jar. Truth was, he didn't know what _"virility"_ meant, but he didn't wish to appear a fool in such fair company. Yes, he pumped gas for a living, but that didn't mean he sniffed the shit.

"I should mention that it's very expensive," Galan added. "357 dollars."

Myron suddenly looked very dejected. He had already tried every cocktail they had over at the Super Drug Mart, and that stuff hadn't done a goddamn thing for Mary. If anything, it made her fart even worse.

Galan set his small hand upon Myron's lanky shoulder and spoke to him as one man speaks to another when it involves a deep confidence. "Well, seeing as you're a new customer, how's about I set your payment as an invitation to your house for supper next week. That's if it isn't too much of a bother?"

Myron's eyes lit up. If there was one thing they had at his house, it was grub. Hell, he could pay Galan off in cheap hotdogs and hamburgers if need be. Of course if this stuff really worked, well then, Myron would be obligated to barbecue this good man a nice juicy steak as a gesture of his gratitude, because God knows how much he had been suffering these past few weeks from the symptoms of Mary's dilemma. YOWSA!

"Done!" Myron replied eagerly.

Both men shook a hearty handshake, and with that business transpired, Myron whisked himself out the door. He was quite anxious to get home and pour a few cups of tea mixed with this special herb into Mary's gullet, where, if there was any justice, it would untie that sour knot inside her guts and ease that foul log jam down the porcelain pipe.

Finally it was Maude's turn to stand face to face with the man she had heard so much about. "Good afternoon, Mr. Whicker."

"Good afternoon," Galan returned with a gentlemanly bow. "And what can I do for such an attractive young lady this fine day? A bit of sunscreen perhaps?"

"No thank you," Maude replied. "At my age, I avoid the sun as much as possible."

"A wise precaution," Galan agreed as he crossed his arms and tilted his head and stared at Maude as if admiring a painting. "You look familiar to me."

"Really?"

"Yes. I used to know a woman who looked just like you. Of course that was some time ago. Back west I believe. It was a small town. Her name was Martha Lynch."

"Well, I guess me and Ms. Lynch also share the same initials, too."

Galan raised an eyebrow as if this surprised him. "Let me guess...your last name is..." He put a finger beside his temple and mildly contorted his face as he foraged through his memory. "Laurie?"

Maude shook her head. "Nope. Sorry."

"Huh." Galan tapped upon his lips with his fingers. "I know...it's Leighton."

"Sorry. Wrong again."

"I'm usually quite good at this. Here, let me try again."

Maude smiled humorously.

This time Galan removed his glasses and looked deep into her eyes. The experience felt as though he was foraging through her thoughts instead of his own. Suddenly she felt transfixed by his cool but otherwise thoughtful blue eyes as if she had been rooted into place like a tree. That sense of euphoria had briefly abandoned her and was replaced by a feeling of mild vertigo. But no sooner had this uncomfortable feeling come and it was gone again.

"Landry!" Galan exclaimed.

"My word," Maude said with a soft laugh. "Of all the possible names you could've picked. How did you do that?"

"It's a gift," Galan replied with his signature wink.

"Okay Mr. Mind-Reader, if you're so smart, then why am I here?"

"To satisfy that which killed the cat."

Maude's jaw fell open. "My word...that was remarkable. Yes...to be perfectly honest, I was curious about the store."

"And not the storekeeper?" This question was put forth in such a way that it was borderline flirtatious.

Maude blushed slightly. "I...didn't---"

"---I'm sorry," Galan said with genuine remorse as he replaced his spectacles and recaptured that jovial aura of his. "I'm just teasing you. You know, they say a curious mind is an intelligent mind."

"They do?"

Galan nodded. "So I'd bet an intelligent mind such as yours would like something special to challenge it. Do you like puzzles?"

"I love puzzles," Maude said with a broad grin. "I'm always doing crosswords and jigsaws whenever I have a free moment."

Without looking, Galan reached under the counter and withdrew a wood and brass cylinder, which Maude immediately recognized as a cryptex.

"Do you know what this is?"

"Is it real?" Maude asked, a hint of awe creeping into her voice.

It looked ancient, pre-Egyptian by the appearance of it, although she was by no means an authority on such matters. Still, she would hazard a guess that the antique was worth thousands if not tens of thousands of dollars.

"Oh yes," Galan replied, as he turned the letter dials slowly about as if tinkering with an elaborate toy. "I've had it for years...bartered with a man in Spain over it...I had a treatment for a rare skin condition and he had this beautiful old cryptex, and well, we came to an agreement."

"What's inside?"

"Not entirely sure," Galan shrugged. "I've never figured out the sequence."

"Didn't he give you a hint what was inside?"

Galan did not reply, instead, he just gently shook the cryptex and listened to it closely with a bent ear. "There's vinegar inside a glass vial," Galan explained.

"And if you try to force it open, the vial will break and ruin the parchment within," Maude said, showing she was more than familiar with the history of such devices.

"I see...you really do know what a cryptex is."

"I'm a Da Vinci code fan."

"Ah, yes...of course...Dan Brown...an excellent author."

"I've never actually seen one of these for real though," Maude confessed. "May I hold it?"

"Most certainly," Galan replied as he carefully set the cryptex within Maude's anxious hands.

"It's heavier than I thought it would be," Maude noted, as she slowly adjusted the ivory letter dials within the tumbler sequence.

"A sign of quality craftsmanship, if I do say so myself."

"Have you ever had it appraised?"

"Its worth is measured in sentimental value," Galan replied with a dismissive tone. "Whenever I touch it, I think of Spain in the spring time...of how the sun looked as it set upon the Mediterranean sapphire...the rolling hilled vineyards of the low country in the east. Memories to me have never been a dime a dozen my dear. They are precious treasures, and sometimes these treasures come with tangible pieces of history attached to them...keepsakes if you will."

Maude nodded in understanding. "Yes, I see."

"Would you like to give it a go?"

Maude studied the cryptex with fascinated eyes, and then flashed a shrewd glance at Galan. "And what pray tell, would such a loan cost me?"

Galan adjusted his glasses and let his eyes regard his newest patron with considerate insight. "Mrs. Landry, I'm new in town. And if you'd be so kind, I would love to enjoy the company of a mature intelligent woman such as yourself some fine evening."

"Are you asking me out to dinner?" Maude asked, surprised to hear herself say such a thing.

"Would it be too forward if I were to suggest tomorrow night?"

Maude felt the wheels of the cryptex roll beneath her fingers. God how she loved puzzles, not to mention that she was most certain that Galan would prove a veritable fountain of interesting anecdotes. What harm would there be in entertaining this man for one evening? Sure, she wasn't a teenager anymore, but neither was Mr. Whicker, and by what she had seen of his character this afternoon she had no doubt that he would be nothing but a complete gentleman while in the custody of her care.

"How's about a home cooked meal?" Maude suggested with a polite grin.

"That sounds absolutely delightful."

Maude removed a pen from Galan's white smock and jotted down her home address and phone number on a nearby napkin.

"Seven o'clock Mr. Whicker. Oh, and I trust you're a fan of duck?"

"It's my absolute favorite," he smiled warmly.

"Then I'll see you tomorrow night?"

"Will do."

And with that bit if cordial business done, Maude carefully placed the cryptex within her purse and leisurely made her way out the door and through yet another wave of excited children that were en route for the Candy Shack.

Chapter Four

Fort Carnage

(1)

The center floor was slapped together with moldy two-by-fours and covered up with an old burgundy carpet. As for the roof, it had been butted together with an odd assortment of warped planks and then shingled over with a few dozen garbage bags. The walls were constructed out of thin panels of peeled plywood, except for the back wall, which had been tacked together with the signs from a defunct realtor called "Eden's Acres." A rectangular tin sheet served as a door, its dented surface secured to a set of rusted butterfly hinges that groaned whenever it was opened. _"Fort Carnage"_ lay painted across the entrance in bold black letters.

Toby Meckler, Brian Bishop, and Curtis Malone were the fort's architects and proprietors, although the fort was also frequented by a dozen or so other kids from the nearby neighborhood. However, as of late, those _Johnny Come Lately_ stragglers had to pay a price for admittance, a cover charge that had been unanimously set by the original tree-house-trio. Candles, matches, porn magazines, cigarettes, beer, comic books, those articles were the cost of admission these days, at least to those who were not part of the fort's original members. But as of this past week, the entry fee had significantly changed. Now that new exclusive currency sat piled upon the fort's grungy floor like a giant's fairytale treasure, a prize worshipped by those who pledged their undying loyalty to the gods of sweet tooth.

As for the name _"Fort Carnage,"_ that had been Brian Bishop's idea, a title inspired by his destructive nature. Brian was the kind of kid who broke toys for fun. He frequently shot birds with his brother's pellet gun and shoplifted all manner of items from the Orchard Cove Mall. And when he wasn't doing that he was flattening people's tires with knives and smashing out bus stop windows with rocks and of course the granddaddy of them all, starting brushfires. He was a little bastard in the truest form of the word. But despite Brian's volatile nature and crazy no shit attitude he was still a favorite target of bullies. That's where Toby and Curtis came in, for they too had been marked for death by many a larger kid and in the topsy-turvy world of the pre-pubescent jungle a kid learned quickly that in order to survive you had to have friends because safety came in numbers. It was true: circumstances had drawn them together, but somewhere during the process they had become close friends.

Toby Meckler was an ugly ten year old. Crooked nose, cow shit eyes, frizzy black hair, and a huge overbite. He was lanky but had good legs that could carry him like a jackrabbit with its asshole on fire when need be, especially at recess or afterschool when he was most vulnerable to those playground sharks that sometimes hunted in packs or lingered in bathroom stalls for unsuspecting victims. Many a time Toby had tasted the urinal water, or had his head completely dunked into the porcelain bucket. However, over the years, he had learned to be craftier, to outwit his opponents with careful observation. Still, there were times when he would get clipped in the ear with a sucker punch, or felt the edge of a thrown rock between his shoulder blades, but for the most part he kept a low profile and stayed out of trouble and that in part was thanks to the tree-house-trio.

Now, Curtis Malone was a completely different story. His big sixteen year old brother was Nicky Malone, and as anyone in Orchard Cove could tell you, Nicky Malone was a freaking retard. Nicky had smashed his old man's face in with a tire iron, and beaten the shit out of his 9th grade woodshop teacher, Mr. Rice with a bird house. No one but Nicky and Rice could really tell you what had set off that altercation, but according to Nicky, old Mr. Rice was as queer as a three dollar bill. Still, he had done the crime, and as such was serving the time in Springhill's Reform School for boys. He still had another four months left on his sentence, which would see him back home around Christmas time, that's if the old man would let him back into the house. Some folks were just born bad, and in Nicky's case, his dark nature was set deep inside the bone. So suffice it to say, whenever people looked at the short unassuming boy named Curtis, what they actually saw was another Nicky in waiting. Although as Brian and Toby could tell you, nothing could be further form the truth. Curtis was a quiet kid but he also looked a little bit psycho. He had wide staring eyes, a tense posture, tight lips, and a habit of opening and closing his hands into fists, which for all outward appearances made him look like a potential serial killer. True, it was a terrible label to have been tagged with but it nonetheless helped to deject potential bullies lest they themselves get mentally written down on some sort of hit list for later disposal. In the end, Curtis's odd quirks and messed up brother Nicky served the tree-house-trio quite well. Curtis may not have been the junkyard dog but he sure as shit was the beware sign.

But today wasn't about bullies, or messed up brothers, but rather momentum.

(2)

Toby, Brian, and Curtis, sat together on the floor, legs crossed, hands folded, eyes captivated by a large stack of delicious sweetness that sparkled and gleamed within the rosy glow of the fort's dim candle light. They were here to have an important meeting, this while outside dozens of other kids anxiously waited on the outcome. As usual, Brian, the fattest kid in town, and also the kid who had easily eaten the most of Galan's candies, was the first to speak.

"I call this meeting to order gentlemen."

Toby and Curtis nodded.

"We all know why we're here."

Again, Toby and Curtis nodded.

"It will be here soon," Brian said, using his stubby little finger to drive home the point. "And when it arrives, we must be ready."

"And what of the adults?" Toby asked as he adjusted the square framed spectacles that sat slightly askew upon his freckled face.

"They will accept it, too, just like he said they would," Curtis replied in an almost angry impatient voice. "You should have no doubts!"

"I'm not doubting, I was just saying," Toby said in a defensive tone. He looked put out, but by no means intimidated by Curtis who was easily half a foot shorter than he was.

Brian raised a flabby arm into the air in a motion of silence. He kind of looked like an Indian Chief, except instead of a native headdress, this bronze warrior wore denim shorts and a muscle shirt that showed off the pasty rolls of sun burnt fat that hung around his mid-section. "We must obey. We must do as he says. Then and only then, will we succeed."

"And what if someone tells?" Toby had posed the question, and Curtis had opened his mouth to object, but nothing came out. Instead, Curtis looked at the other two, very much lost for an answer.

Together their thoughts dwelled on the others who waited quietly outside. Did they have a weak link in the group? Someone who might take it upon themselves to squeal to either their parents, or the authorities? Soon, such a confession would be useless, but for now the group was vulnerable. They had to be certain, but how?

"We've come to a place where we need an answer," Brian sighed. "It's time to seek out his counsel."

Curtis and Toby bowed their heads reluctantly.

Brian stood and looked down upon the other members of the tree-house-trio and urged them to join him, to which both boys slowly complied.

"Come," Brian ushered. "The ritual."

Toby and Curtis stepped carefully around the treasure until they were evenly spaced into a small circle. Next they joined hands and collectively bowed their heads like a witch coven surrounding a black caldron. Outside, the other kids who patiently waited also did so without prior instruction. Lately, all the kids in the neighborhood had begun to share a group consciousness. They were like tiny railcars connected to a single train of thought. Each person vaguely aware of the other's intentions, or that's to say the thoughts of those who had partaken in the sacred feast. For the most part, their telepathic connections lay loosely strung together like late night radio signals awash inside a crackle of static. Sometimes the messages got garbled, other times they sliced through the fog like a lighthouse beacon. The loudest of these mind-voices belonged to none other than the tree-house-trio, Brian Bishop in particular. They alone were the ones who rang the psychic bell tower and gathered everyone together at Fort Carnage for prayer. Of course, such decisions were ultimately dictated by the thing that dwelled within the putrid sugar pile, and as for today's meeting, everyone in attendance intuitively understood that something important was up. It was the kind of knowing that knocked on the bone, the one clear channel in the static you could count on for good reception.

Instinctively everyone chanted in unison with words that rolled over their dry tongues like cold ashes, the flavor stained by the bitter aftertaste of some horrible thing's vile breath.

" _We are the children of His labors...the children of the Sacred Field...the harvest of Eden's forgotten...through Carrion's flesh so shall we feel the sensual corporeal...through Carrion's mouth so shall we taste the wine of sensation...through Carrion's ears so shall we hear the word of the Lion...through Carrion's breath so shall we smell the forbidden blossom...through Carrion's eyes so shall we see the Sacred Orchard restored."_

In the middle of the tree-house-trio's sacrilegious circle, the huge sugar coated mound of candy began to squirm like a pile of oily earthworms that had fed on something profane. The pile's enjoyable aroma quickly soured as its sugar cube sparkle melted into a heavy dew of spoiled ochre that ran thick like clotted blood. From within the squalor emerged three obscenities, each thing as foul as a rotten egg. Together this slick vermin climbed through the newly formed dung pile until they stood perched atop its summit like sightless leeches, their wormy bellies pulsating and uttering suckling noises as they traveled. In unison they swayed like tiny eyeless serpents in a dance set to the ragged notes of a snake charmer's flute. Together they shook, somehow hissed, and then coiled as if to strike.

As for the boys, they opened their mouths to receive that which could only be described as an unholy communion, their candlelit faces visibly repulsed but somehow eager to taste that which would make a maggot puke. It was here that the filth finally released their coil and sprang out, swiftly hopping through the air and into those waiting mouths. Together the tree-house-trio swallowed their awful communion with dry heaves and choked coughs. Toby fell onto his posterior, drool spilling down his chin and onto his t-shirt from between his exposed gums. Curtis dropped, skinned both knees on the dirty carpet as he gagged for air, his thin hands wrapped tightly around his own slender throat. But as for Brian, he kept his stubby feet and smiled the crooked toothed smile of a cat that had just eaten the biggest of canaries. His meaty hand rubbed at his potbelly with gluttonous satisfaction as his gut summoned up a reverberating belch that shook the very rafters of Fort Carnage on breath so rancid, it smelt of feces.

"It's done," Toby croaked as he slowly found his feet.

Brian looked at Toby, his wide bulbous lips curled into a self-righteous grin. "I am his messenger, and I will say what is done and what is not!"

Toby bowed his head in submission, mindful of how powerful Brian had grown over these past few days and of how much of that foul shit the nasty little prick had ingested. There was no doubt that Brian had changed ever since that day down by the lake, but then again, who amongst them hadn't?

Curtis clenched his fists and then spread out his fingers rhythmically, his dull unremarkable eyes fixed on Brian with an inherent understanding that Brian alone had eaten the most of anyone, and that Brian spoke on behalf of all those who had tasted the delicious sweetness which had come from the " _Sacred Garden,"_ and that he had chosen Brian as a vessel by which to spread its gospel and no other. To break faith with Brian would be to break faith with Carrion, and that sweet Jesus was something no one dared do, because as any of the other kids and teenagers would tell you, there were things far worse than death, of that certainty each of them intuitively understood.

Brian plunged a hand deep into the gruesome pile of sour goop and withdrew a handful of filth. Meanwhile, Curtis and Toby looked on as Brian greedily shoveled the horrid shit into his big mouth. Not once did Brian bother to chew, he just gulped it down until his wide gut had more than its fill.

"We need to set an example," Brian said with another large belch, his hands rubbing his stomach with attentive fingers the way a mother caressed an unborn child.

Toby and Curtis faced one another. Neither cared for that recommendation but it was best to tow the line. However, there were times when they wondered just where Carrion's will began and Brian's ended. How much free reign did Carrion afford its most generous of hosts. Several times the boys had snuck up to the camp to visit the candy pile---to chow down as much as they could in the hope that perhaps they might attain a richer sense of enlightenment. However, they could never get past the stench as Brian did. To feast upon the sour blossom was like eating turds out of a crack house toilet and even though those spoiled treats had helped to quell their immediate hunger there was still a part of their human psyche that felt repulsed whenever they partook in that sickly meal. In the end it was obvious that Brian was different from the others, and that probably had to do with who he had been before Carrion had shown up. Brian's claim to greatness involved one of the seven deadly sins: gluttony. That transgression had put him ahead of the other kids and gave him fair favor in Carrion's all seeing-eye. Sure that closeness may have been a source of jealousy between the other boys, but the gunk inside their guts always kept them in check.

Toby and Curtis's stomach gurgled and rolled audibly as cramps wound up their intestines into tight knots as Carrion's offering dug roots into their flesh. However, despite their discomfort there was that strongest of needs, the damn hunger that constantly yearned for just one more bite.

"What would you have us do?" Toby and Curtis said in unison.

Lately they had begun to finish and end each other's sentences, whereas Brian's level of telepathic connection had grown more and more distant from everyone else. They weren't so much a trio now as they were a close knit duo that followed after an autocratic leader. But that was okay, because together they ultimately served Carrion, and in the end that was all that mattered.

Brian's gut expanded to twice its size as it rolled leisurely up into his chest and then streamed down along his wide hips in a slow easy wave. His stomach sloshed like a slop bucket, groaned and squealed, and by far worse, whispered. What would Carrion have them do indeed?

Brian said only one thing, or that's to say just one name: Ann Marie Holmes.

Meanwhile, outside of Fort Carnage, that silent congregation of misdirected youth began to murmur Ann Marie's appellation in unison, and although no instruction had been given to any of them, they each understood what was to be done.

Chapter Five

The Last Child

(1)

Ann Marie Holmes was a good kid, a sixth grader that attended Sussex Elementary School over on Harp Street. She was the smallest girl in her class but then that was to be expected when you skipped a grade. It also meant that she was the smartest girl in her class, and as any brain could tell you, that wasn't necessarily a good thing. Ann Marie was only 10 years old but she had already discovered that most folks did not like smart people but why that was exactly she still didn't know. Here she had gone out of her way to be polite with everyone, generous when she had something to give and liberal with her praise, but still the kids at school made fun of her.

_Look it's brainiac! The walking talking encyclopedia! Look, it's the super geek! Look, it's the alien space cadet!_ And of course that age old classic: _NERD!_ But then it wasn't just kids she had to contend with there were adults too, grownups that looked down on her with a subdued brand of polite disdain. As for those adults, they always seemed to claim that they had missed their calling in life and that if only they had done this or done that, then they would have been the King or Queen of England or the inventor of a better mouse trap. Now Ann Marie may have been young, but even she knew a lame excuse when she heard it. She equated such people as being lazy couch potatoes with frozen dinner backsides whose idea of intellectual stimulation involved calculating the best time to take a leak during a TV commercial. Yet despite being bitten by their venomous disdain she could not bring herself to hate them in return. Instead, she felt sorry for them, because deep down, she knew they just didn't understand, and that wasn't something that induced hate within her but rather pity. So she weathered the dumb insults, social slights, and the contemptuous eyes, because there was nothing she could do about it, for to change people would be to change the world and not even the King of Nazareth had accomplished that miracle as of yet. There would always be stragglers, rednecks, racists, and yes, folks that disliked smart people. Unfortunately that deep rooted vein would always taint human nature with that lowest of denominators.

Now aside from being smart, Ann Marie was also a health enthusiast, and as such wasn't much of a junk food connoisseur. Apples, bananas, kiwis, and those sweet pitted honey dates from the supermarket were her ideas of candy. This practice of healthy eating had been passed down to her by her parents, Janet and Henry Holmes, who were not only conscientious eaters, but also physical fitness fanatics. Running, hiking, and swimming, had always served as the family rallying points and so Ann Marie together with her parents had spent many a weekend in the park jogging or visiting the sport stadium's extensive gym. Ann Marie felt it was the best kind of play: active and done with her two favorite people in the world. But oddly enough that healthy lifestyle had come under attack from a source that she had least expected.

(2)

Janet and Henry Holmes had recently started buying their vitamins and protein supplements from Pestle & Mortar Pharmacy. Before it would have been the sort of thing that Ann Marie would not have noticed. However, that change in consumerism had not been the only change that her parents had made---there were others.

"Ann Marie," Henry said to his daughter as she came in from play.

Ann Marie had been down the lake all morning and would probably go back again after she had filled up on some lunch. School was out for the summer and for the most part the local kids busied themselves with play while escaping the summer's omnipresent heat down at Donovan's Pond.

"Yes dad," Ann Marie said. "What is it?"

"Would you have a sit for a second, sweetheart," Henry said with a bright smile. "Your mother and I would like to talk to you for a bit."

Ann Marie threw her beach towel onto one of the kitchen table's chairs and then took a seat. Her swimsuit was already dry thanks to the blistering heat of the demon sun. "What is it?" Ann Marie asked.

"Nothing bad," Janet replied. "We just wanted to chat."

"Oh...ok," Ann Marie said with a nod. "What do you want to talk about?"

"Well, we were wondering if you had a chance to visit Pestle and Mortar Pharmacy yet?" Henry asked.

"No," Ann Marie replied. "I've got no interest in seeing it honestly, although all the other kids in town seem to be going there all the time. I suspect it has something to do with all the cheap candies, not to mention the teenagers are rumored to be getting alcohol there as well."

Janet and Henry glanced at each other with what appeared to be a unique understanding of something secret. Ann Marie felt that exchange to be quite odd for their demeanor at hearing that bit of news had not been what she would have expected of them. Here, there daughter had alluded to the possibility that an adult was potentially selling alcohol to minors, and yet that information had not unsettled them in the least.

"We've been buying our supplements from Pestle and Mortar," Henry continued. "Your mother and I have met the owner...a Mr. Galan Whicker."

"Yeah," Ann Marie said. "I heard his name mentioned. They say he's very nice."

"Yes," Janet almost exclaimed. "He is a very nice man, Ann Marie. I wouldn't worry about rumors that he is selling liquor to minors. In fact, I would forget that you ever heard that. It's just a lie spoken by mean spirited people...that's all."

"Listen to your mother," Henry said in agreement. "We've spoken to Mr. Whicker at length, and I can assure you he that he is the salt of the earth."

"Ok dad, sure," Ann Marie said in understanding.

"Well, maybe you should go with your friends to see Galan," Janet urged warmly. "Maybe you could treat yourself to a sweet from his Candy Shack."

Ann Marie hunched her eyebrows and then crooked a grin. "You're kidding right?"

"No," Janet replied. "Variety is the spice of life, honey. You should try new things."

"Yeah," Henry said with a nod. "That's right Janet...variety is the spice of life...we should always be open to new things."

Ann Marie gave both her parents a considerate glance. "I don't think filling up on sugar is a good idea, mom and dad. Besides, you've always taught me about the evils of poor eating... remember?"

Henry and Janet glanced at one another and seemed to twist inside their skins ever so slightly. Their body language in itself was quite telling, and although Ann Marie may have only been 10 years old, she was still savvy enough to tell when someone was trying to sell her snake oil.

"All children eat sweets," Henry said.

"Not diabetic children," Ann Marie countered.

"You're not diabetic," Janet almost snapped. "You're a healthy girl who needs to explore different things."

"How is junk food a good thing to be exploring, mom?"

"It isn't junk food!" Henry said too forcefully. "Gosh darn it Ann Marie, it's just a little treat. What harm is there in that?"

"God dad, calm down."

Henry took in a deep breath as he reasserted a pleasant demeanor. "I am calm, honey. I just think that perhaps you're being a little bit too different from your friends. Isn't it hard enough being skipped ahead in school? Sometimes it's important to fit in...to go with the flow...to conform."

"What about standing up for your principles?" Ann Marie argued. "Dad...mom...how many times have you told me how important it is to be true to yourself? How many times have you told me how important it is to stand up for what you believe in?"

"This is different," Janet said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "This is insignificant. It's just a bit of candy for crying out loud, not a controversial vaccination or an unjust law. We're just trying to help you fit in sweetie, that's all."

"And how will candy do that?" Ann Marie asked sarcastically. "All it will do is make me fat, and then the other kids will have something else to make fun of me for."

Henry sighed and shook his head. "Why do you have to be so difficult? Why can't you just try something different? Is it really so hard to do?"

Ann Marie flinched, surprised by the cold anger inside her father's voice. If she didn't know any better she felt he might remove the belt from his pants and give her a good sound throttling. Suddenly she did not know how to proceed for she had no wish to come into conflict with her parents, especially over something so trivial and stupid. And as she sat there gauging them for a response she could not help but wonder why they had taken on this sudden change in attitude. It was so out of character for them to act this way. And then it dawned on her, or at the very least, planted a seed of suspicion. Ever since her parents had started shopping at Pestle & Mortar, they had begun to eat their daily intake of supplements by the handful, and those gluttonous fill ups did not involve the usual kinds of things either. There were no vitamin C smorgasbords, nor glutamine picnics, but rather portable feasts of pills that had weird unpronounceable names written down in strange text symbols. Could those supposed supplements be affecting their behavior? It seemed ridiculous to the point of paranoia but when faced with the extreme change in their personalities what other option was she left to consider? Ockham's Razor pointed to the simplest explanation as being the most correct but was the change over from supermarket vitamins to Pestle & Mortar's the simplest explanation? And if it was how should she proceed? She felt that to shine a light upon this possible connection might summon an unpredictable reaction from her parents. At present her heart was beating quickly and that rhythm kept its pace not from exercise, but rather from fear. And there it was: Ann Marie was afraid of them. Never before had she felt this way, and as she sat there, feeling the pressing weight of their stares upon her, she could not help but shrink down into a posture of submission. After all, they were her legal guardians, and as such, wielded a considerable influence over her life. Such a force had never been an issue in regards to the quality of their care, at least not until this moment. They were her loving parents and as such she had always placed her trust in them without question. However, their logic in this instance was flawed and their motivation felt tilted in some sort of insane way that made her most uneasy. They were not themselves and she could not help but wonder if her mother and father had perhaps been cloned and replaced by a pair of exact duplicates. Here, when she had left the house this morning, she had done so under the watchful eye of their pleasant cheer, and now at midday, a strange shadow had taken that agreeable nature from them. Ann Marie could feel that coldness emanating from their eyes, and that iciness spoke to a cause that she could neither see nor explain.

"I'll think about it," Ann Marie said softly.

Henry and Janet eased their piercing glares to that of cordial smiles which almost passed for being genuine.

"Good sweetheart," Henry said with a wink. "Think it over."

"Yes," Janet said. "Think it over."

Ann Marie stood from the table and began to walk outside for she had no wish to remain in their presence at this moment---at least not until she had figured out what the hell was going on. She decided it would be best to put some distance between them and maybe if she was lucky, she would figure out what to do next.

"Oh...Ann Marie," Janet said in a chipper kind of voice. "Aren't you going to have something to eat?"

Ann Marie looked at her mother and offered a pallid smile. The thought that her mother may have seasoned her meal with something from Pestle & Mortar made her stomach tighten. However, that act of poisoning or drugging didn't actually make sense for why would her parents insist that she go to Galan's store and eat from the Candy Shack if all they needed to do was to spike her meal? Despite the conundrum she felt it best to forgo sustenance for the time being at least until she had time to mull over this oddest of situations. "No mom...I don't have much of an appetite right now...maybe later."

Henry and Janet nodded in unison and although they seemed pleasant enough they nonetheless exuded a sort of questionable suspicion.

(3)

Midnight came under the dim light of a near full moon while Ann Marie guarded the wee hours on an empty belly and a head full of worry. Her bedroom window lay open allowing a mild breeze to sough through the curtains. Still no relief was to be found within that wind for the humidity would not release the hot air from its tenacious grip. Such discomfort made for restless sleep and so Ann Marie was mindful to be careful lest she alert her parents with her late night prowl.

Her feet gently slid off the bed and lightly touched down upon the smooth hardwood floor. Her movement was slow and methodical, yet despite her best efforts the floorboards still groaned softly beneath her weight. However, she would not be deterred from investigating the source of what she believed to be the root of her mother and father's peculiar change in attitude. She tiptoed past her parent's bedroom, her ears listening to sounds below the gentle sigh of the wind for any hint of movement. Nothing stirred save those folds of curtains. Quietly she shuffled down to the kitchen, each step carefully weighed as it fell.

She was close now, so very close.

Ann Marie turned on the kitchen light about the stove, the one that would illuminate the room in the softest glow and carefully placed a vinyl step-stool against the refrigerator door. This was it---the moment of truth. Slowly she climbed the steps until her tiny hand could reach the cabinet doors above the fridge. But before she opened that final partition she paused on a stitch of dread. To expose that mystery would be to invite---what exactly? Surely those unusual supplements would be nothing more than a collection of inanimate compounds mixed together in specific proportions. Surely those pills would not scream in alarm if she disturbed them from their deepest slumber. Surely that special medicine would not recoil from her touch or mayhap attack her like a legion of Army Ants bent on conquest. But then what if they did just that? What if those vitamins or whatever the hell they were had a will of their own? She could not decide which fate was worse: to suffer the pain of violence or suffer the pain of losing her parents to something that corrupted the soul. She was in limbo and no path afforded her a lesser degree of misery. The road ahead was hard and unforgiving and would not yield to a good intention. Yet she had resolved herself to revealing the truth, however, sinister it might be, and so with a deep drawn breath, she steeled her nerve and then quickly threw open the cabinet door and braced for whatever horror might leap out to maim her.

(4)

The pill bottles lay stacked in symmetrical order, their labels a confusion of weird symbols that spoke to the origins of a foreign tongue. And as Ann Marie surveyed their shiny clean surfaces for any sign of deception---something to validate her concern that she might come to be under attack---she found that nothing slithered amidst the ordered pack nor pecked to get out of its tinted bottle. The collection of supplements laid deceptively docile, neutered, at least for the moment. However, her keen ears could detect a faint noise, something that resembled a weak crackling of radio static or perhaps even that of a faint serpent's hiss. Such a sound fueled her imagination with the imagery of a practical joke novelty, the type where snakes sprang out of a peanut jar much to the victim's surprise, except that the snakes inside the Pestle & Mortar bottles were alive, poisonous, and angry.

"It isn't real," Ann Marie whispered. "It isn't real."

Her hand shook as she slowly reached across the fridge-top and gently took hold of a bottle, the one that looked as though it might hold powdered glutamine, although there was no way to know for certain what lie within. And when at last she had liberated it from its perch she climbed back down the step-stool and sat the bottle easily upon the kitchen counter where she could examine it better. In the background a clock ticked softly while a neighborhood dog barked somewhere off in the distance. Yet these sounds could not censor that other noise---that subtle hissing. For a moment, she thought to place that jar aside her head so that she might hear if that pressurized sound was indeed coming from within. However, she dared not place that object so close to her face regardless of how curious she might be for the consequences if only imagined were just too awful to entertain.

She wiped nervous sweat from her palms and then readdressed the bottle with both hands. "Ok...just breathe," she whispered. "Just breathe." Slowly she cranked the cover open. The metal lid made a soft scraping noise. Three turns and the cap came off. A soft exhale of air puffed from beneath the cover like an ancient tomb released a dying gasp. An immediate sweet delicate scent touched her nostrils and she almost swooned. She felt a bit dizzy, like she had just hyperventilated into a bag filled with model glue. Yet the experience was not unpleasant but rather seductive for she longed to place her nose deep into that forbidden nook and inhale as much of that bouquet as her youthful lungs could carry. However, she abstained from such enticements for that was the nature of this prescription: to lure victims into its sensual delights and unhinge their minds from reason. After all, wasn't that what had happened to her parents? Of course it was---she needed only to prove it.

"Oh no, you don't," Ann Marie whispered in defiance.

Carefully she carried that exotic bottle over to the stove's light and adjusted the angle as to discover that hidden mystery within. There beneath the garish light of a fluorescent bulb she found---nothing---the jar was full of green, non-translucent gel caps. A sigh of relief found her lips but not without a hint of dismay for she had expected to find something unexplainable, something that could account for the change in her mother and father's attitudes. But alas, here was the common, mundane, ordinary, everyday world packaged in a glass bottle for mass consumption. There were no creatures that scurried, no snakes that hissed, no ghost like fog riding the tails of a phantom mist, there was just the familiar.

"Oh god," Ann Marie whispered. "Am I losing my mind?"

She dipped a finger into the bottle and removed a capsule, and then immediately dropped it on the floor along with the bottle and all of its contents as she gave a short but otherwise audible shriek. The soft gel capsule had breathed in the palm of her hand with a sort of nocturnal half-life, a jade cocoon lit by an ethereal glow that blossomed beneath the touch of her mortal flesh. However, such was Ann Marie's surprise that she had dropped that strange bounty upon the floor and yelped, and as a result, she could now hear the sound of feet moving upstairs en route for the stairway that led down into the kitchen. She had perhaps 30 seconds before her parents would discover what she had been up to. And so without pause she knelt down and scooped up those fallen pills and deposited them back into their bottle with a frantic effort, mindful that the ghostly jade energy that glowed deep within the pit of their hub might come to infect her.

(5)

The lights snapped on as Henry bounded down the stairs and into the kitchen. His eyes were squinting from the remnants of sleep but other than that he was fully alert. His gaze immediately found his daughter. She stood next to the fridge with a glass of water in hand, apparently no worse for wear. However, there was no relief within his eyes to have found her in good care, but otherwise a glaring accusation that questioned her motives.

"What are you doing?!" Henry barked.

Ann Marie's eyes went wide. Never before had her father addressed her in such a hostile tone. "I was getting a drink of water...I thought I saw a mouse."

Henry's eyes darted all around the floor in search of a rodent. "Where?!"

Ann Marie pointed to the door that led down to the basement. "I think it scurried under the door daddy."

By this time, Janet had also joined the excitement. "What's going on here?"

"She thought she saw a mouse," Henry grumbled.

"A mouse!" Janet exclaimed. Drugged on Galan's meds or not, Janet Holmes was still deathly afraid of mice.

"I'll lay traps in the morning," Henry said in an effort to calm his wife and daughter.

Janet shuddered for a second and then turned around and headed back to bed. Henry, however, remained in place, his attention fixated upon his daughter with an obvious vein of mistrust.

"I just wanted a drink of water, daddy," Ann Marie said in a voice that hinted at tears. "It's been so hot this summer and I was so thirsty."

Henry's attention drifted to the cabinet above the fridge and then back to Ann Marie. "Thirsty are you?"

Ann Marie nodded sheepishly.

"Then drink up and get back to bed."

She gulped down her drink in one quick toss and then began to head back upstairs. But before she had taken a step, she noticed a solitary capsule lying on the floor next to her father's foot. If he shifted but a fraction of an inch his flesh would come into contact with it and then that emerald pill would start to glow. If that happened then he would know what she had been up to. Given her parents present condition she doubted that they would ever allow one of those ethereal pills to fall upon the floor to be lost or unclaimed, so if anything was amiss or out of place then the only explanation would be that she had tampered with the capsules.

"I'll be up in a minute dad," Ann Marie said, her eyes struggling not to glance down at that fallen pill. "I just wanted to put the glass in the dishwasher."

"No," Henry objected. "Forget the glass and run along upstairs this instant."

Ann Marie dawdled briefly, trying to figure out what she should do next. She dared not leave that pill lying on the floor---the evidence would be too damning. But how was she going to get her father to go upstairs and leave her alone so that she might snatch the capsule up and put it in its place? And then an idea dawned on her. Quickly Ann Marie rushed across the kitchen and wrapped her arms firmly about her father's waste in a big hug while her foot deliberately kicked the capsule beneath the dishwasher. "Oh daddy...I'm so sorry I upset you...I love you so much...please forgive me."

Henry was never reluctant to express his affection to his daughter but he nonetheless hesitated. And in that quiet pause while Ann Marie held her ear close to his chest she listened to the beat of his heart. Did he still love her or had the glowing pills above the fridge taken that blessed gift away from her? If not, then why hadn't he hugged her back? Tears began to well up in her eyes and at that moment she felt as though she had lost him forever to that ghostly light. It was obvious that the pills were all he cared about now and not his little girl.

"Oh daddy," Ann Marie whispered in a barely audible voice. "Please come back to me?"

Henry's arms slowly folded around his daughter and in that briefest of moments she dared to cling to the hope that somehow all would be put well. But as she cradled within the hub of his muscular arms she heard something sinister stir within the pit of her father's belly. It was an elusive hissing noise like the one she had heard breathing from within the pill bottles, except this tone within her father's innards could be heard to chant just one thing over and over again: _feast._

(6)

Morning had come at the end of a long restless night. Ann Marie had not slept a solitary wink and as a result she felt terrible. Her eyes itched and her head ached and for an instant she thought to take a pain reliever to settle her woes. However, given the events these past few days she doubted that she would ever eat a pill again. Despite being tired she crawled out of bed, showered, dressed, and then prepared to face another day of anxious uncertainty. The only matter she had resolved was to disclose the bizarre details of this situation to her best friend, Tina. Unfortunately Tina wouldn't be back until tomorrow so Ann Marie would have to suffer through another day before she could relieve some of her burden. She desperately needed a sympathetic ear and a shoulder to cry upon and so Tina would have to be that friend of comfort for she had no one else to turn to. Of course she could go to the police department. However, she had no idea what she would say. _Ah yes, officer, you see my parents are acting kind of strange and I think it has something to do with the pills they are taking. Maybe you could check it out?_

The cops would probably think her parents were either crack heads or worse, that Ann Marie was being physically or sexually abused. She had no desire to see her mother and father hauled away in handcuffs and she definitely didn't want to end up in Foster Care, especially when the source of the problem obviously had to do with Pestle & Mortar's _Cures for a Rainy Day._ However, she could tip the cops off that Galan Whicker was selling non-FDA approved drugs. Although she couldn't be certain of that for sure for there was no way to read the damn writing on those awful bottles. Hell, those labels might come with a testimonial from the Pope for all she knew. No, the best thing to do was to wait until Tina got home. Then they could formulate a plan of action.

Ann Marie stood atop the stairs and listened to her parents as they cooked up breakfast. The smell of whole wheat pancakes, toast, and decaffeinated coffee set her stomach to rumbling. Yesterday she had not eaten for fear of consuming some form of that sickly green _medicine_ or _poison_ as she had come to think of it and as a result she was wholly famished. Still she was apprehensive about venturing downstairs, not only because her parents might have added some strange ingredient to her food but that perhaps they might have adopted an even odder form of behavior, perhaps something along the lines of snorting vitamins off a mirror with a rolled up 20 dollar bill.

"Ann Marie!" Janet called from downstairs. "I know you're up there. Come down and get your breakfast."

Her mother's voice sounded amicable enough and for an instant Ann Marie dared to hope that all the events of these past few days was nothing more than the byproduct of a bad dream. However, that empty cavern that grumbled within the pit of her stomach argued to the contrary. It said that it had not eaten for a damn good reason and that if she was to remain of sound mind then she would be wary of what she used to satisfy her cravings.

"Oh God," Ann Marie whispered. "Please let this...episode pass."

And with that prayer rendered, she ventured downstairs, wishing upon the kindest of expectations."

(7)

"Good morning," Ann Marie said brightly, perhaps a little too much so. "I hope I didn't cost you much sleep last night, it's just that---"

"---We're taking you to the doctor this morning," Henry interjected, his eyes never leaving his pancakes as he continued to fill up.

"But---?"

"---We're worried that you may be under too much stress," Janet added as she stared into her coffee mug. "You've been under a lot of strain lately and I think---"

"Strain?!" Ann Marie blurted. "What strain?" Of course she had been under strain, especially ever since her parents had started acting like a couple of bad actors out of an episode of "Invasion of the Body Snatchers." However, she understood her mother was alluding to another form of strain: academic.

"Being skipped a head in school has taken its toll on you," Janet continued, her eyes flashing with a subdued form of anger. "All this summer, you've done nothing but study and read those stupid fiction novels. It's obvious your mind and imagination is overworked."

"No!" Ann Marie protested, surprised by the passion within in her own voice. "You two are the ones acting strange! And it has to do with that crap you're eating!"

"Listen to me young lady!" Janet snapped. "Don't you raise your voice to me!"

"Can't you see what's happening to you?! The drugs from Pestle and Mortar...they're affecting your minds...you're not yourselves!"

"It is you, who is not themselves," Janet countered. "Sneaking around in the middle of the night...digging into our supplements...failing to rest and accept our kind advice."

Ann Marie understood that she had been caught, but it didn't matter now, the jig was up and it was time to clear the air once and for all, and perhaps by the end of this tirade, she might have her parents listen to reason. "Your advice is foolish and your guarded secret exposed as a sickness! Galan Whicker is nothing but a drug pusher and he has you two hooked like a couple of drug addicts!"

Her father bolted from his chair spilling his coffee in the process, his hand drawn back as to slap his beloved daughter. Ann Marie cringed, her face fully expecting to receive that hardest of slaps, but it never came. Henry had caught hold of that sudden rage and had settled back into his chair, his posture taut and rigid.

"Get ready," Henry said in a half-mutter. "We're going to see Doctor Montgomery."

Ann Marie stepped back from her parents, her eyes blurred by an onset of tears. She knew now that there would be no speaking to reason for they were too far gone. Her only hope now was to seek out the help and counsel of the family doctor: Lyndon Montgomery.

(8)

Ann Marie had endured the nervous car ride to Doctor Montgomery's family clinic in total silence. The only communication on that long ominous drive had been through the car's rearview mirror, in which her father had occasionally glanced back. And each time he scowled, she understood that the pills in the kitchen were continuing to change her parents into someone else. She feared that soon there would be nothing left of Henry and Janet's former identities, just a fond memory. Perhaps in time they would dwindle down into mindless zombies, their bodies nothing more than empty husks that stared at the world with eyes lit by a strange sort of green ethereal glow. The idea of that gave her a deep resounding chill. She could not let that happen---would not. When they got to the clinic, she would seek Montgomery's counsel and together with his medical expertise, they would expose the root of the problem and then fix it. However, Ann Marie already understood where the source of that woe stemmed from, and that cancer resided at none other than Pestle & Mortar Pharmacy where a man named Galan Whicker sold a sort of mystical poison to unsuspecting victims---she'd bet her soul on it. It would be to this man that she would direct her accusations and it would be to this man that she would wage her war.

The car pulled up to the clinic and parked, to which Henry and Janet promptly exited the vehicle. Yet despite wanting to avail Montgomery of his wisdom, Ann Marie nonetheless remained seated, perhaps as an act of protest towards those that would claim that she was of unsound mind. But such a stand was destined to fail as soon as she saw the determination within her father's piercing eyes.

Henry opened the backdoor and glared in at Ann Marie. "Don't be difficult. We're here and you are going inside...is that clear?"

Ann Marie felt like a prisoner. All she needed to complete the image was a set of leg irons, handcuffs, and an orange jumpsuit. Perhaps her parents had those items stashed in the trunk. Reluctantly she crawled out of the car and stared at her father searching for the man she once knew so that she might offer forth a final appeal. "Daddy...you may not believe it...but you are not yourself...neither of you are...you've changed and I think it has to do with Galan Whicker...I love you both and I want to help you...please...won't you let me help you."

"Are you going to let her defy you like that?!" Janet said in a haughty voice. "She's just a spoiled little brat that always gets her way."

"Daddy," Ann Marie said in a plea. "You once told me that a father's love was unconditional. That if I ever needed to talk to you about anything, that you would listen. Please...listen to me now."

Henry stared down on Ann Marie, his frown softening into a look of mild shock and confusion. "Ann Marie," he whispered softly, as if awakening from a dark terrible dream.

"Oh Daddy," Ann Marie said with a soft sob. "Please come back to me."

"Oh, Ann Marie...I..."

Henry bent over, his stomach beset by a sudden cramp. He placed a hand aside the car and struggled to regain his balance. The veins in his neck stood out. His face lay flushed and strained. At first Ann Marie feared her father might be succumbing to a heart attack but she soon realized that it was the poison within his innards that was tormenting him so.

"Daddy, what's wrong?!"

Henry looked at his daughter and for a second he hesitated and Ann Marie could not help but feel that his apprehension was a symptom of his undying love for her.

"Ann Marie," Henry grunted. "Baby...rrr...rrr...rrrun!"

Henry fell to his knees choking on dry heaves while Janet ran around the car as to attend her ailing husband.

"You little bitch!" Janet snarled at her one and only daughter. "Stay there and don't move!"

Ann Marie watched in horror as her mother dug into her purse and hauled out a Pestle & Mortar bottle. Janet quickly popped off the cap, filled her hand with glowing green capsules and then stuffed them into Henry's mouth. But before that ethereal poison could work its malevolent charm on her father's volition, Henry offered his daughter a look that sought not only her forgiveness, but that she heed his warning and RUN!

Ann Marie slowly backed away, tears spilling down her cheeks. "Oh daddy...no...no!"

Henry reached out to grab Ann Marie with his left arm, his left leg straining to cross the pavement in pursuit of her but it was to no avail. His right hand was clutching the car's door handle and would not release its grip to that wild beast within that sought to pursue his beloved Ann Marie. He was a man divided---split down the center---one side of his face a contorted mask of rage, the other side sorrowful and lit with a fierce determination to fight off that maniacal fiend that had possessed one side of his body.

Janet in the meantime, slapped the side of Henry's face that continued to fight the poison within him, her anger in full fury, her shouts wailing the curses of a foreign tongue: _Vastedavalo! Boonsartom! Medusmune! Losavalin!_

Ann Marie had only a second to react, and yet she could not turn her back on her beloved father, but then knew she must do so for both their sakes. The thing that grew within the dark canyons of their bellies would continue to consume Janet and Henry with its numinous ingredients until they had completely submitted to its will---Ann Marie would not fall to a similar fate---she was all they had now---all that was left of them---of what they once were---she had to flee, to escape, and in so doing, she might chance to find the means by which they could live free again---all of them---together as a family. And so she turned and set off as fast as her legs would carry her, lost for a treatment to remedy their woes but not lost for a sense of direction.

(9)

Ann Marie sat high upon a maple tree branch in a section of the woods called "The Shire." She and Tina had christened the spot a few years back while they were exploring the forest at the southern tip of Orchard Cove. It was a wonderful scenic vantage point that stared out upon the cool Atlantic, its trees a colorful mixture of pine, spruce, maple, and birch. Within the hub of this secluded meadow lay a cave of mineral rich granite. It was Ann Marie's and Tina's secret fort, the one that no one else knew about, and over the past few months they had stored a treasure trove of knickknacks within it cool depths. In an old discarded milk crate they had stuffed a dozen or so bottles of water, a few bags of trail mix, several cans of fruit, and half a bag of apples. Beside the crate lay a pair of bedrolls and a small axe for chopping kindling as well as a large box of wooden matches along with a small stockpile of candles. They had stacks of teen gossip magazines along with juvenile fiction novels for light reading as well as a framed picture of famous heartthrob Justin Bieber. All in all it was their private little sanctuary away from the noise and confusion of Orchard Cove. In the Shire, the girls could be themselves and live by their own rules, and it was to this place that they would often flee when the pressures of life felt overwhelming. At present Ann Marie was more than a little overwhelmed, she was downright terrified. Here, her parents had just tried to drag her to a doctor to have God only knows what done to her. In her mind's eye she envisioned the doctor administering a shot of some sort of glowing emerald goo into her arm by means of a rusty needle. Then she would have become just like her parents: an addict to Galan Whicker's _"cures for what ails ya."_

As the sun's demonic heat sank into the scarlet hue she weighed her limited options. Tomorrow Tina would return from vacation and once she had discovered that Ann Marie had gone missing Tina would immediately go to the Shire. But would her best friend tell anyone about their secret spot? Would Tina succumb to the questioning from her parents or mayhap the authorities? She would find out tomorrow. In the distance a dog barked and a siren warbled. Had the police begun a search and rescue operation? Were they closing in, searching through the woods? In any other situation she would have welcomed the idea of police intervention but given her current situation she wasn't sure who to trust anymore. Here her parents had devised a scheme to take her to see Doctor Montgomery and by her father's reaction he had revealed that the good doctor was also under the influence of Galan Whicker's whammy juice. So then to whom was she to place her trust? One bad cop would be more than enough to put her in danger let alone an entire precinct. No, the only person she could count on would be home tomorrow, and then together they would formulate a plan of action.

Despite the humidity Ann Marie hugged her arms for warmth. It would be a long night of waiting. She climbed down from the tree grabbed a bedroll and laid it out beside the fire pit. She then trimmed a few branches from a dying birch tree and piled them like a teepee within a circle of charred beach stones. Despite her concern that the fire might attract attention, she nonetheless set match to flame and ignited the kindling. She would not suffer the passage of night in total darkness let alone lend her fear to those hidden noises of the countryside. The fire would provide both warmth and security, and that was a luxury she was not prepared to forego. After all as far as she was concerned the entire world had just turned on her and as such she needed as much comfort as she could get.

The hours soon turned into night and the shooting stars that swept through the Milky Way were wished upon one by one. And despite that tangle of worry tied up within the pit of her stomach she nonetheless managed to settle down into a restless sleep, her faith in Tina the only thing keeping her wits afloat.

(10)

Inside the dreamscape things changed, tilted, grew dark, and menacing. The once picturesque beauty of the Shire had soured, its quaint scenic landscape fallen to that of a rotted garden. Those once tall healthy trees had tangled their trunks into helixes, their deadwood bound by a cold embrace of rigor, their knurled roots buried beneath that shallowest of graves. The crooked branches reached up towards a jack-o-lantern moon, their leaves blighted by disease and the gnawing sickly pincers of unearthly insects. In the background, frogs croaked, crickets chirped, owls hooted, and hungry bellies slithered across the wildwood's dampest of rot. Somewhere in the distance, a stream babbled curses as uttered by that of a foreign tongue: _Vastedavalo---Boonsartom---Medusmune---Losavalin!_ Ann Marie drew in a deep breath, uncertain if her lungs would indeed find air, but there it was: icy and acerbic, its odor of bitter decay. Her arms wrapped up her shivering body, her thin nightgown offering no warmth to shield her. Her hands, like blocks of ice, felt every bit as dead as those tangled trees, perhaps even more so. Reluctantly she set her feet forward across the loam, her bare toes squishing through the mud as she travelled. She had no idea where she was going, but then that was to be expected. That unseen hand at the dream's tiller always guarded its destination.

Through the snarl of deadwood, an invisible force pulled her forward and unto that forbidden hidden place where the canopy parted unto a slow meandering river whose voice was that of a sorrowful sigh.

"A river of tears," Ann Marie whispered into the vapor of her own breath.

Beyond the river lay a stark contrast where a vast desert of sunburnt hardpan stretched towards a scarlet horizon. Its presence on the dreamscape offered Ann Marie's reality a polar opposition. The barren waste gave testament to a world of torments where extremes offered varying degrees of misery. She could either, freeze or fry, take your pick. It was a morbid choice of lonely trails separated by that deadest of water.

Her eyes scanned the distance to where that demon sun torched the desolate plateau with translucent flames. It was there that a gaseous twist stirred with the purposeful movement of a man. He seemed impossibly distant, a tiny spec pressed against the everlasting horizon like a dark star, but that vast distance quickly fell away as the reverie delivered him unto the adjacent river bank with the magical thrift of a daydream. Slowly the liquid prism lifted from his image. The old man was broad of shoulder, his hair white as winter, his face stern but nonetheless compassionate. And as Ann Marie stared into his thoughtful eyes she could not help but see the shadow of twilight that would soon come to dim his eyes at journey's end. But for now he still maintained a formidable presence. And as she regarded the sum of his features she had a vivid moment of realization: she knew him as that old man from Harp Street, the kindly old gent that often sat on his front stoop, sipping lemonade while he watched the kids play baseball. But why was he here? What significance did it hold if any? Together they studied the gloomy river that separated them, each aware of the potential consequences such a swim might cost. It was here that the old man placed both hands aside his mouth and began to yell. However, Ann Marie could only shake her head and point to her ears in reply for his words were lost to the river's dirge. Hoping on a greater degree of success Ann Marie shouted only to have the old man reflect her frustration with a shake of his head. If only they could cross the river then they could talk but how could they hope to traverse such a haunted divide? They looked up and down the stream searching for a small island of stones or to a fallen tree that could be utilized as a makeshift bridge but found nothing. In the meantime Ann Marie continued to shiver while her counterpart looked ready to buckle from heatstroke. If only they could trade places for just a few moments, then things would be right as rain. And then for some unknown reason from within the river of sorrow a solitary stone emerged, its rough gray surface as dry as a sun bleached husk. Still it would not be enough to traverse the distance to the other side but it was at least a beginning. The old man had also noticed this strange phenomenon and as such regarded the girl with a curious stare that begged the question: had she done that? He pointed to her and then to the stone. Ann Marie shrugged in reply which of course was an expression of her genuine befuddlement. But then suddenly it dawned on her: this was a dream. But why then had she not awoken? Perhaps she was experiencing an episode of _"lucid dreaming_ , _"_ a state of mind where the dreamer was consciously aware of the dreamscape. She recalled that in a lucid dream, the dreamer was supposed to have complete control over their environment. But was that true in this instance? She focused on the river, mentally projecting an outcome, a row of boulders on which to place her cold damp feet. And then as if on cue those milestones floated out of the slow gliding current and set a broken path before her. Immediately she placed a foot onto the first rock, delighted to see that it easily held her weight. This act was repeated until she had skipped hopscotch halfway across the river. She paused to let her eyes find the old man on the adjacent riverbank. The stern expression on his withered face almost made her tumble into the icy waters. Why did he look so cross? Had she done something wrong? Maybe she could make him smile if she concentrated hard enough. But then no, he wasn't looking at her, he was looking behind her. She let her gaze fall back over her shoulder and it was there that she saw him.

Although Ann Marie had never been to Pestle & Mortar Pharmacy she nonetheless recognized its sole proprietor Galan Whicker as he stood on the riverbank adorned in the garbs of his profession. His thin lips moved with the easy effort of speech but Ann Marie could not hear a word he said. She looked forward noting how the old man on the adjacent bank appeared to be talking as well. It was obvious that the two gentlemen were having a conversation, but as to the nature of that verbal exchange, Ann Marie could not attest. Her ears could not claim a single word let alone the flow of their conversation. Apparently she was deaf to all language save that of the lonely river that whispered and sobbed its bitter curses to the cold: _Vastedavalo---Boonsartom---Medusmune---Losavalin!_ Yet despite that pervasive silence she could sense that their exchange was anything but cordial. In fact their altercation breathed with all the fervor of thunder and lightning. She tried to regain control over the dreamscape but to no avail. The cold imprisoned her bones, gravity anchored her feet, and the world of waking light would not release the dream's blindfold. She was hopelessly trapped upon the dreamscape and upon a border between two extremes and perhaps two opposing ideologies. Yet she would not retreat to that foul fiend's shoreline for the sorcerer in the white lab coat and round spectacles had taken her parents volition away by means of his sinister remedies. The man named Galan was not to be trusted, and although his counterpart was a stranger, Ann Marie intuitively understood that her faith was best placed within his fine care rather than that of his nemesis. But as she set to stride forward, determined to make that distant shore, a sour splash of water licked at her left ankle. She looked down, her eyes widening as she watched those provisional stones begin to sink into the river's dark gloom. Again she willed them to rise for this was her dream not theirs, but those faltering buoys continued to disobey. She turned, went to jump back the way she came, for the path ahead had been stolen out from beneath her, but her feet would not respond. The flesh upon her toes lay glued to the rock by some sort of emerald green algae, trapping her in place like a bug stuck to a strip of flypaper. A scream climbed out of her mouth as the stones dragged her down deeper, the water swiftly climbing up past her knees. The dark sightless stream was frigid, deader than dead, a great torrent of cold black blood. Ann Marie set her sight upon Galan, her shrieks of panic calling for help. But the man in the white lab coat kept to his station, his eyes crimson and insane above his fiendish grin. She sought out the old man on the adjacent riverbank to find that he was already up to his waist in the sorrowful water, his frail legs pumping for all their miserable worth against the flood as he struggled to reach her. But it was too late. Ann Marie's cries were muffled out as her head quickly sank beneath that dismal crest of the river's creeping death.

(11)

Ann Marie bolted upright in the sleeping bag. It was early, but the morning was already hot. The sun shone a vibrant yellow against the cerulean blue, its thick rays penetrating both muscle and bone. Still, there was no warmth to be found within its gaze, for the lingering remnants of that bizarre dream had not fully released its cold grip from upon her. She gasped in a breath of air while her hands anxiously wiped away that sour dream water from her face, which was in fact a layer of her own perspiration. For a moment she lay disorientated, lost to both time and place, but as her eyes focused upon the handsome picture of Justin Bieber on the cavern wall, and her nose twitched upon the faint remnants of campfire smoke, she quickly recalled that she was in the Shire and that she was also on the lam.

She collapsed back down onto the sleeping bag and covered her eyes, and for the first time since this nightmare started she began to sob uncontrollably. She mourned her parents and the life she knew as her inner most fears finally took roost. She felt lost and alone, save for her only friend, Tina. Here, she had studied hard, exercised, and gone out of her way to help others, but the world had still been pulled out from beneath her feet. This was not how life was supposed to be, not by a long shot. The efforts of hard work and upright moral behavior were supposed to be rewarded, not punished. But then this wasn't about reading and writing and arithmetic or saying your prayers before you went to sleep, this was about---what exactly? Yes, Galan Whicker had most certainly committed a crime and yes he needed to be punished. However, even an act so vile as administering illegal drugs to unsuspecting customers, to violating his medical oath, paled in comparison to the true nature of his crime for there was no drug that could reasonably explain away Henry and Janet's actions, no mere alchemy to explain their fanatical symptoms, for there was something more to their mania, something deeply sinister. So in comparison what offense was Galan Whicker truly guilty of? What act of evil had he performed against her beloved parents? Ann Marie may have been young and perhaps a tad naive, but she understood the level of complexity in regards to criminal law. In a court of law Galan Whicker would not be found guilty of pushing drugs like a common dealer. He did not push cocaine or methamphetamine let alone some bathtub synthetic drug---no---his quote-unquote _"medicine,"_ was something else, something dare she say---supernatural.

Eventually Ann Marie managed to regain most of her composure. She forced down some breakfast and took a refreshing dip in the ocean brine. The cool water had helped to clear her head and remove that self-perceived contamination of dream water from her youthful skin. By the time she crawled out of the water and dried her hair with a beach towel, the sun was standing tall to the sky. By now Tina would be home from vacation and perhaps had even heard that Ann Marie had gone missing. If that was the case then Tina would soon be on the prowl and the first place she would look would be the Shire---or so Ann Marie hoped. The only thing she could do now was to wait and pray.

(12)

Ann Marie sat within the hollow of a tree staring out across the Atlantic. Several times she had heard motion in the woods only to find that the perpetrators had been a solitary raccoon followed shortly thereafter by a procession of squirrels. The noise had pushed the heart within her chest up into her throat. It was the kind of expectation that wished on salvation and feared damnation at the same time. Suffice it to say, the stress was getting to her. She had thought it best to lay low within the tree for the hollowed trunk opened up onto the beach where she could slip down unseen and run for cover if anyone aside from Tina decided to show up. As far as she knew no one aside from Tina knew anything about the Shire, but that sort of ignorance would not evade the nose of a K9 search unit. If such a situation was to arise she had a real concern that the police dogs might tear her to pieces. At any other time this would have been unthinkable, but then given her current circumstances she couldn't be sure of anything. Perhaps the K9 unit bought its dog food from Galan Whicker, who knew.

Ann Marie suddenly tensed at the sound of approaching footsteps. This was it---that awful surreal moment of expectation where she would find either reprieve or despair. She peered out through a crack in the tree and watched the path's narrow channel that filtered into the clearing. The bushes shook gently, twigs cracking underfoot. She closed her eyes tightly and offered up a quick prayer to the Almighty. "Please God...please be Tina." Ann Marie opened her eyes and watched as the figure of a young girl adorned in a pair of denim shorts and a white t-shirt clambered out into the clearing.

"Oh Tina," Ann Marie sighed. For an instant, she almost fainted, for such was her relief to see her beloved friend. Here the hounds had not come to gobble her up nor had anything else for that matter. Tina was finally here and together they would figure out what to do in order to set things right. Ann Marie climbed out of the hollowed tree and ran towards her friend with her arms wide open. "Tina! Oh thank God, Tina! You're here at last!"

Tina looked at Ann Marie and smiled broadly. "What the heck is going on?"

Ann Marie collapsed into Tina's waiting arms, tears filling her eyes and sobs choking her throat. "Oh, I'm so scared Tina...you have no idea...please I need your...help!"

Tina hushed her best friend and massaged her back in comfort. "It's ok kiddo...I'm here now...you tell me all about it."

Tina ushered Ann Marie into the cavern and then sat her down upon a sleeping bag. Ann Marie trembled as the sum of all her fears came to roost. For the past few days she had been in survival mode, and now that her support system was here she no longer had to be strong, and as such, she had finally allowed herself to collapse under the stress. Tina would be her shoulder to cry on. Tina would be the voice of reason. Tina would make everything alright again. Tina would be her savior. And so Ann Marie vented, her words running a mile a minute in between pauses for air and heartfelt sobs. She confessed all that she knew and all that she feared unto her best friend and when at last her tale had been told she laid back down, exhausted by the emotional effort of the retelling.

"What are we going to do?" Ann Marie almost pleaded.

Tina looked down on Ann Marie and stroked her hair affectionately. "Come with me Annie...we need to go find help."

"But who can we trust?"

"My parents will help," Tina assured. "We've been away for a bit, but they'll figure out what's going on around town, and then we'll fix it."

Ann Marie took hold of Tina's hand and followed her out of the cave into the garish light of day. The sun was hot, the air a motionless vacuum stuffed with humidity, but it didn't matter. For the first time in days Ann Marie felt feather light, her burden shouldered by her dearest of friends. Together they would avail Tina's parents for help and then everything would be as right as rain again.

Tina turned to Ann Marie and wiped a tear from the corner of her eye with her thumb. "You've been through a lot...too much for one person to bear...if only you would have come away with me on vacation rather than sitting at home studying then maybe none of this would have happened."

Ann Marie sniffled and smiled. "I think this mess would have been inevitable regardless Tina. I know it's crazy, but maybe it's better that it happened this way. At least now we know something is wrong. If anything, we've got a head start and can get to the bottom of things before they get any worse."

Suddenly, a pair of large arms grappled hold of Ann Marie and hauled her up into the air inside the iron grip of an inescapable bear hug. She glanced down, her eyes catching sight of the goon's beefy Popeye like forearms that were inked with Celtic tattoos. At that instant she knew exactly who those limbs belonged to---it was none other than Orchard Cove's local sport hero, Ronnie Burke.

Ronnie was an eighteen year old high school quarterback who had the real potential to go pro someday but at the moment none of that mattered, what did was that Ann Marie was trapped inside his powerful grip. Her first instinct was to scream but she doubted that anyone would hear her so deep in the bush. Unfortunately all she could do was kick her feet and claw at those big meaty forearms on the off chance that she might secure her freedom.

"Give it up kid," Ronnie said. "You're just making it harder on yourself."

Ann Marie began to ease her struggle, not because of what Mr. Sports Star had said but how he had said it. As much as she hated to admit it that voice told the truth: there was no escape. In that moment of stark realization she looked to her best friend in the world and watched as that miserable expression on Tina's otherwise cutesy face tried to evade Ann Marie's eyes. It was that defeated face that betrayed Tina's conscience just as it had betrayed Ann Marie's trust. Now those lost deceitful eyes confessed how they had misled Ann Marie into thinking she would be safe, those telling eyes that looked awkward and could no longer hold onto her friend's gaze for the want of being seen. It was one more rug to be pulled out from beneath Ann Marie, and as her mind reeled she struggled to put the pieces of what had just happened into place. Here, not only had her parent's gone completely loco, but it was now evident that her best friend in the world had also gone over the edge. But how had Galan's sickness infected Tina? Had she not been away before the troubles began? Yes, of course she had. Yet despite being away on vacation, she had somehow managed to fall under Galan's hex as well. Here Ann Marie could have expected such a betrayal at the hands of Mr. Sports Star extraordinaire but not from her beloved Tina. But Tina nonetheless had gone cannibal and as a result Ann Marie now felt like the last sane person on earth, and perhaps she was. It was obvious that Galan Whicker had managed to alter her best friend as well as her parents and soon he would have her, too. However, deep down inside Ann Marie feared that perhaps any opportunity that she might have once had to be baptized into the Pestle & Mortar cult---like a prescription---may have already expired.

(13)

Ronnie had carried Ann Marie over a mile through the woods to a place known as "Festival Clearing." The place had been aptly named because of its wide open clearing and its history for drawing teens together as to engage in festive activities. The Clearing was the place of local legend where many generations of Orchard Cove residents could claim as part of their historical legacy. The Clearing was like a rite of passage on the path to adulthood, a place where all must pay tribute to its hallowed grounds of youthful rebellion. However, Ann Marie's connection to Festival Clearing was not steeped in rambunctious partying but rather in the desire to clean up the environment as well as make a few bucks on the side. She and Tina had often come to the Clearing to collect an assortment of discarded beer bottles to cash in at the local recycling depot in exchange for cold hard cash. But there would be no scrounging through the bushes for bottles today and Ann Marie couldn't help but doubt that she would ever do so again.

Ronnie set Ann Marie up against an enormous granite boulder that lay towards the edge of the field which everyone knew as "Festival Rock." The stone had been deposited by a glacier more than ten thousand years ago during the ice age, but over the past fifty years or so it had become a bit of a monument to graffiti---dozens of such and such loves so and so displays with a series of graduation dates.

"Stay put kid," Ronnie said in a low voice that almost sounded cordial. "There's no use running. Please don't make this any worse than it has to be."

_Any worse than it has to be!_ Ann Marie thought. _How could things get any worse?!_ And then despite her contention, they did.

(14)

Ronnie placed two fingers into his mouth and gave a shrill whistle, and as he and Tina looked around to the surrounding wood side, Ann Marie's fear escalated onto a whole new level.

"What are you doing?" Ann Marie asked. "Please let me go!"

Ronnie raised a fist and placed it beside his temple as if he were about to fly into a complete fit of rage. Instead he continued to let his eyes wander through the nearby trees searching for that which he had summoned.

"Tina, what's happening?!"

Tina closed her eyes and began to mumble: " _I can't hear you. I can't hear you_."

"Ronnie...ppp ppplease!" Ann Marie had begun to stammer and was suddenly overcome by a strong urge to pee.

Ronnie gave Ann Marie a sharp glance. "Keep quiet kid! For God's sake just zip it, okay!"

Ann Marie flinched from that response as if she had been physically slapped. And it was at that moment that she realized things were going to get much worse. In her mind's eye she could see her parents tearing out of the woods, their eyes lit by that strange ethereal glow, their mouths frothing like those of rabid dogs. Together they would swoop in and consume her flesh while Ronnie and Tina watched and that mysterious devil named Galan Whicker stood by on the sidelines, a rusty syringe in hand, his eyes lit by that same sickly emerald jade. And yet despite it all she could not help but dwell upon the old man in her dream, the one that had jumped into the river of sorrow to save her within that vivid nightmare. At the moment he felt like the only friend and guardian she had, and that if anyone could save her it would be him. But as the multitude drew forth from the timberline she knew there would be no savior to come to her rescue, especially if that lowly hero was a feeble senior citizen that liked to sit on his porch stoop and sip lemonade while he watched the local kids play baseball. No, she was completely alone, abandoned by everyone including God.

The throng consisted of at least a hundred kids ranging from elementary grades all the way up to high school seniors. Boys and girls alike, each of them fixated on the little girl who stood before Festival Rock like a condemned witch at a stake. They moved silently across the meadow beneath the sweltering heat of the demon sun, their eyes glossy and lost to some form of supernatural fanaticism. Billy Bishop led the mob and tight on his heels lay Toby Meckler and Curtis Malone, the tree-house-trio as they were known to most. The group formed a semi-circle around Ann Marie, effectively sealing her against the hard unyielding surface of Festival Rock with no means of escape.

"Behold the pitiful lamb!" Billy shouted, a bolt of spit flying off his lips. "Behold the weak one!" From within Billy's innards a loud gurgle resounded that almost sounded like an ancient curse: _Vastedavalo---Boonsartom---Medusmune---Losavalin!_ "Oh sweet misery, behold your mischievous child," he said through clenched teeth and in a tone that was little more than a whisper. Billy tossed a piece of granite from one hand to the other over and over again as he regarded Ann Marie with the bitterest of disdain. And then, as if on cue, the others reached down and also picked up stones to which they mirrored his actions with an eerie choreographed precision, as if sharing one mind, and perhaps they did.

At that moment Ann Marie realized what was coming, could feel the slow sick certainty of it. The blood inside her veins felt like heavy syrup, cold and strangled for oxygen. How had things come to this? She thought to her mother and father, but found no comfort there. She could not help but wonder if Janet and Henry would have tried to put a stop to this insanity, or would they have picked up a stone and stood shoulder to shoulder with the mob given their current condition. She thought of Shirley Jackson's 1948 short story: "The Lottery." Ironically, Ann Marie had studied that novel just last year in school. Now, as fate would have it, she would be met with a similar fate as poor unfortunate Tessie. But then that couldn't be right---could it? Surely this situation was just a bad dream. Any second now she would wake up safe in her own bed and everything would be just peachy. She would go down stairs and find that her parents were their old selves. She would wolf down her breakfast and then ride down to the lake to go swimming because it was going be a beautiful sunny day and the day after even more so. She would grow up to be a surgeon someday and heal the sick and dying. She would not succumb to an untimely death beneath the chirping songs of sparrows and the shining brilliance of summer sun. After all, kids being murdered were the sorts of things you only ever read about in newspapers. Nothing so awful could ever actually happen to her.

It was then that the first rock flew, and although it never actually struck her, it might just as well have for all the emotional damage that it had done. Here, Ann Marie looked at Tina with both shock and utter heartbreak for it had been her best friend who had cast the first stone. In Tina's brown eyes stood a dam of tears her lips a trembling ring that was stuck somewhere between a smile and a painful grimace. Tears spilled down Ann Marie's pink cheeks as those sobs she had tried so desperately hard to keep inside finally bust loose.

"Boo freaking hoo!" Billy spat with a contemptuous glare. "Look! A little baby sook! Awe, do you want your mommy?"

Ronnie Burke again raised a fist next to his head and for the first time Ann Marie could see that it was not anger that made him react so, it was an expression of a deep inner conflict. "Let's finish this!"

Billy's wide nostrils flared as he nodded slowly. "So be it then....KILL HER!"

Stones flew through the air like a barrage of deadly arrows. The sound of granite upon granite echoed off the hard unyielding surface of Festival Rock like hollow thunder, dozens missing their mark except for the ones that counted. Ann Marie fell into a limp heap within seconds, her tiny body pounded into a messy paste of broken bones and broken teeth, her little veins and arteries squashed along with the innards of her punctured eyeball. The violence was brutal, horrific, and dispensed with a kind of malice that courted an atrocity. And yet despite the severity of her beating the young girl still clung to life for it was a gift not easily discarded. But fate would not afford her a choice on that matter. She was going to be a surgeon someday but that bright future had been stolen away by a mystery that she would never live to solve.

As she gurgled on blood and labored for air she turned her one good eye upward to see the large hulking shape of Ronnie Burke staring down on her from the menacing crowd. He had yet to throw his single rock, Mr. Sport's Hero in denim pants and a plain white t-shirt, a kid that looked more than just a little confused about what he was doing---in fact, he looked hopelessly lost. Maybe in the days to come Ronnie would shake off the effects of Galan's drugs, Ann Marie thought, and then it would be his turn to bear the stony brunt from the "Lord of the Flies" rejects. But for now Ronnie was one of them, and so when he used that powerful passing arm that would someday take him to the pros---he---if anything, mercifully put Ann Marie Holmes out of her misery once and for all.

Chapter Six

A Strange Vision

(1)

Cyril bolted upright in his recliner, the remnants of a terrible dream trailing him into the waking world. For a moment he was disorientated, given over to a state of mind between two worlds, neither of which had yet to solidify beneath him. But as his eyes focused on the familiar square box of his flat screen TV and his posterior examined the well-worn pocket of his corduroy recliner he managed to leap from one plane of reality onto another. He was home. He had just awoken from a nap. The living room was a sauna of humidity. A sour paste lay like sticky toffee inside his mouth. He looked around, still a bit perplexed with his surroundings as well as to the time of day. It appeared to be dark, but then that couldn't be right. He never napped for more than an hour in the afternoon, but here the front window gave evidence to the contrary. Outside Harp Street was not lit by garish sunshine but rather basked in the amber glow of streetlights. He rubbed his eyes and then focused on the world beyond the polished glass. The night remained, its August swelter thick on both pollen and cricket songs. He grabbed his cane and stood, to which the burr in his knee replied with a sharp pinch. The pain helped to clear away the lingering cobwebs in his mind. He ambled over to the thermostat and checked on the central air conditioner's status. The digital readout flashed "Service." He would need to call a repairman. He pushed the menu button and accessed and the room's actual temperature which read: 37 Degrees Celsius---Humidity 100%. As he moved towards the kitchen, he noted that the pain in his knee felt a bit better but not by much. He pulled at his blue cotton shirt that felt as though it had been plastered to his skin with Vick's Vapor Rub. He looked at the clock on the wall beside the fridge. It was past midnight. Where had the day gone? Never before had he slept an entire afternoon let alone an entire evening away. It was probably too late to call a technician and he doubted if those slow pokes worked weekends, especially in the summer when most folks were on vacation. He imagined that even the air conditioner guys had to get away once and awhile. He pulled a phone book out of the kitchen drawer and began to flip through the yellow pages. There were several listings for air conditioner repair technicians but nothing was available 24 hours. He would have to wait until the morning. He laid the book on the kitchen table and then opened the refrigerator door. His head felt empty, used up on too much sleep. Part of him still felt tired but he knew that would pass soon enough. He would have to forward a payment of insomnia now for having been so careless as to lounge the day away with sleep. Tonight would be a long, lonely marathon of late night television with perhaps a few cold beers to while away the dead hours before sunup.

He removed a plastic container full of lasagna from the fridge. It wasn't exactly what he had a hankering for but the pit in his stomach needed to be filled. He put the lasagna in the microwave and heated it up while he fished a can of Budweiser out of the fridge. He rolled the cool can across his forehead, letting the frost sooth his burning flesh. The oven alarm beeped. He decided to eat the contents straight from the container. It would be more efficient that way---less dishes to wash. Patricia would have scolded him for such a display of poor manners but at the moment he just needed to feed the hole. Besides it wasn't like he was going to have company this late at night. There would be no point in putting on airs without an audience. He carried his meal outside and sat down on the porch swing, the plastic container of lasagna warmed his lap while the can of beer cooled his hand. It was almost 12:30 a.m. and Harp Street was completely empty. Even that whining power line that he had heard earlier in the day had called it a night and gone off to wherever such things nested when they weren't bitching about the heat. He shoveled the lasagna into his belly and then dowsed it down with the frosty beer. A belch that would have inflated a balloon followed shortly thereafter.

"Excuse me," Cyril muttered, dabbing his mouth with a paper napkin.

He turned his eyes skyward. Overhead, an almost full August moon lit up the neighborhood with a soft mellow glow that glittered off the sprinkler fed lawns like silver tears. There was no wind to sooth an old man's brow, just that thick knot of air that continued to suffocate Orchard Cove with a hot wet pillow of humidity. If only it would rain, a small shower, anything to dislodge that backed up ventilation pipe and get the Jet Stream flowing again, but the sky would not so much as depart a single drop. He set the empty container and beer can down beside the swing and peered into the darkness across the street. There used to be a high watt fluorescent spotlight that hung off a utility pole but rumor had it that some snot nose punk had shot it out with a pellet gun or a sling shot. Regardless of what the kid had used to crack the bulb the effect was still the same: darkness. Now the baseball field lay shrouded in black. The Orchard Walking Trail lost to the shadowy hedge of Harvest Lake's dense wildwood. He wondered how many kids were back in Festival Clearing tonight. He wasn't sure, but he could see several junkers parked along the boulevard.

"Teenagers," Cyril grumbled with a shake of his head. "Up to no good no doubt."

He didn't really mind that kids often partied back in Festival Clearing. The way he saw it they were out of sight and as such out of mind. The only beef he had was when they gathered at the baseball diamond beside the elementary school afterwards. That's when things could get a bit hairy. Sometimes fights would break out, and more often than not those modified cars with their undercarriage neon lights would roar to life and play that God awful thump-thump-thump music that could wake the dead. Rowdies, that's what Cyril called them, the kind of just add alcohol assholes which never seemed to be in short supply in Orchard Cove these days. However, the local teens had been pretty good lately. In fact, over the past couple of weeks, he hadn't seen one of them lurking around the ball field, not ever since that spotlight got popped out. Was that a coincidence or was it just his imagination? Maybe that high watt lantern attracted trouble the way a light bulb drew June bugs. If that was the case then Cyril himself would shoot the damn thing out next time the municipality decided to fix it. He leaned forward cupped his hands together and let his eyes adjust to the dimness across the road. The stars that broke atop the Harvest tree line rolled with the hilly terrain like a satin tapestry. _A beautiful night_ , he thought, _except for that damnable heat_. He had slept almost 12 hours today and felt like a veritable Rip Van Winkle, that or the laziest son of a bitch on the planet. He saw it as one more sign that he really was getting old and that perhaps it wouldn't be too long before he closed his eyes forever. Death was close now---he could feel its chilly breath on the nape of his leathery neck. It was the kind of air conditioner that never broke down. But that was okay, because as far as Cyril was concerned, his house was in order. Besides death was a natural part of existence. No one lived forever, not even Elvis or that juicer guy who exercised everyday and sold snake oil tonics to late night insomniacs, of which Cyril had reluctantly become a member. It was here that his thoughts turned to Orchard Cove's latest addition, Mr. "Cures for a Rainy Day." He wondered how Maude's errand had gone. Had her curiosity been rewarded, or had she come away disappointed after meeting Galan Whicker? He hoped it was the latter, not because he wanted to see Maude let down but because---and there it was again: that unfounded assumption created by a deep-rooted hostility towards the medical establishment for having failed his beloved Patricia. But then there was more to do with it other than his distrust of Galan Whicker, and it had to do with that miserable dream.

(2)

The scorching hardpan scuffed beneath the fall of Cyril's leather sandals. His feet felt like two bags of hot salty water that were near ready to burst. His thoughts felt bloated as well. His skin clung to his clothes with an uncomfortable tenacity which only compounded his misery. How had he come to be in this miserable place? He had no memory to call on. All he knew was that he was lost. He stopped atop a jut of reddish sandstone and surveyed the distance with eyes that squinted in the garish light. Nothing looked familiar to him. The everlasting cobalt sky lay poisoned by a tint of blackness, its solar furnace that of a fiery demonic eye. Across the tribulation lay a nest of gray storm clouds. He would gladly rest his flesh beneath their dull bales, but understood that the journey to reach them would prove most arduous. He leaned upon his cane while massaging his knee cap attentively. The fire beneath the plate was mild in comparison to the heat from that lashing whip of the demon sun but it nonetheless cursed like a son of a bitch. If he was to cross the desolate plateau, that aching knee would bitch and complain every step of the way, but then he had no choice. If he stayed here his bones would end up bleaching beneath that ever watchful demonic eye. And although in some distant quadrant of his mind, he knew that this was just a dream, he still could not refrain from loaning it a degree of credibility. Death felt like a real option here and given his advanced years perhaps it was. And so he set foot to heel, trudging across the barren dead lands towards that which might offer him some minor relief from the desert heat.

(3)

The trek was grueling and carried upon leaden legs. He felt as though he was heading west as if that mainstay known as direction was actually a stable concept in this purgatorial waste. Perhaps if he walked far enough he would come to a cool inviting ocean. Although he doubted that such a thing would even exist upon this barren landscape. Odds were that the best he could hope to find might be a stagnant puddle beneath a dusty rock, or the tangy guts of a cactus plant. But then those storm clouds might hold some degree of rainwater, or something that resembled it. He would find out when he got there. But as he set off along the wilderness trail he was unexpectedly taken aback by a brief flutter of motion. In a blink of an eye the vast unyielding distance across the desert fell away and left him standing upon a river's edge that bordered a deadwood forest. How had he managed to travel so far so quickly? Of course any relevance was fleeting and lost to the loopy rules of dream logic. On the ethereal plane of the dreamscape one didn't argue the small stuff or the big stuff for that matter---they just danced the jig in step with the devil's violin while trying to keep their balance. But then this dream was different. It had acute angles, pieces of concrete you could almost wrap your fingers around and enough of a sturdy foundation to let you know that things were not as they should be. Lucid dreaming was a term Cyril had read about in one of Patricia's women's magazines---an article somewhere between spicing up your sex life and a recipe for steak tartar most likely. At any rate that's what this dream felt like and that allowed his mind to accept that it was plausible to walk a hundred miles in the blink of an eye. Unfortunately at this far edge of the dead lands, the blistering heat remained. The demon sun along with its glaring eye remained fixed on his sweltering hide with a singular fixation. If only he could cool himself inside that river's dark waters, but alas, the river, like the sky, was spoiled. Something sickly polluted the torrent and the sour water voiced its misery with a chorus of ghostly sobs. The anguished notes that sang out of the current were melancholy and placed a lump within the pit of Cyril's throat, for the bitter music was of witchery and was contagious to the soul. Still his lips and tongue yearned to feel its kiss but then to wade into that darkest patch would be to invite the uttermost of despair for that sorrow was beyond redemption and dwelled in a realm outside the grace of God.

His eyes drifted west, or to where he believed west was located and to the place from which the river flowed.

"What kind of a lake made this thing?" he muttered.

The question sounded odd, even to himself, and he had no idea why he had asked it. However, that didn't stop an answer from replying.

"It stems from a garden of unimaginable magnificence."

Cyril's attention sought out the adjacent shore of that forbidden river. There was a young girl wearing a pink nightdress, watching him. However, the voice that had spoken to him had not come from this child but rather from an adult male, yet there was no man to be seen.

"It's a dream you old coot," Cyril whispered. "Nothing ever makes sense in a dream."

Dream rules aside, however, there was something unique about this little girl, as if perhaps she was tied to his thoughts by a synaptic tendril. Had he seen this child before---perhaps trailing down Harp Street on a pink bicycle? He stepped closer to the water, mindful not to trip and fall into that which would condemn his soul to the deepest shade of gloom.

"Hello!" Cyril called across the river.

The girl opened her mouth in reply but provided no audible sound.

"What?!" Cyril called, his hands cupped around his mouth like a megaphone. "I can't hear you!"

Again, the little girl's mouth opened and closed but no words came to find his ears.

For a moment he thought her a mute but soon realized that whatever sinister magic gave this river its voice, it also had the ability to silence a voice as well. But why would it do that? His thoughts raced up the river and to the source of this lonesome stretch of misery. What kind of a lake laid beyond the twists and turns of the tangled wildwood? The answer felt close to his heart but nonetheless shielded by something he could not intellectually articulate.

Again the girl mouthed something but her words were lost to the river's weeping. Cyril replied with a frustrated shrug. He noted how terribly cold she looked, but still, a part of him felt envious of her condition. The heat on this side of the river was killing him, so much so that it was getting harder and harder to stand on his feet. Soon he would pass out, and then his flesh would be left to blister beneath the demon sun's baleful eye. True, this may have been a dream but he nonetheless felt that if died here then he would die back in the waking world, too. Yes he felt his passing would be of no great loss to anyone, least of all himself, but for some strange reason he had a strong urge to keep breathing, that there was something important that he needed to do before he caught the last train out of Orchard Cove. Maybe that errand had something to do with the girl on the adjacent riverbank, the one that looked so lost and cold. If that was the case then he had better snap to it for her situation was every bit as dire as his.

Cyril and the girl surveyed the bank along the river searching for a passage of stones or a fallen tree to bridge the distance between them. There was none. Perhaps somewhere up along the path towards the river's source they might chance to find a narrowing in the channel which they could cross. However, he intuitively understood that such a search would prove pointless, for the distance to the source of this wretched water was almost infinite. It would be like walking to Pluto, or a distant star for such was the great divide between what once was and what is. And although he could not intellectually explain how he knew that he was nevertheless certain of it.

His knees wobbled slightly as he fought to keep his balance. The heat had him near ready to blackout. He needed to get across this river or else he would soon succumb to the stinging lash of the demon sun. Just then a stone emerged from within the dark meandering current which was subsequently followed by others until a path of islands spanned the full measure of the stream from one bank to the next. How had they come to be there? At the moment it didn't matter, his concern was too fixated upon the girl as she skipped from stone to stone to consider much of anything else. Perhaps when she crossed over, they could chat briefly and then trade places for a bit---she warming her bones beneath the demon sun while he soothed his burning hide amidst the cold rot of deadwood. It was at that moment when the girl was half-way across the rocky bridge that the voice he had earlier returned.

"Just like hopscotch!"

Cyril's eyes left the girl to peer into the tangled knots of deader than dead trees. A figure stood perched atop a fallen trunk of timber. The man wore black gabardine pants, dark dress shoes, and the kind of white smock a doctor or a lab technician would wear. His posture belonged to that of an elderly gentleman, his thinning hair a tuft of wolf fur, his jade eyes quick of wit and constantly on the hunt. His grin was menacing despite his seemingly docile persona, and his aura, if there be such a thing, was malevolent in nature.

"Galan Whicker," Cyril muttered. Here despite having never met the man, Cyril knew without a doubt that he had finally come face to face with Orchard Cove's newest resident pharmacist.

"Skip, skip little princess!" Galan cried gleefully. "Don't trip or else you'll slip down into the sorrow and then there'll be no tomorrow! Blub blub blub! Boo hoo hoo!"

The shrill titter of laughter that followed his remarks made Cyril's skin crawl with gooseflesh. There was something profoundly wrong with the sound of that laugh, something morally bankrupt.

"Hey there!" Cyril called with a wave of his hand, as if summoning a common stranger for direction, or a courteous how'd you do.

Galan set his gaze upon Cyril with visible contempt. "Old man Cyril got a touch of the rheumatism inside that knee of his, so says Maude Landry! Too stubborn to take a pill he is! Sad to see, but then the only thing worse than an old fool, is a stubborn old fool!"

Cyril's features grew stern as he thought to counter that statement with a cutting criticism of his own but he had more important matters to attend to. The girl was in a risky predicament and needed to be watched over lest she fell into sorrow. However, much to Cyril's chagrin, the little girl had stopped her trek across the stream and had set her attention on Galan Whicker. Here she needed to keep focus on her balance, not craning her neck backward to look upon the shape of a sinister old fiend.

"Don't stop!" Cyril shouted to the girl. "You're almost to me!"

Again the girl made no gesture that she could hear Cyril. It was obvious that the magic of the river was shielding her ears from his words, and that fact scared him deeply. There was foul work afoot this night---he could sense it in his bones like rheumatism.

"Why don't you dip your knee in the sea of Galilee!" Galan winked playfully. "And then say your prayers to a dead Nazarene!"

Cyril stepped nearer to the river, mindful of how close his feet were to the water. He wanted to run out into the stream and grab hold of the girl and drag her to safety but such an act of heroism was years behind him when he wore the skin of a younger man.

"Well now old timer! Aren't you going to save her?!" Galan laughed.

Cyril snapped a glance at Galan and bared his teeth. "Who are you?!" The question seemed asinine but he fielded it anyways, not because he wanted to hear Galan confess his identity, but because Cyril felt that that purported identity was in fact falsified. Be it either the rules of the dreamscape or a deep subconscious inkling, Cyril could sense that this Mr. Galan Whicker had no name, at least not in the context that mortal beings could understand.

"Why, I'm the ace-o-spades, old codger!" Galan replied with another round of grating laughter that no human set of vocal chords could ever hope to reproduce. "Got a crown laden with thorns and a devil with horns, I do! Bang! Down goes the drum fist! Bang! Down goes the drummer! Ace-o-spades with a royal court all in line, oh my! I am the Travelling Man, Carrion the keeper of the grave, and a list of others you have never heard before you senile old man!"

"What are you?!" Cyril yelled, noticing that a frightened quaver had crept into his voice. There was something very familiar about this Galan Whicker---he felt that he had indeed met him before, many times as a matter of fact.

But where and when?

Galan stopped laughing and stared at Cyril so sharply, that Mr. Emery felt the cold from across the river crawl up his toes and into his skull. Despite the sweltering heat of the demon sun the chill was not the welcomed experience he had hoped it would be.

"Keep on your side of the river, Legacy," Galan growled in a voice that sounded more like a wolf's snarl rather than a man's ire. "Your ancestors have no chip to play in this game...these matters don't concern you or your bastard clan, so be off! Go die already and let me have those spoils which are owed to me! _WHICH ARE OWED_!

Cyril almost blundered into the water to grab hold of the girl but he stopped short. He needed to keep Galan preoccupied, to keep his attention off the girl lest Whicker somehow cast her into the sorrow. "What are you talking about? What ancestors? What is owed to you?"

"Oh how quickly they forget! Go back into your dead lands, Legacy," Galan replied. "Go back to the dead city and bide your time until the hour falls low. What's left of your miserable soul is all but used up and your bones are ripe for the grave. You've already had your chance to claim this turf, but you've failed over and over and over again. Do yourself a favor, Child of Eden, and turn away...just turn away!"

Suddenly the stones in the river began to sink. The girl was being pulled down into the sorrow, her feet anchored to the stones by a thick snarl of green algae that had just now crept out of the metamorphic rock.

"Jump!" Cyril shouted at the girl. "For the love of God, JUMP!

"Look away Child of Eden!" Galan spat, as if the name tasted sour within the pit of his frowning mouth. "She's mine as they all are, so look away!"

Cyril had no intention of looking away, especially when a child needed his care. He watched in horror as the cold dank water swiftly wrapped around the girl's delicate feet and slid up past her ankles. If he jumped in after her, he too would be consumed by the river's enchanted spell, but he could not stand idly by and watch as a child was dragged into an eternal death. His conscience would not abide that, dared not! And so with no choice afforded him, save one, he threw down his cane and boldly rushed into the water after her.

(4)

The river was penetrating cold. However, it was not the temperature that gave him pause but rather the emotional fallout spawned from the sour depths of the river's sorrow. Within the hub of his thoughts a great many hardships had suddenly come to bear, flashes of vivid memory that threatened to drown him just as easily as the frigid water that flowed up and around his waist. In his mind's eye the past breathed with morbid splendor as it staggered down memory lane. His old childhood dog named Patch, scampered across the road, its tail wagging as it blindly rushed into traffic. The squeal of car tires was as shrill as Patch's final yelp and every bit as heart rending as it had been 60 years ago. He could see his first love, Maude Shirley kissing the boy that would someday be her husband, Harold Landry, out behind the high school bleachers. His heart had sunk into despair that day and here within the cold dank water of the sorrow, that deep cut was reopened and experienced with all its bitter misery. There was an RCMP officer standing in the doorway of his house on Harp Street telling him and Patricia that their beloved son, Daniel, had been killed in a fatal car accident. He could hear his wife's screams as she fell onto the floor wailing in grief. He could see his son's casket, the one that had been sealed shut because his face had been smashed beyond repair. And then there was that final parting of ways with his dearest of friends, the day his loving wife had fallen to the cancer that had eaten her up inside. So too had he watched her casket being lowered into the ground, so too had he cried over her remains as he had with Daniel's, and so too did he wail as he charged into the miserable current after the little girl that was being pulled down into her death. But he would not ease his step for lack of courage, and so he bet all he had that he could make it right. He was old, used up and bound for the boneyard, but he still had one last battle to wage. He would not fail her---dared not.

The water's frigid bite threatened to throw him into cardiac arrest but still he reached for the girl, his wrinkled hands struggling through the frozen water until they had at last clasped onto her pajamas. He strained with all his might, fighting the tears in his eyes and the fatigue in his muscles, but the girl's weight felt infinite, as if she had fallen into a cosmic black hole. And as they sank together into the abyss his eyes caught hold of Galan Whicker one last time. It was a sight he would have rather gone without. The miserable bastard stood upon the water just as Christ had done two-thousand years ago, except that this miracle man who claimed he could cure rainy days had no intention of saving anyone. Instead, he simply giggled that weird little laugh of his while muttering an ancient dialect that sounded as though it was being spoken by a demon's tongue.

(5)

The night took on an uneasy chill as Cyril reflected on the awful dream that had been. Had that girl fallen into despair in this world as she had in the other? It seemed a ridiculous notion but as he sat beneath the bold face of an August moon he felt that the girl, of which he had only ever seen in passing in this reality, may in fact be in some sort of trouble. Was it just a hunch or perhaps a supernatural anomaly that had him feeling so? If it was daybreak his thinking would have been more rational, but in the thick haze of a humid summer night---well---things felt tainted on a strange sort of dark magic. Besides if the girl was in trouble what could he hope to do about it? Go around the neighborhood and put up a bunch of signs asking the public if they had seen the girl in his dream? Now that would be downright crazy and the kind of thing that was apt to have him thrown into a padded cell. But still he felt he should do something but the problem was what that something was. Here he didn't even know the girl's name let alone where she lived, so what was the point worrying about it? But he was worried and he could not shake the feeling that something awful had happened to the pretty little thing in the river, something horrendous.

An uneasy laugh escaped him. "Stop your fussing you old fool. It was just a dream. You're going senile."

Yes he was obviously crazy, there was no doubt about it, yet he could not dissuade that sense of anxiousness. It was in his bones like rheumatism. Back in the day when his son Daniel had been killed in a car accident, Cyril had also had a similar feeling to the one that he was having right now: a sense of impending doom. The girl was in danger he would bet his soul on it, but there was nothing he could do about it. He tried to dismiss that concern as a symptom of his ongoing paranoia about the medical establishment. The vision of Galan Whicker had no doubt been a creation of his subconscious which in fact was a manifestation of his anger towards the drug industry that had failed his beloved Patricia by allowing her to die of cancer. The river was probably an expression of his anguish while the hellish purgatorial desert was most likely symbolic of his loneliness. But what about the girl---what facet of his subconscious did she represent on the dreamscape? He couldn't figure that one out. However, regardless of her enigmatic presence he had to convince himself that the dream was just a case of his brain exploring his sorrow and nothing more because if he could do that, then he could dismiss his fear for the girl as just an unpleasant remnant of the dream. He was the worst kind of fool---an old fool. Here, he was demonizing a man whom he had never even met, a man that had charmed the community with nothing but good deeds and genuine attentive care. This Galan Whicker was most likely a saint, and here Cyril had turned him into his own self-appointed antagonist. If Patricia was still alive she would have been disappointed with her silly husband's self-righteous judgment of another, a character flaw that always courted hatred and fear instead of peace and love. She had said he was a good Christian man but nothing could have been further from the truth, and in that realization he understood that perhaps his house wasn't in as much order as he had previously thought. Obviously, there was still work to be done, fences to be mended, forgiveness to be asked. It was here that he asserted what it was that he must do, and that was to go see Galan Whicker, shake his hand and welcome him to the community. That would settle this nonsense once and for all. Then if the good Lord should see fit to call him home then he could stand before the Almighty's throne with one less sin to confess.

He grabbed his cane, stood, placed a hand upon his stiff lower back and rolled his head loosely upon his shoulders. It was going to be a long night. Maybe if he was lucky he would be bored to sleep. One could always hope. A faint breeze blew in from the woods. It was the first of its kind in months. Cool and seasoned with that recognizable scent of summer's end, a fragrance that tasted a bit like wet lavender with a delicate hint of brine. But then there was something else mixed in with the aroma and it too was familiar: it was the acrid perfume of tobacco.

A spot of red-orange light glowed beside the Portland Trail, the telltale sign of a cigarette ember. Someone had just taken a drag off their smoke and the subtle breeze had carried its flavor up onto the front porch. It was an almost exotic scent, a compliment to the night, and stirred the desire within his nicotine tarred lungs to light one up. The fingertips on his right hand felt the breast pocket of his cotton shirt. Inside nested a package of no filter Diamond Backs along with a zippo lighter that his deceased son Daniel had given to him years ago as a father's day present. Part of the reason Cyril had never kicked the habit had to do with that particular gift, that if he quit smoking then he would nullify his late son's present. It was a foolish notion but then the heart wasn't known for its brains but rather its sentimentality. He opened the pack of Diamond Backs, propped a cancer stick between his lips and then snapped open the zippo's chrome lid. His thumb rested upon the well-worn flint preparing to spin the wheel and make a spark when he suddenly paused. For some reason he felt the person across the street was manipulating him into sparking up a bud. But then that was ridiculous---wasn't it? After all, having a smoke was a perfectly harmless activity to engage in, at least in this regard. Besides, every smoker knew that seeing someone else spark up was like watching someone else yawn: it was contagious. It was a visual cue that was in itself an extension of human empathy, at least that's how psychologists explained the urge to copy the actions of another. Besides he had just had a big feed of lasagna and his personal addiction needed little if any prompting. His habit was well established, of that there was no secret. However, he had a weird feeling that the smoker in the woods across the street was messing with him, pulling his strings by making him crave that which he craved at the best of times: a nice smooth drag. Yet he felt defiant for some unknown reason, and as such, placed the cigarette back into its package and then pocketed the zippo in protest. Sure he would feed that hunger soon enough but when he did it would be his own decision, not a case of monkey see monkey do.

He took a deep breath and before he knew it, he had climbed down the steps and out onto the lawn until he stood on the curb which overlooked Harp Street. On the pavement he noticed a series of chalk lined squares with various numbers scratched within their center boxes. It was a hopscotch pattern and the sight of it made him reflect once more on that terrible dream. Had that little girl scratched this pattern upon the road? A vision of those turtle back stones came to mind, the ones that had constructed a bridge of islands across the river of sorrows. Perhaps he should skip from block to block until he crossed over to the elementary school yard playground lest he fall into some sort of blacktop-river of sorrow. Of course his bad knee would never allow it, not to mention that such an act would surely prove that he had clearly gone senile. He looked across the road. The cigarette's floating ember remained fixed in space, a tiny signal beacon in the night. Once more the craving stirred within the pit of his lungs. He longed to feed that hole with a taste of sweet tobacco. Surely a small puff would calm his nerves and settle the night down into something a little more natural. But he nonetheless ignored that urge and instead set foot onto the street and casually sauntered over to the playground.

(6)

Crickets chirped while the dying grass crunched underfoot. The summer's scorching heat had taken its toll on the lawn but according to that subtle breeze that had crept up onto the front porch tonight its reign would soon be at an end. In a few weeks the rains would come and in a few months the snows would fall. Time on this wrung of the birthday ladder moved on swift feet. But those things were the last things on his mind right now, what he wanted to know was the identity of the person behind the glowing ember, the guy that had tried to influence---no---to tempt him into sparking up. And there it was once again: that crazy notion that courted not only paranoia, but also senility. As he sauntered along he began to wonder if perhaps he might be looking for a confrontation of some sort. And if so: why? The idea gave him issue to pause and to reexamine the situation. Never before had he been like this. Never before had he looked for the worst in people. What was happening to him? Was he becoming a cranky old asshole? Or was it more than that---perhaps a symptom of senility?

Beside the Portland Trail the shadowed figure patiently waited, their torchlight ember rising and falling in slow lazy arcs, from lips to waist and back again. What was Cyril going to do when he encountered this individual? Ask for some identification or perhaps ask him if he had seen the girl in his dream? The only thing he knew for certain was that he had already come this far, and as such, he had to keep going. To tuck tail and return to the house now would somehow seem rude. The stranger was well aware of his approach and was no doubt waiting on him at this point, so to double back now would no doubt prove to be a social faux pas of some sort. And that was when Cyril recognized that he had indeed been manipulated. Yes he had not sparked up a smoke when prompted but he had crossed the street when subliminally beckoned. With that understanding he figuratively threw in his hand and tapped a cigarette out of the pack and lit it up. He was already in for the proverbial penny so why not go good on the pound. The no filter smoke filled his lungs and fed his need as the dopamine in his brain softened the world.

Cyril eased his gait and stood in place a few meters off. The person was standing at the forest edge where the ashen moonlight could not penetrate the canopy of trees. It was too dark to see their face let alone much of anything else.

"Top of the evening to ya," Cyril said as he exhaled a cloud of smoke. "Sure is warm, isn't it?"

The sight of two glowing embers was the immediate reply.

Okay you old coot. What you're seeing is two teenagers hugging. Both of them are smokers and they both have a bud between their lips. You probably caught some lucky little punk getting his pecker polished by his girlfriend until you came along and interrupted, so why don't you just haul your bony ass back to the porch, and let these two love birds finish their business.

He went to turn on his heels when he noticed that both embers suddenly flickered out and then came back again. The embers had blinked and then moved to the left in perfect unison. His heart began to drum hard which was a very bad thing for a man with high blood pressure. All of a sudden the crickets and bullfrogs fell into an abrupt silence, and for a moment Cyril thought that perhaps he had gone deaf. But that assumption was short lived when the sound of buzzing filled his hairy ears like mechanical bees. The noise reminded him of those power lines that had bitched and whined about the heat earlier in the day, except that this electrical hum had something articulate to say.

" _Look away child of Eden! Child of Eden look away!"_

The raspy voice made Cyril's ears itch and his teeth vibrate.

" _The herd has been marked for slaughter and the beast shall have its fill! So look away!"_

A strangled bit of laughter sung in harmony with a shrill scream that leapt out of the dark, a sound so vile that it almost sent Cyril into cardiac failure.

" _We'll not warn thee or thy clan of mutton again! So look away!"_

Cyril tried to flee, to pull his feet off the ground into a flat out run but they were hopelessly rooted in place. It was here that the smell of cigarettes returned, not from the butt he had loosely planted between his trembling lips but from the thing with the red ember eyes. Except that this time there was something else mixed in with the aroma, something both wonderfully sweet and horribly rotten within the same penetrating breath. It had crawled up Cyril's wide nostrils and into his brain like a fat slimy earthworm where it burrowed deep down into his panicked thoughts with parasitic efficiency. Whatever this violating force was it seemed intent on looking for something specific, searching through Cyril's memories like a thug ransacked an office for cash. Then as quickly as the intrusion came it was gone, a thief in the night that had made off with a handful of jewelry. But as for those molten eyes they continued to stare, to hate, and to burn with a fury that rivaled the fires of Hades. If only those scarlet sockets would look away then perhaps he might be able to break the paralysis that had his legs anchored to the playground. However, those burning spheres would not let him go and so he remained fixed in place. At this point the front porch may have been a trillion miles away, or the distance between Heaven and Hell as the angel flew. It felt impossibly out of reach and foolishly lost to that of a poor decision. If only he had stayed by the house then he wouldn't be in this predicament, although that conclusion was far from an absolute certainty. As far as the front steps were concerned they were hardly a strip of hallowed ground and even if they were Cyril had a feeling that the thing with the bright magma eyes wouldn't have given a damn if they had been. But then the figure in the dark had said to " _look away_ ," and that statement alone did not convey an element of finality, but rather a stay of execution. After all, the lion did not negotiate dinner with the lamb, it just fed the hole. Still there was no guarantee that he might not end up as mutton for the hound. Mayhap those molten eyes might have a change of heart, (if they had a heart) and decide to forego the trouble and just off the old codger.

"Who are you?" Cyril had barely been able to croak this since his throat felt stuffed with dry sand.

" _I am the servant of the one true power,"_ the figure replied. _"I am the steward in the Garden of Lions and I speak to you on behalf of his authority, so hear me when I say, look away child of Eden!"_

Just then a waxy hand wrapped in decaying flesh reached out of the darkness and into the ashy glow of the August moon. Its bony fingers floated silently towards Cyril with preternatural grace, where they lifted the cigarette out from between his tense lips and carried it back to its own. As a result there were now three embers adrift in the shadows: the two molten eyes followed by the cancer stick's burning tip. The ember brightened and crackled as the heat burnt away that tight swath of tobacco within the rolled paper as the thing with the rawhide hands took in a deep drag. It was here in that all too brief lick of light that he saw a hint of the thing's hideous face.

Its nose was hooked like a squid's beak and had a thick shell that resembled the texture of a horse's hoof. A spear shaped jaw hooked upwards towards that talon of a nose so that if seen in silhouette would appear to be a giant set of jaws. Its face was a rough uneven hide of dark snake like skin, its mouth a slanted grimace filled with a set of jagged decaying teeth, its ears elfish in appearance and barbed with a wreath of black quills. The thing was a beast of the wild, but Cyril knew intuitively that its tainted hooves had not been born on a distant shore nor had they ever roamed the common wildwood. This fiend was the spawn of another dimension and perhaps owed its creation to the very pit of Hell itself. And yet despite its grotesque form it seemed to revel in its gruesome nature, for it wore its skin as comfortably as a swan wore its plume, for had it not willingly exposed its face to the firelight? Yes it had. And be it either an act of intimidation or a means to validate its claims, it had nonetheless exposed its vanity in the doing.

As the ember's glow dimmed the vile features shrank back into shadow. The beast then dropped the cigarette onto a patch of bare ground where it twisted out the butt with what might very well have been a claw. Then, almost playfully, the fiend winked at Cyril, and although he could not see the foul thing's hideous mouth---thank goodness---he intuitively understood that it had just smiled at him. And then with that sour bit of business transpired, the beast tucked its tail and streaked off into the woods with inhuman speed, an evil spirit of the forest that cackled and howled and sang like a raving loon as it disappeared from sight.

(7)

Once the beast was gone Cyril's ability to move had returned. He walked back past the hopscotch pattern and up onto his front steps where he sat on the porch swing and tried to wrap his thoughts around what had just happened. What was he supposed to do now: call the police? Go to the church and pray? Buy a 50 caliber rifle? Nothing seemed to be a viable option in the face of such an absurdity. But then he had already been told what to do, just as he had been in the dream, and that was to _"look away."_ It was a simple demand but nonetheless difficult to abide. To _"look away"_ would be a choice of cowardice, not to mention that it also rang of a certain degree of moral corruption. To _"look away"_ was to deny one's sense of justice by willfully tolerating an act of evil to befall another. Yet despite his wish to be valiant in the face of such darkness, he found it was a task not easy in the issuance. He wasn't exactly a spring chicken anymore. He was 77 going on 78 with high blood pressure and a bum knee to boot. His days of charging to the rescue let alone battling a supernatural entity had long since fallen behind him. If anything, he was ready to lie down in a silk sheet casket and call it a day.

The sick image of the beast's distorted face visited his memory. Who in their right mind wouldn't be afraid of such a hideous creature? Hell, even John Wayne would have shat his pants if so confronted, so what the hell was Cyril Emery supposed to do? He was to look away---that's all---just look away while the steward of the Garden of Lions took what was owed to him.

He covered his eyes and sighed heavily, mindful that the old heart within his sallow chest was still beating hard. There would be no sleep tonight, not that he needed it. In fact, he would probably be awake for the rest of his life, however long or short that stretch might prove to be. At present, he was just shy of being food for the hounds and in a little while he would be food for the worms. Death was closing in and soon it would take its fill regardless of whatever quality he was prepared to pay forth. His wrinkled hands dropped down between his knees in a gesture of surrender. He felt old and useless, and as such, felt apt to do as he was told. Despite his previous assertions on the matter, breathing was a tough habit to kick. He once again surveyed the forest across the street wondering where that miserable brute had gone. Hopefully back to Hell if there was any justice.

"Well, child of Eden," Cyril mumbled. "Will you look away?"

But then what was he supposed to look away from? What had the thing meant when it spoke of his clan? Nothing made sense. He knew the beast obviously had a connection to the man-thing named Galan Whicker, the purported miracle maker that sometimes called himself the Travelling Man and Carrion to name a few. He reflected on his prior assertion that Galan was trouble. Had it been a matter of instinct that had told him so, the way his dream may have been a precognitive event? Or had they met before in a previous lifetime or mayhap somewhere else? It seemed impossible, but also probable for they had met on the dreamscape where for that foulest of beasts had entered into his thoughts as easily as it had come into his neighborhood. Maybe it had visited with him in the past in another form, or mayhap, upon some other long lost forgotten dreamscape. Of course there was no way to be certain when all he had to go on was just theories. At present the only solid proof he had about anything was that his previous suspicion of Galan had just been validated by these recent events. The man was not a man but something else, something sinister which also meant that Cyril was caught up in a supernatural phenomenon. But then there was also another terrible fact to contend with: the girl in his dream was very much in trouble, and that was no theory. Given the existing evidence it was obvious that the pig had done something dreadful to the girl, of that Cyril was most sure, and as much as he may have wanted to help her, he could not deny that sickening feeling inside his guts that said that the child was already dead. In that regard Cyril felt as though he had somehow failed her even though he had no way of knowing what would happen to her. Still despite knowing better he nonetheless felt guilty over her demise and more than a little bit pissed off at the Travelling Man or Carrion for having taken her. After all she was an innocent and no child should ever have to bear the devil's fangs, especially when there was a ripe old morsel like Cyril to feed upon.

"Child of Eden," he whispered absently. "Look away."

Current circumstances gave him nothing to go on, just a warning to _look away_ and at this point that advice was beginning to sound more and more reasonable. It seemed to be the path of least resistance but a trail nonetheless worthy of a coward. Here he was drawing in on the end of his days and yet he could not commit to the grand finale. It was true: death was always close when you moved in seniors' circles, a constant companion that tracked you like a cold dark shadow. It was the hard reality you had to accept, the one that spoke to the inevitability of life. But that proverbial specter of death was nipping at Cyril's heels now and despite his purported acceptance that life had a sequence that had to be followed he found he had no desire to fight the inescapable but rather to run from it. At last check he had a monster watching over him and if Mr. Emery didn't _look away_ then he would feel the demon's teeth across his jugular. But what else was he supposed to do in regards to such matters, and to whom could he turn when confronted with such a crisis? It seemed there was no one to talk to, no one with whom he could seek counsel, not even his beloved Maude.

And so he sat, staring into the night, lost as to what he was or was not supposed to do next.

Chapter Seven

Cryptex

(1)

Maude had been working on the cryptex for hours and yet despite her best efforts she had not been able to unlock its secret. There were only seven letters in the code sequence but the mysterious word had eluded her ability to decipher it. Of course the word in question might have belonged to a foreign language, in which case she would probably never figure it out. But for some reason she felt the password was of English origin. Yes Galan had said that he had acquired the trinket while in Spain but that didn't mean the puzzle box had been crafted there, so as far as Maude was concerned there was still a fair chance that she might be able to solve the riddle. And so she continued to tinker with the tumblers, arranging the letters into words that sounded appropriate for the task at hand---words such as vaulted, lockers, secrets, mystery, puzzles, riddles, and many others with equally relevant meaning. However, she had yet to claim any degree of success and as the long hours climbed past midnight she began to surrender to the fact that perhaps her meticulous search would yield nothing, save a case of insomnia and a deep rooted frustration. If only she had a clue, some hint that she was indeed searching in the right direction. But as for the cryptex's casing, while beautiful, it offered little in the way of insight into its elusive key code.

She sat up from the chair and carried the device into the kitchen where she poured herself a tall cool glass of lemonade. In this section of the house she could feel a bit of the current outdoor humidity. It was a sobering sensation that reminded her of just how hot the summer was, and so she paused to give thanks to Jesus for having been so blessed as to own a central air conditioner. After offering her prayer to the Almighty God, she carried the drink along with the cryptex back into the living room, except this time she opted to take a seat behind her grand piano as opposed to sitting in her favorite reading chair. For years she had taught music lessons part time from out of the house, back in the days when she wanted to earn a little bit of mad money. As for the present the piano mostly served as a decorative furnishing. However, on rare occasions Maude would sit before the ivories and plink out a tune in an effort to unwind. She found the music to be therapeutic as it helped to distract her concerns and ease her stress with each passing note.

She sat the glass of lemonade upon a coaster atop the piano and then set the cryptex next to it. Upon the instrument's music stand lay one of her favorite musical compositions: Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata." She fanned out her fingers in a stretch and then placed them upon the appropriate positions as indicated on the sheet music. She was a bit rusty but after playing through a few bars she had loosened up to the point where she could have almost passed for a genuine prodigy. The music soothed her nerves and helped to clear her head of seven letter words, especially that most miserable seven letter word of them all: cryptex. She was tired and ready to turn in and as the Sonata wound down to its inevitable conclusion she resigned herself to calling it a night. The puzzle box had taken its toll on her faculties and she felt she would probably dream of constructing words from letters all night long. However, what happened next not only woke her up completely, it also scared the hell out of her.

(2)

Maude jumped to her feet and bumped the stool over onto its side, effectively knocking the sheet music from its stand and spilling the lemonade onto the floor. The rich exquisite music from the grand piano had been so loud that she had not heard the buzzing noise coming from inside the cryptex. But there it was humming like a cellphone set to vibrate, its ivory casing drifting ever so slowly across the varnished surface of the baby grand. She thought to reach out and touch it but she feared the puzzle box might release some sort of--- _thing_ that would lurch out of the ivory husk and attack her hand. Her first instinct was to call for help but who was she supposed to summon in regards to such a strange phenomenon? Should she call Cyril, Galan, or the police? Neither choice felt relevant to the situation, at least not so late at night. Here, Cyril was probably sawing logs for the paddock and Galan Whicker was most likely doing the same thing. As for the police, how was she supposed to justify this type of an emergency? Why they might come to the crazy conclusion that the cryptex was in fact a bomb. But then something occurred to her, something that courted a simpler explanation: perhaps the cryptex was in fact, a cellphone disguised as a puzzle box, a clever ruse that would allow Galan to call on her at his convenience. And although that option seemed to be the most reasonable she could not accept it for such an act would be ungentlemanly and thus unworthy of Galan Whicker. He was not a boudoir rogue, he was a saint. But then even if the puzzle was a cellular phone it would be inaccessible seeing as the cryptex was locked up tight. No, there would be no receiving phone calls without entering in the seven letter key code. Of course the idea of the cryptex being a disguised cellphone was a ridiculous notion, but such conjecture was critical to Maude because the logical part of her mind needed a sensible explanation. However, when faced with the option of providing a scientific explanation for that strange buzzing noise her mind kept coming away empty. In fact the only thing that she could think to do at the moment was to pick the damn thing up. After all there had to be a reasonable answer to this conundrum, perhaps even an answer that could be spelled with seven letters. And so she steeled her spine and slowly extended her hand toward that droning object that continued to rattle across the top of her baby grand like a sex toy vibrator. The breath within her lungs lay sealed beneath her pursed lips while the heart beneath her bosom set its pace to a quickened rhythm. Her fingers drew closer---reaching---near enough to touch it---and then, as suddenly and as unexpectedly as it had begun, the vibrating stopped. Was it a trick---something to lull her into a sense of misplaced security? She dawdled, contemplated her options and then decided to conduct an experiment. She set her hand upon the piano keys and lightly plucked out a few notes from Beethoven's Sonata. The result was immediate: the cryptex once again began to vibrate. She stopped playing, and as the notes settled down into silence, so too did the puzzle box's vibration. _How peculiar_ , she thought, and again set off to play the Sonata if only to test an emerging theory. Once more the cryptex replied with the exact same buzzing and then settled down shortly thereafter when she ceased playing. After repeating this experiment a dozen times or so she was left with the inevitable conclusion that the cryptex was in fact reacting to the music. But why was it reacting to the melody and more importantly how was it reacting? The puzzle had exhibited modern technological attributes but yet it was ancient, and as such, could not contain those contemporary ingredients known as electronic motors or magnetic gyroscopes. However, the cryptex might very well contain a tuning fork, in which case, the vibration was merely reacting to a specific resonating frequency. It was the best argument that she could provide and the answer also offered her the greatest degree of comfort. It was a simple explanation steeped in good old reliable science and that was what she needed at the moment---practical application, not magical application. And so she picked up the cryptex, confident that the device would not claim her hand or do her ill-harm in any way and once again set to the task of ciphering through potential words.

"It's a music code," Maude whispered into the loneliness of her empty living room. "The word has to do with music...but what is it?"

Her fingers rolled the letters, spelling out different seven letter words that related to musical terms: Soprano---Octaves---Allegro---Andante---Cadenza---Cembalo---Clarino---Prelude---Vibrato---and then it dawned on her---the cryptex had performed a duet with the piano, and as such, it had sang in---H-A-R-M-O-N-Y!

The cryptex lock clicked open.

(3)

Maude's hands trembled slightly as she smiled upon the cryptex with a sense of deep rooted satisfaction. She had worked long and hard to crack this nut and had thus been rewarded for her efforts. Still she harbored a strange sort of uneasiness that spoke to the feeling that perhaps the cryptex had solved her rather than vice-versa. However, she would not be dissuaded from discovering that unknown country. The riddle that begged the question held its answer within, and all she had to do was but open the case to claim it. And yet despite being so close to solving that final curiosity she nonetheless dawdled on a hint of apprehension.

"Come now Maude...cowards never prosper," she muttered.

She drew in a breath and then eased the cryptex open. A sweet floral scent wafted out of the puzzle box, a smell that put her mind of apples. Here the box did not contain a desiccated husk aged on centuries of rot, but rather housed the sort of pleasantness that denoted an agreeable discovery. But before her eyes could interpret the cryptex's contents she could not help but think: _I have smelled this scent before, but where have I smelled it._ Such speculation fell to the wayside in favor of the tiny scroll within the box's ivory nook, its parchment tied about the equator by a thin band of faded leather.

Maude set the cryptex beside her on the piano bench and carefully eased the faded yellow paper from its singular bookshelf. The scroll felt like dead snakeskin, frail, yet resilient. She sat the document beside the puzzle and delicately freed the bowed knot with a series of gentle tugs. Her conscience argued that the right thing to do would be to hand over the potential landmark discovery to a group of professional restorers at a museum, lest she inadvertently destroy or damage it by an act of careless mishandling, yet her curiosity would not allow it. Besides, Galan had given the cryptex to her and no other. It was a gift and she alone deserved the rewards of her efforts, and the only appropriate payment that she would accept would be that of the cryptex's treasure.

She laid the thin twine of leather down and then placed the scroll upon the baby grand's music stand. Slowly she unfurled the manuscript, careful as not to tear the ancient parchment. The material rolled smoothly, its thin delicate surface remarkably pliable considering its immense age. She watched eagerly as the rectangular script unraveled its mystery before her keen eyes. And as the document exposed its characters to the modern age of artificial light, Maude could not help but think about how fitting this piece was to the occasion. After all what better place could there be to expose a musical composition other than the sheet music stand of a baby grand piano? Surely such a pairing of music and instrument owed its inspiration to fate, for the years had carried the tune to a place where its silent voice could at last be realized.

(4)

Maude studied the G clef along with the collection of musical notes that dotted the faded manuscript from top to bottom. It was a composition that resembled no other, in that its structure seemed to follow no relevant pattern. However, there was something else that didn't add up: whenever she tried to recreate the melody within her thoughts, she couldn't. Here, she had been playing piano for years---was well versed in the reading of sheet music---and yet she could not carry the tune within her own thoughts. How was that possible? It wasn't because at the end of the day, a G note was a G note and a C note was still a C note. She knew their tones implicitly and yet when she read those old familiar tones from this parchment she was unable to recall where their pitch was in relation to both the major and minor musical scales. And as she struggled to reconstruct the notes into something she could recognize, something suddenly occurred to her.

"It vibrated," Maude whispered.

In an instant she was standing, passing her gaze back and forth between the empty cryptex and the ancient parchment. How had the puzzle box vibrated if it possessed no tuning fork let alone anything else for that matter? Just like the notes on the paper the explanation defied all scientific logic. Here at the end of the day G notes being G notes were one thing, but producing mechanical energy from nothing was truly an act that bordered on the supernatural. All things being equal, to which explanation was she to defer in the end? Music was like mathematics, a proven structure that had well-defined values that could be repeated consistently over and over again when need be. Yet here she could not articulate one note from that composition let alone interpret those ink scratches into something that remotely resembled a melody. And if that wasn't bad enough, just to add sand to the ointment, there was no physical means by which the cryptex could have induced a vibration.

Suddenly Maude felt a bit dizzy, and could not help but wonder if perhaps she might have suffered a stroke. Of course she knew that she hadn't and that despite the current state of what might prove to be her questionable faculties she knew that she had not erred in regards to her deductive nature. The puzzle before her was as equally tantalizing as the cryptex. However, she felt that this latest riddle would prove to be an unsolvable paradox, something comparable to proving that one mathematical infinity was in fact larger than another. Yet to dismiss the evidence as belonging to a realm of an impenetrable depth was a task not easy in the rendering. But then as it was with all such instances that involved spooky subject matter, it was better to just accept it for what it was rather than to object it for to deny the possibility that the puzzle had moved was to deny herself and that was not an option as far as Maude was concerned. She would accept the fact the cryptex had vibrated for no other reason than it had. However, she did not have to accept the fact that a musical composition could defy logical explanation. Of course there was only one real way to do that and that was to put the melody to the test by playing its sporadic notes upon the baby grand's ivory keys.

(5)

Maude sat before the musical composition her fingers splayed loosely upon the keyboard's grinning teeth. Her curiosity was ravenous but nonetheless tempered by a sense of caution. She thought to phone Cyril and invite him over so that he might bear witness to what may very well prove to be a long lost musical masterpiece. But then there was more to it than that, for the real reason she wished to have his company had to do with her current state of apprehension. After all what if that mysterious music did something strange to her? It was a crazy concept but she could not deter the possibility. If only the cryptex had not vibrated as it had then she could have just put hammer to string and cranked the baby grand to life without any concern. But it had vibrated and now that she was faced with the task of performing what might prove to be some sort of enchanted melody she felt it wise to surround herself with someone she trusted. But Cyril would be sound asleep at this ungodly hour and so too would her plan B option, Mr. Galan Whicker. Unfortunately she was on her own and although she felt it best to wait until daylight when she could summon a body as to observe her reaction she could not discourage her sense of adventure from pressing onward. Besides, what kind of damage could a musical composition possibly do to her? Aside from evoking an emotional response, there was nothing it could do. And so with that assurance in mind she decided it was safe to continue her exploration of this evolving phenomenon, not only because it felt warranted but because she deserved her reward.

Her eyes scanned the composition while her fingers plucked out the notes on the corresponding keys. The song sounded similar to a classical ballad---slow and strangely agreeable like a lullaby or a music box melody---something she had heard before but could not place---perhaps a ditty from her early childhood years. But as she continued to play the song she began to realize that the instrument was not in tune, or that's to say not in the proper tuning for this specific composition. However, she felt it was more than that---that the baby grand was in fact as close to being in a state of musical perfection as it could get, and was a fraction of a tone just shy of a top of the line Steinway. But how did she know that? There was no indication on the song sheet let alone a footnote to suggest such a tuning. Yet she knew it to be so---that there was something incorrect about the piano's setup, or that perhaps it was---

\---And then it dawned on her as the realization slid into place just as the tumbler had inside the cryptex. Her fingers were fumbling with the ivories and losing their metered rhythm. Here she was playing like a music student on their first day of practice and that clumsy effort had soured the sonnet into a disagreeable mess. Yet on one level she continued to hear that lovely music box lullaby with pristine clarity but when she tried to reproduce the music by means of practical application she kept failing miserably. But how was that possible? Her fingers were in fine form, free of rheumatism, free of kinks, and yet she could not recreate that simple flow line. But why couldn't she?

She struggled over and over again, her mind caught inside an endless loop as she tried to unravel the mysterious melody. She rocked back and forth, her head almost bumping into the sheet music while she tried to hum the tune to the best of her ability. However, even the cadence of her voice could not articulate that strangest of melodies. Yet she could not stop herself from trying to solve the puzzle, and so she kept repeating the drill over and over again, sometimes banging on the keys in frustration, while grunting like a savage woman at others. And so there she sat, playing through the night, pounding out the notes of a song that could not be realized, trapped inside the mystical spiral of a musical paradox.

Chapter Eight

A Friend in Need

(1)

Cyril had sat out on the front porch the entire night, listening to the crickets and watching the surrounding hillside for any sign of the thing with the ember eyes. Nothing had stirred within the emptiness of those long lonely hours except for a small family of raccoons that had systematically looted thru the neighborhood trash bins, but other than that Harp Street had laid eerily quiet. Well that wasn't entirely true. Cyril had heard music on occasion, except that he wasn't entirely sure if he was actually hearing a melody, or if it was in fact originating from inside his head. After all the tune sounded so familiar yet alien in nature, forbidden, perhaps it was a long lost song from his childhood, one that had lain silent for decades in the surreal lands of some forgotten dream. Several times he had caught himself inadvertently trying to whistle that peculiar descant but his effort to recreate the lullaby was to no avail. The notes like the song's title had eluded him and yet he knew its meaning as well as its unique phrasing was so close to be realized that he felt he would go mad trying to figure it out. But as the song had come so too it had gone for it was as fleeting and enigmatic as an ethereal daydream. And although he had suspected the source of that enchanted tune as coming from none other than Maude's baby grand piano, he still had not gone over to her house to investigate. But why had he kept rooted to the porch swing? It seemed that such a discrepancy went against his very nature, especially when the aforementioned anomaly potentially involved a dear friend. He found that in the dawn's encroaching light that he had no reasonable explanation for his inaction aside from the possibility of having been bewitched by the song's oddly looped notes. 24 hours ago that kind of thinking would have been a preposterous notion but after having been face to face with a demonic creature of the night he found that his level of acceptance in regards to the supernatural had become quite copious. He was almost to a point in his thinking where he could accept the possibility that leprechauns really did exist, or at the very least, had once existed. However, previous failings aside he found that while under the influence of the waking world, his former self had returned with all it courageous vigor. It was early but he would not let that low hour keep him from seeking out Maude to see if she was in fact safe.

(2)

He stood on Maude's front porch, his ears listening for any trace of that former melody that had taunted his wits for the better part of the night. However, aside from the birds chirping in the thicket and the distant drone of tractor trailer rubber on Highway 102 there was an almost vacuous silence. The time was just shy of 5 a.m. and if events were left to the normal progression of things Maude would not wake for at least another two hours or so. But these were not ordinary circumstances because if Maude had in fact played that strange melody the whole night through, then that meant something was probably wrong with her and that trouble was no doubt connected to the beast with the scarlet eyes. Cyril grimaced at the thought of finding her injured or even worse, dead. Here he had sat idle on the porch the entire night while she was probably trapped doing God knows what. He was angry with himself for having been so mindlessly distracted like a goddamn simpleton captivated by a shiny object. It was obvious that his will was weak and that failing may have cost him the most important person in his entire life.

He leaned on the doorbell---there was no sound---the buzzer was broken and he only just now recalled that Maude had asked him to look at it a few days ago. If all went well here then he would attend to that errand first thing Monday morning. He rapped on the door with an urgent rhythm. No one stirred within. He repeated the knock, more forceful this time, beating on the door with his fist no less. Still there was no sound to be heard within. No feet shuffled across the hardwood and no bolt clattered within the door lock. He pursed his lips and gritted his teeth, cursing himself for not having investigated the source of that mysterious music. Here, he had been asleep at the wheel, and now Maude was---what exactly? Unconscious and in a coma, or was it worse than that? Be it good news or bad, the not knowing was killing him. He had to get inside. He scurried down the steps and made his way around to the back of the house. There, within the snarling mouth of a cement garden lion fountain he fished out Maude's emergency house key. With the key in hand he hobbled back to the front door on his cane, his problem knee shouting in protest with each quick step that he placed. However, the aching knee was of little concern given his present emotional state, why it could have burst into flame for all Cyril cared at the moment, what mattered was getting to Maude, nothing else.

The key slid into the deadbolt and turned. Thankfully Maude had not engaged the door chain and so the door swung open without resistance. Once inside, he quickly made his way not to the bedroom or the kitchen, but rather to that place where he should have gone last night upon hearing that strangest of melodies: the living room with the baby grand piano in it. But before he could make that turn at the end of the hallway he heard the soft plinking sound of piano keys. An overwhelming sense of dread suddenly befell him and for an instant he almost froze in his tracks but his concern for Maude easily trumped his apprehension, and so he took the corner and rushed into the living room with the fervor of a man who led with his heart and not his head.

(3)

Maude sat at the piano. Head bowed. Eyes closed. Her fingers barely had the strength to manipulate the ivories. And yet despite her obvious state of exhaustion she continued to pluck out that tune that had not just bewitched Cyril, but its performer as well.

"Maude," Cyril said in a soft voice as he sat beside her on the piano bench. "Maude can you hear me? It's Cy." He placed a hand upon her shoulder and another on her hands, if only to stop that damn lullaby from enchanting his mind again as it had last night. "Maude, are you ok?"

Maude opened her eyes partially and stared at Cyril with a defeated effort. "I've almost got it Cy...just a few more bars and I'll have it figured out....just a few more bars."

"Jesus Christ," Cyril muttered. "What the hell has happened to you, my dear?"

As Maude collapsed from fatigue Cyril caught hold of her and dragged her over onto the couch where he then laid her down. The effort had caused great agony inside his knee but his panic over Maude had easily trumped that searing pain.

"Listen to me Maude. I'm going to call an ambulance. Just lay still."

Her eyes suddenly flickered open and her hand grasped onto Cyril's wrist with remarkable strength. "No," she said in a hoarse rasp. "Promise me you won't call anyone! By now they're all in on it. Don't you see Cy, don't you see? He's back in Orchard Cove! He's come back, just like before, but none of us remembered and now it's too late. Oh God, no one remembers!"

He wrestled with her grip, determined to call 911 even though he knew that she wasn't rambling. Deep down he had recognized the fact that she was indeed correct---that by now the paramedics would be in on it---as would the police and perhaps everyone else in Orchard Cove, as well. Yes he understood that she was right: that _he_ had come back, and that on some subliminal level Cyril had always known. But what did he know exactly, or more importantly, what had he forgotten? He wasn't sure but what he had discerned was that the creature that had visited with him last night had just secured a greater degree of validity in his eyes. Its warning that he was to _look away_ was in fact a caution to be taken quite seriously.

"Listen to me," Cyril said in a calm soothing voice. "I promise not to call an ambulance. But you need to rest up. You've over exerted yourself and you need to sleep. Do you understand?"

Maude nodded weakly as she closed her eyes and allowed herself to drift down into a depth of sleep that was border line comatose.

Cyril checked her pulse and felt her brow. Despite being worn out to the point of sheer exhaustion she appeared to be relatively healthy. The rest would do her good but if it would alleviate her fear or settle her mind remained to be seen. After all he had come back, just as he had numerous times before. But what had come back and when had it been here before and how did Cyril know about it? Of course it all had to do with Pestle & Mortar Pharmacy for therein lay the root of the problem and it was to that desolate place that he must go before it was too late. Although, there was no guarantee that they had not already passed over that magical timeline, in which case there would be nothing that could be done to stop the---

\---And there it was: that terrible black hole in the pit of his head. He felt he should know the answer, that he did know it, but he was nonetheless unable to retrieve those darkest of memories from the past. Whatever evil magic dwelled within the music, it or something similar to it had wiped his slate clean of all waking knowledge of those events gone by.

As he stood the burr inside his knee cracked as bare bone rubbed against bare bone. The pain was excruciating. He placed a hand to his chest. His heart was pounding. There was a real danger that he could die from a heart attack if he didn't get his pulse settled down. He breathed deeply and tried his best to slow that beating drum. It was a genuine effort, but after a period of about five minutes or so he managed to ease the organ down to a steady crawl. However, he was still beset by an approaching terror, for he understood that things would soon get much worse before they could ever hope to possibly get better. Yes he was intellectually aware in part, that things were amiss in Orchard Cove, but that didn't mean he could avoid let alone stop what events might come to unfold around them. After all, he was nearing the end of his days. At last check, he was pretty sure that heroes were generally fashioned from much younger stock. Unfortunately there was no one to whom he could turn let alone trust given that the _beast_ had returned for it had a way of turning people, of that much he knew.

Cyril turned and stared at the piano. It was a beautiful instrument. Many an evening he had sat on the couch and listened to Maude play the most wonderful compositions. She truly had a remarkable talent, and here that gift had been hijacked by---what exactly? And there it was again: the question of how Galan had entered into her thoughts and how he had managed to enter into Cyril's as well. Of course in this situation there was only one avenue of entry that Cyril could think of and that doorway was the sheet music. He hobbled across the room and grabbed the sheet from the stand. His hands shook as he thought to tear the paper into tiny bits and stamp them under the weight of his foot until they were dust, but he refrained. There was something wrong with the writing on the page, something that even an ignoramus would have noticed as being out of place. The music was in fact not music at all but rather a series of oddly wound symbols that may have been a foreign language. He blinked and focused on the text characters, trying to decipher the lingo into something he could vaguely recognize. Were the words Chinese in origin or perhaps Arabic? There was structure to the pattern but nothing to remotely suggest that this work was that of a musical composition. But then this was to be expected. After all, _he_ had returned, and such anomalies were surely common place while his presence remained inside Orchard Cove. However, despite the seemingly alien structure of the script he nonetheless drew a meaning from the message. It was like one of those wavy line pictures where you had to stare at it for a while until you could finally see the image hidden within, except that this passage did not show, but rather served to confuse the observer. Yes, he knew he could not trust his eyes when reading this gibberish for the author of this unholy manuscript was a master of lies. There would be no truth to be found here, only deception. He crumpled up the paper and looked around for a waste basket, when he spotted the cryptex lying on the floor. Despite the fire beneath his kneecap he knelt down and picked the puzzle box up. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out where the writing had come from and so he set the paper back into its elaborate keep and locked it back up for safe keeping. He then set the cryptex atop the piano and looked around to see if there was any other oddity that he should attend to.

It was here that the cryptex automatically reset its key code and began to vibrate.

(4)

The ivories raged to life as the piano performed the forbidden melody without means of a conductor let alone a performer. It was like a giant windup music box actively cranking out an enchanted tune---its pedals manipulated by invisible feet---its keys plucked by ghostly fingers--- its mechanical hammers tapping the tightly wound wires into a musical fervor. The song was both beautiful and dreadful in the same meter and came together like a great storm of colliding weather fronts. Thunder and lightning sang from the depths of its haunting voice and with such vehemence that it bordered between a state of complete madness and utter genius. The song was a paradox unto itself and sounded as though it might rip itself apart at the nexus. But the tune continued to drone on drawing reality into its elusive core like a spiritual black hole. Cyril tried to cover his ears, but the song had rendered him paralyzed. His feet lay shackled to the floor by phantom chains, his entire body cocooned within a block of enchanted ice, even his mind felt frozen within a singular train of thought: _"Look away Child of Eden...look away!"_

However, he could not look away, dared not, because he was the last Child of Eden in Orchard Cove, and although he did not know how he possessed this knowledge, he nonetheless inferred from it a profound sense of moral obligation. Cyril felt that he had been assigned to the Cove as some sort of gate keeper and if this episode with the beast was going to go down on his watch, then he would be damned if he would simply _look away!_ After all he had a duty perform, but in order to do that, he would require the tools necessary to dispense such a fiend. But what implements did he possibly possess that could do battle with such a supernatural entity? He doubted that a bum knee along with a case of hypertension would do the trick. But then he did suspect a means by which he could combat this situation and that intuitive feeling had to do with none other than his poker nemesis, Mr. Pat Conway.

(5)

Cyril could clearly see the Ace of Spades in his mind's eye. The playing card nested in the silk ribbon of Pat's Panama hat like a feather marked an achievement and of course the card represented just that: an accomplishment. Old Pat Conway was Orchard Cove's undefeated poker tournament champion and that playing card was his crowning jewel. But then there was more to his good fortune than met the eye and that lucky charm had to do with the card's symbol, emblem, sign, or perhaps better stated, its crest. Yes, that was it, the crest! There was something special about the significance but what was it? If only he could remember then he might have a fighting chance.

A spasm of pain screeched out of his knee, effectively stimulating a reflex response which made his foot kick to the side ever so slightly. The sudden jolt caused the joint to ache and throb terribly. However, the pain helped to sober his mind and distract him from that damnable forbidden melody if only for an instant. Still it was a form of momentum and the very tool that he had been searching for. He utilized the inertia quickly and forced all of his weight down on the limb that he otherwise always favored. The reply was fierce and made his teeth grit as well as break a layer of sweat across his forehead. The sensation was excruciating, but nonetheless kept him mobile. He dared not hesitate and so immediately hobbled out to the kitchen where he grabbed a pair of pliers from a utility drawer. With the tool in hand he crawled back into the living room, intentionally aggravating his knee injury with each plodding step that he took. The journey was arduous and seemed to be caught inside a dimensional time warp. Seconds felt like minutes, minutes felt like hours, and perhaps they were. Nothing seemed to obey the laws of physics under the influence of that haunted lullaby, not even the concept of direction, for the world lay askew and blinded by a monochrome haze. The only certainty that he could count on at the moment was the seething fire beneath his knee cap, the one that anchored his consciousness to his preferable shade of reality.

He reentered the living room and set a direct course for the piano. However, he found that during his absence the baby grand had changed. The instrument now exuded a strange sort of ghostly aura that seemed to bend the very fabric of space time. Still Cyril would not be dissuaded from his mission and so he kept his pace quick and steady and made distance to the baby grand, making sure to twist his knee with each and every pain filled step that he took. He approached the baby grand and plunged the pliers down into its oak case where the cable snip jaws grabbed hold of a piano wire. The vibration was intense and extended up though his arm and into his shoulder. It was at that moment when he realized that the music was searching through his body in effort to locate the source of his defiance. He could feel the knee going numb as the music sought to silence his pain. He ignored the magical surge of energy and squeezed the tool's handle with all of his might. The chord was cut with one swift motion, and as a result, the tune lost part of its ethereal energy. The forbidden melody countered the loss by ramping up the volume and the pace, but this effort was in vain. Cyril kept control of his faculties and would not pause from his execution. One by one he cut the wires, attacking the instrument with the sort of determination that was bent on committing cold blooded murder.

And when at last, the possessed piano finally fell silent, so too did Cyril Emery.

(6)

Cyril had lied unconscious on the floor for close to an hour. When he had eventually stirred from his slumber it was not done with a sense of relief, but rather with a sense of woe. As a result of his deliberate actions, the pain in his knee had grown to a state where it was almost unbearable. If this had been any other circumstance he would have called 911. Hell, given his present condition he probably would have taken a painkiller from Pestle & Mortar if there was a chance that it could have stopped the pain. Unfortunately there was no one that he could call on for help seeing as more than half the town was probably under the influence of the beast. The only thing that he could do at the present was attend to his knee the best he could with what little he had to work with.

He glanced over at Maude. She was sound asleep and completely oblivious as to what had just happened. Cyril couldn't decide if that was a good thing or bad thing. He crawled onto his one good leg by utilizing the baby grand for support. There, he stared down on the cryptex with visible disdain. He had no proof as to where the damn thing had come from, but he had a sinking feeling that the puzzle had been a gift from none other than Mr. Wonderful himself, Galan Whicker. He picked up the cryptex and tossed it into the nearby fireplace and then ignited the propane. The flame blackened the brass casing, stained the ivory tumblers, and set the contents within alight. The resulting smoke smelled of burnt apples and the sickly odor of decaying flesh.

"Good riddance," Cyril muttered as he spat on the cryptex's smoldering husk.

He turned off the propane gas, grabbed his cane and then hopped into the kitchen where he grabbed a bag of frozen peas from the refrigerator. He then sat at the kitchen table where he laid the frozen produce across his throbbing knee. It was a wonderful sensation, but ice alone would not be enough to quell the injury. He needed morphine or at the very least a pharmaceutical grade pain reliever to shrink the swelling. The knee would require no less than a week's rest in order to reset itself but time was a luxury he did not have. He was keenly aware that somewhere in Orchard Cove a death clock was ticking and that in a short while its alarm would go off. He needed to get moving but here the very act of just sitting was difficult enough. If he was to bust a move so to speak he would have to be either carried or grow a set of wings. Suffice it to say, neither option was available. However, he was aware that Maude had a set of medical crutches out in the garage from three years ago when she had sprang her ankle while walking the Heritage Nature Trail. Back then he had spent most of his waking hours in her house, volunteering as her personal caregiver, and despite the fact that she had been injured the overall experience had proven to be quite wonderful. It was as close to being married to Maude as he ever could have imagined and although his heart still belonged to his darling Patricia, God rest her soul, he had nonetheless felt the kind of joy that he had once shared with his late wife. For those blessed weeks he had not been a grieving widower but rather a surrogate husband. It had felt good to be needed again, especially by a person that he genuinely cared for. But those carefree days were gone forever now, and as a result of his emerging memories he couldn't help but wonder if they had ever actually been carefree. The past felt like a lie and he couldn't help but question the validity of those emotional responses gone by. The only thing he could trust at the moment was that Maude had fallen under the influence of an enchanted spell, and that he was nothing but an old bag of damaged goods. If he was ever to discover the meaning of it all, then he would have to get going soon, for he could feel a window of opportunity closing and couldn't help but wonder if perhaps he had sworn an oath to himself in the past---perhaps a vow that he would not forget the wrong that had been done to them all. However, if he had made a promise to himself, it had been lost to the sinister power that had infected the whole town of Orchard Cove. But if that was true, to which path of life then was he to trust? Admittedly it was a confusing situation, one that made a soul question their choices in life for he had lived through this situation once or possibly several times before and yet he had not moved away let alone prepared to confront this challenge again one day. Surely he would have rallied some sort of defenses if only on a subliminal level. Yet here he had done nothing but wait for the damn beast to return like a fatted calf was set out for the slaughter as easy prey. The thought of that really stoked his ire and maybe that's what he needed to be feeling at the moment: anger. Yes it was true: the cow lows and the bull offers the horns. He would fight this entity anyway that he could, but in order to do that he would have to recall his possible past, but in order to do that he would have to get mobile.

(7)

The crutches fit under Cyril's arms comfortably and helped to carry him easily across the lawn to his parked car. However, the pain in his knee did not want to move let alone set off on some crazy adventure that would probably see him end up as worm food. But if he was to rectify this situation then he had to make distance because there was a metaphysical point of no return approaching, and once they traversed past that ethereal border there would be no going back for any of them. He slunk into the car, mindful not to jostle his knee in the process. He laid the crutches on the passenger side seat and turned the ignition to which the eight cylinder engine immediately roared to life. Despite the early hour the car's interior was already hot. He turned on the air conditioner and let the vents blow a frigid breeze upon his face. The sensation was comparable to receiving a glass of water after having crawled across an immense desert---perhaps even a desert that bordered a river of sorrow. He looked at the dashboard clock which read: 7:03 a.m. There was still time, although not much by his calculation. But then, what was there time enough for exactly? All he had to go on at present was a gut feeling and that subtle intuition felt unreliable at best. For all he knew he might be unwittingly taking some sort of psychic bait that had been cast out by Galan Whicker in order to trap him. However, Cyril did not have the luxury of second guessing himself at the moment. Time was literally ticking and it was now 7:04 a.m., and in a little while it would be too late.

He slipped the car into gear and raced out onto Harp Street. The tires chirped as he took the corner sharp. He blew past the stop sign and gunned the Impala for all it was worth. A few minutes later, he was on the highway en route for Exit 13. As he drove he thought about Maude lying on the couch, her mind no doubt keying in those nonsensical notes over and over again. She was linked into a repetitive task, for all intents and purposes, trying to figure out which eternity was bigger than the other. It was a cruel form of torture, something worthy of a fiend with scarlet eyes. Cyril's hand gripped the steering wheel tightly, just as his teeth ground enamel. He couldn't believe this was actually happening again, and that he had not seen the signs coming. Of course it had all started with the weather---the whining buzz on the power lines---the crunch of the parched grass underfoot---the absence of any rain. It had all been there right in front of his eyes, but still he had not seen it. Yet as he drove, the feelings associated with this debacle seemed to make themselves heard louder and louder with each roll of the tires. So much so as a matter of fact, that they had begun to feel like a deeply ingrained form of instinct. Yes, it was like breathing now: automatic. Here the days that had led up to this desolate patch of summer had been filled with a morose shade of something almost tangible and therein was the telltale evidence. It was all the little things in retrospect---they all added up now---those tiny clues that he could now see perfectly with 20/20 hindsight. The red tint moon---the desert dreams---the hopscotch squares on Harp Street that had been drawn but never used---the increase in supposedly natural and accidental deaths---and of course the granddaddy of them all---the screeching pain within his knee. Yes, even his own body had been shouting at him to wake up and smell the coffee but he had been too dim of wit to see the warning signs. In the end he had no one to blame but himself---but then that wasn't entirely true---he did have someone else to lay the guilt upon, and that son of a bitch was none other than Mr. Galan Whicker. The owner of Pestle & Mortar had poisoned Orchard Cove with his magical tonics and enchanted devices just as he had before, except this time he wasn't going to just gather a few choice souls as ingredients for his potions, he was going to harvest the entire town. After all, the demon moon was on the rise which meant the whole community would soon be ripe for the harvest. Suffice it to say, in a short while they would all be standing tall before the scythe where the Reaper's blade would come to separate the stalk from the chaff.

He turned onto the number 13 off ramp and took the highway trunk to Haven Street, and as he did, for the first time he noticed that he had not encountered one vehicle let alone a single living soul on his trip over here. It was as if the entire town had vanished into thin air and perhaps it had. Nothing seemed to be outside the scope of possibility, especially when it involved that snake oil peddler. He drove slowly up along Haven Street and parked by the curb just shy of Pestle & Mortar Pharmacy where he regarded the sign that hung above the door with a visible frown.

"Cures for a rainy day, my ass."

He turned off the engine and then opened the car door. He pulled the crutches from the passenger seat and used them to support his weight as he cautiously crawled out onto the street. The sun had already heated the blacktop up to a soft malleable mat, the pungent smell of tar accompanying each shallow breath. He looked in at the dashboard clock which read: 7:19 a.m. The store wouldn't open until 9 a.m. However, that didn't mean that Galan wouldn't come in early to prepare for the day, in fact the miserable bastard could have been inside right now for all Cyril knew. If that was the case, then things would get real messy quick, and in light of that potential outcome he couldn't help but curse himself for not having the insight to bring a gun. But then he knew that such devices would prove futile in the face of such a monstrosity. Hell, the thing that called itself Galan might even be fond of receiving what Cyril had heard gangsters referred to as: _the hard spike._ But if that was the case then what kind of a weapon could he hope to use when confronting such a fearsome nemesis? Nothing seemed practical aside from a nuclear warhead but then there had to be something he could utilize. Perhaps Galan would be vulnerable to a clove of garlic, or a wooden stake through the heart, or a cross, or perhaps a silver bullet. However, Cyril understood that those sorts of devices were fine in the realm of literary fiction but would have no practical application here. Yet Cyril was certain that the Travelling Man did in fact have an Achilles heel. The question of course, was what? Beneath the encroaching rays of the demon sun, there seemed to be no resolution, save one: the answers would not be found out here on Haven Street but rather within the bowels of that picturesque little shop of horrors where a minion to whatever source of unspeakable evil worked its mojo upon the innocent.

(8)

Cyril had expected the door to be locked but of course it had not. After all, why would it? Pestle & Mortar wasn't a regular mom and pop shop let alone a pharmaceutical franchise, it was something else. It was more like that infamous "Roach Motel," where victims checked in but they never checked out, at least not with their volition in P & M's regard. In a way the quaint little shop was Orchard Cove's version of a big city crack house, except that this wannabe meth lab was operated with absolute impunity. Neither cop nor DEA officer would come a knocking on the Travelling Man's door, nor would any prosecuting attorney slap the son of a bitch with a subpoena. On this patch of Maritime turf he was above the law just as he was above the law in God knew how many other places because Mr. Whicker was the Travelling Man and was the sort of pusher that liked to make his rounds by globetrotting. So when Cyril stepped into the sweet delicate aroma of Pestle & Mortar's decorative foyer it was of little surprise that there was no alarm, or barking dog to greet him. Why there might just as well have been a sign saying: _"help yourself, it's all on me folks!"_ But of course no one ever saw the fine print written at the bottom which read: _"all deals are spiritually binding."_ But Cyril wouldn't be helping himself to any meds let alone anything else for that matter because he was here on business, and that sort of work began and ended behind the curtain that hid Pestle & Mortar's secretive backroom.

The crutches helped to carry him slowly down the aisle toward the cashier counter. The pain in his knee screeched with each subtle movement but he crept along just the same and he was reminded again that this sort of hero work was for younger men, not senior citizens. He felt that he should have settled this matter with Whicker years ago but of course he had not seen what the Travelling Man was until it had been too late. That lack of insight or perhaps better stated, belief had cost him his son, Daniel.

He suddenly fetched up solid.

It had cost him his dear son, _Daniel._ But that couldn't be right. Daniel had not died at his hands let alone Galan's---he had died in a car accident with a drunk driver. Cyril had identified the body at the morgue. He had even gone to court to see that the son of a bitch that had killed his son had swung for the crime. Hell, Cyril had even marched in a M.A.D.D. parade and had been interviewed several times for the local paper and radio news station in order to raise public awareness about the dangers of drinking and driving. Were those the acts of a man that had killed his own son? No, of course not, but here within that sweet apple like aroma of Pestle & Mortar Pharmacy, he could vaguely recall an alternate timeline. But what had happened in that alternative history? What ill fate had befallen his beloved Daniel and what was Cyril's connection to the tragedy? He couldn't remember, but he knew intuitively that it was indeed true: that Daniel had not died in a car accident as Cyril had once believed but had rather perished in the summer of '92 after the---but he couldn't recall those episodes, at least not yet, but he understood on a subliminal level that Daniel had died because Cyril had failed to do something.

He gritted his teeth, a well of tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. The hurt! The goddamn hurt of it had revisited his heart with the terrible force of a grief that was both fresh and physically paralyzing. How had this happened to his family, and more importantly, how had he failed to save Daniel? He leaned upon the crutches, swaying as though he might swoon at any second. The sudden resurgence of all those awakening memories was taking its toll on him. Soon, he would be little more than a sobbing infant if things continued to progress at their current rate. Here, he had just recalled that somehow he was in part if not completely responsible for his own son's death. How then could he ever hope to proceed? What motivation would lend flight to his heels when all he felt like doing was curling up into a tiny ball and dying? Revenge was the only objective that he could think to summon and it would have to do for now, at least until this matter was finally settled once and for all. Galan was a cancer to this town, and he needed to be stopped before someone else's child was killed. Cyril would not fail again---must not.

He wiped the tears from his eyes and rallied to the cause. There would be no justice to be found by mourning the dead, at least not at this hour and in this place. Time was ticking, always ticking, and so he hobbled down the aisle, his knee whining with each row of the crutches. If only he could down a handful of painkillers and antidepressants then he would be just peachy, but the stock on the shelves was not what it appeared to be---nothing was---but then there was something he could use to alleviate some of his misery.

Upon one of the shelves lay a selection of joint wraps and state of the art running splints. Cyril doubted that Galan had actually ever sold one of those contraptions to a customer, seeing as the Travelling Man was all about pushing the prescription remedy. No, the gear was nothing but window dressing, the sort of lure that Galan would use to sell a perspective customer on an alternative treatment which of course just so happened to be a scientifically proven miracle drug. Then once the sale was done---bam! Back onto the shelf the old movie prop would go. Next! But at the moment, those dime store decoys were a welcomed sight.

Cyril wasted no time and immediately set to the task of wrapping his knee up within a bolt of nylon elastic as well as reinforcing his leg joint with a runner's knee brace. The makeshift gizmo allowed him to throw his crutches away in favor of a limping gait but it was a preferable mode of transportation. Yes his knee still throbbed like a bugger but that pain had saved him in the past and it just might very well save him again in the future. And so he hobbled along the aisle, eyeing his surroundings for anything that might prove helpful to his situation, or dangerous to his person. The immediate search yielded nothing aside from his curiosity, for the bottles that aligned the stocked shelves were a fascinating lot to behold. The varied colors seemed to almost glow with an ethereal incandescence and the strange twist of writing on the labels provided an intriguing display of mute theater. What kind of language was writ upon those bottles and what did they say? There was no resolution, not even an inkling of knowledge was to be had from his emerging memory. The words lay silent in more ways than one but where they failed to speak, they whispered a strange chant in other places. At first he simply thought it was the sound of the nearby surf at the end of Haven Street, but soon realized that the sound was emanating from the stock itself. _Vastedavalo! Boonsartom! Medusmune! Losavalin!_

Over and over the soft ghostly whispering continued to utter its chilling dirge. The words were of an ancient dialect, and although Cyril had no idea of what they said he nonetheless knew that the magic inside the bottles had alerted their master to Cyril's unwelcomed presence within Pestle & Mortar. He would have to move quickly before the Travelling Man could stop him but if he would have enough time to undo what soon would come to pass remained to be seen.

Chapter Nine

Unplanned Parenthood

(1)

Cindy Tremblay sat in the bathtub with the shower turned on full blast. The ritual cleaning would take at least an hour if not more. However, she knew that no matter how long she soaked in the hot water or no matter how many layers of soap she slapped on, she would never fully wash away the shame. Of course it had been all her fault, or at least that's what Chuck had said. If only she had been a boy or less attractive then he wouldn't have bothered with her. But she wasn't a boy and she had inherited her mother's good looks, so what then was a man supposed to do? If only her mother was still alive then his needs would have been looked after properly. But Brenda was gone into the cold hard ground, taken down by the cancer and now Chuck's needs had to be satisfied by his darling daughter.

Cindy was a good girl. She cooked her father's meals every day and washed his dirty clothes and kept his run down house clean just the way her mother had used to do. After all, she was the woman of the house now and those domestic duties had fallen unto her care. Of course she didn't mind the chores or even when she had to miss out on activities with her friends because she was too busy working---it was the other business that always made her anxious, those frequent unpredictable needs of her father's lustful appetites. It had gotten so bad as a matter of fact that she cringed whenever she heard a floorboard creak, for such sounds always reminded her of the upstairs bedspring mattress, the way it groaned and squeaked all the way up to Chuck's noisy climax. She imagined that she would be having that reaction for the rest of her life whenever she heard that kind of sound.

Today, Chuck had come home early from work to drink beer and watch the ball game, and whenever that happened then she could be guaranteed that later on tonight he would need her to relieve his condition. Unfortunately the beer had always made it harder for Chuck to reach orgasm, and sometimes she would have to lie beneath him for almost an hour before he finally achieved the big O. And what she hated most about those long incestuous sessions was that sometimes she would climax too, when all she really wanted to do was to feel numb. But tonight she had been lucky. Chuck had been in and out in less than fifteen minutes, a record for sure, and she had also stayed as dry as a bone to boot. Still that hadn't made her feel any less dirty about the deed. No, she still had to scrub the patch regardless of the duration, so that she might wash away the shame along with any chance that her father's seed had taken root. But then his latest spit of sauce was nothing for her to worry about, it was the previous shot that had her concerned, the one that was growing inside her belly like an alien parasite.

(2)

Cindy had not told Chuck about the pregnancy, had dared not. Perhaps he might insist that she keep it, in which case she would not only be the child's birth mother but sister as well. Surely such a pedigree would be an obscenity in the eyes of the Lord. Not since Noah had lain with his daughters had such a sin been forgiven, not to mention the fruits of such perversions were often punished with birth defects and mental retardation. No, to bear such an offspring would certainly invite the wrath of the Almighty God and although Cindy wasn't a religious girl by nature she nonetheless feared the prospect of eternal damnation. But then it was more than that, it had to do with the simple fact that she _did not_ want to bear her father's child, period. It was unnatural and tainted with the kind of stigma that would see her and her baby turned out as social pariahs. She could not tell Chuck about the pregnancy, dared not. But then to hide her delicate condition from dear old dad indefinitely would be impossible. She was a small girl, thin, but with pleasant curves. In a couple of months her belly would start to show and then Chuck would know she was pregnant. That outcome would be unacceptable. Her father must never discover her secret for he might have her bear such a disgrace in order to serve his own ego. And so in an effort to forgo that misery she had exchanged one potential outcome for another by securing an abortion. Unfortunately she had not been able go into the city to have the procedure done seeing as Chuck's sister Madge was a nurse at the abortion clinic. If Madge was to find out then she might tell Chuck and then Cindy would be royally screwed. Chuck, however, disliked Madge and often said that she was a bit too uppity for his taste. But then family business had an odd way of striking strange alliances in times of crisis. Chuck and Madge just might very well decide to put their differences aside in order to rear in young Cindy and then the decision to have the baby would no longer be hers. Of course there was another potential if Madge was to find out, and those consequences could see dear old Chuck thrown into prison for the crime of incest and rape. If that happened then Cindy would be free to secure a safe abortion for surely Aunt Madge would not insist that her only niece bear her brother's incestuous seed. But then again, maybe Aunt Madge would like to see her miserable brother go to prison as well as see his only daughter give birth to an abomination? People were strange like that, did all kinds of unpredictable things, and that uncertainty made Aunt Madge far too dangerous to confide in. The stakes were just too damn high to risk it. Deep down she hated her father for what he had done to her, but then she also loved him. She had no desire to see her daddy go to prison and so she had decided it was best to avoid Aunt Madge and the city doctors all together and secure another option. She had read about an abortion pill on the internet that had been touted as a safe medical alternative. However, as misfortune would have it, the pill was only available in Europe. At first her heart had sank at that bit of news but then she recalled that there was a new pharmacist in Orchard Cove, a man by the name of Galan Whicker. And according to the teen hotline, this Galan had all kinds of unusual remedies stockpiled upon his colorful shelves. It was also said that he had been selling a strange brand of liquor out of the store, a brew that he called "Root Cider." Rumor said it was cheap and that the old codger never bothered to check anyone for I.D. She had also heard that this Mr. Whicker had been selling wacky tobacky to the local potheads, and that ever since Galan had come to town, everyone in their dog had been filling up on weed and alcohol down at Pestle & Mortar. It was like Christmas for rehab patients. Of course Cindy seldom drank and she most certainly did not toke, but if those minors could score illegal narcotics and liquor from this Galan Whicker, then perhaps there was a chance that she could get one of those fancy European abortion pills. And so she had gone to see the pharmacist and as luck would have it he did indeed have something very similar. However, the problem was the medication still hadn't taken effect and so the fetus was still very much inside her. She had not yet miscarried as Galan had said she would and that gave her serious pause for concern that maybe the pill hadn't worked or that maybe something else had gone awry. Here the entire time she had laid beneath dear Chuck while he thrust into her, she had been worried that she might abort the baby at any moment, in which case the ugly truth would have revealed itself. And so she had lain there, eyes closed as she prayed to God Almighty to keep the fetus inside her from ejecting until daddy dearest had finally finished his business. How she had dreaded the possibility of aborting that premature baby onto the bed sheets, its tiny greasy husk smeared in blood clots as it drowned in a meaty pool of afterbirth, its thin neck strangled on a thin thread of underdeveloped umbilical cord. And what if that half-cooked fetus had tried to claw its way back into its mother's womb, its small mouth wailing to be saved? Why in his terror Chuck might have squashed the child like a bug, unaware that he was killing his own offspring. But thankfully the baby hadn't aborted in the bedroom, and for that Cindy was most grateful.

(3)

She climbed out of the tub and toweled off in front of a tall narrow mirror that hung upon the bathroom door. A thin layer of steam obstructed her reflection which she wiped away with the towel until her image could be seen clearly. She had an attractive body, perky breasts, firm posterior, delicate hips, flat tummy. But her face, although young, nonetheless looked aged well beyond its years. It was evident that the stress of pregnancy not to mention her relationship with her father had taken its toll on her appearance. Her slender fingers explored the curve of her bellybutton and then the fine mesh of her pubic hair. The baby inside her was growing while at the same time the pill from Galan Whicker was supposedly killing it. The guilt over her choice to abort the child was torturing her conscience. She had tried not to think of the fetus as being alive, but rather as an appendage like a tonsil or an appendix. However, that line of thinking had not helped to ease her remorse. In her mind's eye she could see the baby's tiny fingers curled up beside its tiny head as it napped peacefully, unaware that its mother was trying to kill it. Here the baby was an innocent bystander that would pay in blood for the sins of its mother and father. But if there was a heaven then surely God would receive the infant's soul without judgment, whereas Cindy hoped that the Almighty would understand the circumstances surrounding her harsh decision. Sometimes there were shames that were just too much for any one person to bear.

Down the hall her father slept off a 12 beer drunk, his deep choked snores vibrating the floorboards beneath her feet. Tomorrow would be Saturday, his day off work. If fate was kind he would sleep most of the day with a nasty hangover. He never touched her when he was sick or on Sundays for that matter, as if abstaining from incest on that holiest day of the week would spare him from the eternal damnation of hellfire. Still, she welcomed the Sabbath with a sense of relief for however twisted her father's moral logic might be, his ideology was not without its benefits.

From beneath the bathroom sink she withdrew the prescription bottle from Pestle & Mortar. The label read like a chemical engineering textbook, long words with foreign letters and odd symbols the likes she had never seen before. Galan had told her that the correct dosage was to take two pills with supper and then one before bedtime. She had already taken the first two and now she was ready to ingest the third. And yet despite her feelings of guilt she nonetheless swallowed the third pill without hesitation. It was obvious that she was committed to the task now---there was no doubt about it. The prescription bottle was resealed and sat down upon the sink's porcelain where she stared at it for an unusually long period of time, wondering what the medication was doing to her body, and moreover, why Galan had given her so many damn capsules. There were at least a hundred pills inside that bottle, a lot of medicine to abort just one pregnancy. Maybe Galan thought she was the village whore---or maybe he thought she looked like the kind of girl that never said no---or maybe he knew who the father of her baby was, in which case he thought it best to arm the girl for bear. She picked up the prescription and hid it back beneath the sink amidst the bathroom cleaners. She tried not to read too much into Galan's motives, after all, he had been kind enough to give her the medicine for free---well---that wasn't entirely true, he had requested one thing as payment, but she didn't have it yet, but when she did, she would be sure to get it over to him pronto just as they had agreed.

She leaned on the porcelain and stared into the mirror above the sink. Her long dirty blond hair looked closer to brown when it was wet, and she wondered what she might look like as a brunette. She rummaged through a cosmetics container that sat atop the toilet beside the sink and withdrew a small pair of stainless steel scissors. She regarded the thick hemp of hair that spilled down over her slender shoulders and across the pinkish nipples of her firm breasts. What if she just chopped it all off? Would that make her less attractive to her dear father? Would Chuck stop molesting her if she was more masculine looking? She played with the locks absently, twirling them gently between her fingers, and then before she had realized what she was doing, she was cutting those silky strands down to their roots and flushing them down the toilet. The resulting hairstyle wasn't exactly a military crew cut but the effect still looked very G.I. Jane. If only the matter of the unwanted baby could have been handled so easily then everything would have been just perfect. Chuck would no doubt comment on her change tomorrow and she hoped that he would dislike it. Perhaps then she might have one less chore to attend for a while as the weeks passed by and her hair slowly grew back to its full length. Any reprieve would be a welcome company, especially anything that could keep her from having to take two green pills with supper and one before bedtime. With her makeover complete, she replaced the scissors back into the cosmetics pouch and then quietly slipped out into the hallway en route for bed. She was exhausted, physically, emotionally, and spiritually. There was only so much a woman could take and Cindy felt she was as close to the breaking point as one could get. She needed a good night's sleep at the very least and hopefully that rest would be void of dreams.

(4)

The entire orchard was bedded down with abortion pills that ran halfway up her shins. The meds slipped between her bare toes and felt like a swarm of dead insect husks against her smooth skin. A shudder of repulsion ran through her gooseflesh with each reluctant step taken but still she moved forward, drawn by the music of an old familiar song as plucked by the strings of a mystical harp. The melody flowed out of the darkness, and although she could not name the tune, let alone recall the words, she nonetheless understood that the song was ancient.

A fingernail moon pierced a starless sky with crimson gold. The orchard trees of white blossom swayed in a gentle breeze that smelt of sweet apples. The garden was beautiful and induced a feeling of coming home---not to a physical address but rather to that sacred place where the human spirit resided. Cindy felt that she belonged here. However, she could sense something had grown sour within the garden and that the soil now lay poisoned by it.

A sudden lion like roar reverberated throughout the meadow. It was an announcement that beasts had come to roam the sacred garden. And although she felt their presence here was quite impossible, there was no denying that they had infected the hallowed plain. But how could such monstrosities have scaled the ancient wall let alone breached the ancient gate? Again it was a form of subliminal intuition that questioned such things, for deep down within the dark alcoves of her soul she inferred a forgotten knowledge that spoke of the things that once were and the things that had come to be.

A cold wind blew a curtain of clouds into the crimson moon's face allowing a flat gray darkness to overtake the garden. The wondrous scent of apples dissipated and was swiftly replaced by the stench of feces. She covered her nose and mouth and gagged in repulsion as that bed of pills began to crawl like a nest of sickly maggots. Nausea spun inside her stomach and yet despite her disgust, the hand at the end of her wrist reached down and picked up one of those creepy crawlies and carried it up to the level of her eyes. Within the translucent cocoon of emerald fire lay a tiny creature that kicked and clawed at the prison walls of its ethereal husk. At first she thought it some exotic species of caterpillar but upon careful examination she discovered the abomination was that of an unborn fetus. She dropped the embryo and jerked her hand away in shock, thoroughly wiping her fingers clean upon the thin cotton weave of her nightdress. Here the sacred orchard lay seeded with a countless multitude of abortions, a sour harvest of pale bloom. The ghastly sprouts swayed beneath the foul wind, flickering and hopping about like ants about to take wing. Repulsed, she lifted a foot and violently shook the bugs from her flesh. However, her other foot had no choice but to bear the nesting maggots. And so she stood like a flamingo in morbid pose, unable to levitate her body above that rancid squalor.

Her eyes glanced upward and spied the low bearing branch of a tree. She could probably reach it if she jumped but in order to get the necessary lift she would have to use both feet. And so with the greatest of reluctance she eased her foot down into that emerald jade of filthy hunger and then launched herself into the air. The branch, thin and coated with a rough skin of bark, dug into her palms as she successfully made contact. The limb bowed under her weight, leaving her bare feet to dangle just shy of that tartest of multitudes. She had never been much of an athlete in school, and had often opted for a cigarette break over calisthenics. At the moment that lack of healthy enthusiasm felt more like a lack of foresight when confronted with such a disgusting obstacle. If she ever got out of this predicament she would remedy that failing with regular exercise.

The task of scaling the tree had proven most arduous but she had struggled vigorously against gravity, and as such, had been rewarded with a seat upon a much higher branch. She clung to the tree's trunk, her eyes sweeping the field while her mind channeled its fear into a course of action. She feared that those cocoons might burst open at any moment and release their abominations into the air like a swarm of locusts, their tiny mewling mouths wreathed by jagged rings of biting teeth. She had no desire to succumb to such a horrific end and so she set to the task of formulating a plan of escape. Her eyes scanned the distance. Something stirred within the sway of orchard trees. She focused on the object, trying to make sense out of the deceptive shadows. Was her imagination playing tricks on her or had she actually seen something? The memory of that beast's howl reminded her to be vigilant---that there were far worse things on the prowl within the orchard than that of the fetal bugs. She readdressed the tree and thought to climb higher but there was little height left for her to scale. Again she searched the distance for that which had spoken to her with a lion's voice and it was there that she finally saw it: a dark shadow holding a place beneath a failing tree, its silhouette an empty void within the pitch. The figure charged out of the night, its gait rapid and its hide a flowing sinew of sculpted muscle. Its motion was graceful. Panther like. Within its wake a plume of dead husks lay scattered to the wind. Its gallop closed the distance with purposeful strides while its demonic eyes burned a bright beam of crimson gold. It was obvious that the beast was heading straight for her with an intention steeped in murder. Frantically Cindy pulled herself higher upon the stalk, struggling madly to gain altitude, but it was pointless. The tree had no more height left to give, and as such, there was nowhere left to flee. And then in an instant that ethereal shadow with the crimson gold eyes was upon the tree, its claws stabbing into the bark like razor sharp hard spikes. Steadily, the thing climbed higher and higher, its blacker than black head stealthily navigating the branches as it closed in for the kill. Cindy's teeth chattered, her bladder felt impossibly full, her heart beat so fast that she was certain that she would flat line at any second. Death was literally nipping at her heels, and soon it would set its ivory fangs upon the delicate morsel of her throat and devour her. She was done for. There would be no more baby to worry about, no more lying beneath Chuck's pasty beer belly as he grunted up to climax, no more household chores, no more outings with her friends. Death had finally come and its deliverance would be terrible in the taking. But before that cold demise could claim its latest victim, the world along with everything in it began to spiral within the pit of a child's kaleidoscope. Suddenly she felt as light as air and yet despite her state of confusion she nonetheless understood that on a subliminal level that she was not in fact spinning but rather falling.

(5)

The horde of fetal bugs had broken her fall, their jade cocoons squishing beneath the swinging mallet of her weight. She lay almost completely submerged, the stench stirring the contents of her stomach into a spasm of projectile vomit. The pills wriggled across her body, through her hair, their tiny mouths wailing what might have been either a prayer or a curse: _Vastedavalo! Boonsartom! Medusmune! Losavalin!_

The words were hypnotic and seemed to summon her spirit onto an alternate plane of reality of a barren wasteland. She shook off the incantation as best she could and struggled onto her feet. She felt dazed, and as such, found it difficult to move. The world beneath her lay slippery on crushed embryos, and with each movement she squeezed more and more cocoons to their savage deaths. The murder of all that unrealized life was tantamount to genocide, yet she dared not remain fixed in place. The panther like shadow lay perched within the tree and it would soon climb down to claim her life if she did not move. And so she clumsily made her feet and began to run and with each footfall she pounded more and more embryos into paste.

The beast bellowed out a roar from atop the tree, its voice tangled within the night's bitter wind. And although she did not turn to look back upon that black silhouette she knew intuitively that it had taken to the field and was closing in on her heels with preternatural thrift. If only she could make the forest's edge and scale the ancient wall then she would be safe, but the scatter of fetuses had slowed her legs down to the point that it felt as though she was running against a river's current. It was the kind of nightmare that rendered the dreamer's legs as heavy as stone. In her mind's eye she could see that fiend galloping across the meadow, its razor claws slicing through the discarded life beneath it as it took the distance in powerful strides. She could even feel its crimson-gold eyes burning a hole into her back, its gaze a fearsome pyre. And then in an instant it was finally upon her.

(6)

Cindy lay on her back staring wide eyed upon the beast that loomed over her. Its breath felt molten hot and cadaver stale upon her face. She wanted to scream but found she could not speak. She was like a timid mouse captivated by a serpent's gaze, her muscles bound by that tautest line of fear. The beast growled and sniffed the air as it glared down upon its victim, its eyes narrow and cunning and lit by that fierce purgatorial flame.

"You're daddy's special little girl, aren't you," the beast said in the raspy notes of a familiar voice. "Sugar and spice and everything nice...that's what little girls are made of...but bugger and lice and everything vice...that's what little whores are made of...so fuck me, you little _whore_!"

She did not want to believe it, but she knew that the voice belonged to none other than Galan Whicker. Somehow the mild unassuming little pharmacist had transformed into this awful thing that sought to ravage her flesh. She thought to call out his name, to announce that he in fact knew her, but her throat would not offer forth a single word aside from that of a shallow croak.

The thing that was Galan and was not reared up upon its hind legs to reveal the large pink horn of a slimy erection. The beast threw back its head and howled as if in triumph, a mutant wolf in sexual heat about to mount a conquest. The sound felt like ice water upon her skin, and although she was repulsed by the squishing mass of embryos on her backside she would have gladly folded them around her if there was a chance that they could have protected her from that glistening member. But there was nowhere to hide let alone anything that she could offer forth as a shield against that beast's rigid horn.

The monster set its paws aside her head, its penis firm beneath its rank belly, a shiny tendril of mucus dripping from its throbbing tip. The sexual horn easily tore through her panties and cut deep into her vagina like a hot stiletto blade as the Galan beast grunted and snorted and plunged its lust deep into her body. The pain was unbearable and robbed her mind of all rational thought, yet despite her agony she beat upon the Galan beast with both hands, but such a protest was to no avail. The fiend continued to ride her quick and hard, driving its wet member into her soft flesh like a vicious dagger. It was here that her voice finally returned with all the ear piercing terror of a shrill scream.

(7)

Cindy fell out of bed and onto the hardwood floor of her bedroom. She was clutching her stomach, knees curled beneath the press of her delicate chin as she battled an agony that seemed to be dissecting her intestines. She knew that it had to be the fetus, that somehow the thing had gone cannibal and was eating her from the inside out like a parasitic organism. Here, those jade abortion pills had changed her unborn into some sort of malicious insect like the maggoty embryos in her dream. In her mind's eye she could see the sharp serrated teeth cutting through her uterus and fallopian tubes as they made their way up to her ovaries. But would that hungry little monster stop once it got there? Perhaps the fetus might chew straight up through her stomach and into her heart until it finally crawled out of her screaming mouth. Of course she would be long dead before it got that far---stiff as a plank on the bedroom floor while her father's ill-conceived child wormed its way out from between her lifeless gums. However, just when she thought she was ready to pass out from the pain, a sudden spasm ripped through her mid-section, as if a part of her vital anatomy had just been torn loose. This sensation was immediately followed by a hot gush of fluid that spat out of her vagina like a bloody sneeze. The pain stopped. She lay on the floor lathered in sweat and tears, her body drained to the point of exhaustion. The ordeal was finally over.

She recalled that her father had once passed a kidney stone in a gas station washroom several years ago. He had claimed that the pain had been so intense, that he had collapsed onto the bathroom floor and passed out. An ambulance had been called by the acting station attendant and then poor old Chuck had been shipped off to the local hospital. Once there, the doctors had used a urine strainer to collect the smaller particles of Chuck's kidney stone for further analysis as to better assist him with any future treatment that he might need. At the moment Cindy would have bet money that her reaction to Galan's abortion pill had been just as traumatic as any stupid kidney stone, perhaps even more so. However, the one thing those conditions both had in common aside from the intense pain would be the immediate follow up.

Galan had made it perfectly clear what Cindy was to do after she had aborted the fetus. She, like Chuck's doctors, would have to collect a specimen, except that her sample wouldn't be going to a medical lab for analysis but rather to a corn field just on the outskirts of town, a farm that belonged to a woman by the name of Katie Birch. The explanation that Galan had given to Cindy in regards to the unusual request had to do with what he claimed to be his deeply rooted religious beliefs. Galan had claimed to be a Wiccan by faith, and that the offering of the fetus was part of an ancient pagan ritual that would see that Katie Birch was blessed with a healthy bumper crop. He had also told Cindy that if she kept his secret, then he would abide hers as well. In her desperation for a viable option she had easily agreed and together they had struck a strange bargain, one that in hindsight she felt warranted a deeper disclosure on Galan's part. After all, he had not mentioned the extent of the pain Cindy would have to endure, or that the pill might prove potentially life threatening. If she had known that then, she may have opted to take her chances at the abortion clinic---Aunt Madge be damned. But then none of that mattered anymore. The fetus was dead and in a little while the nightmare would be over for good. No more pregnancies and no more abortion pills---period! By an act of torment her womb had been cleansed of her father's dark seed and in a little while her debt to Galan would be paid in full. Come this time tomorrow she would secure some birth control pills from Pestle & Mortar and start taking them by the handful. But before she could do that she would first have to find the strength to get off the bedroom floor.

(8)

Cindy didn't want to look at it, but found she couldn't help herself. The mess of blood and tissue on the floor was repulsive yet strangely captivating. She had once dissected a cow heart in biology class but this was completely different. This thing had come from inside her body, and if it had been left to the natural progression of things then it would have someday come to address her as mother. In part she felt like a murderer---not as bad as a mother that drowned her own kids in the bathtub or tossed them from a bridge but pretty damn close. Yes it was true: the pregnancy had been an abomination but that didn't mean the unborn child would have grown up to be evil. Who was to say what kind of person that lump of flesh on the floor might have become if given a chance to live? Perhaps the kid would have grown up to cure cancer or maybe would have built a better mouse trap. But now, no one would ever know what life path the lump on the floor might have taken. She tried not to think about it, but it was pointless. The fetus's tiny fingers and toes lay eerily stillborn amidst the kelp of veins and strangled blood clots, its bald misshapen head staring up at her with black button eyes that silently judged and condemned.

"Bugger and lice and everything vice...that's what little whores are made of," Cindy whispered absently.

Memories of the dream seeped into her forethoughts, and as a result, she couldn't help but think that this discarded infant was in part the Galan beast's child. She recalled the orchard of fragrant trees and the green abortion pill maggots and the pink wet horn attached to the creature that had violated her. It was late and the wee hours of the night often sowed the strangest sorts of ideas but part of her believed that maybe Galan's pagan beliefs had somehow drawn her spirit into an alternate dimension, in which case the pharmacist had entered into her experience, and once there, had forced himself upon her in animalistic fashion. In that regard the abortion pill was the ultimate date rape drug. But then that was crazy. Her child had been sired by Chuck the beer guzzling asshole, not the lanky little pill pusher with the rolled shoulders and tiny round spectacles. Sadly the lump of dead flesh on the floor had Tremblay DNA exclusively. It was a bastard byproduct of inbreeding which did not owe its existence to the Galan beast. Still, the heart saw matters with little logic and based its decisions solely upon feelings, and on such a hunch she had jumped to a preposterous conclusion that questioned the parentage of her offspring. In reality Galan or the mental figment of the Galan beast had never physically touched her inappropriately. To think otherwise courted paranoid delusions which any psychologist would explain away as a disturbed girl trying to cope with the trauma of sexual molestation. But as she stared into the gob of coagulating tissue, she could sense the presence of someone else's sin as well.

She gently scooped the abortion up into a white towel, folded it carefully, and then placed it onto the bed. The remaining blood on the hardwood floor was effectively wiped up with a set of paper towels. Her nightgown was stained at the seat and at the hem but such discoveries could be explained away by an act of heavy menstruation. Not that she would have to worry about Chuck seeing the blood, seeing as she alone did the laundry.

She was exhausted from battling the pain, but was able enough to attend to Galan's errand. At this point she just wanted to be rid of it. Besides, Galan's request gave purpose to the dead child's existence and that was what she tried to take solace in. The remains would ensure a healthy yield of crop, or so she had been told, and if through the child's death, life would flourish, then the burial in the corn field would serve as a sort of tribute. From the sacrifice of her loins the earth would be fed and from the earth a bountiful harvest would reciprocate her offering. And so as she slowly dressed into her jeans and t-shirt she told herself that this seed would be best sown outside the womb, for from its delicate blossom the hungry would be fed, and in turn be made richer in spirit. Such reasoning wasn't so much a convenient lie as it was a self-deception.

(9)

It was muggy, a hot summer night bathed in August moonlight. Crickets crooned while a sporadic swarm of fireflies fluttered through the dusty green corn stalks like a thousand ethereal eyes. Sour pond water and dry meadow grass filled the air with the telltale scent of a prolonged drought. Cindy stood on a gravel road which ran beside Katie Birch's corn field, the white cotton towel with its offering cradled tenderly beneath her arm. She studied the field's topography and noted a single story farmhouse in the distance along with a solitary yellow porch light. She doubted Katie would be awake at this hour, and if she was, she wouldn't see Cindy this far off from the house. Still, Cindy was careful, crept as she ambled down into the culvert and then into the narrow rows of thirsty corn stalks. But before disappearing into the press of plants she glanced back at the road and mentally marked its location in relation to the field as if taking a compass bearing. She doubted she would get lost but thought it pertinent to remain orientated just in case. Galan had instructed that she was to walk into the field a distance of three-six in measure, which worked out to be 18 paces. Not a particularly far trek but deep enough to lose sight of the familiar amidst the flanks of tall corn stalks. If she lost her sense of direction she might wander into trouble. The risk, however, felt marginal, but she still didn't want to take any chances. Yes, she would honor the child with a proper burial, but she also wanted to get back home as quick as possible. The lingering effects of the abortion pain still had her fatigued and she desperately needed rest. If she lost direction she would end up wasting time and energy and she had neither commodity in abundance.

She counted off 18 blind foot paces into the dried corn husks until she had reached the appropriate depth. She then knelt and carefully laid the white cotton towel down onto the parched soil. In the moonlight the white fabric seemed to glow with an almost incandescent quality. A firefly lit up in front of her nose and she almost yelped in startle but managed to catch hold of the cry before it flew off her full lips. The close brush with the tiny insect reminded her just how badly she wanted to get this thing over with and so she did not hesitate. A shallow hole was dug with her slender fingers and the remains of the abortion were promptly removed from the towel and then laid to rest. And when at last the hole was covered back over, she bowed her head in prayer and said: "Dear Lord. Please receive this child's soul unto your bosom. Let its sin be forgiven by your divine mercy and grant him or her entrance into your holiest of kingdoms. And Heavenly Father, forgive me for...killing...my unborn baby...forgive me for lying with my daddy...and forgive my daddy for lying with me. Please God...let him see the error of his ways so that this sin may never be repeated so that..."

An owl hooted close by and the corn briefly rustled. Her eyes snapped open. Despite the strong moonlight the world remained quite dim. She listened. No wind soughed through the crops. Perhaps the owl had moved the stalks while it hunted for a field mouse, or maybe there was a cat out on the prowl. Whatever was responsible for the distraction, it had convinced her that she had dawdled here for too long.

She snatched up the bloody towel and started counting paces back towards the dirt road. The crops felt like a thousand sticky spider webs trying to hold her back. She desperately wanted to run but her body was too exhausted from the effects of Galan's abortion pill not to mention the walk over here. The last thing she wanted to do was engage in physical exercise. Besides she was almost certain it had been an owl that had brushed through the corn, not some kind of---predator.

A wet grunt snorted in front of her. She stopped, mindful that she had counted off only 12 of the 18 paces. The road was close, but so too was the thing in front of her. _Okay, don't freak out!_ She thought. _It's just a pig that's gotten out of its pen, that's all._ Her eyes squinted as they tried to part away the dense net of corn.

(10)

Perhaps six feet away lay two fireflies fixed in position, except that these bugs were not bathed in a greenish glow, but rather basked in a shade of scarlet ember. She waited on those bioluminescent lights to blink and then lazily float away but they did not. Instead they remained perched within the humid darkness. What kind of fire bugs were they? The heart beneath her bosom began to pump generous amounts of blood throughout her body. It was only six paces to the culvert. She tried to convince herself that those molten eyes belonged to a stupid hog---that the blood vessels within the pig's dim witted eyes, was in fact a reflection of moonlight. But the height at which the red circles regarded her was from above and even a prize winning sow standing on its hind legs would have been hard pressed to reach that altitude. No, whatever lurked inside the darkness stood upon a set of tall legs that were no doubt quick and agile and quite adept at chase.

"Welcome to the darkness, Cindy," a raspy voice said from within the maze of corn. "God sees your sin, little girl."

A sudden coldness permeated Cindy's bones. Her knees wobbled and threatened to buckle beneath her. Her mouth ran dry. Her tongue flopped like a dying fish as she struggled to find some intelligible words, some statement that could reason with devils. But it was pointless. Her mind had come unhinged, her thoughts tangled inside the tight knot of a seizure.

"Bugger and lice and everything vice, that's what little whores are made of."

Cindy immediately recognized the idiom as spoken by the Galan beast. And for a moment she thought that she might still be asleep, trapped inside the belly of some terrible dream. But deep down she knew better---she knew.

"You'll have to forgive me, Cindy," the red eyes said from within the dark. "There's just one more thing I need from you to complete the ritual."

The glowing eyes quickly made challenge. There was a brief agonizing pain as a set of unseen fangs tore away the choked grotto of her throat. And then as quickly as the horror had begun it was over. As a result there would be no more lying beneath old Chuck as he grunted and moaned up to climax, and there would be no more listening to those rusty bedsprings as they squeaked and rattled beneath the old man's weight, and there would be no more worries about Aunt Madge finding out that her niece was pregnant with her brother's child, and there would be no more of those miserable abortion pills to endure for the former things had passed away.

Meanwhile, above the eviscerated remains of Cindy's body a soft breeze soughed though the stalks and stirred up the sweet scent of corn while the moon shone bright, and the fireflies twinkled like stars, and the crickets crooned a seductive rhythm. Other than the fact that Cindy was quite dead it truly was a beautiful night.
Chapter Ten

Misery Loves Company

(1)

The mobile home at 92 Avalon Way was held together with rust and faded lime paint, its screen windows caked in a thin layer of moldy grime. A pair of flat tires gave the trailer a slight list to one side which made anything that was slightly rounded on the bottom roll toward the interior wall. Atop the roof lay an antiquated TV antenna that was one good windstorm away from being a lawn ornament. A broken washing machine lay on its side in the front yard beside a propane barbecue that was missing its cover. The uncut grass had grown knee deep and resembled a farmer's field rather than a domestic patch of mainstream suburbia. On the fraying clothesline that ran between a gutted out van and a deader than dead tree, hung an enormous pair of pink jogging pants which obviously belonged to someone of substantial physical girth.

Overall, the tiny trailer park acreage was a neighborhood eyesore with an equally blemished interior. Dishes sat piled in a greasy sink along with a stack of stale pizza boxes that occupied a corner next to a cat litter box which desperately needed to be changed. A yellow twist of flypaper lay ripe with a bounty of insects as it dangled loosely from a cobwebbed ceiling lamp. The air, humid and stale, held a lingering odor that smelled of rotten apples. The living room furniture was stained, its upholstery torn at the borders. The kitchen appliances were rundown and dirty. In fact the entire mobile was a treasure trove of second hand junk, most of which had come from the local Sally Ann. Not to say those things had been in ill-repair when Myron had first dragged them home. No, in fact most of the merchandise had functioned just fine in the beginning. It was just that Myron's wife Mary had a clumsy way about her. Unfortunately most things had a nasty tendency to break whenever she came into contact with them. In fact it was widely said that poor old Mary didn't have the Midas Touch, but rather, the Minus Touch. Suffice it to say, everything she touched turned to shit and wouldn't you know it that miserable gift extended beyond inanimate objects too. That blessing affected people as well, and Myron just so happened to be a prime example of Mary's unfortunate talent.

They had met 13 years ago at an Orchard Cove poker tournament. That had been back in the day when Mary had been a slim, extra-large. Fate had seated the couple together at the same table where Myron had drunk beer after beer while Mary had eaten nacho after nacho. The two had hit it off immediately and after a whirlwind courtship, the pair had tied the knot and moved in to the mobile home where they currently resided. In those days the trailer only had a little bit of rust on it and the economy had been in much better shape. Back then Myron had operated a forklift in the Boondocks Lumber Yard while Mary worked the phones over at the Avalon Call Center where she sold medical travel insurance to would be jetsetters. True, they weren't making a ton of money but they nonetheless had earned a comfortable enough living for the most part. However, the lumber yard eventually went belly up due to poor business management, and it was not soon after that that the call center jobs were shipped overseas to India where a worker would pull a 16 hour shift without taking a bathroom break. Suffice it to say, they had fallen onto hard times. Of course their troubles had not ended there. Myron, a hardworking man at heart, wasn't exactly the sharpest tool in the shed. Due to a lack of book smarts he wasn't able to earn a GED diploma, and that intellectual failing had severely curtailed his career choices. The only jobs he could get these days were either mopping floors or pumping gas. As for Mary, her life long battle with the bulge had taken its toll on her knees, and as a result, she was legally bedridden, and so she was left to collect a small disability check from month to month. The lack of funds had eventually forced them to remortgage their home with the bank as well as accept the charity of the local Sally Ann along with the municipal food bank. Still despite their unfortunate situation they had managed to stick together as husband and wife. Although there wasn't much joy in their marriage these days, and as for sex that was out of the question, especially now that Mary had her _"condition."_ But as for that rather disgusting predicament, well, there might very well be relief on the way. After all, Mr. Galan Whicker had pretty much guaranteed that Mary would be free of her log jam soon enough, and if there was one thing that Myron was grateful for, it was for small miracles.

(2)

"I'm home!" Myron called as he ambled in through the mobile's squeaky screen door.

He sat the paper bag from Pestle & Mortar onto the kitchen table with a sense of pride, seeing as he was most certain that he had finally found the answer to Mary's issue. After all, there was just something about Galan Whicker that Myron trusted, something he could take to the bank. The pharmacist's assurance that the medicine would work on Mary's problem felt as good as any hard currency you could lay your hands on, gold bullion even, and that had Myron in the most upbeat mood that he dared to feel in weeks.

From within the next room came the thump of a big pair of lazy feet as they stomped upon the floor towards the kitchen.

"Where the hell were you?" Mary shouted, her walker cutting two deep grooves into the carpet as she ambled along.

"The pill doctor, honey," Myron replied in a pleasant enough tone.

He could immediately tell that Mary was in a bad mood just by the sound of her voice. He could also tell by the rotten egg stench in the air that she had probably been tooting up a real storm all day.

"Pill doctor! What goddamn pill doctor?"

"Remember...Galan Whicker...the new drug store in town?"

"Don't you mean Orchard Cove's newest quack!"

Myron smiled the smile of a submissive henpecked husband. "Well dear, maybe these pills he sold..."

"Sold! Sold! You didn't buy those damn things, did ya?! We're not made of money you know!"

"No dear, they were free."

"Free! Well then they're guaranteed not to work!"

"But dear, we've tried..."

Mary wobbled into the kitchen, the plastic wheels of her walker rolling the cracked linoleum flooring up like a wave before the bow of a wide body tugboat. "We've tried jack shit!" Mary snapped as she stopped beside the kitchen table and grunted out a long winded flatulent that sounded sickly and wet. That humid stench quickly found Myron's nostrils and his eyes almost began to water.

"Please sweetie, we have to try. It's been a long time since you made a deposit."

"Don't you mean had a shit?!"

Myron could see that she was exceptionally cranky today. Usually when she got all bent up like this it was typically accompanied by a nasty bout of stomach cramps along with that terrible blue angel gas.

"If you don't take your medicine, we'll have to go back to the hospital, Mary."

"No damn hospital! No little rice picker is going to shove a tube into my asshole again!"

The last time they went to the emergency room, a very polite, little Asian doctor had administered an enema to Mary. Unfortunately she had farted the solution back out in a shotgun blast that effectively soaked the doctor from head to toe. Still despite the medicine's gentle nudge her log jam had remained stubbornly in place.

"Okay darling," Myron said with a bow of his head. "No hospitals. But would you at least try some of this medicine. Please...Galan said it tastes like chocolate."

That was a lie, but he was desperate to get her to try the prescription. After all the stink was killing him, not to mention that Mary was in real danger of dying from a bowel obstruction. Admittedly there was a secret part of Myron that wanted to be rid of his wife but he would never dream of being the instrument of her demise. If the Lord was to be so inclined to call Mary back home, well then so be it. Who was he to stand in the divine's way? In fact Myron would have probably held the door open for the Almighty as he relieved him of that matrimonial burden. But other than the wishing of an act, Myron himself would not put the ax to the tree as to see it come to fall. No sir. He was a decent man that had made an oath for better or worse, and although his heart longed to be free of its obligation he would not offer forth an effort to release it.

"It's probably rat poison," Mary said through a grunt. "You and that little tramp at the gas station probably have a plan to kill me off so you can finally be together."

Myron's face went flush. It was true that he was quite fond of Vivian Campbell, and that he often had sexual fantasizes about her while he pumped gas and she worked the cash register but that was as far as the transgression went. Still he longed to be with Vivian for she was ladylike, attractive, smart, which basically meant that she was everything that his dearest Mary wasn't. Here, Vivian always offered him the kindest of words, while Mary always browbeat him. Deep down he suspected that he loved Vivian but of course that love was something that he had yet to admit to himself let alone admit to Mary or Vivian for that matter. Besides what good could ever come from such a confession? Nothing, that's what. He may have been stupid but he wasn't crazy. He knew that Vivian did not reciprocate his feelings let alone perceived him as a potential suitor. No, she was young and pretty and that meant that she was out of reach. However, her sweet voice often flowed through his thoughts, and she said things that Myron was often shocked to hear her say.

_Wanna fuck me Myron...do ya...right here on the counter?_ Of course, he always declined her advances for Mary's sake, but sometimes the fantasy voice got what it wanted and more. _Oh Myron...you're so big...so manly...so sexy._ He blinked and focused on Mary, willing the voice to shut the hell up before he sprung a boner.

"For the love of goodness, Mary," Myron said with a sigh. "Vivian is just a person that I work with...nothing more." _And we're having sex...go on...tell her Myron...tell her about us._

Mary scrunched up her oily nose and twisted her mouth as though she had just tasted something sour. "Keep away from that little tramp, Myron. She's just a little whore home wrecker."

"Yes, sweetheart. I'll keep away from her," Myron replied, mindful that it was always best to agree with Mary, especially when she was gassy.

Mary eyed the Pestle & Mortar bag on the kitchen table with lackluster enthusiasm. "So, what's that crap called?"

Myron scratched his head in thought. "Virility, I think."

She glanced at Myron and crooked a sarcastic grin. "Maybe you should be taking that."

The remark's significance escaped him but he nonetheless understood that on some level his manhood had just been insulted. Still he kept silent and grinned the idiot's grin if only to maintain some semblance of peace in the house.

Mary reached into the bag and withdrew the herb and stared down the length of her shiny nose at it. "It looks funny."

"It's from South America," Myron explained. "It's used in a ceremony of some sort."

"Saints preserve us!" Mary exclaimed as she tossed the bottle back into the bag. "It's voodoo zombie weed! The devil's elixir!"

"It's no such thing," Myron said in assurance, although he wasn't sure if that was true or not.

"You'd have me sip the devil's wine?" Mary snapped. "Is that what you and that tramp Vivian want? To turn me into some mindless vegetable that sits in front of the TV all day."

For an instant a sharp retort lay on the tip of Myron's tongue---something to the effect that Mary was like that already but he kept such steel behind his teeth. "Please Mary, by all that is holy, I swear that Vivian and I are not plotting against you." He closed his eyes and touched the bridge of his nose before continuing, but Viv's voice had to have its say. _Kill her Myron...and then we can run away together and live happily ever after._ "The medicine is just that...medicine. If you don't get this clog in the pipe fixed my love, you could die. And no one wants that." _Yes we do._

For a second he could see her laid out in a big casket, except it wasn't actually a coffin, but rather a piano case. In the fantasy Vivian hung onto his arm in emotional support and although he played the part of the grieving husband well enough he couldn't help but think about being with Vivian romantically. In the dream he would be free to pursue her now that Mary had gone into the cold obstruction, and in his grief, Vivian would receive him if only out of sympathy. Myron blinked and cleared the image from his mind and focused on his "beloved" wife. "You know, I love you, Mary...you're my little jelly doughnut."

She softened and regarded the herbal remedy with a bit more acceptance. After all, she loved it when he called her his "little jelly doughnut." "Okay. Put the kettle on and I'll try it."

Myron smiled and gave his wife a peck on her pimply cheek. "There we go...that's my girl."

(3)

Much to Myron's surprise the herbal tea actually smelled like hot chocolate, although there was something else mixed within the scent, something similar to an apple. However, the source of the odor was irrelevant, all that mattered was that the drink was agreeable for the most part, and that would make it that much easier for Mary to ingest. After all who could argue that they did not like chocolate, especially if that special someone just happened to eat it by the bag full on a regular basis. She would have no excuses not to try it, and as such, the aroma would prove as one more selling point for her to take it.

Mary put the steaming mug up to her mouth and greedily chugged down the herbal remedy in noisy gulps, and when at last she had taken her fill she effectively topped off her gluttony with a loud resounding belch. Of course that release of gas was closely followed by an impressive flatulent that droned and sputtered on for close to half a minute.

"You see," Myron said cheerfully, trying to smile through the God awful stench. "It's working already."

"Just because it gave me a little toot, doesn't mean it's going to flush the poop," she grumbled. "Guess we'll have to wait and see if I go blind or sprout horns."

"Mary," Myron said with a sigh. "There's nothing bad in it. The man at the pharmacy is an absolute peach, honey bunch. He wouldn't hurt a fly, let alone an angel such as you."

Mary grinned slightly. She enjoyed it when Myron spoke to her in such loving terms. Perhaps later she would give him a little rub down there for having been such a good boy. She hadn't given him the touch in close to three months and felt he was probably due for a little caress. Besides he was quick to do the business, lightning fast as a matter of fact, so the labor wasn't nearly as arduous for Mary as when he had a dozen or so frosty ones in his belly. Of course he didn't drink that many brewskis very often, and when he did he was more apt to roll over and pass out rather than whine and beg for the touch. However, if this medicine actually released her burden to the porcelain pipe then she would give him the special lick instead. She hadn't performed that miracle for him in years but such a reward would surely be due if the voodoo hooch managed to breach the dam.

"Run me a bath and get my bathrobe," Mary ordered. "I'm getting tired and need some beauty sleep."

_At least a thousand years' worth,_ Myron thought, but of course it was not his voice that had said such a mean spirited thing, it was Vivian's, always Vivian's. "Yes dear...and I'll get your slippers too."

"Myron?"

"Yes honey bunch."

"Am I prettier than Vivian?"

It was an outrageous question, like asking if the sun was hotter than ice. Of course Vivian was prettier, she was goddamn gorgeous, and Mary was a lumbering sweat hog. Still she was Myron's darling wife, his little jelly doughnut, and such a question deserved the kind of response from a faithful husband. "You're the belle of the ball sweetie, a veritable head turner. Vivian isn't even in your league." Inside his head Viv's voice piped up. _Yeah, what he really means to say is that you're not a part of the human league, so get back to the trough and fill up on some slop you fat miserable pig!_ Myron couldn't believe how cruel Vivian could be sometimes. Of course, she was just jealous and wanted Myron all to herself. Women were like that, catty and nasty to one another when they were vying for the attention of a man.

"I think someone's going to get the touch tonight," Mary said softly and with a wink that was accompanied by yet another blast of gas.

_Oh goodie_ , Vivian said sarcastically, _a touch of the clap no doubt you stinky bitch!_

_Hush Viv,_ Myron thought. _You hush now. Later we'll have our special time together...later._

(4)

Mary did not bathe often, but when she did, it was a real chore. She had outgrown the tub 7 years ago, and as a result, she was forced to use the bathtub as a wash basin. Myron helped with the cleanings, although, if given the choice, he would have rather had a professional caregiver perform the task. Myron loathed Mary's bath time, and so too did that aspect of his subconscious that called itself Vivian. It was bad enough that he had to scrub down those terrible bedsores and hairy moles but then he also had to endure Vivian's merciless taunts while he did so. _Oh look...it must be Sea World's Shamu. Wait a second and let me put on my rain slicker._ Or by far worse: _If you were half a man, you'd drown her in her own filth you coward!_

No, Myron did not care for the job, least of all listening to Vivian belittle both him and Mary. Sometimes she could be so mean, so callous. Of course the real Vivian would never have said such harsh things for they were not in her nature. However, her psychological counterpart reveled in such mischief, and although deep down Myron understood that the secret version of Vivian was of his own design he nevertheless had begun to think of her as being a real person. In fact, there had been a few episodes in which he had slipped up and told Vivian to hush down in front of some customers at the gas station. Fortunately he had not let slip that chastisement in Vivian's presence let alone Mary's. And so for the time being, he was safe, but the longer the courtship within his head went on the more those little conversations would seep out into the real world where everyone could hear them. He would have to be more careful---and so too would Vivian.

"Is the water too hot?" Myron asked.

Mary sat on a metal chair that they had set up inside the tub so that she would not have to crouch and eased her feet into the water. A flatulent grumbled out of her arse and immediately filled the tiny washroom with a sickly odor that smelled of toxic poison.

"It's fine as wine," Mary replied.

Myron dipped the washcloth into the water, covered it with soap, and then began to scrub his wife down from head to toe, careful as not to get any suds into her eyes. It was an intimate moment, yet failed to reflect any intimacy. Mary might just as well have been a prize winning sow and Myron a farmer. Their marriage had begun with mutual love and attraction, but had grown into a sort of parasitic relationship. The question of course was which of them was the parasite? Money, that unspoken cornerstone of any marriage was the foundation that kept the house from sinking. Mary received a monthly disability check from the government while Myron earned minimum wage as a pump jockey at Ed's Gas and Go. Neither of them was well-to-do, let alone Wall Street stock wizards. Suffice it to say, they needed each other to survive and where money connected them it also imprisoned them. At least that was how Myron saw it, that his life with Mary had become a God awful sentence of misery and servitude. He was trapped and he wanted out. But what could he do to escape his matrimonial abyss? Vivian (at least the Vivian in his head) had her suggestions on the matter well documented but for Myron to kill his wife in cold blood would be for Myron to kill his own soul. He was at heart, a peaceful man, and although he desired to be emancipated from his dungeon of weekly scrub baths and having to endure constant flatulence he could not bring himself to do her in. Vivian had called him a coward, said that he didn't have the balls that God gave a gnat. But that was ok, he could deal with Vivian's chastisement because he loved her and deep down she loved him too. (At least the Vivian in his head had said so.) Perhaps in a little while after he had bedded down next to Mary he would have the dream again, the one where he and Vivian spent their honeymoon together in Graceland. Myron was a huge Elvis fan after all, and so too was the Vivian inside his head. In the dream he wore a rhinestone jumpsuit while she wore a skimpy cheerleader costume. Of course it made absolutely no sense why Vivian would be dressed so, but then in a dream nothing had to make sense, it just had to be dreamy and it was.

Myron finished scrubbing Mary down, toweled her off, and then helped her slip into her nightdress. It had been a long day for them both---Mary watching game shows and soap operas on the living room sofa, while Myron pumped gas and daydreamt about the cheerleader version of Vivian. Together they crawled into their nest, and as promised Mary gave Myron the touch. It was a pleasant experience, not as good as the lick, but good enough to have Myron make a speedy deposit into a Kleenex tissue quicker than anyone could say _Jack Flash_. He felt that if he had more time in the boudoir saddle he could learn to prolong the act of ejaculation. However, Mary seldom let him touch her, at least not in that way, and that lack of affection had earned him the nickname _bullet man_. At least that's what Vivian would call him after he had been with Mary. However, whenever Vivian and Myron had their special alone time she always referred to him as _stallion._ Of course the Vivian inside his head always said the right things to Myron when they were alone, especially when they were intimate.

"Myron?" Mary asked in a voice that was one wink short of sleep.

"Yes."

"Do you really think the voodoo hooch will fix me?"

Myron nestled into his pillow and yawned. "Have faith, Mary. Galan Whicker seems to be an angel sent from heaven. If he says it'll work, then by God, it will."

"Ok," Mary said. "Good night, dear."

"Good night, Mary."

_Good night lover,_ Vivian whispered.

"Good night," Myron muttered.

(5)

The first thump came at around 3:15 a.m. and it was a loud one too. So loud as a matter of fact that Myron was certain that someone had kicked the front door in. He had bolted out of bed and grabbed hold of the baseball bat next to the nightstand. His breathing was as quick as his heartbeat which he tried to steady lest he reveal his presence to the intruders. Of course anyone that would break into the trailer by making that much of a racket had no intention of being stealthy let alone concerned if the owners were home. No, judging by the way that they had entered into the house he could tell that this had to be a home invasion and that at any second a gang of thugs dressed in black ski masks would burst into the bedroom, tie him and Mary up with duct tape and then shoot them execution style. He wasn't exactly sure what that term meant, but he understood that's how killers did their business: execution style. He held the Louisville Slugger in a batters stance and stared in the direction of the bedroom door. His eyes had not yet adjusted to the darkness and although he could barely see it, he nonetheless gathered a vague sense of its rectangular form. However, there seemed to be something off about the door, as though it was too soft to be solid. He blinked and then realized it was already open.

_Oh dear God!_ He thought. _Mary got up to go to the bathroom and now she's out there alone with those bastards!_ He looked to the side of the bed where his better half usually rested to find that she was indeed missing. Despite his sense of immediate panic he could not for the life of him understand how she had gotten out of bed without his noticing. She couldn't have, especially considering that he was such a light sleeper. Besides, whenever Mary moved it was like a small earthquake. It was at that moment that he realized what the boom must have been. It was obvious that Mary had taken a header in the dark and was probably flat on her face or arse whatever the case might be.

Vivian giggled in the depths of his mind. _Miserable bitch is playing tumble bug I see. She wants to be a gymnast no doubt. Oh Myron...wouldn't it be wonderful if she dropped dead of a heart attack!_

"Hush now Viv," Myron whispered. "You hush now."

He stumbled across the bedroom floor, his big toe smashing into the bed leg in the process. The pain caused him to fetch up briefly but after a moment of hesitation he was back on the prowl again. He shuffled down the hallway, noting how warm and slick the floor felt beneath his bare feet. Beyond the corridor's edge, he could see a green light glowing from within the kitchen. The source wasn't coming from the refrigerator light but rather from the microwave clock most likely, except that he was pretty damn sure that the microwave was on the fritz, as were most things in the house these days. He swallowed hard and summoned the power to speak.

"M...M...Mary?"

Another thump banged, except that this time it came from outside in the front yard.

"Jesus Christ!" Myron exclaimed.

He covered his mouth with his free hand, mindful that his cuss words were said loud enough for anyone in the trailer to have heard him. He then yanked the hand free of his mouth and applied its tightening grip to the bat. _Ok Myron...just get to the phone and call the cops and..._ Suddenly a sinking feeling overtook him. They hadn't paid the phone bill in at least six months, and as a result, they had disconnected the line weeks ago. They also didn't own a cell phone, let alone an internet connection. He supposed he could have sat down and wrote a letter to the police, but he figured he would have been long dead before they answered it.

_Oh for the love of God Myron, get the hell out there already!_ Vivian scolded. _The bitch is dead I tell ya! She's tits up in the barbeque!_

"Hush now Viv," Myron whispered. "You hush now."

He took in a deep breath and bolted into the kitchen with the slugger ready to strike down anyone that dared to challenge him. But when his feet hit the linoleum he lost his footing and landed flat upon his back, effectively knocking the wind out of himself. The bat rolled beneath the kitchen table as he thrashed upon the floor gasping for air. At the moment he was completely helpless. The vacuum of his lungs had stolen what little fight he had left to give. If those thugs with their ski masks and rolls of duct tape decided to show up at this moment they probably would have just shot him executioner style, at least after they had had a good laugh at his expense. But by this point he knew there wouldn't be any goons, there would be something else, something he had yet to fully understand. At present all he knew for certain was that Mary was missing, that he was on the floor with the wind knocked out of him, and that he had apparently slipped on a slimy trail of what may or may not have been feces. He rolled onto his side, the wind slowly creeping back into the squeezed sacks of his lungs, his eyes trying to interpret what they were seeing. In the green glowing light that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere, he could see a wide brown trail that led down the hallway from the bedroom to the mobile's front door, which now lay open to the night. And as the air slowly refilled his modest chest cavity, so too did that rancid scent of shit. He had been living with that odor for months now, and although this bouquet was much more pungent, he nonetheless recognized the scent as belonging to Mary.

In a far distant quadrant of his mind he thought, _she's finally had her movement_ , but when faced with the evidence at hand, he also couldn't help but realize that something had gone horribly awry, something dare he say, evil. He crawled onto his feet, his back and legs and hands smeared with feces. Mary was definitely outside---she had left a trail strong enough that even a dead man could have tracked her. But why had she gone outdoors and not made her deposit into the commode? That strange feeling told him it had to do with the voodoo hooch as Mary called it.

"Oh dear lord, they're gonna say I poisoned her Viv," Myron whined. "Yep they will, and then I'll swing for sure."

_No they won't,_ Viv said in a haughty voice. _They'll say she sleepwalked and then died by an act of misadventure._

"No they won't," Myron whimpered. "They'll blame me."

_Not if you go out there and make it look like it was an accident, my love,_ Vivian said in a soothing seductive tone. _Just get a rock and hit her in the head with it, then put the rock on the ground next to her. Oops, would you look at that...poor old tumble bug took a nasty fall...that's what they'll say baby._

"Will it work, Viv?"

Trust me baby...Vivy's always right. So you hush now Myron...you hush now.

(6)

Myron stood on the front porch step in his underwear, shit caked on his hindquarters, legs, and arms like damp mud. He looked like the type of maniac that liked to crawl into an outhouse grotto to watch ladies do their business. The neighborhood for the most part was silent, except for the steady _rrrrrreeeeeee_ of crickets. The porch bulb above his head hadn't worked in years and there were no streetlights that ran along the length of Avalon Way, but that was alright, because Myron had the August moon to see by. However, he wasn't sure if he was going to like what the moon had to show him. All he knew at the moment was that he had to find Mary, and what happened after that depended on a great many things, namely his resolve. One part of his rationale wanted her to be dead, but the other wanted her to be alive because things would be safer that way. Besides, she was his wife, for better or for worse, and although that kind of thinking would tick Vivian off to no end, it was nonetheless how things were.

He followed the trail of shit that ran down the front steps and onto the lawn. He stepped to the side of the filth and wiped the dung from the bottom of his feet upon the grass, mindful that crap still covered roughly half his body. Regardless of how effective the act was, he nonetheless wanted to be rid of the dirt, even if that cleansing took only a little bit away. He shadowed the trail which led to the gutted van and wondered if his wife might be inside. The doors weren't locked, not that that would have stopped her considering there were no windows in the van seeing as Myron had smashed the glass out with an old pellet gun years ago. That had been back in the good old days when he and Mary used to frequent the poker tournaments. Times had been gentler back then, there had been more money, more sex, and there hadn't been any trails of shit gleaming in the moonlight.

He stopped suddenly. There was a creaking noise coming from inside the van. Someone or something was inside. _If this van is a rocking, don't bother knocking,_ Vivian giggled. "Hush now Viv," Myron whispered. "You hush now."

The van shuddered and rocked, its rear suspension springs squeaking audibly. He let his eyes track the brown carpet that curved around to the van's backdoors. She had gone in from the rear, and was most likely having some sort of seizure which meant two things: one---that she was still alive and two---that there would be no death from misadventure. After all, how could she fall and hit her head on a rock if she had died inside a van? Myron may not have been a rocket scientist but even he knew a bullshit story when he heard one. The thought of not having to kill his wife filled him with both a sense of relief and a sense of dread. Shit trail or not he was still married, till death do you part married, and that was not how he wanted his life to be. He was a prisoner, and not even Vivian with her clever lies and constant nagging would change that.

He crept over to the van, not entirely sure why he was being so stealthy. Perhaps it had to do with the fact that he had once heard someone say that it was bad to wake up a sleepwalker. He wasn't entirely sure what might happen if he did, but felt it wasn't worth the risk. Besides the voodoo hooch had done more than its share of messing with her mind as it was. There was no need to garner any additional trauma by throwing up a Hail Mary to boot.

He stood before the van's backdoors. They were shut. Rusted. Windowless.

_You'll never be free of her, you coward!_ Viv reproached him. _You're pathetic!_

"Hush now Viv," Myron whispered. "You hush now."

He grabbed onto the handles and pulled open the doors, in part expecting to be showered by a thick spray of feces just as that tiny Asian doctor had been when he gave Mary the enema. However, he was not greeted by human waste, but rather by a man and woman engaged in the passionate throes of love making. Myron took a step backward and almost slipped in the feces on the lawn just as he had on the kitchen linoleum, but he nevertheless managed to hold onto his balance. At first his immediate reaction was to apologize for disturbing the couple and to go on his way, but as his eyes began to make sense of the situation he couldn't bring himself to speak let alone move from his position. In the dim light of the August moon, Myron watched as an almost animalistic version of what resembled Mr. Galan Whicker feverishly pounded his member into his wife's eager vagina. Except that the woman lying beneath that very hairy man wasn't his Mary, at least not the Mary that he knew. No, this woman was thin of waist, flat of stomach, and voluptuous of breast. Yet she still had Mary's face grafted to her head, except that her face was better in many ways. It had been improved and reshaped into that which belonged to an attractive young woman---a woman who earlier this evening had asked him if she was prettier than Vivian, and much to his surprise, she was, much prettier in fact, right down to the wonderful sensual daring the twinkled in her bedroom eyes. Yet those beautiful eyes regarded her husband with visible disdain, and it was with that loathing that she continued to perform, not the touch nor the lick, but rather the full contact sport otherwise known as the dirty.

"Mary...is that you?" He couldn't believe how thin the question sounded, how impotent it was in the face of such a stark absurdity. He was being confronted by complete and utter madness, plain and simple, and found he had no prior experience to draw upon so that he might act accordingly. Here the woman on the van's floor was his wife but yet she could not be for obvious reasons. It was an impossibility but yet there it was staring up at him, moaning and groaning to the point of orgasm. Not even the sharp tongued siren named Vivian had anything cute to say, let alone profound, for she too was every bit as perplexed as her lesser.

The thing that rode his wife like a randy goat raised its balding head and stared at Myron with a set of coal ember eyes and then said with a playful wink: "It'll fix what ails ya!"

Myron stared into those scarlet eyes, on one level recognizing them, and on another, not. The thing that was man and not man called itself Galan on occasion, but on hot summer nights beneath a bright August moon, it called itself something else, something sinister.

Myron went to step back, to retreat into the evening and to a place where his thoughts might come to settle into a state of reason. But the thing that had grabbed hold of his ankles from beneath the van, would not release him. He looked down upon his feet and watched as the blubbery remains of his beloved Mary enveloped his feet and rolled up around his legs and onto his torso like the creature from the movie "The Blob." Here, the herbal tea had transformed the woman in the van into a beautiful butterfly by allowing her to discard that wobbly shell that had encased her bones in a sagging jail for the better part of her life. But that liberation had come at a cost, and she was only too glad to pay it for she too had someone like Vivian living inside her mind, as well. And after all these years that voice wasn't just speaking to her, it was singing.

Myron went to suck in the air necessary to scream but the gelatinous suit that had seized hold of him not only covered over his head with a tight twist of bowels and guts, it had also shoved its filth down his throat all the way to the pit of his stomach. He was stuck inside the fleshy cocoon now, and despite his struggles, he could not free himself from its death grip.

The blob pulled him down beneath the van, where it slowly ate and suffocated him to death. But before Myron lost all trace of thought he couldn't help but helplessly listen as the suspension springs creaked and moaned and the voice of a beautiful woman who had once been his wife cried out "Hallelujah!" as she finally achieved orgasm.

Chapter Eleven

The Forbidden Fruit

(1)

Cyril stood before the thin curtain that separated Pestle & Mortar's backroom from its forward shop, mindful that the barrier was deceptive, at least that much he remembered. However, his memory of this place lay shrouded every bit as much as the backroom lay shrouded by the curtain. He felt overcome by a strong sense of déjà vu, and couldn't help but feel that he had breached this boundary once before. If that was the case, the resulting fallout had been anything but productive. In fact his previous failing may very well have cost him the life of his only son, Daniel. Unfortunately there was just no knowing. But he felt he had nonetheless come to the right place and that if he was to secure any degree of success in regards to the Travelling Man, then his best chance of achieving that lay beyond the deceptive veil. He eased his hand forward and touched the gentle fold. The fabric was cool, and for all intents and purposes it was nothing more than a cotton based material that had been woven by a mortal loom. However, it was not, and should by no means be thought of as being such. The barrier was formidable and would not yield to just any intruder. The way forward was only available to those things that kept the darkness within their soul and of course to those fallen Children of Eden. Again, this knowledge was intuitive and expressed itself through a sense of empathy, rather than that of a well-formed thought. To a certain extent he was playing this game improv, yet there also seemed to be some sort of rough draft by which to go by. But who had been the author of that partial manuscript? Suffice it to say, the path ahead would be constructed of broken puzzle pieces, but if he was careful and diligent he just might assemble something that resembled a working roadmap.

There was always hope.

He pulled the curtain slowly aside, mindful of the mystery that dwelled therein. He doubted that the pain inside his knee would be of much help on this leg of the journey, and that if anything it would only prove a hindrance.

The interior lay dimly lit by a single candle that had all but spent the best of its wax. Still there was enough light to see, and what that faint hue showed was a small room hollowed out of a single cast of solid wood that led to a descending set of stairs. He stepped inside, cautious of the surroundings. That delicious sweet scent of apples was strongest in here. However, there was something else stirred into the mix, something sour, like a rotten egg or a spill of sulfur. He set his hand upon the wall, marveling at its seemingly impossible construction. The contours lay smooth but nonetheless severely blighted by an infestation of coarse wood knots that would have made a chain saw's work most difficult in the cutting. Still there was no sign of roughing to be found here let alone a solitary splinter to suggest the hogging of this fine surface had been anything but easy. He looked down into the yawning depth of the stairwell and noted how it turned a spiral. Again there were no planks in the assembly for the steps too had been chiseled out of the same lay of timber as that of the walls. However, if that was true then that meant he was standing within the core of what could only be a hollowed out tree. But then that was impossible. Trees in Orchard Cove, let alone the Maritimes, did not grow this big. The only timber that could even come close to something this impressive would be a West Coast redwood. Those monsters grew to around 25 stories in height and were only found on the other side of the continent. So how the hell did one of nature's skyscrapers come to be in this place? Of course, there was no guarantee that the tree was even a member of the plant family Sequoiadendron, for Galan Whicker was the Travelling Man, and he had no doubt gathered an immense collection of seeds and specimens from around the world while on his "journeys." Still, the very base of this thing was huge and not the sort of thing that would have gone unnoticed regardless of how much amnesia Cyril, let alone anyone else in town may have had. Surely someone had seen something. Why, even the wood alone from the hollowing process would have created a lumberyard worth of wood cord, perhaps even enough to heat half the homes in Orchard Cove for an entire winter. So how had he built this place, let alone kept it secret? There was no answer aside from that of a supernatural one. But then that was to be expected because the Travelling Man was well versed in the dark arts, and voodoo and witchcraft were the choice tools of his trade. The only thing that Cyril could do in regards to solving this mystery of the tree was to simply accept that the tree was what it was and to let it go at that. Besides there was no point worrying about absurdities. Those details wouldn't help him in regards to stopping the Travelling Man. The only thing that he could do was to get to the bottom of the stairs, or so he hoped.

He picked up the candle from its small perch and crooked a smile. "Smile you old coot, it's the only birthday candle you're going to get." He held it forward as he slowly limped down the spiral staircase. The flame cast eerie shadows upon the walls, phantoms that seemed to stalk and whisper into his ear as he slowly descended into the bowels of some kind of unholy pit. _Vastedavalo! Boonsartom! Medusmune! Losavalin!_

He reflected on the meaning of those enigmatic words but could find no relevance relating to his current situation. The chant was no doubt a warning to _"look away_ , _"_ but it was far too late to heed that caution now. After all, Cyril was more than just committed he was bound by a moral obligation. He was a guardian and he had a duty to perform, not to mention that he needed to avenge the death of his son. If Daniel's demise had come at the throw of his hand or not, there was no denying the nature of the source that had set that deed into motion. It would be to that fiend that Cyril would take his war and it would be there that a great many things would be decided.

He continued to sink deeper into the tree's belly and the further down he went the more he noticed that the knots in the wood had begun to resemble a crude network of rudimentary eyes. And as each lid blinked, it squeaked and groaned the only way that timber could, and from the flow of their inhuman sight, a faint trail of dry sawdust was seen to puff out upon the lazy air. It was an unnerving situation, and Cyril had taken to keeping his body as far away from the walls as he possibly could, lest he inadvertently make contact with one of those soulless eyes. Still, the woody powder made his own eyes and nose itch, and it was everything for him not to fall into a sneezing fit. He covered his mouth and nose with his free hand as to filter out as much of the dust as he could. However, his eyes were still vulnerable, and the further along he moved, the more difficult it was to see. Soon he would be completely blind, not to mention---

\---and then it dawned on him. With the accumulation of sawdust, there was an ever increasing possibility for an explosion. For once the dust reached a critical saturation point then the candle flame would ignite the wood particles and turn the spiral staircase into a fiery cauldron that would effectively incinerate him alive. He had to decide what to do quickly but neither of the choices afforded him offered much in the way of safety. He could continue down to the bottom of the staircase and hope that he could reach it before the flame set off the sawdust, or he could try to get topside before the exact same result occurred. Of course he could blow out the candle, but then that would leave him trapped in the darkness alone with those squeaking eyes as they slowly filled the air and his lungs with a choking plume of dust particles. He stared at the candle and noted how a slight halo was beginning to surround the flickering flame. It was a roll of the dice now, seeing as the sawdust could ignite at any second. If he was going to decide on a course of action, then it had to be right now!

"Well, it's your birthday...go on...make a damn wish." _I wish I wasn't in this nightmare!_ He blew out the candle, licked his thumb and forefinger and then squeezed the wick to death. The residual ember hissed as the heat bled away leaving him blind inside an ensuing darkness of those squeaky wooden eyes. However, there was no subsequent explosion, and if anything, he considered that to be a small victory. Here, his life had not been snuffed out as the candle's had. He was still breathing for the time being and that meant he had a chance, however marginal that chance might be.

He hesitated upon the steps. Eyes closed. Hand covering over his mouth and nose as a shield. If he went back upstairs, it would be an act of surrender, and he could not help but wonder if that was how he had failed Daniel before. Had it been his own cowardice that had cost him the life of his son? It was that line of questioning that invariably led him to the decision to descend into the stolid darkness, for he knew that it would be on the lowest level of the tree that he would prove his courage. However, he feared something much more than Galan Whicker's hidden horrors, and the thing he feared most of all was the forgotten past. Surely when his heel hit the bottom step, those long lost recollections would come back to haunt him and the resulting emotional fallout might unhinge the last lingering bastion of his sanity. Grief, that most depressing of emotions, could cripple a man just as easily as a bear trap, and it was that potential for a psychological split that unnerved him the most. But he nonetheless crept down the passageway, his feet anxiously testing the empty darkness before them, his hands tracing the wall of blinking eyes with a sick aversion. And just when he thought the journey downward into those darkest of roots might take him forever to reach, his feet suddenly found the tree's lowest landing.

(2)

The darkness gave way to a dim gray shadow that fed the enormous circular chamber with a dreary shade of ethereal ghost light. The knotted eyes that spotted the walls gave off an emerald glow that was wraithlike, dreamy, like tiny ship portals submerged beneath an ocean of supernatural jade. The dust lay settled upon the floor like sawmill leavings. The small desert like dunes crisscrossing the area, their gentle mounds mated to the dim lit shadows in a marriage of subtle contrasts. Along the walls ran all manner of coffins, from the modern metal luxury models, to low end pauper boxes. Within the caskets lay corpses, each of them in a different degree of decomposition. Most were beyond recognition, while others were relatively fresh. Cyril moved forward slightly, his eyes surveying the morbid museum with a revulsion that threatened to turn his stomach inside out. Some of these people he had known personally, like Eric Travis, the hardware store manager who had passed away in the spring from a sudden brain aneurysm. And then there was Madeline Connors, the elementary school principal that had slipped and fell down her basement stairs and broke her neck just this past spring. And then there was Ian Holbrook, a local photographer that had died from septic shock after a routine tonsillectomy in the spring. In the company of these, there were half a dozen more people that Cyril recognized as well, each of them a victim of what the community had come to call "Orchard Cove's deadly spring." But Cyril now understood that their passing had not been accidental in nature, but rather supernatural by design. The Travelling Man's stink was all over their falling, and their presence within this chamber of horrors was a testament to his handiwork. Each cadaver had been stripped of their clothing, their bodies dissected at various locations in order to liberate a very specific part of their vital anatomy. In some instances the hearts were removed, in others the livers, in others the brains, the eyes---etcetera. And all those life sustaining things had at one time or another been compiled upon the great alchemy table where the hands of a demonic maniac drew out their ingredients in order to manufacture his enchanted tonics, evil elixirs, and sinister snake oils. The good had been rendered bad by the thing that culled the herd in the spiritual reaping, the thing that called itself the Travelling Man. And from his wicked hand the offerings of flesh and bone had ground like beef, seasoned like sausage, stuffed into capsules and then bottled for mass consumption. This forbidden chamber was a monument to suffering and of horrors of an atrocity. It was a dungeon of death and sacrilege.

Cyril slowly wandered past the rows of coffins and the desiccated corpses and the staring jade eyes until he stood before that butcher's slab which of course was the Travelling Man's alchemy table. The large table was of translucent stained glass, its surface a tapestry of enigmatic symbols that appeared to tell an epic tale of woe. Upon the cryptograms lay glass flasks, colorful alchemy bottles, along with a human skull whose crown had been sawed off at the brow in order to serve as the mortar for a broken thigh bone pestle. It was a voodoo artifact, the tools of a black magic witchdoctor. Cyril examined the skull closely, noting how the nose socket resembled an ace of spades. He suddenly thought of Pat Conway and the playing card wedged within the silk band of his panama. Was there a connection between that Orchard Cove bully and this unholy trinket? No, Cyril may have despised Pat Conway, but he knew that that slack jaw yokel had nothing to do with this chamber of horrors. This evil sanctuary or makeshift laboratory whichever the case may be was the exclusive domain of the Travelling Man, and no other "living" mortal aside from Cyril had come to grace this keep in a great many years. By virtue of his heritage, Cyril had been granted a backstage pass, and although he wanted nothing more than to burn this foul chamber to the ground he knew that he was not to disturb the Travelling Man's sinister workings, for there was magic at work within this hall of horrors, and where a fire might turn some things to ash, it might also set some dark terrible magic free. No, the Travelling Man's wares, while dormant for the time being were not to be trifled with, they were to be treated as potential landmines, booby traps or IEDs. And so he set foot to heel and began to hobble past the morbid skull, when the grinning paperweight of bone suddenly began to release a thin emerald mist from atop its broken crown. Cyril paused and lent an eye to the skull's contents where a green miasma slowly crept into the stale humid air like a spirit departing a mortal host. He felt he should flee but his feet nonetheless remained rooted to the sawdust floor. He was after all a curious man and could not help but investigate this latest oddity.

Within that twisting ghost light he could see the sum of deeds rendered unto the humble folks of Orchard Cove courtesy of none other than the Travelling Man. He watched helplessly as Cindy Tremblay was eviscerated in Katie Birch's cornfield by the Galan beast, and how that monster had then buried Cindy's body along with her aborted fetus into the barren soil as to feed the corn on the blood of an unholy offering. He then watched as Katie Birch awoke the next day and ignorantly picked the very ears of corn that had drank that tartest of wine from the night before. After all, Katie had a debt to repay to Galan Whicker's supposed kindness, those few ears of corn he had requested and as far as she was concerned she had gotten her treatment dirt cheap. Of course, she had been unaware that a young woman's life had been the price of her remedy, although she had felt that the corn in question had been wrong somehow, perhaps spoiled by some sort of parasite. However, healthy crops were slim pickings these days, and as such, she had collected the offering without much reservation seeing as there was little to choose from.

Cyril watched with aversion next as that young girl from his dream by the name of Ann Marie Holmes, was stoned to death by a great multitude of children that had been corrupted by the Travelling Man's enchanted tonics. He watched as the group networked and schemed to infect the entire town with the spiritual sickness that stemmed from the bowels beneath Pestle & Mortar Pharmacy, which of course was the place where he now stood. He watched as those ominous poisons from Galan's shelves mutated the townsfolk's bodies in ways that were both horrific and fantastic to behold.

He watched as Rose Gladstone repaid her debt to Galan for having cured her boys of diabetes by removing her father's urn from the living room mantelpiece and then scattering his ashes inside her neighbor's well. And although she knew her actions were fundamentally wrong, she nonetheless performed them without hesitation, for her gratitude to the Travelling Man was without end, for Galan had rendered her children hale, and for that she would have braved the fires of Hell in order to offer him tribute. But of course she had no idea that her actions would infect herself and her boys, for their well, along with their neighbor's, gathered its water from the same underground stream. And so whenever the Gladstones took drink they too consumed that sin that would inevitably come to infect them with a form of living death. And while their minds were not zombie like, their flesh had grown as cold as Arctic stone, their limbs rigid, and their senses dimmed by an aching hunger that longed to be quickened by the sensations of the living flesh. But that appetite could never be fed, for death did not feed the living, it fed the grave.

Cyril stepped back from that images within the ethereal mist and set his attention on the items that dangled from the cavernous ceiling. Upon twists of rawhide leather and mangy twines of desiccated entrails hung the skeletal remains of both humans and animals alike. The grinning stick puppets seemed to stare at Cyril with their hollowed eye sockets, their bony expressions a mute mask of either screaming horror or insane laughter---perhaps they were both the same. Regardless of the dichotomy the effect was still the same: _fear!_ Slowly he navigated the marionettes, careful as not to set their bones to rattling like some sort of morbid wind chimes. However, bones were not the only absurdity on display within this makeshift mausoleum, no, there were other things hanging from the ceiling as well, terrible things.

At first Cyril wasn't exactly sure what his eyes were seeing but he soon deduced a man's form wrapped within a tight cocoon of fat, its weight tethered to a rusty hook by means of a piano wire. It was a disturbing sight to behold, and although this act of homicide was rendered in a way that could only be described as supernatural he could not help but dwell upon the solitary musical thread. Had it come from Maude's baby grand? Was it one of the wires that he had cut in order to stop that terrible rhythm from unhinging his mind? There was no absolute resolution but deep down he knew that that it had come to be in this awful place by an act of his hand. _Nothing is wasted here in Orchard Cove_ , Cyril thought, _nothing that the maggoty buzzards won't eat._

He circled round the dangling corpse and cautiously made his way through the suspended boneyard toward the back wall. There at the far end of the room sat a beach stone hearth, its pit aglow with the furl of a low burning flame. A granite podium stood beside the fire with a large book resting ominously upon its angular surface. The manuscript was thick, leather bound, and opened to a specific page. Cyril hobbled across the wood sand floor and took a place behind the podium where his eyes were met by the exact same style of writing as he had seen on Pestle & Mortar's prescription bottles, except that these strange paragraphs were accompanied by detailed pictures and schematics. On the sheets before him lay the depiction of one image: a large double helix of a tree that took up both pages of the manuscript. Upon the tree lay a bounty of wondrous crimson-gold fruit, and beside each delicacy lay a word which eluded Cyril's ability to translate. However, at the bottom of the tree, lay a schematic that he did understand and it depicted two doors that led to two separate staircases that ascended up into the helix and to two alternate portals. And sure enough as his sight investigated the path that he had just come by he saw another set of steps beside the ones he had just descended. But where did those steps lead? Deep down, he knew on a subliminal level that he had walked up those stairs several times over the past decades, and that in a little while he would once again seek out that destination. Yes, the book had been intentionally left open to these pages for him to find. It was an invitation in the form of directions, but to where? Soon he would find out, and when he did everything would all make sense, at least for a little while until he forgot it all again. However, before he set off to rendezvous with his fate, he paused to consider the silk tassel book mark that lay wedged within a previous set of pages. Perhaps it was a clue, something else to further pique his curiosity. He reached out, grabbed the book and turned the group of pages to the exact spot that he was meant to find. And as he did his worst fear was at last realized.

(3)

The memories had returned with devastating clarity. He knew almost everything know, at least as it pertained to his personal alternate timeline. The pages had awoken that sleeping part of his mind and now he was inundated by the resulting emotional fallout, and if not for the fact that his knee was in such a horrific state he would have collapsed down onto the floor, weeping. But he held on, leaning against the podium, clinging to it as if it was a lifebuoy and he was adrift in a raging sea, which he was. The tears that came into his weathered eyes were both many and generous, and although he struggled to strengthen his spine into something more rigorous he could not quell that deep seeded pain within the hub of his heart. After all, the entire situation was his fault, and if he had any doubt to the contrary he need only consult the history recorded upon the book's miserable pages. Still he tried to deny his involvement, to distance himself from those crimes if only to assuage his anguish, but it was pointless. As he read the words that lay written in English translation, he could recall the details involving each entry with vivid clarity, and the record plainly showed that their blood was indeed on his hands and no other's. He was their guardian and here he had failed to perform that singularly important task on their behalf. How many had gone into the cold obstruction on his account? Mayhap a few dozen---possibly a few hundred? He knew that if he wanted to verify the number he need only leaf through the pages to find out. It was all there in black and white, a veritable historical archive of Orchard Cove obituaries. But he had no desire to determine what that number was, nor did he have any wish to read their names. Yet he felt he should explore that morbid chronicle, if only out of respect for those seeds of the fallen. However, he could not bring himself to turn the pages, let alone lend an eye to those steps that he must climb again. And so he stood clutching the podium, his eyes following that list of sins over and over where the names read like a roll call of the dead from some terrible cosmic storm.

_August 13_ th _, 1949, Age 13. New Guardian forfeits hand to save one. Cyril's Father, Norman Emery's soul is spared. Cyril's Mother, Gillian Emery's soul is harvested. (The game with Alistair Adam's replacement has officially begun.)_

_August 13_ th _, 1962, Age 26. Guardian forfeits hand to save three. Cyril's Brother, Ian Emery, and Sister, Sandra Emery along with Best Friend, Jonathon Taylor, are all spared. However, 13 souls are harvested including the Guardian's Father, Norman Emery. (All names listed below.)_

_August 13_ th _, 1975, Age 39. Guardian forfeits hand to save 7 including 1 wife, Patricia Emery. 13 souls harvested including the Guardian's Brother, Ian Emery, Sister, Sandra Emery, and Best Friend, Jonathon Taylor. (All names listed below.)_

_August 13_ th _, 1988, Age 52. Guardian forfeits hand to save 94. 26 souls harvested including Cyril's son, Daniel Emery. (All names listed below.)_

_August 13_ th _, 2001, Age 65. Guardian forfeits hand to save 36. 26 souls harvested, including Guardian's Wife, Patricia Emery. (All names listed below.)_

_August 13_ th _, 2014, Age 78._

_August 13_ th _, 2027, Age 13._

As he read the last line in the timeline he knew without a doubt that this was to be his final chance at defeating the thing at the top of the stairs. It was obvious that Cyril's replacement had already been chosen and soon that distant relative would be brought to Orchard Cove in order to take his place. Cyril had no idea who he or she was, or where he or she would come from, only that today, August 13th 2014, would be their birthday, and when he or she reached the age of thirteen, then they too would find the forbidden tree just as Cyril had, in which case the vicious cycle would start all over again, just as it had for hundreds or perhaps even thousands of years. However, there was a small chance that he could end the cycle---at least in regards to Orchard Cove's involvement for the Travelling Man's reach was broad and extended well beyond this tiny hamlet and into countless others. But in order to do that he would have to bet it all, because that was what you had to do when it came to war: you had to accept the fact that there were always casualties no matter how well laid a plan might be, and that those who prepared to sacrifice all, usually won the day. Here after all this time he finally understood that cruel mindset. True, he was in his twilight years, an old man quickly approaching the end of his days with little left to bargain, let alone left to lose at this point, but he did have someone special in his life: Maude Landry. And she alone made him vulnerable. Of course there were those familiar passing acquaintances that he nodded to on occasion, the old time fishing buddies that he only ever spoke to when he was down at Rupert's Barber Shop getting a haircut. But aside from those few choice souls there was really nobody else in his life aside from Maude, and that alone was more than enough to make him anxious. The thought of seeing her name inked inside the book was almost unbearable, especially after having lost so many poor souls to the bloody pages of that cursed thing. He thought to lift that book and cast it into the fire in order to destroy it, but he knew such an act would only prove hopeless. He would be just as apt to pick up a black hole as remove the cursed manuscript from its unholy perch, for it was a device of magic, and as such, would not heed the comings and goings, let alone the ire of a mortal man. Again, this knowledge was intuitive, or that's to say vaguely familiar in a way that denoted that he had previously offered forth such an attempt before only to have been met by a bitter disappointment.

"May God forgive me," Cyril whispered into his chest. "I'm so sorry everyone...I should have been better...I should have been smarter, but I wasn't." He raised his head and sighed with a defeated effort. "Just one more kick at the can folks...just one more chance to put it right....please God...let me set it right." He set his eyes upon the second stairway and to the dark passage that he must travel once again and began to pray. _"The Lord is my Shepherd. I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures. He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul. He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name' sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me. Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me. Thou prepares a table before me in the presence of mine enemies. Thou annointest my head with oil. My cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life and I will dwell in the House of the Lord forever...amen."_

He crossed himself in the Catholic tradition and offered the sign of the cross to the names in the unholy book. Despite the religious gesture no demon howled nor writhed in agony, in fact the words on the book only seemed to grow more vibrant. But then that too was to be expected, because the thing that dealt out death on the upper level of the forbidden tree was bound to a different set of cosmic rules as opposed to its satanic brethren, and that ability made the beast far more dangerous than any fallen angel in Lucifer's court---in fact, that difference made the thing that called itself Galan Whicker almost omnipotent. No, there would be no silver bullets nor golden crucifixes nor vials of holy water that could dispense this kind of demon. The only thing he could possibly use to remedy this situation was a variation of a product that was found in just about every dime store aisle across the country.

(4)

His knee complained with each step that he took as he slowly limped along the wooden spire. Those blinking knots within the enchanted tree were different on this side of the coin for they did not blink granules of sawdust nor did they moan, instead they shone forth with ghostly beams of emerald jade upon the carved steps of the double helix, the ethereal greens a veritable gauntlet of haunted spokes. The sight was reminiscent of a laser sensitive alarm system, and as Cyril passed through each photonic tendril, he couldn't help but feel as though the tree was alerting the thing that waited atop the stairs of his encroaching presence. Of course there was no need to announce his arrival, because for all intents and purposes he already had a reservation. There was even proof of that impending dinner engagement written down in the pages of that cursed book. No, the Travelling Man would not be surprised at all to see Mr. Emery ambling into reality for fate had decreed it must be so. It was August 13th, 2014, and his coming had been thirteen years in the making. Why, there might even be a marching band along with a celebratory cake at a party waiting to receive him. Although he doubted that any such niceties would be afforded by the Travelling Man, for none had ever been offered to Cyril in the past. And even though this was to be his last visit to this side of the forbidden tree he felt that the sinister routine would be carried out as per usual. There would be nothing special about this last call for as far as the Travelling Man was concerned there had been many guardians that had come before Cyril, and in all likelihood there would be many more.

After an onerous effort, Cyril finally made the top of the stairs. Again he stood within the dim glow of candlelight just as he had before, for this world was a mirror of the one he had just come from, and although there were many similarities, there were an equal amount of oppositions. He laid his hand upon the curtain, which on this side of the tree was white as opposed to the other side's black version and pulled back the veil. Slowly he hobbled into the store to find none other than Mr. Galan Whicker standing behind the cash counter, grinning.

Galan regarded Cyril Emery with the demeanor of a man that had indeed been expecting company. The Travelling Man was relaxed. Confident. Calculating. He kept his keen eye upon Cyril the way a buzzard eyed a ripe morsel on gut wagon. There was a hunger within the Travelling Man's eyes, but that appetite did not covet flesh but rather the soul. He was very much at ease within his own shop, but that docile stance did not belong to a man with an easy going nature but rather to a thing that had a predatory disposition. On this side of the coin, Galan was the king of the castle and Cyril was the dirty rascal that had just crawled up from the dungeon pit. However, the Travelling Man would put him back down the twist soon enough, just as he had so many times before.

"You're early this time," the Travelling Man smirked mischievously. "A first if ever there was one. But make no mistake, it changes nothing."

Cyril staggered around to the customer's side of the counter, his eyes fixated upon his nemesis lest Galan engage in some sort of treachery. Of course Cyril had met Mr. Whicker many times over the years, but at the moment he could not help but recall the encounter within his dream, the one where the little girl had fallen into the river of sorrow. Had they actually spoken on that ethereal frontier, or had it been his subconscious trying to warn him of what would soon come to pass?

"Ay...still as spry as ever I see Mr. Whicker, aren't ya?"

The Travelling Man bowed his head and smiled merrily. "Ah...the secret to longevity is a healthy diet of vitamins and minerals, Mr. Emery. Perhaps I could interest you in some exotic elixirs from the Far East...they're quite good for the old constitutional, if I say so myself."

"Keep your poisons to yourself, you foul field, and mind me now...you'll not take anyone with you this time, bet on it."

The Travelling Man offered a smile that seemed to have too many teeth in it. "But you and I know that I already have, dear sir." Galan gave a click of his tongue. "The girl in your dream...her name was Ann Marie by the way, in case you didn't know. And of course, I've also taken many more souls while you slept in that tired old flesh of yours. I have them all strung to the line down below and many more of them would come unto me if I so wished it. The harvest here is ripe for the taking and the labors of my efforts whilst not be undone. Guardian of the sacred seeds you're kindred may be, but I am His finest steward in the _Garden of Lions_ , and our bounty is greater than yours."

Cyril's mouth grimaced as the pain in his knee gave a sudden intense shudder. Still he gave it no mind for the Travelling Man would have reveled in seeing his distress for he was petty that way.

"I've prepared a little something for you," the Traveling Man said as he pushed a pill bottle across the counter and set it before Cyril. "It can cure a rainy day, sure as heck it can, and it can give you peace of mind as well, if you but take it to heart. Hear me...Cyril...Child of Eden. Don't let pride make a fool of thee. The Orchard silo is stuffed with your contributions of wheat, and it is within my power to give back what taxes have been placed upon this grove, if you but taste of the Lion's sacred seed."

Cyril frowned and steeled his spine. "No...I have not nor will I ever feast on that abomination!" He spat on the floor in repulsion, to which the Travelling Man simply smiled and then said most politely:

"I will take _you_ this time, damn you. And _you_ will give me all that was taken and more. This day of your birth, shall also be the day of your death, so be ye careful you old fool. A lesson learned hard is a lesson learned well, but not if that lesson be learned at the end of a noose."

The Travelling Man reached down picked up the pill bottle and then tossed it to his self-appointed nemesis. Cyril caught the bottle out of reflex even though he had no desire to hold let alone touch the miserable thing for it was foul in a way that could never be cleansed.

"A token of my generosity, Mr. Emery...perhaps something you can barter the livestock with later on when it's time to cull the bulls from the cows."

Cyril clutched the bottle tightly, wanting very much to throw the cursed medicine back into the Traveling Man's arrogant little face. However, he understood that such an act would only work to his detriment. Besides, the Travelling Man was not to be trifled with. Galan was a resilient fiend that could survive a point blank shotgun blast if Cyril's memory served him correctly. After all, he had tried that sort of gunslinger diplomacy back in 1975---however---the result had not proven favorable. In response to Cyril's rude incident with the gun, the Travelling Man had taken it upon himself to teach Mr. Emery a very hard lesson. Galan had provided an act of retribution that was crueler than usual, for that year he had taken three of the people that were closest to Cyril as punishment. Ever since then it was understood that conventional warfare was by no means acceptable on this side of the coin, for the Travelling Man did not care to be shot, let alone to be thought of as anything other than all powerful. Suffice it to say, Cyril would not be so foolish as to repeat that mistake again.

"After all these years, do you honestly think I would take the easy way out?"

The Traveling Man smirked. "No, Mr. Emery...but I think every man has his breaking point...which leaves me to wonder where yours is?"

"I have until sundown," Cyril replied, deliberately evading the question. He had no desire to contemplate such things, especially with the Travelling Man. He knew too much about Cyril as it was already.

"The day is yours, for all the good it'll do ya," the Travelling Man said with a slight shrug. "So go...explore this side of the rainbow as much as you want if you see fit...but know this...the night draws nigh, and when the Medusa's Eye climbs into the sky, you and I will have one last toss of the coin."

"Yes, we will," Cyril said with a note of defiance. Such bluster was the only real weapon he had to wield against the Travelling Man, empty as it might be. "And there we will settle our lot once and for all." Cyril turned his back and started to head out the pharmacy door. But as he exited the building, he could hear Galan's words trailing after him.

"I would say come again, but then what would be the point? You and I know that you'll never see the other side of the serpent's spire again."

The door closed and when it did, Cyril paused to consider just that. He had no desire to pass away on this side of the double helix let alone in the land that had cost him so much. At least on the other side of the tree he could take comfort in the lie about how all of his loved ones had ultimately come to their final end, for in that world their demise had not come at his hand but rather by the hand of fate. Back there on the other side of reality the gray amnesia was gentle and forgiving, whereas on this side of the devil's tree there was nothing but the stark reality of what had actually happened. Yes, ignorance could indeed be bliss and he longed to be oh so ignorant of a great many things. But that's not how this sort of thing went. The tree had called out to him to come and be recognized before the Medusa's Eye, and so he had come to its heed the way a salmon retraced the ingrained path to a specific stream. The drive to respond to the challenge ran deep inside his DNA and was the burden of an inheritance that was linked to his family's unique lineage, for he was a true Child of Eden and a direct descendant of Adam and Eve, and it was his responsibility along with those of his kin to answer the call whenever they were summoned. There was no other way for their clan, for theirs was the way of penance, or so the ancient book had proclaimed. But none of that mattered now---he was here to settle family business, and settle it he would regardless of the outcome. If this was to be his last toss of the coin then he would make such a throw of it that no man would doubt the substance of his mettle. This was it, the goddamn Super Bowl, and Cyril would play it for what it was: all or nothing.

(5)

Cyril looked up at the Pestle & Mortar sign which on this side of the double helix read: _Eden's Acres Pharmacy---An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure._ Of course he recognized the reference immediately as coming from the old, defunct real estate office of "Eden's Acres." He was aware that the company had gone under years ago, that there had been some sort of legal trouble involving a contract dispute between the small business and some major corporate conglomerate. However, he could not recall the specific details but he nonetheless knew that Eden's Acres had gone belly up due to the surmounting legal fees associated with the court costs. Suffice it to say, Goliath had won that day. However, there was something about the episode that felt relevant to his immediate situation. But what was it? It felt like it involved a matter on a much larger cosmological scale, something comparable to the sorts of issues that involved several warring afterlife dynasties. Perhaps Cyril was connected to this conflict in a way that he had yet to realize. Yet he felt he would never fully understand his contribution to the cause, for he was just a lowly man and such knowledge as it pertained to the universe's celestial design was forbidden to mere mortals, for humans resided on the lower levels of reality, whereas the nature of God's power was exclusive to Heaven's Almighty Court. After all one did not leave the power of thunder and lightning in the hands of a child.

His eyes swept across the street where he found his car facing in the opposite direction of where he had originally parked it. He noted that the road also flowed in the opposite direction of which he had come, in that he would have to drive further from home in order to get closer to it, at least in relative geographical terms as they pertained to where he had come from. He looked to the west and watched as the demon sun climbed into the hard cast sky of scarlet. On this side of the coin it was obvious the sun also resided in a state of reversal and that in this alternate world everything was backwards---north was south, east was west, left was right, and forward was backward. Soon he would adapt to the physical laws of this reversal world as the cells within his body changed in order to accommodate the rules of this opposing universe. In fact he could already feel the pain in his left knee transferring over to his right. But that was ok because it was the sort of transformation that he could take advantage of, and so as the agony transitioned from one side of his being over to the other he used the period between locations to scurry over to his car before the pain could fully set into his opposing knee.

Once he was behind the wheel he used the time to remove the splint from his left knee and secure it to his right where the pain would soon come to fully nest. It would be difficult to drive the car using his left leg but more of an annoyance than a genuine handicap. He gave thanks that at least the car was an automatic transmission and not a standard. Of course, the steering wheel now resided on the right side of the car as did the brake and gas pedal. It would be like driving in England---left lane lime juicers and shotgun drivers. Coordination would be awkward at first but he would get the hang of it soon enough. Besides, he wouldn't be driving that far. However, in a very real sense he had already travelled to the other side of the universe, or at the very least, something like it. How difficult would it be to traverse a few blocks in comparison then? Not very, especially since his body along with his synaptic brainwaves were already well underway to adapting to this alien environment. He just needed a couple of hours to decompress, because on this level of existence, things were wound tight. This astral plane was on a higher ether which in itself was precariously close to some sort of hyper-reality. He would need time to adjust. And although he had not fully adapted to this environment he would still be able to move about within this mirror image of Orchard Cove easily enough. Of course it would be unwise to walk across a tight rope or perform a dance number from Swan Lake, but other than that he would be just fine, or so he hoped. There were no guarantees on this side of the rainbow let alone prescription Gravol to even things out. However, he did have Galan's pill bottle and Cyril knew that the "medicine" within would indeed cure a great many things. But the price of that remedy was just too high to bear. He tossed the pill bottle out of the car window and down into a culvert. He had no desire to be reminded of such a temptation, let alone that were purported to be cures for a rainy day. The path ahead was already scattered with enough enticements, he did not need the additional burden of another. He turned the ignition and the Impala sputtered to life to which he carefully drove off, mindful that with each mile he gained, he also lost a precious measure of time.

(6)

The drive home had been tricky but Cyril had nonetheless managed to inch his way along without incident. It had helped that it was still relatively early in the morning, and as such, he had not encountered any traffic on the road. However, he couldn't help but notice that there wasn't much of anything on the move in Orchard Cove. No automobiles, no pedestrians, no pets, no birds, nothing, just that demon sun crawling across the coke oven sky en route to its unnatural destination. He glanced at the dashboard clock, half-expecting those analog hands to be ticking backwards, but they nonetheless kept their clockwise rhythm proving that time on this side of the coin obviously abided the same rules of those on the opposing side. He crawled out of the Impala and stood in the day's growing humidity and stared at his home on Harp Street with eyes, which in part, doubted the validity of their surroundings. Here, at least according to one aspect of his understanding, this humble Victorian was the home where he had grown up---the home where he had sired a son---the home that he had shared for many years with his loving wife---the home where he had spent his entire life---and yet by the same measure, it was not his home. This latest visit would mark the sixth time he had ever been here, but in a way, he had always been here. He pondered that paradox briefly but soon realized that there would be no resolution to that mystery. Not even his memories, as vivid as they had become, could explain away the twisted logic of it. In this version of Orchard Cove, nothing made sense. He was here because he was and he needed to find something before it was too late. But what was he looking for? What possible artifact, if any, could assist him in dealing with the Travelling Man? He did not know but that would not stop him from searching.

He shut the car door and let his attention drift towards Maude Landry's house. Here, he had just left Maude lying on her couch beyond the border of this parallel world. She had just endured a maddening night of trying to perform some sort of enchanted musical score, and the cost of that obsession had perhaps come at the price of her very sanity. He knew he should disregard his beloved friend and press on into the house but he could not. Despite the fact that she was not his Maude, at least not the version from his world he could not abandon her to some act of cruel fate. She was a person with a soul, and as such, she was worthy of his care regardless of her origins. He hobbled across the front yard, the dry grass crunching underfoot. His knee complained with each haphazard step, but the brace along with the wrap helped to lessen the shock and ease the pain. He was almost used to the discomfort now, a byproduct of the body's ability to manufacture natural painkillers called endorphins. Of course that source of relief would eventually be used up, but until then, he would give thanks for any degree of relief he could find. He crawled up onto Maude's front porch and thought to ring the doorbell but stopped just short of pressing the buzzer. Perhaps in this alternate reality he or a duplicate version of himself, if there was such a thing, had also attended to Maude the night before, and if that was the case, he did not wish to disturb her. She needed rest for his version of Maude had been both emotionally and physically drained to the point of collapse, and if her spiritual double had endured the same sort of torment then her doppelganger would be exhausted as well. But what if this version of Maude needed his help? He felt that the events in this alternate universe mirrored those in his world close enough to pass for a clever forgery. However, he also understood that both historical editions of Orchard Cove were not perfect copies. There were numerous discrepancies, such as direction, energy polarities, and sadly, newspaper obituaries. In the knockoff version of Orchard Cove, death had a terrible trend of digging mass graves. Every thirteen years death blew into the Cove and painted the town red, and every thirteen years its scythe greedily harvested a great many of the township's residents. Today the victims would start to fall, and by tonight they would culminate in the ultimate climax of carnage. After that bloodbath the tiny community would be left in relative peace for the next thirteen years as it eked out its day to day activities until the next harvest in the cycle began. Then the Travelling Man would return and once again he would swing his scythe low upon the stalk and harvest yet another crop of souls from what had become his very own garden of sin. Yes it was a morbid rotation of grazing livestock---calves fatted for the devil's slaughter. And no one in town aside from Cyril Emery and Galan Whicker even suspected what was happening. There had been no mass evacuation, let alone circling of the proverbial wagons to offer forth a defense. Instead the people of Orchard Cove renovated their homes, went to work, paid their taxes, and made more babies to feed the bloody gears of the Travelling Man's murder machine. And even Cyril was just as guilty as the rest of them, for he too had not prepared for the fallen one's return. At present, Cyril felt that he had perhaps one more brain cell than everyone else that had gifted him with a dim intuition. But of course the matter of his knowing was more than that, for the blood in his veins was from prime stock, at least in regards to its spiritual energy.

He laid his hand upon the door handle and turned. It was open. He slowly crept inside, careful not to make any noise lest he stir Maude from her sleep, or worse, frighten her into having a heart attack. The interior was cool. It was obvious the air conditioner on this side of the coin was alive and well. He slinked into the living room as quietly as he could, mindful that the delicate act of tiptoeing with a bad knee was a difficult motion to juggle. He found her couch empty. There was no sign of her. His eyes searched through the room. The pliers he had used to cut the piano wires lay atop the baby grand and the cryptex lay upon the floor, silent, but nonetheless menacing. It was obvious that last night's escapades had happened here as well, and that felt proper for some reason. After all he had gone through Hell to achieve that end and the sight of the fallen cryptex felt like a goddamn trophy for bravery. He turned his attention back to the couch and smiled softly, remembering his beloved Maude.

"You're a good girl, Maude Landry," he whispered. "If ever I regretted anything in this life, or the other, it was that I didn't tell you how much I love you."

He could have stood there for hours, reflecting on her memory but his attention was needed elsewhere. The Travelling Man would be preparing his game and Cyril would need to be on top of his. He would leave her house now and go and search for something of which he knew not but nonetheless for something he desperately needed to have.

(7)

His house was uncomfortably hot, a sure sign that his air conditioner was every bit as much on the fritz in this world as it was on the other side of the coin. He went to the kitchen sink and splashed some cold water upon his face. It helped to clear his head and thwart off the humidity that seemed hell bent on suffocating him. He thought to open a few windows, but knew there would be no relief to be found there. The entire town of Orchard Cove was caught inside the stale innards of some sort of hot weather balloon---stolid and quite bereft of fresh air. It was like living inside Samuel Taylor Coleridge's 1798 poem, "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner."

Day after day, day after day, we stuck nor breath nor motion. As idle as a painted ship, upon a painted ocean.

Orchard Cove was every bit as dead as that sailing ship without a breath of wind to fill its sails. Of course that was the way the Travelling Man wanted it to be during the Blood Harvest---as hot and desolate as a purgatorial wasteland. Cyril figured that in its present state, the entire town was about one tossed cigarette away from a raging inferno. Fortunately, there hadn't been one brush or house fire the entire season, a miracle considering how many campers there were in these parts, not to mention the tons of forest deadwood that had been left in the wake of Hurricane Juan back in 2003. As a result of that historical storm, the better part of Nova Scotia lay like a ripe box of kindling just waiting to be set aflame, and Orchard Cove had more than its share of downed timber to contribute to just such a blaze. In fact the Cove's primary export was lumber and it was well known by the municipality that most of the woodland lots had yet to be fully cleared of those fallen trees. All in all, it was a disaster just waiting to happen. However, not so much as a tiny spark had been reported the entire summer, and Cyril couldn't help but wonder that if perhaps such a blessing owed its thanks to a supernatural entity that was quite fond of travelling. Here the forests lay apt for a harvest fire and not so much as a single dried leaf had come to flame. Such luck was not beyond the realm of possibility but he couldn't help but feel that the community owed its good fortune to someone who was neither a man nor a beast, but something darker.

He went to the fridge and took out a cold beer. In a way he felt as though he was rummaging through someone else's belongings and perhaps he was. He wondered if some version of himself, a mirror image roamed through the version of his house on Harp Street. Had that identical twin passed him by in the dark while he had blindly navigated the staircase of the twisted tree? And if so, did that imposter possess the same level of knowledge or perhaps even more than Cyril? Surely if there was indeed a double then that doppelganger would be equal to Cyril in every way. Or would he? Despite the balance between opposing realities, the burden of responsibility felt horribly one sided. After all, the image on the other side of the coin would not battle the Travelling Man as he must do, let alone barter the livestock when the challenge commenced. No, that duplicate got off scot-free, and that wasn't fair. Of course Cyril had no way to know for certain if there actually was another aspect of his being traipsing around the streets of Orchard Cove, but he nonetheless suspected there was someone walking around inside his well-worn shoes.

He closed the fridge door and stood before a full length mirror at the end of the hall which led into the living room. He studied his reflection closely, wondering if he might chance a glimpse of that other world beyond the looking glass, the familiar world, the place that he called home. The likeness in the mirror was a perfect forgery---weathered on age---a wrinkly brow burdened by trouble---the sun pink skin sweaty and sallow. If the man on the other side of the coin was supposedly riding on Cyril's coattails, then his projection gave no hint of it. In fact the man behind the glass looked as though he might suffer from a stroke at any instant.

Cyril considered his high blood pressure as he regarded the beer. True, the alcohol would not help to lower the stress within his veins and arteries but it sure as hell would help to take the edge off. Besides, he felt that his rendezvous with the Travelling Man was a matter of fate. Nothing aside from the second coming of Christ would keep that appointment from happening, for those morbid dates written upon the pages of that cursed book within the tree had said: _August 13_ th _2014._ The only thing missing from the particular entry was how many souls the Travelling Man would be taking this time. _If any_ , he reminded himself, _if any_. There was always a chance that things might go in Cyril's favor, although, the odds were against him.

He placed the beer to his lips and sucked back the entire can before finally coming up for air. The ale tasted delicious and helped to soften the edges of reality ever so slightly. Any relief was a welcome mistress at this point. Hell, if there was a line of cocaine kicking around the house, he probably would have snorted it just to settle his nerves. He had never tried cocaine before but then there was always a first time for everything. His beloved wife Patricia would have surely scolded him over that brand of reasoning if she was still alive but then when a man was met by such a series of absurdities---well---everyone had a breaking point. He had not reached his yet but he could see it coming on the horizon.

He hobbled into the living room and set the empty beer can down upon the coffee table next to the remote. For a second he couldn't help but wonder what kind of cable programming they had on this side of the coin. Did they have the shopping channel---reality TV shows---ESPN? He was tempted to sit down in his lazy boy recliner, or that's to say, his mirror's lazy boy recliner and surf the channel. However, to indulge such a curiosity would be a waste of precious time. There would be nothing to find on TV---nothing relevant to his situation. He was working against the clock and he had to figure out what he was supposed to do with the time that had been allotted him. Beyond the hour of dusk there would be the Travelling Man---Cyril had to be ready.

He went to a closet and opened the door, searching for that one mysterious artifact that would afford him some sort of leverage. But what was it? What item could tip the balance of power in his favor? Here, he had been coming to this side of the coin for years and he had yet to find it. And although his memory of this place had returned with all its fervor he could not recall what that item was let alone where it might have been hidden, and so he went room to room, tearing through trunks, dressers, cabinets, boxes, and old stacks of paperwork. Yet he could not find anything useful, nothing that would allow him to glean an insight into the nature of his search. It was like playing a game of "Eye Spy," in which he was expected to find something blue, but here he was hopelessly colorblind.

"Eye spy with my little eye, something that is invisible," he grunted as he tossed a handful of tax papers onto the floor. "Where is it? What is it?"

He limped through the house---upstairs---downstairs---the basement---the attic. Still, nothing offered him a clue as to what he was supposed to be searching for. Meanwhile, the early morning had turned into midafternoon with the demon sun continuing to lash Orchard Cove with its burning whip. Despite being inside the house, the sun's heat had nonetheless taken its toll on his aging body. He needed a rest and so he went back to the kitchen and removed a pitcher of lemonade from the refrigerator and drank it straight from the jug. For an instant he had suffered an ice cream headache but his thirst would not allow him to pause as to coddle the pain. He was parched to the point of being a desiccated husk, and feared he might suffer heatstroke if he didn't remedy his condition with a splash of drink. Again, he doubted that anything would keep him from his appointment with the Travelling Man but then one never knew. He would hate to have to forfeit the game to Galan on the grounds that he had taken ill. Still, it posed an interesting idea: if Cyril was to fall sick, or God help him, pass away, what then would become of their game? Perhaps this entire cycle could be ended if he was to put his old shotgun into his mouth and blow his own brains out. However, he felt that such an act of self-sacrifice would not aid in his quest to stop the Travelling Man. No, the thing that was man and was not wouldn't be dissuaded so easily. There were strict rules to abide and forfeiture was not an option. The penalty for such a ploy would be severe, perhaps even apocalyptic. There would be no easy road out of Orchard Cove, be it on one side or the other, for the word had been written down in the cursed book, and the word was law.

He carried the pitcher of lemonade into the reading room that adjoined to the kitchen via a short hallway. Cyril had spent many wonderful years inside this quiet room where he enjoyed many classic tales as written by the hand of Dickens, Tolstoy, and Melville to name just a few. It was his little sanctuary from the world, the place where he could come and think as well as escape into the pages of historical literature. The small den was oven hot which made the books smell a little bit like dry sawdust. He had perhaps a thousand titles stacked upon the wooden shelves, most of which were hard cover editions. He had taken great care to keep the works in alphabetical order: authors with last names that began with the letter A were place at the top, and authors whose last names began with the letter Z, were placed at the bottom.

He set the jug of lemonade down on a small table with a reading lamp upon it which stood beside his comfortable reading chair. He studied the rows of books with a keen eye and then began pulling titles from their shelves in sequential order beginning with the letter A. It was not an act of vandalism, but rather an act of desperation that had him tossing title after title upon the floor after the completion of a quick analysis. He was looking for anything that might be wedged into the books, a book mark or a scrap of paper, anything that might offer him a clue as to what he was supposed to be looking for. Systematically he tore through works of Clemens, Kerouac, Lessing, Hemmingway, when he eventually happened upon a book that did not belong inside his select collection. It was an old scrapbook that lay listed in M section under the title: "Memories." He hadn't looked upon this book for more than a decade, and suddenly here it was in his hands, waiting to relive the past once again. He unconsciously stepped back and took to his reading seat where he stared at the scrapbook's cover with eyes that seemed lost for their place in time. His fingers gently wandered across the silver words that had been imprinted upon the golden cover: "Memory Lane." He flipped back the cover and began his trip through the past. There were lots of baby pictures of Daniel, along with a series of photos from his elementary school years, straight on up to his college ones. There were images of Daniel playing baseball and hockey---of Daniel riding his old dirt bike---of Daniel swimming in Grand Lake before they sold the cottage---and of course there was one with Daniel and his favorite car---the car that would ultimately be his last. And it was at that moment when Cyril felt his mind splinter into a dozen pieces. Here, this historical chronicle was throwing into question the reliability of two potential realities---one in which Daniel had been killed by a drunk in a car accident, and the other where he had succumbed to the scythe of the Travelling Man. As a result, Cyril felt as though he might swoon or that the floor beneath his feet might fall out from beneath him, leaving him to plummet into a dark abyss where up was down, down was up, and the sun rose in the west and set in the east. He felt it wise to toss the scrapbook to the ground, but yet he could not. He turned through the pages, digging deeper into the past, searching for that one narrative that would cement his foundation of reality as being either one way, or the other. In a sense his loved ones had died twice, killed by different tragedies that were unique to each side of the coin.

_No person should have to offer their flesh twice to the reaper's scythe_ , Cyril thought, _no one_.

He could not help but think about the details surrounding those terrible endings: had his son felt his mirror's anguish when his car was creamed by that drunk driver, or had the other felt the sinister work of the Travelling Man as he took Daniel's doppelganger's soul from the depths of his body? And then there was his dearest Patricia. What side of the blade had she felt when the reaper had cut the twin stalks? He stopped on a picture of his wedding day. Patricia was beautiful inside her white gown, a glowing bride if there had ever been one. Cyril too managed to look somewhat handsome, although it was obvious by comparison that he had married well above his social curve. He had been very fortunate to find someone as lovely and classy as Patricia, seeing as he was just a dumb jock that preferred beer over a glass of wine any day of the week. Here, she enjoyed exotic cuisine while he preferred meat and potatoes. She reveled in Mozart whereas he shook his leg to the Beach Boys. She believed that Jesus Christ was her savior and king, whereas he believed that Jesus Christ was something you said after you hit your thumb with a hammer. Yet despite their numerous differences they had managed to not only make it work but to work well.

He recalled sitting beside her hospital bed in Halifax while that goddamn cancer ate her down to the bone. Her passing into the hereafter had been a difficult one, replete with the kind of pain that required large doses of morphine. In the end she was so whacked out of it, that she didn't even know he was in the room. Their final goodbye had not been said so much with words as it had been with a touching of hands, and it was with that hand that he stroked her loving image now. Tears lay heavily upon his face, drowning him beneath an ocean of guilt, for he could not help but feel---no---accept that her passing had not just been of the Travelling Man's design but of his as well. Her name was inked onto the pages of the cursed book, which meant that her soul had been a part of the game, and on that all important day her precious husband had lost her to the evil that dwelled within the Garden of Lions. He was unworthy of her---unworthy of any of them. He closed the scrapbook and set it gently down upon the reading table. He was sobbing openly now, lost to a patch of grief so fresh, that he was paralyzed by it. The hour on the clock and the height of the demon sun meant nothing at the moment. He was done with the whole mess of it, for the game had taken more than its toll on his mental being, it had also taken his soul as well. The Travelling Man had salvaged Cyril a little bit at a time until there was next to nothing left of him to offer up a challenge. He could feel a psychological split overtaking him, a division so deep that it stole away his sense of identity. He had always thought himself as a brave man, a good man, but when faced with the failures of his past he questioned the quality of his character.

"When you dance with the devil, you don't change him, he changes you," he muttered.

In that sense the Travelling Man had succeeded in spades. Cyril had been emptied to the point where he was virtually a vacuum inside. What little light still resided within the beating organ of his sallow chest was dimmed to the point that it was almost blind. The darkness swirled about him like a set of demonic pythons bent on crushing him into nothingness, and the pressure was killing him. Here, he had come to the end of his days, and the weight of burden set upon his meek shoulders had finally crippled him. He would find no item to undo the Travelling Man's sorcery, let alone find an absolution for his sins, for he was completely and utterly done.

(8)

He sat wallowing in self-pity for the better part of an hour before he finally got the strength to move. However, it was neither determination nor fight that lent course to his heels, but rather the call of nature. He had downed that one beer along with half a jug of lemonade, and as a result he needed to shake the dew from the lily. And so he limped to the bathroom, his kidneys afloat in their own urine. Despite being a senior he had no desire to sit in his own piss. If anything, failure or not, he would at least spare himself that sort of an indignity. He made the commode and removed his lounge lizard as he liked to call it and poured a stream into the blue water. The sound of the splash denoted a release of considerable force, something worthy of measuring the duration with a stopwatch. However, it was not just yellow urine that turned the blue water into green, but rather something else. Its shade was of deep russet, which of course denoted the presence of blood. It was a sign that he had indeed come to the end of his days. It was a symptom of renal cancer, of that he had no doubt, and he understood that his body was probably full of the stuff. If left to the natural progression of things, the doctors in Halifax would have probably given him weeks if not months to live, but of course the joke would have been on them seeing as Cyril wouldn't see another sunrise. He was a walking talking bag of worm food already---he just needed to lay down in the hole to make it official. However, the sight of seeing his own blood mixed into his water was deeply discouraging. It was like being on a ship that you knew was already sinking but now you could actually see the ocean inching up the cabin room floor. And yet as terrible a discovery as that had proven to be it was nothing in comparison to what he saw next.

On the sink's porcelain lay a pill bottle from Pestle & Mortar Pharmacy.

How had it gotten there? Had the mirror version of Cyril betrayed him to the Travelling Man by placing the prescription inside the bathroom for him to find? And what if those two were in cahoots? What if they had forged some sort of deal that would work to Cyril's detriment while his doppelganger prospered? Of course, there would be no resolution aside from the theories offered on behalf of his paranoid musings. Regardless of where the damn thing had come from or who had put it there, it did not change the fact that it was there. He understood that it was an enticement, pure and simple. The medicine inside the bottle was more than medicine---it was magic---the kind that could literally "cure a rainy day." He replaced his manhood inside his pants, zipped up, washed his hands in the sink, and then dried them off with a towel. His eyes never left the bottle, lest it fly open like a peanut jar full of spring coiled snakes. He leaned on the porcelain and studied the bottle with keen eyes. He knew it was a trap, a seductive lure to reel him into an act of consumption that would invariably see his soul perish in a lake of fire. Yet despite his knowing of the consequences he could not dismiss the pull that tugged upon his wits. It was temptation incarnate, the forbidden fruit placed before the starving. What harm could there be in just looking inside? Surely nothing bad would come from a small peek. If anything, he might actually glean an insight into his opponent's tactics. Yes, there was intelligence to be gathered within the bottle, perhaps a tidbit of information that might ultimately lead him to the very thing that he was supposed to be looking for. He was desperate for a clue and could not dismiss this opportunity out of hand as being too dangerous. Besides, he had just filled the toilet with half a cup of his own blood, what else could happen to him? Nothing, or at least that's what he told himself. However, deep down he knew that he was simply justifying the foolish errand in order to satisfy his curiosity, and yet despite the caution within his heart he needed to witness the devil's elixir first hand.

"What was it Patricia used to say," Cyril muttered. "Curiosity didn't just kill the cat...it also cost Adam and Eve, The Garden of Eden."

He reached down, took hold of the bottle, opened the cap and spilled two pills into his hand where they sat in his palm like wingless fireflies, glowing on a promise to make everything good again. At least that's what Galan Whicker had said they would do. _"Fix what ails ya,"_ had been his exact wording. It had seemed a ridiculous notion at the time to suggest such an outrageous claim, but the more he stared into the soft ethereal glow of that supernatural prescription, the more the possibility intrigued him. _All right again---right as rain even---no more misery_. The temptation to gobble the pills up was near ravenous, yet there was a mysterious danger inside the jade cocoons, and yet despite knowing better, he still had not flushed them down the drain, for how could he dispose of that which could make everything all right again. Right as rain even. So there they sat upon the tired old flesh of his palm, waiting.

"Lord, give me strength," he whispered.

It had proven an incredible battle of will, but he finally managed to set the pills down onto the sink. Six years ago, he had passed a kidney stone, and that episode had entailed the kind of pain that you could never prepare for, or what Cyril liked to call: _"a real nut buster."_ He had howled like a scolded dog that day but nonetheless remembered that wonderful feeling of relief that had followed thereafter. It was the kind of moment when your knees turned into wet spaghetti and your muscles went limp. That was the kind of sensation he felt right now: that dreamy calm after the storm.

"Saints be praised," he whispered, while wiping sweat from his brow. "As Jesus resisted Satan in the desert, and the church said amen."

He suddenly had a vision of Galan Whicker in the Devil's role of soulless tempter. He could see the pharmacist's skinny legs racing him around Orchard Cove like a cackling mad man. His dance was a weird jig, heels merrily kicking in time with his nasally laugh. He was a strange sight to behold, a lanky little devil out on a wild tear, his slightly hunched back, rolled up inside a pair of red long johns, a three pronged pitchfork clutched firmly within his bony hand. This, while the wood tacked homes and dime-store tourist shops of Orchard Cove burned out of control.

"You clever fiend," Cyril muttered. "Cure a rainy day indeed."

Again his eyes found the pills. They were unremarkable now, lackluster in appearance, but they still possessed a strange sort of treacherous beauty, like a rattlesnake's eyes. His fingers hovered above the capsules, to which they briefly flickered to life as though the magic within wanted to be ingested, and perhaps it did. What harm could there be in taking them? It wasn't like they were rat poison? And maybe, just maybe, if he ate them, the world would soften, and then his eyes would smile as they once had.

His fingers wound into tight fists. "Lord, give me strength."

He opened the bathroom mirror onto a hidden medicine cabinet. The shelves were loaded down with everything from Aspirin to Zantac. There were bandages, both elastic and plastic, a box of Eno for indigestion, a container of dental floss, a tube of Colgate, a can of Gillette shaving cream, a package of multivitamins, an old faded prescription bottle that had no doubt expired years ago, a packet of Ex-lax, and what might have been either a squirt bottle of rubbing alcohol or hydrogen peroxide, the label was too well worn to tell which it was. And of course there in the corner was his trusty ivory handled straight-razor. The blade was a family heirloom that had been passed down from generation to generation. This razor had once belonged to his great-great-grandfather, and as far as Cyril knew it may have even preceded that long lost ancestor. Suffice it to say, it had been in the Emery clan for more than a hundred years, and the finely honed edge had cut many a family member's chin over the decades. The metal had tasted more than its share of blood and perhaps the culmination of all those small offerings gave it a power that he had yet to fully comprehend. Regardless if that prospect was so or not he was nonetheless glad to see that the steel had bled into this world with him. The old keepsake offered a small degree of comfort, for its voice spoke to the familiar and that helped to ease his sense of both geographical and chronological correctness. He was after all in an alternate reality and anything that reminded him of family was a welcomed companion.

He snapped the blade open and addressed the absurdity that whispered and squeaked upon the bathroom porcelain with narrow eyes. "You'll not tempt me you miserable devil," he mumbled. "I'm going to find out what makes you tick once and for all."

He clasped a pill between his forefinger and thumb and prepared to perform a forensic dissection. Again, the colorful light bled through the translucent skin upon his touch, painting the porcelain a shade of ethereal jade as the razor's edge contacted the tiny cocoon dead center. As a result, the caplet writhed and produced an audible squeal. It was as if the damn thing was crying out not to be cut open but Cyril would not lend an ear to that plea. He would have an answer to the mystery and this seemed to be the only way to get it. Besides, if he could discover the secret medicinal ingredient within the prescription, then he might chance to discover the source behind the Travelling Man's power.

"Don't hesitate you old fool, just do it."

Carefully, he applied a gradual cutting weight, mindful that the thing inside had no desire to be born to the light of day, for it was of a foul nature and preferred the cover of dark places. The thin slice of steel breached the husk and rolled its polished edge around the pill's circumference. The glowing light released a cool lick of flame that shimmered and danced as if caught inside a brisk wind but that was not all it let loose. As the two halves split away from each other, the source of that eerie squealing voice broke free of its egg sack and crawled slowly across the shiny porcelain. The small two-headed-serpent wormed its way along the sink, a green slimy trail of afterbirth following in its wake. The snake heads, which resembled a pair of hooded vipers, set their baneful glare upon their surgeon, their seemingly milky blind eyes marking him quite well. They inched along the porcelain toward the drain, and although Cyril had no desire to touch them, he would not allow them an escape, not even that which could cure a rainy day. He picked up a face towel from the rack, covered over the abomination and applied the enough force to effectively crush a walnut. The double headed serpent hissed its fury, but quickly fell silent as Cyril's hand flattened its rancid body into a runny paste. He then picked up the facecloth and studied the remnants, and although the thing was quite dead he nonetheless expected it to bite him somehow but it did not. Its days of crawling were over for good, as were its days of curing rainy days, and Cyril couldn't help but wonder how he had ever believed that something so vile could have actually cured anything. He thought of those psychoactive Colorado River toads that the hippies used to lick in order to get high. Perhaps that's what the snakes did to the mind: made it believe that everything was just hunky dory when in fact nothing had changed at all. But then deep down, he knew better. Those serpents did not belong in his ordinary world, but rather in the Travelling Man's. Any creature that claimed its birth origin back to Galan's cursed lands would indeed be a supernatural wonder. The green stain on the cloth was not to be underestimated, its body while smashed to smithereens was nevertheless magic, and Cyril was wise to be mindful of that.

He bunched up the cloth and tossed it into the wastebasket, careful to cover the trashcan with the porcelain top of the toilet tank, lest that grease spot miraculously reassemble and crawl into his ear or other some other equally unpleasant orifice. He looked into the bathroom mirror once again. Here, despite the dissection he was still no closer to discovering the Travelling Man's secrets than he was before. All he knew was that the pills contained a sort of half-life organism that resembled a conjoined cobra. He guessed that even Galan's beasts had a mirror opposite, except theirs were joined at the neck. He picked up the bottle and thought to flush the remaining pills along with their cocooned serpents down the toilet. However, an image of mutant snakes crawling through the plumbing and then through the town's sewer system was enough to give him pause. He had once heard of crocodiles living in the sewers of New York City. He felt the tale was no doubt an urban legend, but then when faced with the Travelling Man's dark magic it seemed that nothing was outside the realm of possibility. He had no desire to unleash a plague of mutant monsters on Orchard Cove but he could not abide the idea of simply letting those venomous snakes inside the pill bottle live to curse someone else another day. No, he would be rid of them, and in so doing, claim a small victory against their master.

(9)

He went to the garage, grabbed a jerrycan, poured the gas into a metal bucket, and then tossed the sealed pill bottle in as well. He withdrew a long wooden match that he had scavenged from the living room fireplace and then lit it off a strip of sandpaper that had been lying on his work bench. The pills, or that's to say the snakes inside the bottle, must have sensed what was about to happen next because the bottle began to bounce around inside the bucket like an exploding popcorn kernel. However, they could not escape no matter how hard they thrashed, and although Cyril was not a man with a sadistic nature he nonetheless reveled in their predicament. After all, how many souls had they captured over the years? How many lives had they cut short? Too many by his account, and now at last there would be some small degree of payback. Of course, this tiny act of retribution would be inconsequential to the Travelling Man, but Cyril would still take pleasure in the issuance nevertheless. He held the burning match while the bucket bumped along the concrete. There was a chorus of squeals followed by a loud POOF as the match fell into the bucket and set the fuel alight. The fire burned fiercely and the screams from within the bottle were horrendous, agonized, and yet despite Cyril's desire for revenge he nonetheless courted an ounce of pity for their suffering. He willed his heart to harden and reminded himself that they were not worthy of his care, none of them, least of all the Travelling Man. This was justice, as harsh and cruel as it may have been, but justice just the same. None would begrudge him of that verdict, which was more than fair, not even God Almighty, or so he hoped.

Vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord, but Justice is for the righteous sayeth Cyril Emery.

"Burn in the pit of Hades," Cyril whispered. "Burn for all the sins you have committed for your master's sake....burn!"

And so they did, all of them, cooked to strips of tough leather, and he was glad that it was so.

(10)

He stood on the front porch and stared with squinting eyes at the baseball diamond across the street. The sun was standing tall against the sky and its heat was stifling. The air felt low on oxygen and each breath required a genuine effort to satisfy the body's needs. His blood pressure was probably like the mercury thermometer on the door jamb---ready to burst. He had come all this way on a bad knee, down through the forbidden tree and then up the other side, and he was still no closer to solving the riddle of that hidden object. He had gone through the house like a tornado, uprooting everything in his path, but failing to find the artifact, heirloom, collectable, or whatever the hell it was that he was supposed to be looking for. At this point he was ready to get a spade out of the gardening shed and start digging up the lawn. If anything he might find oil. He plopped his ass down in the swing and wiped the sweat from his brow with a shaky hand. It was midafternoon and there was still no sign of anyone to be found on Harp Street, let alone a stray dog or a damn cat for that matter. Even that whining telephone line that had bitched and complained about the heat the better part of the summer had abandoned the neighborhood, as if it too knew that it was time to get out of Dodge. It gave Cyril pause to consider if he shouldn't do the same---Guardian and Traveling Man be damned! But there would be no walking away for Mr. Emery. He was bound by blood, a genuine true to the article Child of Eden. Why, he'd be just as apt to walk to the sun as to walk outside the town limits, for the road would not release him to the world beyond, for his soul was bound to the soil beneath Orchard Cove in a way that he did not fully understand. All he knew was that he was a steward of the garden, and that his power resided within the sacred earth of this plot, and as such, it would not release him while the Blood Moon was in harvest. He had a duty to perform, and he would not shun it by fleeing into the lands of yonder boundary. He was a prisoner to both karma and fate, and as such, he would have to settle his quarter until he was either all played out, or just plain dead.

It was ironic that his wife, Patricia had been such a devote follower of the Lord Jesus Christ, whereas Cyril was a devote follower of Sunday morning's "Meet the Press." Here, he was supposed to be some sort of holy man, and yet he had not gone to church in years, and when he had, it had only ever been to attend a funeral. Yep, there had been lots of those events, hadn't there, a veritable epidemic. He could have wall papered the entire house with those newspaper obituaries, there were that many. And yet despite all the deaths along with the tragedies, he had not bent a knee to pray let alone read the good book in search of guidance. Some Child of Eden he had turned out to be. He was a born again sinner charged with the act of fighting the ultimate sinner---the Travelling Man no less. Was this supposed to be a case of a thief sent to catch a thief? No, that was ridiculous but in the same measure it was also satirical. Cyril was nothing but a punch line, a joke to be spoken of when the Travelling Man made his journeys around the globe. _Did you hear the one about the man from Orchard Cove who was supposed to be a virtuous soul? Apparently, neither did he!_

"Dear God...what am I supposed to do?"

He looked to the sky for a sign but the only thing that moved was the demon sun's burning eye as it slowly crept across the haze. _Like Jesus in the desert,_ he thought, _alone and tormented._ But there would be no "league of angels" come to save his mangy hide from the fire. He was on his own.

He closed his eyes and tried to summon a frame of mind that was more conducive to the current situation. To have a defeatist attitude was a sure fire way to secure an easy defeat over one's self. He had to think outside of the box, for the only weapon afforded him was that of his wits. But would that tool alone be enough to defeat the Travelling Man? He reflected back over the years, trying to salvage a scrap of information that might prove helpful to him. If he had had the luxury of memory all these years he no doubt would have formulated a plan to deal with his nemesis. However, his concerns these past 13 years had been like those of most people: groceries, money, house upkeep, and any number of trivial things that ultimately dictated the flow of anyone's daily lives. He had not been plotting warfare, let alone security matters. Aside from the occasional domestic dispute and or traffic violation nothing much happened in these parts that required law enforcement intervention. So it was of little surprise that Cyril had not been sandbagging and boarding up the house windows and doors in preparation for Galan's inevitable arrival. Mr. Whicker was like a storm that blew into town every 13 years but unfortunately it was the type of storm that always caught you off guard. It was that miserable gray shade of amnesia that served as the Travelling Man's magical blindfold---the one that he used to keep everyone in the dark in regards to his comings and goings and doings and dealings. That ability to simply fall off the radar at will was a huge contributing factor to the bastard's ongoing success as a spiritual predator. With such supernatural gifts it was obvious that Galan had little if anything to fear from his victims, for he always held the upper hand, and the hand he held was enchanted. But Cyril had come through on the low hour, and as such, had more time to contemplate a strategy than any other time in guardian history, or so said his intuition. But all the time in the world would be for not if he did not find the item.

"Think you old fool," he muttered. "Think!"

He reviewed what few details he had so far: _Ok, I'm a Child of Eden...I'm on the other side of the coin in an alternate reality...I've been suffering from amnesia these past 13 years and a son of the bitch known as the Travelling Man will most likely kill me when the Medusa's Eye rises...so...what do I do?_

Nothing came to him, except for the dull ache of an approaching migraine. He didn't have many of those, but when he did---YOWSA! Call 911. But he would have no time for headaches seeing as his dance card was already full as it was. In a few hours the "poker tournament" or that's to say this side of the coin's version of a poker tournament would begin. He needed to be ready.

He thought to recommence his search of the house but felt it would be for not. The article was not here, of that he was almost certain. He had discerned that bit of information by channeling his subconscious. His intuition was whining like those power lines had for most of the summer and the closer it drew to dusk the more that intuitive inkling of his bitched and complained. It was obviously trying to tell him that which he already knew on an unconscious level. In a sense his subconscious was desperately trying to shake his conscious mind to wake the hell up, but he was too caught up inside the living moment to hear the message clearly. If anything he needed to reach down into his lower ego and speak to that younger version of himself, the one that had left something behind 13 years ago for his present day self to find, but unfortunately he did not have the means. Perhaps if he was hypnotized he could recall what he had done before walking back down the spiral stairway en route to the other side of reality. Unfortunately there were no hypnotists in the phone book let alone a psychologist that he could turn to. The idea of bearing his soul to some shrink and explaining how he had come to be in an alternate version of Orchard Cove made him chuckle briefly. Surely they would have locked him up and then threw away the key upon hearing such a tall tale. It was crazy after all, downright loony tunes. Besides, he had a sinking feeling that if he picked up the phone to call for a doctor or anyone else for that matter, nobody would have picked up anyways. Aside from the sleeping version of Maude Landry on the couch next door he doubted that there was actually anyone in Orchard Cove---at least not yet anyways. No, the people on the other side of the coin hadn't entirely bled through yet, but they would in time. Then the tiny seaside community would be an orgy of carnage and destruction like in "The Return of the Archons" when the Red Hour struck during the Festival of Landru. Orchard Cove would have its red hour soon enough, except that it would bathe beneath the scarlet light of the Medusa's Eye.

He crawled back onto his feet. The pain in his knee was fierce but manageable. He needed a beer to take the edge off. He felt as though he was on death row, and in a sense he was. A part of him was tempted to raid the kitchen and whip up one hell of a last meal before he ultimately had to toss that final coin but then he wasn't very hungry. Besides, he had to stay focused on the task at hand but then if the article was not in the house, then where the hell was it? He was supposed to be searching for that which he knew not but then things had changed since he had first come to this place. Before, it had been a logical conclusion that the hidden artifact or item would be in the house. However, he now believed that this was not the case. So where then was he supposed to look? He was stumped, bested by his own efforts to convey a useful tool unto his care. At the very least he thought he would have found a note or a map in one of his books, or perhaps something that would have served as a key to some kind of safe, but there had been nothing aside from a lingering suspicion, no certitude that he had in fact done anything 13 years ago that would help the present day version of himself. Here, he could remember all of his previous encounters, all the time he had crept both down and up those cursed stairs that separated one side of the coin from the other, but that one greatest all important memory continued to elude him. Soon the sun would fall and then the game would begin and when it did, it would be too late to change anything. All his efforts, both past and present, would be for not without the---whatever the hell it was. Of course, there was that other gray spot in his memory as well, the one that shrouded those encounters with the Travelling Man. What had actually happened during those numerous confrontations was a matter of conjecture, for those memories had not yet awoken in his mind. Cyril, however, was aware that a personal challenge would be laid out between the players, and that the exchange would be conducted by means of a high stakes card game. However, the game in question would not be a run of the mill poker tournament like on the other side of the coin. No, this game would have a supernatural component to it. This game would be---well---he did not know for sure, but it would entail using those god awful cards of Galan's, the ones that made Cyril shudder whenever he thought about holding them. But aside from those fleeting flashes of memory he could not recall the details that involved their matches. In fact for all he knew this time around the game might not be cards, but rather chess, or battleship, or perhaps even a game of twister, in which case he would have to forfeit on account of his bad knee. Nothing was for certain except for the fact that today was August the 13th, and that that date would be carved twice upon his tombstone. That was the only guarantee he could count on. He wondered what would become of his remains: would they bleed back through to the other side of the coin where they could be disposed of properly, or would they remain in this dimension to rot for all eternity?

He recalled his first visit to this version of Orchard Cove when he had been just 13 years old. Back then he had found the mirror town along with this counterfeit version of his house just as vacant as it was today. There had been no bleached bones upon the front lawn, nor had there been any skeletons rattling inside the Victorian's closets. His ancestor---a man or a woman that he had never met---had come to their end on this day 91 years ago. Yet there was no marker erected to their name let alone a passage offering their bio or obituary in the Emery family bible. It was as if that individual had never existed, and perhaps in a way, they never had. If Cyril fell this day to circumstance on this side of the coin, then his essence might be erased forever from human history, and mayhap his soul as well. And if that was to happen, who then would take his place, let alone instruct the next Child of Eden on how to deal with the Travelling Man? No one had ever offered a word of advice to Cyril as to what was to be expected of him, nor had they ever bothered to speak to him of his family's unique heritage, and he felt he knew why? His predecessor had failed to defeat the Travelling Man, as had all of the other previous predecessors. It was obvious that Galan Whicker was like Pat Conway: the undefeated champ of Orchard Cove. Except the Travelling Man didn't play for poker chips like old Pat did, instead he played for blood.

"Oh well, you roll the dice and you take your chances I guess," Cyril whispered. "And hope to hell that you don't toss a rattler..." He paused, considered that down trodden sentiment, and then experienced what could only be called an epiphany. "A pair...a goddamn pair of snake eyes! Two of them!" He smiled broadly. "Oh, you miserable damn fool! You looked right at it and didn't even realize it!"

He had been wrong: the item was indeed inside the house. It had been there all along. He hobbled back inside, balancing his weight upon his cane, his feet carrying him as quickly as they could toward the one thing that might just tip the balance in his favor, or at best, even the playing field.

Chapter Twelve

Poker Titans

(1)

Cyril stood in the bathroom staring into the medicine cabinet. It had been such a minor oversight yet he couldn't help but chastise himself for having been so blind as not to notice it in the first place. True, it was not a flashing neon sign but it was nonetheless the sort of item that he should have spotted immediately. He thought: _How does that old Sesame Street song go?_ _One of these things is not like the other. One of these things is not quite the same. Can you tell me what thing is not like the other, before my song is done?_

He grinned and carefully picked up the faded brown prescription pill bottle. Compared to the cabinet's orderly modern layout, this old bottle was a veritable eyesore, a cavity on an otherwise pristine smile. By nature, Cyril was a meticulous man. His philosophy stated that there was a place for everything and everything had its place. The tool shop in the garage was a prime example. It had been organized with fastidious detail in order to honor that dogma, as was the care that he afforded his clothes, the garments that were always folded and neatly organized according to their purpose. Work shirts were kept in the closet, gardening pants in the dresser, formals in the armoire, etc. He also adhered to a strict schedule that dictated that the bed must always be made before breakfast and that the front lawn must never grow higher than his ankles. Those were just some of the domestic rules according to Cyril Emery, Pat Boone, and Jesus Christ Incorporated. He felt that if he had not been so flustered, for obvious reasons mind you, then he would have spotted the discrepancy immediately. But he had not been on his game, and as a result, he felt like a damn idiot. But that was okay because he had ultimately figured it out and that intellectual windfall had not come from his deductive capabilities, but rather from a random thought of snakes, rattlers to be more specific. After all, rattlesnakes made a rattling noise whenever they shook as did pill bottles. However, the mental connection that had ultimately sealed the deal was a bit more obscure, at least when it came to determining its association to Cyril's epiphany. Now, a rattlesnake had a pair of eyes, as did a pair of dice when they rolled snake eyes, whereas a bottle of pills had no such metaphorical connection to speak of. However, the relationship between these latter comparisons had inadvertently triggered his memory, and as he held the pill bottle in his hand, he could recall that day so long ago with vivid clarity. It had been August 13th, 2001, 13 years ago when he had failed to defeat the Travelling man yet again. Back then, he had carried the sleeping pills through the serpent's spire within the tree to the alternate version of Orchard Cove. His motivation had been that of a simple hunch, for he had no conscious memory of the Travelling Man at that time, let alone the twist within the wood when he had purchased the prescription from a pharmacy in the next town over. Yet he had done so just the same, and as a result, he had gained ground in his war with the Travelling Man. Not to say that he had not lost a significant tally of souls back in '01, for he had paid dearly, it was just that the pills had allowed him to glean a greater insight into the workings of the Tall-Mind as he had never seen before. There was great power to be found within that celestial mind, and the pills had allowed him to access some of its magical energy. However, Cyril had miscalculated on the dosage. He had not taken enough of the prescription to be effective, and as a result, the Travelling Man had defeated him with a better intellectual connection to the Tall-Mind, and as a result, he had claimed a steep tax on behalf of the Child of Eden. Suffice it to say, Cyril had failed. But where there was failure to be had, there was also knowledge to be gained, and so he had learned how to manipulate the Tall-Mind, if only in an infinitesimal way. But then that was fine because any leverage that was to be had was better than having no leverage at all. He would utilize the knowledge to the best of his ability when the time came. However, there was only one problem in regards to the prescription---it had expired 12 years ago.

(2)

It wouldn't be like drinking a carton of milk that had gone past the expiration date by a few weeks, it could be much worse. The medicine that had once been a prescription for sleeping pills had changed into something else, something that might very well kill him. If this was what he had left behind, which it was, then that plan was 12 years late in the making. What he had was nothing but an echo of what had once been a viable course of action. The pills in the current condition would be unreliable. He sat on the edge of the bathtub and rubbed at his eyes. After all the searching what he had found was the pitiful remnants of a previous failed attempt. Here, his younger self had not been so thoughtful as to leave his present day self a weapon with which to fight, but a discarded theory that had spoiled over time. Yes, he had felt like a fool for not finding it earlier but he felt an even bigger fool for having put so much faith in his younger counterpart. There was no genuine continuity between either of them---they were just two chumps that had made a half-assed attempt at formulating a doomed plan.

He stared at the bottle with a defeatist attitude, wondering just how much the medicine had changed. Had the recipe fermented into some form of LSD or was it strychnine. He was no chemist but he knew that chemicals had a strange way of morphing into other compounds if given enough time and or a proper environment. He recalled how the earlier version of himself had thought that things worked a certain way on this side of the coin. That younger man suspected that the sleeping pills would have the opposite effect of inducing sleep on his physiology. He had felt that the meds would become waking pills that would increase his mental prowess so that he might perform better when met by the Tall-Mind. And for a while they had but he had not taken enough of them to have a lasting effect. Here, he should have taken the entire bottle and overdosed on them, but he hadn't, and now he had to manage the fallout.

He stared out the bathroom window and watched as the sun sank into a scarlet horizon. He had maybe an hour before the real Orchard Cove, as he considered it, bled into this one---an hour before those empty streets filled up with unruly mobs---and an hour before the Tall-Mind finally summoned him to stand before the Travelling Man so that they might engage in a game of blood sport. He was almost out of time and definitely out of options. Yet he could not release the idea that the pills might still prove useful, that the potion might still be viable even after all these years. But to test that theory he would have to ingest the medicine, and it wouldn't be just one pill either but rather the entire bottle.

He shook his head and sighed. "Sometimes you're damned if you do, and damned if you don't."

He opened the bottle and waved it beneath his nose. The odor was vinegary, a sure telltale sign that it had soured. He tilted the bottle slightly and stared into its depth with one eye. There was no mold lining the plastic wall, a fair indication that there were no rancid bacteria present. Good, he wouldn't die of anthrax, botulism, or flesh eating disease. Of course there were other potential toxins, such as cyanide, or maybe even hydrofluoric acid. But then that was crazy. Sleeping pills didn't break down into cyanide but then the pharmaceutical companies did use hydrofluoric acid to manufacture certain drugs---didn't they? He wasn't sure but he did realize that things on this side of the coin had a way of going haywire. If he had brought a base compound through the spire, then it would have become an acid. If he had brought a bucket of white paint, then it would have turned black. At least that was his understanding of how things worked in regards to flipping the coin. Then again he might be way off by a country mile. He just didn't know. If only he had a lab rat to experiment on, or a strip of litmus paper with an instruction manual on how to use it then he could eliminate various threats. But he didn't have a mouse let alone a pill to spare. If he was going to do this trick he would have to do it John Belushi style: all or nothing.

He put the bottle before his mouth, mentally preparing to take that one big hit. Despite not being a particularly religious man he couldn't help but wonder if he might be committing suicide. If that was the case then his soul would be condemned to eternal hellfire with absolutely no chance of parole. He couldn't help but think what a shit deal that would be, considering that his death would have been in the service of defeating a terrible evil. Surely if there was a God, (which he very much believed there was considering that he was a Child of Eden) then his Almightiness would see this unfortunate situation for what it truly was and thus wave the suicide charge clean from the slate. Perhaps the Lord could rewrite the autopsy report to say either death by misadventure, or death by stupidity. Either way would be just fine with Cyril---anything that would make damn sure that he wouldn't need a pair of asbestos long johns.

He stood, picked up a glass from the sink, filled it with cool water, and then sat back down on the tub. He paused and then placed the bottle next to his lips. This was it, the moment where decisions courted either triumph or disaster. He threw his head back along with the bottle and let the pills fall down his throat, chasing the meds with the water, flushing the sour tasting capsules down his gullet and into the pit of his stomach. A resounding belch followed, acidic and nauseating. He could feel the pills churning the contents of his stomach, perhaps burning a hole through the cellular lining. Any second now a plume of smoke would rise out of his throat as the poison cooked him from the inside out.

He bolted to his feet and grabbed hold of the sink, the pain in his knee screaming with the effort. He could feel the poison in his belly preparing to do a repeat performance, and so he struggled to steady his guts, lest he lose that one potential arrow in his proverbial quiver. After all, there was no turning back now. He had to keep the waking pills inside him or risk losing everything before the Tall-Mind. He choked back a bad case of the dry heaves while he clamped his jaws together. It was like drinking a shot of whiskey from the devil's still---a molten fire of scarlet red. Between the searing heat inside his belly and the inferno inside his knee, he had become quite the sorry soldier. His face was flush. His eyes were bulging. Bloodshot. Tearing. That high blood pressure of his was through the roof. If the poison didn't kill him, then the resulting stroke most certainly would. But still his body managed to hold on and fight that bitterest of venom within his guts.

Slowly the reaction within his intestines settled down into a dull rumble. There would be no vomit now, just a severe case of acid reflux to deal with. He downed another glass of water to cool that residual fire. The moisture helped, but his insides were anything but settled. He was one good burp away from releasing some projectile spew. In hindsight, he couldn't help but think that he should not have drunk that damn beer. Oh well, what's done was done. There was no point bellyaching now. Besides, he was just grateful that his stomach had held onto the waking pills and had not tossed them down the sink. If anything he deserved a pat on the back. Suffice it to say, he was good to go now, perhaps not ready to go dancing, but in much better condition to meet the Tall-Mind than he had been before. Of course, his optimism might be provisional---only time would tell if the pills had worked their magic mojo or not. By downing the prescription he had taken a massive gamble but if he was to defeat Galan then he would have to be bold and daring. The Tall-Mind had a way of weeding out the faint of heart along with other questionable attributes as well. It could see into places, deep dark places, for its enigmatic eye never blinked let alone looked away as a Child of Eden probably should. Of course he would not nor would he ever turn a blind eye to the Travelling Man. It was not in his nature to cower in the face of his enemy. He would meet Galan on the field of woe and together they would engage the Tall-Mind and then they would see which garden yielded a greater harvest beneath the Medusa's scarlet eye.

Outside the bathroom window, he heard the first stirrings of noise. Somewhere in the distance a car's tires squealed and a gunshot rang out. It was beginning. Until this moment, the day had lain unnaturally still, as if caught inside an ethereal vacuum. But as the sun drew in its last few remaining breaths, the world began to change. Soon, Cyril's Orchard Cove would fully bleed through into this reality, and when it did, the people would come, except they would not be the people they were on the other side of the coin, but rather something else. The Medusa would change them as would the Travelling Man's forbidden magic until the entire town was little more than a pack of grunting animals. Then the night would grow fierce as each resident celebrated in the Harvest Festival of the blood moon. But Cyril would not be drawn into that sadistic orgy, for his business was elsewhere. None would dare interrupt that engagement with the Tall-Mind, or so he hoped. In the end, there could be no guarantees about anything. If the toxins within his gullet saw fit to finish him off, then God's will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven. If the crowds sat fit to stone him to death, then God's will be done. If his blood pressure saw fit to strike him dead with a stroke then God's will be done. Death was the only certainty afforded Mr. Emery this night, and if its form came by means of a natural or an unnatural cause then God's will be done. In part, he realized that he was in fate's hands, that any illusions he had of control were just that: illusions. But he also understood that if he was to secure a victory, then he would have to manhandle destiny's wheel as to cheat that beast known as misfortune.

He stared into the bathroom mirror, drew in a deep breath, and then slowly released it. He could hear the sound of car engines revving as they raced up and down the neighborhood boulevards---the beat box gangsta music thumping from their stereos. He could hear the explosions of gunfire, the shrill screech of sirens, and of course he the screaming.

(3)

Cyril stood on the front porch watching as the houses and the trees grew out of the shadows and into solid forms. The town had figuratively just arrived. The duplication process was now complete, and soon the Blood Moon would offer its blessing. Across the street in the elementary school ball field, rallied a group of hunchbacked children, their skeletal bones warped by a form of spiritual mutation. Together they chased and hit each other with sticks and rocks as they hooted and howled like rabid hyenas. Whatever the rules of their game might be, there was no denying that it was both brutal and without mercy. Whenever one of the children fell, the others would circle round them and then pummel them close to death as the mob laughed and screeched with utter delight. It was complete chaos and Cyril knew that the carnage would not end until the Tall-Mind had played its final hand or the Travelling Man so wished it.

He lent an eye to the horizon and watched as the fading ring of scarlet gave way to another shade of cerise. The Medusa's Eye was preparing to take center stage. Soon it would claim the sky as its own and there its dominion would remain unchallenged till the following morn. No star, or satellite, or shooting star would dare to cross its path or invade its halo, for the Blood Moon ruled the night with an iron hand, and would not yield it gaze to any creation under Heaven. Cyril knew very little about that peculiar moon, except for those rare glimpses he had occasionally gleaned from the Tall-Mind from over the years. Deep down, he longed to learn more about this side of the coin, but he understood that such knowledge was forbidden to him. In this dead land, he was little more than a tourist and he was here for one purpose only: to play the game.

The sound of breaking glass drew his attention to Maude Landry's house. A group of teenage hooligans looted through her home, smashing everything that they could get their hands on while they laughed and shouted profanities. Cyril's first instinct was to hurry over and tend to Maude, but he knew that she had not bled through into this Orchard Cove yet, and when she did, she would not be inside her house. No, she would be present before the Tall-Mind, although not present in a sense that would offer him the comfort of an old familiar friend. She would be different, just as everyone was different after they had bled through into this cursed reality, not just physically, but mentally, and perhaps even spiritually. She would be nothing more than a sideline participant and every bit a victim of the cruel earth beneath her feet as were they all. After all, this wretched place bordered on the Garden of Lions, and nothing beautiful would ever blossom forth from that sour soil, let alone come to nourish a soul with any degree of care. This world was desolate, deader than dead, and the laws of the universe of this side of the coin courted the negative aspects of karma, rather than the positive. It was the nature of the land. And so he simply watched as Maude's TV along with her framed family portraits were maliciously thrown out through the windows onto the dead grass where they were stomped underfoot and urinated upon by the mindless horde. And while they worked, the teens grunted back and forth to one another in a crude animal like language, apparently coordinating their efforts.

Cyril unconsciously crossed himself in the Christian tradition, and when he did, the group turned their attention in his direction. The teens chattered and squawked to one another, and then immediately raced toward Cyril on legs that bent awkwardly upon their twisted joints. In the encroaching moonlight he could see their knotted malformed faces, their crooked slack jaws slobbering drool, their pasty flesh a festering spoil of lesions. They were like radioactive mutants from a zombie movie, diseased and deformed to a point beyond recognition. At first, Cyril thought to flee but understood that his bad knee would not allow him the flight. He was outnumbered and outmaneuvered. However, he knew that these lowly minions of the Travelling Man would not dare to injury him. No, at best they could taunt and annoy him, but other than that, they were harmless. And so they climbed up onto the steps and circled him, barking and howling like a pack of wolves.

"May God have mercy on you," Cyril whispered, to which the group raucously laughed before rushing past him and into the house.

Cyril turned and watched them go, unable to stop them from their wanton act of vandalism. He leaned on his cane and slowly ambled down the steps onto the front lawn, all the while listening as that rabid pack of goons destroyed his personal possessions and set his house afire. But that was ok because despite everything this was to be his last day in the living world, and he was quite mindful that no one could take their worldly belongings with them into the afterlife, no one. Besides, he had already taken what he had come here for, and in a little while the effects would set in, or so he hoped.

"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust," Cyril muttered as he hobbled toward the street. "And the church said amen."

(4)

The Medusa climbed out of its fiery nest and took to the sky on demonic wings. Its face, scarred by the savage tools of an ancient battle glowered down upon the tiny seaside community with bitter disdain. Beneath the pedestal of its empty foundation streams of ethereal fire trailed in its wake. The tendril flames coiled like double headed serpents, entwining in a lustful embrace. The moon's jagged crown was also a nest of ghostly vipers, its spiritual aura bleeding with a mane of living hair that left a scarlet dust in the aftereffect of its cosmic path. The blood moon was alive, or perhaps not so much alive, as it was spiritually self-aware. There was no mortal heart beating within the pit of its canyons nor was there a physical brain contemplating its existence within the nexus of its mountain ranges. No, the beast that held the sky was a demon of blood and stone, and its purpose, while enigmatic, was a topic for its own consideration alone, and no other's.

Cyril only glanced at the Medusa for an instant, for he had no desire to gaze upon its pocked face. The moon had a way of bewitching his thoughts and confusing him. It also made him feel suicidal and that was something he'd rather not contemplate at the moment. He had bigger issues to contend with. He stood on the curb and looked down at the hopscotch squares that spanned the road from one side to the other. In the Medusa's sour light, the chalk took on an almost incandescent quality. He recalled the dream in which the little girl by the name of Ann Marie Holmes had skipped from one stone to the other across a river of sorrow. He doubted that his knee would be up to the challenge of bouncing across the street, but he nonetheless walked through the pattern while placing his cane within the boxes lest he somehow fall into the very asphalt itself and drown on tar and gravel. It was a ridiculous notion, but then the mind had a way of justifying all sorts of crazy things when it had to, especially when it was faced with the elusive rules of an alternate dimension. But then who was to say that the road might not actually crack beneath his feet and swallow him up in a bottomless chasm. Of course the Travelling Man would have other uses for the Child of Eden, terrible fiendish uses and he would not toss his entertainment away so easily. No, Galan would toy with his prey before finally cutting him loose, or binding his soul for all eternity. As for that outcome, he would discover that soon enough, and when he did, it would be over regardless. After all, it was August the 13th, and he was in season, and he would not escape the scythe irrespective of the verdict.

From behind he heard the explosion of glass followed by the shrill screams of one of those mutated teenagers. He turned as quickly as his knee would allow it and watched as one of the boys, engulfed in a ball of fire, tumbled from the top window of his house and down onto the parched grass. The kid fell with a sickening thud, his entire being given over to an inferno. The dried blades of grass burned in his wake as he rolled back and forth in an effort to extinguish the flames. Cyril's first thought was to go and turn the garden hose on the unfortunate lad, but he knew his efforts would not be rewarded kindly. He was the Child of Eden, the despised one, and he was only worthy of their contempt, not their gratitude. He was alone here and no courtesy would be afforded him. Besides, Galan might take it upon himself to teach Cyril an extra harsh lesson for having shown such an act of compassion in these cursed lands.

The remaining gang of mutants exited the burning house, one of them carrying a CO2 fire extinguisher in their hands as they scrambled down the steps towards the other fallen mutant. At first Cyril was surprised to see this unprecedented act of compassion towards one of their fellow brethren. However, the rescue mission soon turned into an act of barbarism when the mutant boy raised the fire extinguisher into the air and began to pummel the burning boy to death with it.

Cyril recoiled, repulsed by the carnage, but still he continued to loan an eye to the horror. The impacts rang with a metallic tinny sound along with the dull slap of tenderized meat, as the mutant boy repeatedly hammered the burning victim until he no longer screamed nor moved. Amidst the flick of fire and smoke, blood splattered upon the grass giving it a polished quality that could have almost passed for rain. But there was something disturbingly wrong with its texture, something that caused a wave of nausea to constrict Cyril's stomach. For an instant, he was not sure if it was the medicine or the sight of the brutal slaying that had him feeling so ill. But regardless of the cause he was understandably horrified. Still, despite his revulsion he could not help but wonder what terrible fate would befall the boy's doppelganger on the other side of the coin. Surely that second death would be equally as messy as this one in order to balance the two worlds evenly---perhaps the kid would suffer a logging accident with a wood chipper or a be eviscerated by a warehouse forklift. Whatever that awful fate may be, he nonetheless understood that it would be an incident dreadful in the making.

Cyril watched as the murderer lifted the extinguisher into the air like a trophy and then threw it out into the middle of the street where it landed with a loud clang on square number 13 of the hopscotch pattern. Cyril flinched from the noise but continued to hold his ground. He understood that their business was not with him personally but rather with the Harvest Festival. They were possessed by the Medusa, and that bitch would not release them until its journey had crossed the entire path of the night sky.

Cyril watched as the blood ran down the sides of the extinguisher and onto the warm pavement in a steady stream. It was death's tartest of wines flavored with the ultimate human offering. However, this vintage had not come from the cause of a noble ideal, nor from an act of self-sacrifice---this port had been stolen and spilled for no other reason than to satisfy a lust for violence, and as such, was the epitome of waste.

"May the Lord have mercy on us all," Cyril whispered.

He stared at the mutated teen who continued to hold a dominant posture and grunt like a wild beast over his murder victim. It was obvious the kid was too far gone into the blood rage to be reasoned with, for the Medusa had a stronger hold on the young than it did on the old, for the loin in the cloth burned much hotter in the spring than it did in the winter. Cyril reminded himself that it was not his place to mediate or police this Wild West Show. On this side of the coin he had one function alone, and he was apt to see that it was done while he was still of sound mind. He still had no idea what the waking pills would do to him, but he could already feel the effects of the drug taking hold of him. He had only a matter of minutes before the entire world began to tilt to one side. If he was to be effective he would have to make distance quick. But before he set off down the road en route to his final destination he paused to consider the state of what had once been his home for the past 78 years. It was completely engulfed in flame now and yet despite the loss he couldn't help curtail a sense of liberation. He was free now, liberated of that greatest of worldly possessions---aside from his flesh that is---and in a sense his soul had never felt as light as it did right now. It was true, his metaphorical house may not have been in order, but perhaps at last it was finally beginning to shape up. Of course there was one more possession he wished he could shed, and that was his moral obligation. He was bound to the promise of his family's lineage, the Children of Eden, and although he knew his station was an appointment of honor he nonetheless loathed its purpose. The cosmic game of chess was a cryptic pursuit that often saw the pawns pay for the price of someone else's misplaced piece. That's what Cyril felt like: a pawn. He hated being the low man on the celestial totem pole. He had always believed that if the forces of good and evil had an ax to grind with each other then it was best that they have at their quarrel and be done with it once and for all, and just leave him alone. But that was not how the cosmic powers handled things. No, they liked to take the scenic route in an old put-put with one bad piston in the engine.

He turned away from the carnage and continued to shuffle down the sidewalk en route to the elementary school where a great many things would come to be settled. In a sense it was not the tree that served as the nexus point between the two worlds but rather this modest school house. After all, it was within its musty gymnasium that the Tall-Mind spoke to be heard, and it was from that pulpit that the forces of the Lion and the Lamb held their palaver. Cyril wondered what this school might represent in this world when the Orchard Cove buildings bled back into their original world and when there was no mortal here to bear witness to its otherwise enigmatic nature. Cyril was aware that the school appeared to be the only building that was never partially constructed or caught in limbo as reality phased from one plane of existence onto another. He had an intuition that the school was in fact, a spiritual prison, a hellhole where lost souls were milked of their virtues in order to feed some kind of demonic spiritual entity. Yes, he was almost certain that this was indeed the case. That this lonely abattoir when exposed to its true self stood low against the horizon whenever the town vanished back into the living world. He feared that this building, or spiritual nexus point, might prove to be a waypoint for evil, and that, God help him, it might very well prove to be eternal. It was a terrible thought to have when walking into the den of the lion, but it nonetheless rang with a certain degree of truth. The notion gave him pause to consider the ongoing struggle for supremacy between those two opposing dynasties otherwise known as good and evil. How long had their war been raging and how long would it continue?

_Until the stars burn out in Heaven,_ Cyril thought, _or until time itself comes to an end._

He put the thought out of mind as best he could and hobbled down the cement walkway toward the school doors, mindful of just how close he was to the end of his life's long journey.

(5)

He had not seen them hiding in the surrounding bushes, but now they were everywhere, dozens of angry malformed children, barring his entry into the school with a semi-circle of their twisted bodies. The throng hollered like a pack of warpath Indians from an old west movie as they spat upon Cyril and hailed profanities at him, which in his day, would have earned him a mouthful of soap from his mother. He thought to raise his cane and challenge them to be quiet and let him pass but he doubted that his knee would have spared the support. He was barely able to stand as it was, let alone chase after a group of wild children while brandishing a cut of hickory. The only thing he could do was to endure their tirade and wait until they either decided to swarm and kick him to death, or let him pass into the lion's belly. Neither choice was a preferable outcome, but if Cyril was to meet his end this night, he would rather die at the hand of a monster, than at the hands of those innocents that had been led astray. After all, it was not the children's fault for having been tricked into eating the spoiled wares of the Travelling Man---no---that sin lay with Galan Whicker and with him alone.

"Step aside, will you not!" Cyril barked. "I've got business inside!"

The children laughed and sang taunts upon him in the forms of rhymes: _Old man Cyril needed to pass, but all he could do, was only pass gas!_ And: _There once was a Child of Eden, who thought he could refrain from seeding, he swallowed a rind, and then lost his mind, and now he's only good for peeling!_

"We're going to peel you, you miserable old prick," said a raspy voice from within the horde.

The crowd parted, or perhaps not so much parted as pooled to the side the same way that a pot of gravy allowed a bubble to raise to the surface. As for this particle bubble, he was a plump little specimen, and if memory served Cyril correctly he believed that this boy was the very same child that used to deliver newspapers to the house several years ago. Yes, Cyril was almost sure of it. The kid's name was---Brian Bishop---that was it! Cyril recalled that the young fellow suffered from a severe case of asthma, and as a result, the boy had given up delivering papers on account of his condition. He also remembered that Brian was overall a good kid as far as kids went these days. Sure, he was no angel, but then who in Orchard Cove was? No one, not even the self-proclaimed _Child of Eden,_ for they were all dirty in one respect or another, but then, judging by Brian's present situation, it was obvious that the boy had fallen into one big pile of horse shit, and as a result, he had become excessively dirty.

Close on Brian's heels were two of his friends: Toby Meckler and Curtis Malone. Cyril also knew of these boys, because they used to deliver the paper, but because of a run in they had on Halloween two years ago when the boys were both caught stealing tires out of Cyril's garage. Apparently, Toby and Curtis had wanted to start a tire fire at the elementary school ball field just for kicks, and so they had combed through the yards along Harp Street in search of rubber. By the time they were finally caught, they had procured a stack of 12 tires for their hell raiser bonfire. As for Cyril's involvement in the theft, that had come after the fact when the then, on duty police officer, had informed him of the robbery.

The cop had asked "Do you know these boys sir?"

Cyril had walked down and looked into the squad car to find two sorry looking soldiers sweating it out in the backseat.

"No officer, I don't know them," Cyril had replied. "What are their names?"

"The skinny kid is Toby Meckler and the other is Curtis Malone," the cop had replied. "They're out and up to mischief tonight, I reckon."

Despite that fact that he had been lessened of four perfectly good winter tires, Cyril had nonetheless felt sorry for the boys. After all, he had once been their age too, and if memory served him correctly he had done all kinds of stupid stuff at that time. The only difference being was that he had not been caught. Cyril guessed that was the situation with a lot of regular everyday people---the difference that made one person guilty and another one innocent---possession was 9/10ths of the law, or so it was commonly said, and while Cyril, like so many others may not have been caught holding, he nonetheless owned the deed if only in secret. But that colorful history was irrelevant now because they were all stuck on the other side of the coin and as they all knew the monkey climbed a different kind of tree in this jungle.

"Brian Bishop," Cyril said calmly, but with an authority afforded by his age alone. "You and your friends run along. I've work to do this night, and I have no time to play games with the likes of you. So vamoose!"

Brian's belly contorted and then shifted as if of its own accord. There was something alive inside the boy, something parasitic. Of course, Cyril understood that such a thing surely owed its origin to the Garden of the Lions, for the sour fruit that grew upon its tangled vines was cursed with a crude form of half-life. The berry, the leaf, the root, and the tree were equally abhorrent in the eye of God, for their blossom was spawned from an ancient knowledge whose sole purpose was to corrupt life from its smallest of molecules clear on up to its worst of intentions. Brian's mouth, which lay wreathed by a blight of bleeding tumors, let out a loud resounding belch that sounded a guttural language. The stench that was carried on the wake of his foul breath was of rancid feces and almost made Cyril vomit the contents of his stomach onto the cement walkway. But the old man refused to spill his guts, especially when considering what he had gone through in regards to swallowing those God awful waking pills from the medicine cabinet. No, he would not throw up that which might very well prove to be his saving grace regardless of how disgusting Brian Bishop's filth might be.

"I see you've had your fill of that bastard's sick poisons," Cyril said through a hand that covered his mouth and nose from the lingering foul odor. "Listen to me children! You need to get away from this unholy place! Go now...go home, or get to the church and pray if it suits ya...but leave this place just the same!"

Cyril was no fool. He realized that they would not heed his wisdom. Besides, the children would be no safer at home then they would be in a church, for everything on this side of the coin was tainted and backwards. There were no police, government officials, or well intentioned do goods in this version of Orchard Cove that they could turn to. This was a spiritual wasteland and nothing here would offer a soul any degree of reprieve.

They were all alone, Cyril included.

The kids slowly circled Cyril, their malformed hands and limbs suddenly melding together as their sore pocked flesh became that of a single parasitic organism with Brian Bishop as the head. The sound of their union was sickly, a slurping of goo and smacking of tissue as their diseased skin melded together with more diseased skin, their flesh, a tightly bound twine that shaped them into a horrific monstrosity. Their skeletal members popped and snapped as their warped bones jointed into warped bones. Their arms and legs tangled a web of misshapen branches, that when put together, assembled a grotesquery that sort of resembled a graveyard tree. It was the Travelling Man's poison that had rendered them into a single horrendous abomination, and although Cyril was appalled by the sight and longed to swing the might of his cane against them, he could not help but pity them. Here, those innocent children of the Earth, both blessed of spirit and youth, had been taken down into the filth of the sacrilegious soil, and while their stance may have been adversarial in nature, Cyril would not accept them as enemies. No, the puppeteer that lay beyond the school doors was the one to battle and no other.

From within the knotted flesh and bone a chorus of voices spoke that classic childhood insult: _Nyah...nyah nyah...nyah nyah...nyah!_ Despite the sweltering temperature and high degree of humidity, Cyril nonetheless felt as cold as an Eskimo's nose. In all the years he had been coming to this side of the coin, never before had he encountered such an outrage as the one that hunkered before him. In this rip off version of Orchard Cove he had met with more than his share of lepers and circus freaks but never anything so fucking ghastly. He recalled how his late wife Patricia had used to read her bible aloud back in the day while in the reading room. Cyril had learned more about the good book from her retelling than from all the church services he had ever attended combined, and it was one of her readings that stuck in his head right now, the "suffer the little children unto me," passage from the book of Mark: _And if anyone causes one of these little ones who believe in me to sin, it would be better for him to be thrown into the sea with a large millstone tied around his neck. If your hand causes you to sin, cut it off. It is better for you to enter life maimed than with two hands than to go into hell, where the fire never goes out. And if your foot causes you to sin, cut it off. It is better for you to enter life crippled than to have two feet and be thrown into hell. And if your eye causes you to sin, pluck it out. It is better for you to enter the kingdom of God with one eye than to have two eyes and be thrown into hell, where their worm does not die, and the fire is not quenched. Everyone will be salted with fire!_

The Travelling Man was the worst kind of sinner, and his misdeeds unto these poor children was worthy of God's cruelest of retributions. He deserved to be salted with a fire that would never be quenched---amen!

The head of Brian Bishop parted his foul maw unto a set of crooked teeth that lay pitted with cavities. He bellowed out a lion like roar and on its heels came an eruption of projectile vomit. The sickly spew of pea soup green lay snarled with the clots of strangled blood and shot a stream straight towards Cyril's chest. However, that foul paste did not touch the man with the hickory cane, but rather split around him in two distinct flows that splashed out onto the dried grass with a thick slapping sound. Whatever power resided within Cyril, it had channeled the filth to break round about him, and that ability alone reminded him that he did indeed have power here. He was a Child of Eden after all, and he would not be made to look away by neither the serpent nor the spider.

The throng of children skittered to the side and for a second Cyril thought they might trample him beneath the procession of their tangled feet. However, the meat puzzle continued to scamper off onto the field, their voices a mixture of strangled laughter and sobbing curses.

The old man leaned upon his cane and watched as they slipped round the school and sped off into the nearby forest. Once more he crossed himself in the Christian tradition as he offered a short prayer on behalf of those who would suffer terribly this night while under the influence of darkness. And then, as if on cue and as if to challenge that symbolic gesture, the Tall-Mind arrived.

(6)

Emerald light spilled out of the school's doorway windows, and for an instant, the building's interior looked as though it had come aflame. But that greasy flat glow held no semblance of heat let alone an invitation of warmth. It was as cold as cold could be. Calculating. Devious. Surreal. It was all that and much more, for its power reached from the lowest depths of reality and mayhap challenged their very frontiers of Heaven itself. He had seen this light many times, and each time he saw it, a little piece of his soul felt lessened of its quality. It was the essence of temptation and the scourge of mankind.

_Beyond this door lay evil,_ Cyril thought. _And to that place I have resigned to go._

He hobbled up the cement walkway and stood before that cascading glow. The light was of ocean jade and fanned out through the glass and cracks in the door like laser spokes. The energy that spilled into this reality sang with a slight humming noise, which put him in mind of that whining electrical transformer that had bitched and complained about the heat every bit as much as he had this summer. But then there was nothing mechanical about this shade of green, for it was biological or perhaps better stated, spiritual in nature. It did not owe its influence to coal generators or boilers of steam, but rather to the cosmic strand that intertwined and bound one plane of existence to another.

As his foot took the solitary step that led up to the door, his shoe inadvertently kicked something aside. There was a recognizable clang as whatever it was scraped across the concrete and whacked into the school's front door. He looked down and in the light of the Medusa's Eye he could see pieces of sculpted tin lying scattered across the cement. They were letters: a K, an S, an A, an N, a C, and an L. He looked above the door's threshold and could see that a phrase had shed a few of its text characters. What had once read: BOOKS AND CLOCKS now read: BOONDOCKS. He did not recognize the significance of the former phrase as it pertained to academic merit, let alone the current word that now resided overhead, but he nonetheless felt that on some level there was a deeper meaning to be gathered here. However, at this point he felt such conjecture to be irrelevant, and so he stored it away possibly for later consideration. He reached out and grabbed hold of the door handle when he suddenly paused. He was not sure if the medicine had done anything to him, aside from giving him a serious bit of heartburn. He did not know if he should perhaps stall for time while the waking pills to take hold of his mindset. But then, what if he waited too long? What if the waking pills took him too high up the strand, in which case he would be in no condition to confront the Travelling Man. Unfortunately there was just no way to know for certain what to do, or sadly when to do it. Truth told, all he really had to use at present was his guile, but if that trait would be enough to engage the Tall-Mind and the Travelling Man until his fate ultimately turned, well, that remained to be seen.

He pulled the door open and stepped into the building, mindful of the challenge that lay before him.

(7)

He could see his reflection in the alcove mirror and for the first time he could tell just how goddamn stoned he was. He was 78 years old and was so close to death that he could smell the flat propane stench all around him and could feel it breathing on the nape of his neck. His blood pressure was through the roof and he felt like a balloon filled with blood that was being squeezed by a set of skeletal hands. Any second he would have a goddamn aneurysm. His eyes were completely bloodshot and his pupils were about a hundred times their normal size. He looked like a strung out junkie really jonesing for an eight ball. In fact, he hadn't looked this strung out since he was in his late teens. Back then he had experimented regularly by taking narcotics with a few of his closest friends. In those days they had taken magic mushrooms for the most part, seeing as they were indigenous to Nova Scotia and readily available if one knew where to look for them. However, on several occasions they had tried the granddaddy of all hallucinogenics---Lysergic Acid Diethylamide or LSD for short. The acid, which was commonly referred to as "windowpane" due to its resemblance to glass, was by far the most potent experience Cyril had ever had to date. The episode with the acid had come well after his first encounter and well before his second with the Travelling Man and the Tall-Mind. However, he recalled that during the acid trip he had undergone vivid hallucinations in which he had seen not only a forbidden tree of such exquisite beauty that it had brought a tear to his eye but also a hard looking man adorned in a long black leather coat. The figure had carried a large handgun that looked like the sort of weapon that would drop a rhino at ten paces. The presence had passed into this world like a fleeting shadow and then vanished into the nothingness by means of some kind of dark energy portal. The next day when Cyril had awoken under a tree in a farmer's field he had to convince himself that none of it had been real, that it had all been a byproduct of the LSD. However, there was something about those visions, especially as it pertained to the man in the long black coat. That dark specter had seen Cyril, and had seen him quite well, and although that figure was the most dangerous man that Cyril had ever seen, he also felt that the man could be trusted. But who was he, and what connection did any of it have to that wonderful tree he had also seen? There was no resolution, just a mystery. Over the course of the next several years, Cyril had taken more LSD in the hope that he might chance to see that mysterious stranger once again. However, he never did, which of course only supported his contention that the man in the long black coat had never been there in the first place. But aside from those vivid delusions, he also had another peculiar episode, one that involved a car's rearview mirror in Bennett's Junkyard.

Bennett's was the biggest wreck storage lot east of Halifax and was a common hangout for boys who were generally up to no good. As for Cyril and his posse, they had each dropped a hit of "windowpane" acid and were tossing back some beers. They busied themselves by throwing rocks threw the windows of old junkers. During the process of this reckless behavior, a 1947 Dodge Coupe had managed to catch Cyril's eye. He had crawled in behind the wheel of that ride to get an idea of how the Coupe felt. The car was spacious with a nice white interior, and despite the extensive damage to the front fender, grill, and engine bonnet, overall the car was in pretty good shape. Bennett's was apt to make a nice profit from selling the wreck for parts, seeing as there was so many options still intact. However, everyone in town knew that the Coupe had a dark history. The car had once belonged to the father of a local girl by the name of Penelope Adam, and she had apparently lost control of the vehicle rolling it down a steep embankment into a rain swollen river where she had unfortunately drowned. It had been a tragic ending to a young life, and sadly the story had not ended there. Her father and sole guardian--- Pen's mother had passed away just the summer before---had taken his own life upon hearing the news of his daughter's passing. It was the kind of story that made folks question the reason why bad things happened to good people. But all that misfortune had happened three summers ago, yesterday's news, and so suffice it to say, Cyril Emery had a mind for buying. He didn't have much in the way of money, but figured that he might be able to strike a deal with old man Bennett, perhaps something along the lines of working around the scrap yard to make up for the difference in cost. It seemed like a reasonable proposal, and as he sat behind the Coupe's wheel doing the math in his head he also imagined what it would be like to cruise the Dodge down Orchard Cove's solitary main street. He would be as cool as James Dean with a pack of Players Cigarettes wedged into his shirt sleeve. The idea of that made him smile, and as he tinkered with the dead radio and sang an off key rendition of Jackie Brenston's "Rocket 88," he chanced to catch a glimpse of his own eyes inside the Dodge's cracked rearview mirror, and what he saw almost made his heart stop. Suddenly he felt as though his soul had been violently pulled out through the apertures of his pupils and then sucked into the mirror's polished glass. _Those eyes,_ he had thought, _those eyes aren't mine, they're hers!_

He clambered out of the wreck, anxiously putting as much distance between himself and that car as he possibly could, anything to get away from those cold dead eyes, but it was pointless. It was as if he was somehow still tethered to Penelope Adam, linked in life and death as if her soul had perhaps claimed a part of his and taken it into a purgatorial wasteland. They were like two opposing sides of a single coin---one side skeletal bones, the other side suffering flesh.

Later, after Cyril had calmed down, his friends had tried to convince him that it had just been a byproduct of the "windowpane." However, he could not let go of the idea that Penelope Adam was still very much inside that car, or perhaps not so much inside the car as she was stuck inside some sort of an alternate dimension behind the mirror's eye. That was the feeling Cyril was having right now as he stared into the school's alcove mirror: that he had in fact fallen through the Dodge's mirror that summer day so long ago and had perhaps never returned. But as he stared into the misery of his own eyes he could find no sense of Penelope Adam let alone some hidden aspect of his psyche. He was Cyril Emery as far as he could tell, and the glass on the wall was telling him that his pupils were massive because he had probably overdosed on the waking pills and his body just hadn't realized it yet. That was probably true, but he doubted that he would pass out as result. No, he would ascend into the strand of the Tall-Mind and be overcome by the celestial dynasties.

"Stop your dillydallying, you old coot," he muttered to himself, and then said almost absently: "books and clocks, and boons and docks."

He turned from the mirror, leaving that parallel version of himself to its own struggles and hobbled down the hall on his cane toward the gymnasium. At long last it was time to engage in the ancient ritual---at long last it was time to engage the game of lost souls.

(8)

The passageway to the gymnasium was filled with that soft ethereal light of emerald jade. The shade was of Atlantic brine as seen from an ocean's seafloor, dense but mostly translucent. The air was so thick on ghost light that Cyril felt as though he was swimming in it. And yet despite its magnificence he could not discern where the glowing energy stemmed from as it seemed to come from everywhere and yet from nowhere. Perhaps the ghost light originated from this reality's very molecules as a great all inclusive force that bled through the fabric of space time and physical matter the way that sunlight flowed through a thin veil. Wherever that light came from, it was not on this level of existence but rather further up the Celestial Totem Pole. He put the light out of his mind as best he could and focused on his immediate surroundings. For all intents and purposes the school was still fundamentally a school. The hallway leading into the gym was a pageant of kindergarten art drawings that displayed a scattering of paint dipped handprints along with a series of posters that encouraged the young to learn.

" _Wise Old Owl Says: Read a book kids, and then you'll grow up to be as wise as me!"_ And: _"Math is counting on your future!"_

There were no signs that spoke to the Celestial Totem, the Tall-Mind, or to the evils of a Travelling Man, there was just the eerie green light adding an element of ghosts to everything that its halo shined upon. Cyril took the distance with a laboring effort. Despite the numbing effects of the waking pills he was nonetheless in a fair deal of pain. _Good,_ he thought, _the discomfort will keep me sober._ At least that was his hope. He stopped and leaned upon his cane, his eyes peering through the Plexiglas panes that stared into the gymnasium. At present, they were aglow with ghost light, and although he could get only a vague sense of movement within he could not discern who or what he was actually seeing. However, he was well-aware of what awaited, and that was enough to get the hackles on his neck to stand at attention.

Despite the fact that he was not a religious man by nature he nonetheless closed his eyes and offered up a quick prayer to The Almighty: "Lord...if you're listening, please help this lowly pilgrim. You see there's a valley of death that I have to traverse, and sure as shooting, it would sure be nice to have a bit of company on the trip...amen."

He crossed himself, grabbed hold of the door handle, and then pulled. The door swung open and for an instant he was overcome by the powerful ghost light that engulfed all things. He threw up a hand to cover his eyes and almost toppled over from the sudden jolt. It was as if all the faces of the Celestial Totem had suddenly stared at him at the exact same instant and perhaps they had. The light, however, quickly faded, temporarily leaving a hole inside his vision. Still, his ears heard well enough and what they discerned from the gymnasium's busy interior was the steady jabbering of what sounded like monkeys. Gradually his eyes cleared and what he saw next was the exact same thing that he had seen so many times before on his previous excursions to this side of the coin. It was only in the actual moment of standing before the Tall-Mind that he remembered the full scope of its cosmic splendor. It was like a smell that brought on a vivid memory, and perhaps it was the odor of this place that had triggered his intimate recollection. At present he was as timid and shaking as he had been the first time he had ventured over to this side of the coin. In the time since then he had forgotten that smell, as was the case each time he had returned home to the real Orchard Cove. But as he stood on the gymnasium linoleum, which in fact wasn't actually linoleum but rather a riverbank, he understood that the scent riding on the otherwise stale air belonged to that of an exotic crimson-gold apple. This knowledge was intuitive, or as spoken from a mystical level on the Celestial Totem. Of course he understood that not all the faces on the Celestial Spire told the truth, but he nonetheless believed the voice that had spoken to him on such matters to be correct on its assessment. He also knew that this river stemmed from the lost river of Eden, and that it had become polluted by evil as it meandered through the ancient landscape. As the water of sorrow had been in his dream with the girl named Ann Marie, so too was its depth of misery on this ethereal plane of existence. It was cold, viciously so, and his teeth had begun to chatter as a result of being so close to its deathly influence. He had dreamed of escaping the suffocating heat that had smothered the town for the better part of the summer, but now he longed to rush back into it, so that he might burn within its invisible flame. His breath grew crystals before his eyes as he stared across the division toward that adjacent shore where the terrain was that of desert hardpan. Yet despite seeing that distant edge, he could not see what lay atop it, for the landscape was given over to a thick fog that was every bit as jade as the ghost light. It was from within that haze that the sound of the monkey-chattering chirped and squawked to be heard. Of course he knew that there were no monkeys to be found upon that low plateau, it was just a byproduct of the Tall-Mind's influence over his simple human mind. The moment he had crossed the threshold he had been plugged into the Celestial Spire, and as a result he now regarded the world around him as if sensing reality through one small aspect of the Celestial Totem. Again, this knowledge felt intuitive but he nonetheless understood _how_ he knew of it. The Tall-Mind was a medium of information as well as a conduit that allowed reality to exist in multiple forms. The Tall-Mind, being connected to the Celestial Totem, helped to support the world, whereas the Totem was the pillar that supported the entire universe. Of course all these instruments ultimately served God's Harp, but as for the nature of that device, and how it worked, or if it too was a part of the Totem, Cyril did not know. Nothing of its presence, influence, purpose, or master was ever spoken of openly by the Tall-Mind, which made him believe that even the Celestial Spire had limits in regards to its purported all-seeing-eye. The only reason Cyril knew of the existence of God's Harp was because the Travelling Man had told him years ago during one of their encounters. However, it was possible that Galan's words had in fact carried a lie but Cyril nevertheless believed that the Travelling Man had played it straight with him---at least as straight as a fiend such as Galan Whicker was capable.

Cyril set his eyes upon the stones that traversed the river of sorrow. It would be as before, a simple game of hopscotch to the other side where the Travelling Man and the lesser people dwelled in secrecy. However, he was no longer 13, nor 26, 39, 52, or a spry 65 years of age. It was his birthday. He was 78 with a bad knee and his days of skipping through the marigolds had long since fallen behind him. He was as high as a stunt kite thanks to the waking pills but not even that tainted medicine could change the fact that Cyril Emery was a geriatric senior citizen. He recalled how confident he had been in his younger days when he had been met by this once laughable obstacle. Each time he had easily scampered across the stones to the other side without incident. But on this rung of the birthday ladder, simple acrobatics had the potential to not only break bones, but claim lives. It was as if the water before him knew it, too, that it had patiently waited for him to grow old so that it would at last finally claim its victim. There was nothing smug about Cyril Emery now---in fact, one might say that the old codger was eating humble pie by the handful. But being meek in the face of his limitations would not help him cross the river. There would be no senior's special, no bridge, no rowboat, no kindly escort to hold his hand---he would have to cross the river of sorrow under his own steam and no other's.

He staggered down to the river's edge, using his cane for support. The ground was muddy as it had been in the dream, a damp slop one degree short of being permafrost. The cane sank deep into the soil causing him to rely on his aching knee to distribute the load. The pain shot through his nervous system like a bolt of lightning and he had to catch himself from uttering a cry. Instead, he simply moaned and sucked up the misery as best he could before plodding on. The first stone was well within the ability of his stride, but as for the remaining 12, they would each require a leap---some demanding more of a leap than others. He had no idea how he was going to scuttle across the rock bridge without falling into the enchanted water. Despite the bitter cold, he could already feel beads of sweat forming on his tortured brow. If the water didn't kill him, the effort surely would. He was one good grunt shy of having a goddamn stroke. Cyril figured that falling prey to natural causes was not part of the Travelling Man's plans, but when a man's number was up, it was up regardless of what level they crouched upon the Totem. However, he could clearly see his end coming by means of the river. Yes, that kind of demise would be fitting in the Travelling Man's eyes, something worthy of irony. Here, they had spoken back and forth across this very river on the dreamscape, and would it not be fitting that Cyril should once again fall into the slow meandering current of woe as he had in the dream. Such an end, if not tragic, would surely be poetic, would it not? He tried not to think about the potentials but rather the job at hand which required his utmost concentration. He had 12 leaps of faith to make, 12 throws of the dice, 12 chances to secure that which lay beyond the ghostly mist. It was frustrating to think that such a simple task had been placed before him and he was in no condition to perform it. He hated being old, hated being frail, but more than these inevitabilities of a long life, he hated the Travelling Man even more. If anything, Cyril's spite would carry him across the straight and when it had, he would tune into the Tall-Mind as he had never done before and reclaim that which had been taken from the Children of Eden. Here, at land's end, the game was ultimately based upon a conflict over real estate and chattels that the Celestial Law dictated must be challenged every 13 years.

He planted the cane onto the stone and threw his weight across the water onto the next link in the chain. As expected, the pain upon impact was excruciating. Once again he wanted to vomit, not because of the sour medicine within his innards, but rather as a response from the overwhelming agony coursing throughout his body. Here, he had 11 more stones to skip and he didn't know how he was going to do it. But there would be no going back. He was obligated to a specific course of action and he would see it through to the end regardless of the outcome. And so he took the next seven stones with an equal measure of torment, stopping on the eighth, not for will of wanting to press onward, but to meet the very real physical limitations of his mortal body. He was a lather of sweat and soaked to the bone despite not having fallen into the river. He felt dizzy and seriously fatigued. All he wanted to do at the moment was to lie down and sleep the kind of slumber that one only did when they were laid in the grave. He figured his blood pressure would burst a cuff if anyone tried to check it in its present condition. He was panting for lack of breath and beginning to buckle under the demands of the crossing. He was a lousy four stones shy of making the edge and he couldn't fathom how he could possibly make all four, let alone just one more. The waking pills had heightened his sense of things to the point where he could hear the Celestial Totem speaking to him from multiple levels simultaneously, but as for aiding his body in any degree of strength or pain relief, it left much to be desired. If only he could sit down for a while and take a breather, but the stones were just big enough to support a pair of feet and a walking cane's heel and nothing more, and so he would have to remain standing. However, his knees were beginning to wobble, and he feared that they would not carry him much further. He had already dug down deep inside himself to get this far, and as a result, he had spread that fire of will awfully thin. His determination was effectively running on fumes. If only he could sit down---if only.

Just out of sight and hidden within the emerald mist, he could hear those jabbering primates speaking to one another in their animalistic language. And yet despite not speaking a lick of their lingo he nonetheless understood ever word that was said, or that's to say that one part of him understood. However, that knowledge felt barred to him behind a gray wall of amnesia, the way that this place had lain hidden within the deepest pit of his blackest memories for all these years. Perhaps when he parted the miasma, he might chance to remember the meter of that old familiar tongue. But in order to do that, he would first have to jump across four more stones. However, if he had the strength to span that final measure remained to be seen.

(9)

Sweat poured into his eyes and stained his shirt. The muscles in his legs were little more than flimsy bands of rubber. He had moments, perhaps seconds before his limbs gave way to exhaustion. Never before had he felt so old and useless. To have come so far only to fail at the threshold of that which he was ordained to commit. Such a letdown felt tantamount to humiliation in the face of his ancestors---those that had stood tall before the tribulation for an age untold---those long lost Children of Eden that lay scattered to the dust of eons and to the unwritten history of the world. He was unworthy to be listed in their fine company, a mutt with neither the inclination nor the talent for greatness. He was a wannabe savior, nothing more, and the scythe would soon separate the stalk from the chaff, leaving that poorest of crops to rot upon the sour field. It would be a fitting ending in the Garden of Lions, something that perhaps even the Travelling Man could appreciate.

Cyril closed his eyes and prayed for mercy in the face of his failure, yet he could not bring himself to ask forgiveness, for he felt unworthy. Soon the long illustrious line of his pedigree would be broken as their heir fell hard upon the stones of the River of Sorrow. He had finally come to that place where determination and limitation collided, but if he was to plummet into the waters of despair he would first make such a noise that the worlds above and below the pits of damnation would hear him.

He opened his eyes and marked the river bank. His hand ached and throbbed as it held onto his cane's smooth grip for balance. He would throw his momentum into one last series of jumps, effectively stumbling to the other side. Of course he knew his legs would never carry him that far, but if he was to fail he would do so in the finest of poses---a man challenging the limits of his abilities to the very end. Surely such an act of heroics would earn him a place in God's Blue Heaven, or at the very least in some lesser known sanctuary called Haven. There was nothing to lose in trying, save his very life, but then that commodity had already been bartered upon the auction block. He was done for one way or the other come midnight, regardless of where the hour hand stood upon the clock face. And so he dug down into that pitiful bag that was his body of frail bones and withered muscles and prepared to launch one last campaign for the river's edge, when he heard something stir beneath him. At first he thought to recoil at the sight but then there was nothing left inside him to react. At present he was mutton for the hound, and if that foul beast came in search of his hide, then he would have to give it freely. But the thing that lay below him was no hound, nor fiend, nor minion of the thing that dwelled beyond the ethereal fog. It was a girl, as sallow as a bald cat that had been stuffed inside a sack to drown. Her hair, dark as a raven's wing, flowed about her ghost like face in slow motion, her mane a furl inside the empty lungs of a deaf wind. She was a child, deader than dead, but nonetheless alive with a strange sort of preternatural half-life. At first Cyril did not recognize her, but when her wonderful mat of hair parted to show her delicate features in full he placed her face immediately. It was the girl from his dream, the one by the name of Ann Marie Holmes. Cyril's first instinct was to reach down and pull her free of the river, but there was nothing left in his muscles to give. Besides, this child was now a creature of the hereafter, and she needed his help about as much as he needed another four rocks to jump across. However, he felt as though he should save her---that there was a means by which he could atone for having failed her on the dreamscape, but there was nothing he could think of let alone do in his present condition.

"My dear child," he whispered. "Forgive me, but there's nothing left inside these old bones except for aches and pains."

The girl offered a slight twitch of her lip that Cyril equated to a smile that was both amused and sympathetic to his sensibilities. It would appear that this mermaid from the depths was not a foe come to pull him down into the sightless waters but here to offer him companionship in his final hour. Despite the misery of his situation, Cyril nonetheless offered the girl a genuine smile, however weak and troubled it might be. It was good not to be alone in the end, for if the melancholic water was to claim him then he could at least take solace in that. However, what happened next was quite unexpected, and he could not help but wonder if God, Fate, or perhaps the Lords of Karma might be at work in his favor. He had few friends these days, and what little he had, he cherished. If there was some celestial dynasty at work on his behalf, then his gratitude to them was immeasurable.

(10)

Her hand was as gentle as a spring breeze but her touch was of winter white. The deader than dead girl's fingers, as graceful as a ballerina's pirouette and as adept as a skilled artisan laid a patch of frost upon the flowing stream as thick and sturdy as that of a wooden beam. Her touch was of death, as cold and miserable as the cleft of a January grave. But where it lacked warmth, it offered relief, for the water was no longer an obstacle but rather a bridge. Cyril did not hesitate and immediately took advantage of Ann Marie's handiwork, stepping down upon the fractals of ice and shuffling his weight across the pan toward the river's edge. As he skittered across the rime, he could see the girl swimming beneath him, a ghost tethered to his movement in shadow. The expression upon her face was not urgent but rather compassionate, that it should be her place to pity him and not vice versa. It gave him a shudder to think that the dead did not envy the living, at least in his regard, and for that he could not help but wonder if perhaps he should drown and forgo the misery of life in preference for a peaceful death. No---he would not escape his obligation so easily, he would not _look away_! He had a duty to perform and the girl beneath the ice had just reminded him of that. He would challenge the Travelling Man to one last toss of the stones, and then his involvement in this nightmare would be done regardless of the outcome. He was living the last day of his life and if his house was ever to be put in order then he would have to attend to this final errand.

He shuffled across the ice and soon made the adjacent river bank of alkali where he collapsed onto his posterior with a heavy thud. The landing sent pain arcing along his lower backside but the sensation was little more than a nuisance in comparison to the fire beneath his kneecap. If Patricia was here she would have most certainly said that her better half was indeed a sorry looking soldier. He sat with his hands propping up his torso, his entire body trembling like a tuning fork. He could almost hear his old bones rattling inside their arthritic joints. He desperately needed a breather, but understood that time was a commodity in short supply. He was looped up on waking pills, and although his mind was racing, his body was still trying to catch up. He watched as the ice slowly broke into pieces and was then carried downstream. As for the girl there was no sign of her---just the slow meandering eddies lapping at the river's edge with mute tongues. He raised a hand at let it slick away the sweat from his brow as he nodded toward the ethereal water.

"Thank you, young miss," he said in a soft voice that sounded weak and drained of its vitality. "I owe you what little life I have left kicking around inside this old husk, but I'll not forget the favor. For the love of God...for mercy's sake...be at peace."

His hand made the sign of the cross upon the mystic water. If there was a prayer appropriate for this kind of occasion he did not know of it. All he could think of to say was: "amen."

He reached down and took hold of his cane. He would need it in order to gain his feet. He was in no immediate rush to get moving, and was quite content to just sit if only for a few moments more. Besides, he was captivated by the sounds coming from within the jade miasma, which of course was that of the jabbering monkeys. The waking pills were really beginning to take effect, and he couldn't help but wonder how much of this experience was real and how much of it was a hallucination. Given that he had downed the whole bottle he was the most awake and alert he had ever been in his entire life. Not even his past experiences with LSD could compete with this level of consciousness, not by a long shot. Perhaps it was the adrenaline of almost having drowned in the river of sorrow, or that excitement of having just seen a ghost. Whatever was responsible for his current condition, it was distorting his vision in a way that made everything seem brighter and amplified. The water seemed to have geometrical edges, smooth but nonetheless crisscrossed with definite lines that glowed and fluttered with an eerie shade of scarlet. As to the contours of the alkali stones, they were exaggerated and given to a blur of motion that circled about them, as if they were vibrating on a specific frequency that determined the very essence of their physical properties. Of course he understood that analogy was in fact a proven science, that all matter did indeed vibrate at a specific frequency which in turn determined what its physical composition would be. However, there was a deeper significance to this theory than humanity's scientific community realized, something that had to do with the fundamental nature of reality in regards to God's creation. But Cyril couldn't recall what it was, or perhaps better stated: he did not know how he knew of its existence in the first place. It was an intuitive sensation, an instinct that had perhaps crept up the genetic ladder into the synaptic pathways of his brain, a whisper that spoke to a hidden message that was just out of reach of the conscious mind. It was an intriguing notion, but then none of that mattered at the moment, what did was getting mobile. He had a date with destiny after all and that savage mistress did not like to be kept waiting.

He grabbed hold of the cane with both hands and planted it onto the hardpan and wrenched himself up onto his one good leg. He was in no condition to go dancing, let alone take a leisurely stroll through the fog, but he was mindful that the hands of time would soon reach the high hour, and when they did, the vessel that had shuttled his soul for the past 78 years would release his spirit to the ether. It was an all or nothing event. He had nothing left to lose, save his hide and of course the fallen seeds from the ancient garden. He would do well to remember them and embrace their spirit unto his own, for together they were the Children of Eden, each and every last one of them, and he was their guardian and their fate was tied to his ability to protect them. However, as to date, his record to defend was hardly worthy of their recognition. For the most part he was an adequate adversary for the Travelling Man, but being passable in regards to saving souls offered him little comfort, especially to those fallen souls that had been lost to the lower levels of the Totem. He tried not to dwell on how many people he had failed over the years, but it was not an easy task. At the very least he owed them his consideration in lieu of a debt that he could never hope to repay. But if he could discard his guilt and focus on what was yet to come, then he would serve their memory better. He was certain that most of the fallen, cursed his name with each tortured breath they took from the pits of their stellar damnation, but their hatred of the Travelling Man would surely be greater than their hatred of him, for Galan Whicker was the instigator of this tragedy, not Cyril.

He entered the jade fog, his eyes searching through the haze for that old familiar route that would carry him unto the final place where fates collided in order to barter the livestock. As always, the Tall-Mind served as the auctioneer while the Travelling Man competed against Cyril for the highest bid. Of course that game of chance was terribly one sided and in favor of the Travelling Man, for he was a creature of the hereafter, and as such, did not abide nor suffer the fatigue of mortal men. No, Galan was further up the food chain---not at the top mind you, but high enough to see much further down the road than most, especially if that lowly person just happened to be a senior citizen with a bad knee and serious case of high blood pressure. Why in comparison to the Travelling Man's ability to far-see, Cyril was virtually as blind as a bat, in which case his being lost in the emerald fog was a fitting metaphor in regards to his outlook. But then he did have something on his side: the waking pills, and although he had not yet begun to peak, he could feel the effects of the medication taking his sense of self to the higher levels of the Totem. If he was lucky, he might chance a glimpse beyond the black card, and if he could do that, he might just win. Again he was mindful that no other guardian before him had ever defeated the Travelling Man before the all-seeing-eye of the Tall-Mind, but then there was always hope. He did have that, didn't he? Yes, of course he did, for a defeated man never would have bothered to answer the challenge if he was already certain of the outcome. Besides, if there was a thing called "fate," then mayhap it was set in his favor this night regardless if the game was rigged or not. However, Cyril personally subscribed to the dogma that mankind had been gifted with freewill as ordained by the Almighty God, for had not those words been spoken from the Celestial Totem. Yes, they had, and it didn't matter if that voice had come from either the Eagle or the Hawk, for its message had nevertheless spoken true: _"The Child of Eden can choose!"_ And so Cyril had, and would continue to do so, for that prerogative had been given unto him at birth.

As he hobbled along the rugged swath of hardpan he began to notice the well-worn path beneath his tired feet. It was none other than the ancient trail that had been cut out of the hard earth by the multitudes that had come to stand before the Tall-Mind. Of course to reach that spiritual destination, one would first have to navigate the countless obstacles that barred the way forward. There was no way to know for sure just how long of a journey it would be to reach the Celestial Totem where the Tall-Mind resided, but Cyril nonetheless understood it was a journey so vast in scale that he might just as well walk across the universe. Yet in that same infinite measure the Tall-Mind was already here in this place. It was a confusing notion that had to deal with the perception of the self in regards to the nature of existence, but suffice it to say, that was how it was. Cyril did not understand this, nor would he ever, for that forbidden knowledge was the exclusive intellectual property of the highest face on the Totem, which was the face of God.

The hardpan soon gave way to the aqua linoleum tiles of the school's polished floor. It was easier to travel now---less chance of stumbling on a hook of stone. And as he slowly advanced forward, the jade smoke that surrounded him gave way to a procession of folding chairs and card tables that had been setup in a chessboard pattern throughout the gymnasium. The transient furniture was occupied by the Orchard Cove poker tournament diehards. All in all, it looked like a typical Saturday night in the elementary school, right down to the five buck beer table and chalk scratched scoreboard. Except there was something very different here tonight---something that infected the mood with a sort of muted terror that dwelled just below the surface. Cyril could feel it as he wandered through the ranks of patrons, he could smell the primal fear ready to blossom into panic at the least bit of provocation. The seniors in attendance were bound to that terror by those lowest devils on the Celestial Totem: the Serpent and the Scorpion. In the background, subtle but quite evident, he could hear that devil snake's hiss along with the Arachnida's rattling claws as they reverberated throughout the entire congregation. Together with the lower beasts of the Totem, they chided Cyril's lineage as a coward's house long bereft of its former glory, a house that had become a brothel of whores and drunkards. However, there were other voices to be heard here as well. The screaming Eagle and the shouting Hawk spoke in chorus with the great multitude that resided upon the higher levels of the Celestial Totem. Together the forces of good encouraged the lowly Child of Eden to stand tall against the storm, for the soil beneath his feet would someday be cleansed by the King of Jerusalem and Cyril's fallen house would be built anew from its bitter ashes. And so he endeavored to listen to those voices that encouraged him rather than to those that only offered him despair. He was not alone in the presence of the Tall-Mind, but then he was alone in regards to the task that was set before him. He was a lamb for the slaughter in the Garden of Lions, and soon the beast would engage him in an age old contest to decide the ownership of the land that lay between this desolate place and the ancient oasis of Eden. He could remember that the land beneath his feet had once been the Garden of Eden, but that at some time in the distant past, the sacred soil had been lost to the Travelling Man. Since then there had been an agreement between the celestial dynasties, a contract that would determine who held the property title every 13 years. The contract stipulated that a minion of the lower order would be pitted against a Child of Eden in a challenge to determine who held the lease and how to disperse the chattels. Of course, the chattels were the souls of Orchard Cove, and the town the property.

The situation put Cyril in mind of an old song that was written by Chris De Burgh: "Spanish Train." The lyrics spoke of a challenge between God and the Devil in which they play poker to determine who wins the souls aboard the train. In the song, God loses because the Devil cheats by slipping an ace from his sleeve. Cyril didn't know if the Travelling Man had ever cheated him in a game of high cards, but in a way he kind of wished that Galan had swindled him. It would have made Cyril's poor performance over the years easier to bear. However, he understood that the game was being played straight up, for all eyes on the Totem were upon them, and nothing escaped their gaze. To cheat would possibly invite an all-out war between the celestial dynamos and neither camp was prepared to risk Armageddon, at least not yet. However, both sides of the division knew that the final hour was drawing close, and when the scarlet moon claimed the sky over the ancient garden then it would be time to settle their dispute once and for all. But as for now their arguments involved petty squabbles over celestial turf and the finer points of law as written down upon the fine pages of the Vernacular Veritas. As for the information within that sacred book along with the flow of its exquisite language, Cyril could not attest. For all intents and purposes, he was nothing more than a real estate agent who worked on behalf of Eden's Acres. As for his contribution to the Totem, it involved his ability to negotiate with the Travelling Man over the land rights and chattels by engaging in a "game" of High Card, and that was all. Cyril did not understand the reason nor the why of it, but he did comprehend the awesome responsibility of his role here. He needed to be at his best because if he failed then the holy garden would suffer ever greater sacrilege and the chattels would fall onto the lowest levels of the Totem.

He took a moment to listen to the patrons as they bantered back and forth. They were completely oblivious of his presence and of the significance of what was about to occur around them. Here, a great many things were about to be decided, things that involved them personally, and yet no one batted an eye nor let alone offered the man with the gimped up leg a glance. He thought to speak to them, to see if they could understand him, but he knew it would be pointless. Their words would be as alien to him as his words would be to them. They were in the presence of the Tall-Mind, and while there, the language of a human being would sound as lowly as that of an animal primate's. It was an example of biological and spiritual evolution, for mankind's understanding of the self in physical terms let alone metaphysical terms was still wanting. In that regard the human race had not yet attained a perch upon the Totem, but rather swung from the metaphorical branches of the great oak that had been used to fashion the ancient pole. To the powers that be, humanity was still considered to be the Children of Eden. Mankind was still in its infancy, and as such, had not yet matured to a level of understanding as it pertained to the greater purpose of reality. Perhaps in time such knowledge would be gifted unto the fallen race, but until such a time the higher knowledge within the Totem would be distributed on an exclusive need to know basis only.

Cyril slowly navigated through the labyrinth of tables his eyes trying not to look upon the deformed faces of the card players as he moved through them. They were a homely lot to behold, eyes swollen on thick peeling lesions, their tattered skin slick with bleeding pustules, their hair a desolate field of sallow wheat that had all but lost its roots to disease, their clothes serving more as bandages than garments. Together they were little more than a colony of lepers, the fallen seeds of what had once been a great tree. The gathering put Cyril in mind of an undersupplied field hospital of some long forgotten war, except that no one ever got better here, no, they just lingered on as he had, waiting for the final swing of the Reaper's scythe to separate the stalk from the chaff.

It was to be expected.

In one reality they were his friends and neighbors, but on this side of the coin they were cattle for the auction block. Of course he did not personally see them as such but he nonetheless understood who the chattels were on this strip of acreage. Hell, even Cyril was an object to be haggled over by the powers that be, for he was the head bull, the pride of the herd, and his worth when measured in blood money was significant. He was a full-fledged Child of Eden, a direct descendant of Adam and Eve. His bloodline was strong and would feed the Totem well. The question of course was which entity would lay claim to him when the high hour struck. The Serpent and the Scorpion, as per usual, were the favorites to win, but he would not go into the lowest realm without a fight. He would be mindful to play well on behalf of the others, but he would play like he was playing for possession of his very soul, which he was.

As the jade vapor parted and gave way to the podium table and to that place where the strangest of deals were made he was suddenly taken aback. He had not expected to see her in this place, for he had done well to hide her from the Travelling Man's devilish sight all these years, but here she was, Maude Landry, standing on the auction block. Her countenance was neither diseased nor horrific as were the others in attendance, but rather beautiful as she had been when he had first laid eyes upon her all those years ago. And in that instant the old heart within his sallow chest belonged to that of a young man whose romantic fancy was singularly fixated on that which he coveted above all things: the girl.

Cyril froze, his eyes trying not to betray that which had lain hidden within his heart for so long, but he knew it was too late. The Travelling Man had seen him and had seen him well. The jig was up as they said, and there was nothing Cyril could do except consent to the fact that he had finally been caught. There would be no well-spoken lie or clever strategy that would save her this time. She was the prize cow on the block and the Travelling Man would see that she was culled from the herd this night if it was the last thing he ever did.

At the moment Cyril could only say one thing: "oh shit."

(11)

The gaming table was setup just the way it had been the first time that he had ever seen it, the emerald velvet as vibrant as ghost light. Scarlet patterns marked its ethereal surface like a set of hopscotch squares, the ever changing numbers in a constant state of flux as the smoky black magic rolled through any number of potential probabilities. He was just 13 years old the first time he had ever seen this marvel---a young kid scared out of his wits---not much had changed since then except for his age. He could feel his heart pounding in his temples and his tongue felt like a cold sponge. But it was not the gaming platform or the anxiety that burdened his body with any number of symptoms, but rather the person in attendance that gave him the most concern.

He tried not to stare at the beautiful woman standing beside the Travelling Man but it was pointless. To see her as she had once been, so young, so vital, so pure, it was everything for him not to convey his feelings to her in song. But this was neither the time nor the place for such an expression. Besides, Cyril understood that the Travelling Man was attempting to distract him from the game by using Maude to off balance his concentration. Personal vendettas aside, however, there was a substantial chunk of real estate up for grabs, and if the Travelling Man could not cheat Cyril, then he sure as hell would keep his opponent's mind occupied by sweeter things. Love was the most powerful distraction known to man, and although the waking pills helped to sharpen Cyril's mind, he could not help but dwell on Maude, for she was all he had ever really wanted in life, even though circumstances had caused him to willfully abstain from her.

Here, in the presence of the Tall-Mind, the truth had come to bear, and there would be no denying it to the Great Celestial Totem, the Travelling Man, or let alone himself. His cards were on the table so to speak and they were turned up for everyone to see, even Maude Landry. He had denied those feelings for so long, convinced himself that he had loved Patricia more than Maude but that had been a lie. But that falsehood had been allowed to flourish because it protected her from the Reaper's Scythe, for if the powers that be knew of his true feelings towards her, then they would have used that connection as leverage. Good or evil they were all about holding onto the sacred garden, for he who held the deed to that hallowed soil held sway over a great many things---namely those mortal chattels fashioned of flesh and bone. Cyril had learned this important lesson the very first time he had landed on this side of the coin. He understood that friends and loved ones could be used against him at times when the price of a hand had grown too steep, and as such, was mindful of the consequences. Still, he had dared to play some hands boldly on behalf of those sacred beasts that sat upon the highest levels of the Totem, if only to put an end to this horrific game once and for all. But in so doing he had paid dearly with a loss of lives and souls. It was bad enough to lose a best friend to a toss of chance before the All-Seeing-Eye, but to lose the love of his life, to lose his one and only Maude would have been too unbearable to imagine. It would have taken the very heart of him, and what then would he be left with? He had been fighting to protect her for the better part of his adult life, and now there was a real chance that he would finally lose her to the game. It was unfair that he should come so far just to see her fall to the lowest rung on the Totem, and to make matters worse, he could sense that his attempt to conceal his deception from the Travelling Man all these years had been in vain. Galan had been waiting all this time for just the right moment to yank the world out from beneath Cyril, and thus play him for a fool overcome with regrets. Time had slipped them by and the hour had grown late. He could not help but think of what might have been if only he had done things differently. He had been cheated of one possible past and future, an act of cruelty strategically positioned by none other than the Travelling Man.

Galan looked at Cyril and nodded. "It's finally time to play your last hand, Legacy, time to understand that I alone am the master of this realm and the sole proprietor of the earth beneath your feet. Yours is a lonely path to bear for your faith is misplaced by an old alliance that is all but dead. The King of Nazareth is not your ally but rather your Achilles heel."

Cyril thought to reply, but his mind was too busy racing for a course of action. Here, he had to save Maude, and yet he also had to play the game to win lest they all lose. He recalled all the instances in which he had lost a loved one to the throw of chance, and as terrible a burden as that was to carry, he had nonetheless reasoned that he could somehow set it right again, that he could win them back the next time if he just played his cards right. But there wasn't going to be a next time, for he was all played out of chances, and soon the Travelling Man would take that which was dearest to his heart. Love, like everything, had various degrees and moods, and where one love could cut him deeply, another could lay him to waste. Maude was the greatest love of his life, and he had gone to terrible lengths to conceal that connection from the Travelling Man, but his heart had betrayed him just the same.

Galan crooked a grin and adjusted his round spectacles ever so slightly upon his pointy nose, his eyes an unnatural shade of green, his pupils cat like. "Ah...I see...you thought I didn't know about her, but now you see otherwise."

Cyril found the presence of mind to take a seat before the Travelling Man and met his gaze with a semblance of cold detached reasoning, which of course was a bluff. "Just shut up and deal the damn cards you son of a bitch."

Galan raised an eyebrow and chuckled softly. "Eager to get on with it, are you? Well I can't say that I'm surprised. Time is a luxury neither of us can really afford. But still...we do have a few minutes before the Medusa finally climbs far enough into the sky to set the game pieces into motion. What say we entertain ourselves with a little game I like to call the truth?"

Cyril pursed his lips and contemplated the risk. To engage the Travelling Man in dialogue was to expose one's self to the dangers of psychological warfare. After all, the beast was an expert at manipulation. However, Cyril needed to know some things if only to garner a small amount of closure, for he would soon fall off the last rung of the birthday ladder and into the pit of a miserable dank grave, and as such, he felt due. And so he began to speak, careful as to how he spun his words lest they somehow be used against him in the game.

"How long have you known about Maude?"

Galan clicked his tongue and shook his head. "Ever since the beginning, I'm afraid. Does it bother you that I knew...that I used your love of her to torment you all these years while you waited to stand before the High Card? Oh...how you yearned for her...but you intentionally kept your distance in order to protect her from me. Such a waste...all those lost years...all that sacrificing for nothing...no consummation of that love...no beach to walk along."

Cyril narrowed his eyes, struggling to keep his words calm and his mind focused. It wasn't easy. "I stayed away from her romantically, knowing that on some level that if I pursued her that you would end up taking her away from me and doing something unspeakable to her."

"Yes," Galan said in a matter of fact voice that bordered on a yawn. "And so you have spent your entire life denying yourself that which you longed for more than anything, and all of it for nothing. This, even while your wife rots in the cold hard earth and feeds the maggots and the worms, you still deny yourself." Galan crossed his arms smugly. "You see, even during the interlude between the games, I do so like to make a sport of it. It's more fun when the prey's suffering is ongoing. I like the kind of hurt that leaves a permanent mark. Scars, Legacy, scars are my specialty, deep painful scars, scars so severe and disfiguring that they defy reason. And so I have branded your withered old hide with scars as though you were a head of cattle, which of course you are."

Despite the murderous disdain within Cyril's heart he would not speak to such words, however true they were to be spoken, for they were designed to off balance him. "You're hoping to make a deal, aren't you? That's why you've held off on taking Maude."

Galan threw back his head and roared laughter. "Oh my...how rich...and forgive the pun, but do you think that you actually have a leg to stand on...that there's actually a chance that I might lose the High Hand? Here, you could have just looked away and let us keep what we've held for an age untold. But no, you have some lingering sense of loyalty to that absentee God of yours, as if you owe him a service and a debt that must be paid in full. My...how pathetic a creature you are, Legacy...how sad your clan is...you, who would gamble away not only your life, but those you purportedly love in order to secure a few acres of land that was never yours to begin with. I pity you Child of Eden...I truly do."

"And so there it is," Cyril grinned. "If I but look away, I can save Maude. But you and I both know that won't cut it. You and I know---"

"---You and I both know that you're a damn puppet to that miserable Nazarene!" Galan spat. "And to think that all you have to do is but turn a blind eye and then all things could be rendered whole, but alas it's obvious that an old fool and his misery are a difficult marriage to separate. Here, I have offered you the keys to the land of sensation only to be turned out of hand. How self-righteous and near sighted you are. And so you would rather suffer the final cut of the scythe and fall to the lowest level on the Totem, rather than to act pragmatically and take your pleasures like a lion. You could have her today and be young always in the Garden of Lions. And we are not without mercy, Legacy. Those that have been taken will be returned to you, and live with you always amidst the delights of the sensual garden."

"Our clan has made an oath to reclaim that which was originally taken from us by trickery so long ago," Cyril said with almost a note of pride. "And so the challenge remains, and I am here to see that the labors of my ancestors is served with honor."

"Bravado!" Galan scoffed. "Your hand has always been weak before the toss and tonight it will be no different. You will draw slow and shallow and pick the Low Card on the off number, for your fate is of odds on black."

"Odds can be lucky sometimes," Cyril countered. "And my hand will draw quick and true to be certain."

"The hour runs late," Galan said sullenly. "One last question before you pass beyond the farthest wall on the horizon."

"What?" Cyril asked. He was also mindful that time had indeed grown short.

"Your eyes betray a seed of witchery," Galan said. "And yet there is no magic within this realm that I do not control, for I alone am the master of the elixirs. So how then is it possible that you are so finely tuned this night?"

Cyril knew he was talking about the waking pills. It was obvious that the Travelling Man had detected his heightened state of awareness, but was the inquiry a sign of genuine concern or merely a curiosity?

"I'm high on life," Cyril replied with a hint of sarcasm.

"Cute," Galan said with a raised eyebrow. "Your wit, if anything, is quite singular. But alas it does not change a thing. I am in synch with the Tall-Mind as no other, and together we wield a power so great that none dare oppose us."

"We will see," Cyril said softly. "So help me God...we will see."

Chapter Thirteen

The Game

(1)

The chattel decks sat upon the emerald velvet, three stacks of battlement cards sitting beside each other in a neat row. The first in the lineup to the left was a cold shade of earthy brown---russet---the color of graveyard soil. The second was of crimson-gold---molten lava---its back a fierce shade of scarlet sun fire. The third was blacker than black---ebony---the sightless void of a bottomless pit. Together they lay before a triangle of gaming squares, three levels that assembled a pyramid consisting of six boxes, the pinnacle closest to the dealer. Upon each square lay a vortex of slow swirling smoke that randomly cycled through numerical sequences ranging from 0 to 99. As for the rules, they were quite simple: Cyril would draw card after card in an attempt to reach the top of the pyramid while the Travelling Man tried to nullify each of Cyril's cards with an opposing deal. The strength of each card depended on its color in relation to its avatar and what number it coincided with when it landed on the draw. White was a pure suit representing good, black representing evil, and the reds were the wild cards of the pack whose interpretation was defined by the avatar's character in relation to the numerical value in which they fell upon. As each card was played, the house would counter in an effort to cancel the player's draw and thus eject them from the pyramid.

Galan looked at Cyril and then offered a playful wink. "I believe that it is your turn to shuffle this time round."

Cyril reluctantly reached out and picked the first deck up. They felt repulsive and he dreaded their touch for he could tell that the cards had been fashioned out of human skin, and that each image stenciled upon the hide was not a drawing per se, but rather a tattoo. He wondered who the victims were that had had the misfortune of having these macabre treasures cut from their flesh. He suspected that the tattoos had been liberated from the living in some sort of arcane ritual---something worthy of the Travelling Man's "Little Shop of Horrors" on the lowest level of the tree. Yet despite his disgust Cyril nonetheless shuffled the cards with a skilled effort, for he had been playing poker for years and his hands were quite adept at scattering the order. However, of the three decks on the table he would only shuffle the first two, brown and red, for the third and final black deck had a strange way about it. The cards in that pile constantly changed just like the numbers on the pyramid and were never in the same place twice. The black pile was filled with danger cards, unpredictable cards, the kind of high stakes throw down cards that you only ever drew from when you had no other choice. Many a time he had dipped into that sour well and many a time the cards had betrayed him to a terrible fate. No, he would not consult the black deck if at all possible, but if he would be so fortunate as to skip that selection remained to be seen.

Cyril laid down the brown cards, picked up the red ones and then shuffled them as well, his eyes ever fixed on the sneering features of the Travelling Man. The waking pills had amped up his psychic awareness or at least it felt as though they had, and so he utilized the sensation by endeavoring to tune his senses into those distant voices within the Tall-Mind where the opposing dynasties could be heard to both applaud and jeer his efforts.

The Travelling Man tilted his head slightly and then said: "Do you ever wonder about the why of it, Legacy?"

Cyril intentionally ignored the question and continued to shuffle the cards. He was all too aware of the Travelling Man's tricks, and as such, factored this latest engagement in dialogue as just another attempt by the beast to off balance him intellectually.

He had to remain focused on the game if he was to win.

"Here we are, just two lost souls on life's journey to who knows where, and neither of us is truly aware of what the hell started any of this chaos into motion in the first place," Galan said nonchalantly. "Which reminds me...did you hear the latest rumor?"

Cyril laid the deck on the table while continuing to meet Galan's stare with a mute brand of detached reason. However, inside his heart was hammering over what might become of Maude this night if he was to fail in this his final hour. It was almost impossible not to lend an eye to her beauty but manage it he did if only precariously.

"No, I guess you wouldn't have heard the latest bit of gossip now, would you," Galan smirked. "After all, we run in different circles you and me. Well, in case you're curious, here's the skinny as they used to say: God's missing."

Despite his desire to focus on the game Cyril could not help but be taken aback by this seemingly outrageous statement. After all, if God was indeed missing, then who was minding the universe? Of course Cyril was well aware that this information might be false considering its source, but as he tuned his thoughts into the powers on the Totem he could not help but discern that this information was indeed true. God was missing, or perhaps not so much missing, as gone into seclusion. But why would God do that, and what relevance did it have to the game if any?

"Come now...I can see that got your attention," Galan said with a smile. "Can you figure that...the old bastard just ups and vanishes into seclusion or wherever the hell it is that omnipotent deities disappear to in times of crisis."

Cyril's eyes flickered and in that shortest of seconds he glanced at Maude. She seemed to be in a dreamy state of twilight, drunk on some exotic elixir of the Travelling Man's design no doubt. At present she was oblivious as to what was going on around her and for that Cyril couldn't help but be grateful.

"If that's true," Cyril said.

"It is true," Galan assured.

"Then where's your Master?"

"Oh...he's in H E double hockey sticks, where else," Galan replied. He then paused and began to nod the nod of a man that inferred a great many unspoken things. "Ah...I see...you're thinking that if God's vamoose, then why doesn't the big boss man downstairs rally a posse and knock, knock on Heaven's door, right?"

"It would seem a logical thing to do," Cyril said with a shrug. "If the guard dog's missing, then what's stopping the scumbags from ransacking the house?"

Galan paused to consider this and for the first time Cyril understood that this minion of the lowest world was every bit as perplexed as a mortal man when it came to this latest development in celestial politics. Here, it was apparent that Galan Whicker, Carrion, or whomever he purported to be, wasn't as well connected to the cosmic dynasties as he would have wanted Cyril to believe, for in the end, the Travelling Man was every bit as confused as a lowly mortal about this unusual development.

"Are you questioning me for my opinion because you don't know?" Cyril asked with a hint of laughter.

The Travelling Man's face grew dark, his eyes flashing a fearsome shade of red. "I know more than you could possibly imagine, Legacy! My question was spoken as merely an observation and nothing more. I've no need to pick your simple brain for answers to that which I already know."

Cyril glanced up at the gymnasium ceiling and watched as it slowly faded away to reveal the sick theater of a horrendous night sky. No stars shone down upon them, just the reddish murderous light of the Medusa's Eye, its flailing tail a wake of two-headed serpents, its screaming face a bloody mask of jagged scowling features. Its arrival was liken to a hand passing a specific hour upon a cosmic clock that signified that at long last it was time to barter both the livestock and the farmland.

"No more time for small talk," Galan said with a slight growl. "The hour is finally upon us and I've stakes to claim and souls to maim this night, so let's have at it."

"So be it," Cyril said softly. "Let the game begin."

(2)

The Travelling Man's knurled hand slowly reached across the table and hovered back and forth above the decks. "What path do ye fancy...what path will ye take?"

Cyril looked down at the cards, trying to decide which stack he would begin to build his path upon. He had three choices: brown, red, or black. To reach the top of the pyramid he would have to skip from square to square like the hopscotch pattern, or like the stones in the river of sorrows, except that if he fell here the results would be disastrous. The first draw was the most precarious choice of all, for if the Travelling Man could nullify his card, then Cyril would be instantly ejected from the pyramid, and as such, would not advance further, for second chances had to be earned and were not to be taken for granted in the High Hand. And so he would have to choose carefully, mindful that the first card drawn might very well be his last.

Cyril nodded at the brown deck and then spoke the appropriate game phrase. "The Lamb enters the desert."

The Travelling Man grinned, picked up a card from the brown deck and then uttered the appropriate response. "And the Lion waits."

The first card was laid down upon the first bottom left hand square of the pyramid. There were a few tense seconds as they waited for the avatar to reveal itself along with the corresponding number. The tattoo bled through the cover exposing a suit of white, its avatar that of a bale of storm clouds releasing a volley of thunder and lightning upon a patch of desert hardpan. At the base of the picture lay two guns, their smoking barrels crisscrossed like swords with the corresponding number of 13.

The Travelling Man's grin faded as he examined the card, struggling to understand its significance, for it was an unusual card seeing as the guns were tools of the killing trade, and as such, belonged to the red suit, not white. As for the number, its relation to the white suit in regards to a killing card made absolutely no sense. After all, what possible connection could white have in regards to guns, let alone the demon number of 13?

As for Cyril, he too was at a loss to interpret the strength or meaning of the card. All he could do was to wait and see if the Travelling Man's draw would trump his and thus eject him not only from the pyramid but also to the lowest level on the Totem.

The Travelling Man stroked his chin in a gesture of confusion, for he had never encountered such a strange card. Could its appearance have anything to do with the absence of God? He did not know, and so drew his card from the black deck, for the chaos within that stack always courted his dark nature with good fortune.

As the black card fell upon Cyril's, the two adversaries waited to see what element fate would offer them. Soon, the tattoo bled through, exposing a red suit, and the avatar thereon was of a castle dungeon. The corresponding number was that of three, a low draw, and so the Travelling Man's card quickly went up in smoke for it was easily defeated by Cyril's storm.

"And so the path is entered," the Travelling Man said, effectively acknowledging Cyril's first victory.

Cyril allowed himself to breathe. For the time being he was safe, for he had not been ejected from the pyramid. "I have the road," he replied in the appropriate game terminology.

The Travelling Man nodded, moved his hand back and forth above the pile, his thoughts brooding over the meaning of the first card. "And I yield the first square," he grunted with disapproval. "So then...what path do ye fancy...what path will ye take?"

Cyril nodded at the red deck, to which the Travelling Man obediently drew. He sat the card down upon the second square on the bottom left and waited for the avatar to reveal itself. The suit was black. The tattoo was an image of dice whose roll had come up snake eyes. The corresponding number was that of two.

The Travelling Man smiled broadly and then eagerly drew his card and placed it over Cyril's. The suit was black with the tattoo showing a set of scales loaded down with seeds on one side and stars and planets on the other. The corresponding numerical value was 39. It was a powerful draw and easily trumped Cyril's card which vanished in a puff of gray smoke.

"I have the road," the Travelling Man chuckled.

Cyril gulped and nodded, his eyes briefly glancing at the woman of his dreams for they were both so precariously close to falling into eternal damnation. He could not bear the thought of her flesh coming to flame, but he understood there was nothing he could do to stop it, except to draw well.

"And I yield the road," Cyril finally said.

"What path do _I_ fancy...what path will _I_ take," the Travelling Man said with a fiendish grin.

Cyril watched as Galan drew from the black deck and then set it down atop Cyril's original draw in the hopes of quickly ejecting the Legacy from the pyramid. The card was red, the images upon its skin tattered face were of barbwire, shackles, and chains, and its corresponding number again was that of 39. It was a war prisoner card, powerful and would surely restrain a lowly 13 white and eject it from the pyramid. Suddenly, Cyril could feel the world drift beneath him, as though nothing of the physical world was substantial. Surely when the smoke cleared, the earth would open up and then drag them down to the lowest point on the Totem where the Serpent's Spire greedily fed the fallen chattels to the eternal flame.

The Travelling Man clapped his hands together and sang with glee in celebration. "Bound by war! I enslave your card and thus make your guns a hostage to my prison! The road is mine, Legacy! The road is finally...!"

The red suit of manacles suddenly disappeared in a puff of gray smoke, to which the Travelling Man's jaw immediately fell open, his eyes wide on both shock and disbelief. Slowly, he set his gaze upon the Legacy with a look of deep rooted mistrust.

"The number was high," the Travelling Man said with tart poison in his voice. "The manacles are to bind souls, and as such, had your guns holstered. How could such a thing have happened? Did you cheat?!"

Cyril's dizziness suddenly passed, and for a second he thought he might exclaim hallelujah, but he refrained. Instead he simply replied the appropriate response, mindful that a fortuitous miracle had just been gifted to him by a mysterious force. His gratitude went beyond measure as he spoke the proper response. "The road is mine."

The Travelling Man glared daggers and then slowly swallowed his anger in favor of supporting a more reasonable state of mind, for he too was bound to follow the technical legalities of the game, however enigmatic in nature they might be. "And I yield the road." He then moved his hand back and forth above the cards. "What path do ye fancy...what path will ye take?"

Cyril chose brown. The card was promptly picked and then set upon the second square. The suit was white. The avatar was that of a fortress with a solitary ivory spire. The resulting number was again 13. Odd that he would choose another 13 so soon in the draw and odd that the Travelling Man had chosen a set of 39s. However, Cyril nonetheless felt that fate might be in his favor this night, and so he decided to reflect upon the sequence as being a good omen rather than a bad one.

The Travelling Man drew his card as usual from the black deck. The suit was black. The avatar was of a demonic train wreathed on hellfire and smoke and its corresponding value was that of---39! Both Galan and Cyril immediately looked at one another, lost for an explanation as to the purpose of the pairings if any. If the draw of 39 was an impossibility, or an improbability, Cyril could not attest, but he nevertheless felt that such a coincidence surely owed its presence to karma. Here, after all these years the stars and the planets and the powers of the Celestial Totem might actually be working together in his favor.

The demon train covered the ivory spire, to which it promptly dissipated in a puff of grayish smoke. The Travelling Man sat back in his chair and regarded the pyramid with accusatory eyes, for black high was supposed to beat white low on the draw, and yet the powers that ruled the universe had just said otherwise. To Cyril it felt as though a great boundary in reality had perhaps just shifted and the resulting tectonic plate movement had changed the parameters of not only existence, but the rules surrounding the game as well. It was a crude metaphor to explain away an infinitely complex variable, but it nonetheless served his sense of correctness just fine.

The Travelling Man leaned forward and studied the cards closely. He did not lend an eye to his opponent but rather set his entire focus upon the deceitful squares of the pyramid. After a tense pause he slowly waved his hand back and forth above the decks as he once again spoke the appropriate phrase. "What path do ye fancy...what path will ye take?"

Cyril nodded at the red deck, to which the Travelling Man withdrew the next card. The suit was of white. The avatar displayed a bandolier of bullets, their brass casings shining in the hellish heat of a demon sun. The corresponding number was beyond all probability and yet was so expected that its arrival gave neither of them little if any surprise at all---13. Still, there was an ominous silence between them, a quiet that not even that low buzz of chattering monkeys could penetrate.

The Travelling Man made a stiff sniffing noise as he splayed his fingers atop the black deck so that he might draw upon the opposing avatar. But as he did, he suddenly paused, possibly to consider which path he should choose. Here, for a time without end he had always drawn water from the black well, but for the first time in an age untold he had hesitated. They were on the third square at the bottom tier of the pyramid, and on the next level of the game the rules would change. Surely they had reached the second level many times over the years, but then they had never done so as quickly as this time and with such peculiar numerical results.

Galan contemplated the cosmic significance of drawing yet another 13 for the Legacy, or dare he say another 39 for himself. If that happened, then what would such a draw indicate? The black had always served him fine over the years but at present it seemed to be biting back at him with his own poison. Why would it do that? He regarded the Legacy, his eyes two narrow slots just wide enough so that Cyril could see into the bottomless pit of his pupils. Despite being unnerved by a weird showing of results he would not chance to upset the pattern that had served him well for so long. There was a chance albeit slim that the element of chaos would play itself out if he just courted the probabilities. Yes, that was the strategy he needed to employ here and no other. And so he drew from the black deck as he always did and fetched a red suit with the tattoo of a squid demon, its arms entangled around the hilt of a great black sword, it associated number being that of---39!

The card dissolved in a wash of gray smoke, to which the Travelling Man erupted into what might have been a strange form of demonic profanity: " _Vastedavalo! Boonsartom! Medusmune! Losavalin"_

Cyril wanted nothing more than to exclaim his victory, but such was the Travelling Man's anger that he dared not crow, for such celebratory horn blowing would surely invite a terrible wrath. Instead he waited for Galan to catch his breath, and when Cyril felt like an appropriate amount of time had transpired he finally spoke the traditional phrase.

"The road is mine," Cyril said in a calm steady voice.

"And I yield the road," the Travelling Man countered, while waving his hand back and forth above the decks. "So Legacy...we've completed the bottom third tier for all three cards at the base of the pyramid have spoken their will. And so I ask...will ye lend your hand to the quick draw?"

Cyril nodded and sat forward in his chair. The game rules changed at this point for he who won the quick draw won the first play at the pyramid's pinnacle. There would be no ties on this level of the tier for it was a make or break scenario where the choice of card when made was taken by both players simultaneously and then thrown to the velvet. Together, they would choose their deck without telling the other their choice, and then they would throw down on the two squares above the lower three in the pyramid where the high numbers would favor the faster of the two. However, that speed would not favor their suit nor avatar in correlation to the numerical values, for the cards had a will of their own, and where some things were already decided, some others thing had yet to be written, like final black.

"I will lend my hand to the draw," Cyril replied in a voice that quavered ever so slightly.

He had come to this place many times before and had always drawn slow and on the low side of fortune. This was the great barrier that always barred the way forward, the place where Daniel, Patricia, and many other friends and loved ones had come to ruin by his inability to engage the Tall-Mind. He was on the last day of his life. August the 13th. He was 78 years old with a weak kidney and a bad knee. His days of fast draws and high numbers were far behind him. If anything he needed a good suit and a powerful avatar that was like no other that had ever come before, for if he failed on this tier a great many souls would fall to the lowest point on the Totem, and there they would be lost for all time. He felt like the captain of a ship with no life boats aboard, and so where the sea would claim one it would most certainly claim all.

Galan's fingernails grew into ebony talons, his aged flesh mutating into the scaly hide of scarlet which belonged to his true form. His face went into metamorphosis changing swiftly into the face of the thing that had visited with Cyril that night before on the ball field. The Travelling Man's eyes became like red hot embers, his vision of fire and flame and violence and all the terrible anger of his soul made incarnate. He was primed to collect and lay down his best effort, and where time had slowed Cyril's reflexes over the years, time had only made the Travelling Man swifter. He was a force of nature, a thing to be reckoned with, and he would not allow a lowly mortal to claim the garden beneath their feet. He was an agent of suffering and a servant to the great serpent below the pits of damnation. His sole purpose was but to hold this frontier, for the soil on this side of the coin held a mystical power that Cyril, let alone the Travelling Man could truly fathom. It was a divine acreage spoiled by a horrific evil that must be cleansed if karma was ever to be set right again, but as to date, the rape of the land had continued unabated. It was a sacrilege, like driving hard spikes into Christ's hands and feet and pressing a crown of thorns into his tortured brow. The garden was in misery, defiled and defecated upon by the dark bowels of the lions. But there was a chance, however slight, that the darkness could be driven back into the Valley of Death if only the Legacy would draw fast and true.

And so Cyril closed his eyes and reached out to the Tall-Mind, listening intently and exclusively to those magical spirits on the highest levels of creation. There, the sacred beasts spoke of a hidden knowledge while offering forth their prayers and strength of spirit unto the lowly man so that he might exceed the sum of his parts if only for an instant. The waking pills heightened his sense of things and fired up the synaptic pathways of his limited brain, but if they would give him the edge he needed to claim the pinnacle remained to be seen. He knew the true secret to success lay within the power of the Totem and that the energy that flowed from its stratums not only interacted with reality, but helped to define it as well. In a sense both Cyril and the Travelling Man were little more than projections on a screen, holograms as cast by the great cosmic projector of the Totem. It was the universe's tuning fork and all motion that stirred within each and every molecule owed its existence to that harmonic resonance frequency.

Yes, he was old but only because he believed he was old. Yes, he was slow but only because he believed he was slow. But he knew there were higher ethers that originated from the Totem, secret harmonies that could be channeled to do amazing feats. If he could just ride one of those frequencies then his abilities would be like lightning. And so he meditated, prayed, and listened not with his ears but rather his soul.

"You have offered your hand to the quick draw," the Travelling Man said flatly. "And in so doing, accept the reaping."

Cyril nodded in agreement. "Then let the scythe separate the stalk from the chaff...amen."

The adversaries addressed one another with an intuitive understanding, and so without speaking a single word they each placed a hand above the decks and prepared to draw quick and true.

(3)

Cyril focused on the highest ethers of the Totem, his senses tuned to the musical like energies that originated from above the Eagle. It was difficult to channel, the elusive song of the Tall-Mind's angelic voice, but he endeavored to block every other noise out so that he might catch that enchanted tune and ride its energy to victory.

Meanwhile, the lower levels spat curses and jeers upon him as the dark forces shouted to be heard and to render the Legacy deaf so that he would never hear the gospel choir of the Vernacular Veritas. It was a severe handicap that was further exasperated by the higher voices that praised his efforts. Unfortunately his allies were a distraction and only served to convolute the source of that mystical energy with their best of wishes. _Good intentions pave the road to Hell_ , Cyril thought briefly, and for an instant he almost thought to rebuke his support system so that they would _shut up_ so that he could hear better. But deep down he knew that one did not hear the Veritas with one's ears, but rather with their spirit, and so he struggled to lighten his body so that he could ascend onto the higher plane and access the magical God harmony, this while the Travelling Man endeavored to descend in the opposite direction. Cyril reminded himself that the waking pills would help aid him by opening his mind to the potentials of the Veritas rather than dwelling on the limitations of his worldly form. In a sense he was on a sort of Native Indian spirit journey in search of a waking dream quest, but instead of taking a pinch of peyote or suffering through the intense heat of a sweat lodge to attain that heightened state of consciousness, he was riding high on a spoiled batch of prescription medicine, a batch that would no doubt kill him in a short time. It was ironic: to save life by ingesting deadly poison. But then this was the other side of the coin and such a brand of twisted logic was surely worthy of its keeping.

He struggled to understand exactly what he was looking for. Was it a word, a phrase, or a signal that he was trying to connect with, or was he supposed to open himself up to a potential spiritual possession? No, surely the Veritas would not enter into his being and wield its incredible influence over his aged flesh on behalf of the Eagle, for that would be a direct violation of the game rules. After all, these matters were to be settled exclusively between the Travelling Man and the Child of Eden alone. No other would lend a hand to the outcome, except to cheer and jeer from the cosmic sidelines.

_The answer lies within me,_ Cyril realized. _The voice! It is speaking to me! I can hear it now! It is faith...it is all about faith!_

Cyril drew in a slow easy breath and released the limits of his mortal coil. He discarded the restrictions set upon him by the properties of his mind and sought a new belief system that would not confine him to the physical limits of a three-dimensional universe. He was a creature built from molecules and atoms that lay awash in a quantum field of abstract potentiality, and as such, his borders would not be defined by his age, gender, species, or preconceptions. His hand was quick and steady and would draw the high card true. He was invincible, a force of nature that would not yield to the sinister work of the Travelling Man. And then without so much as a cue or coaxing, he and the Travelling Man both drew from the decks simultaneously.

For the first time ever, Cyril intuitively went for the black deck, while for the first time ever Galan drew from the red. Together the two adversaries laid their draw down on the emerald velvet with inhuman speed, where the forces of enchanted smoke and fate would ultimately decide which hand held favor over the other's destiny. The seconds that ticked by were painfully arduous. Here, the vast sum of a great many things hung precariously in the balance, and Dame Fortune would soon decide which prodigal son would claim the highest position on the pyramid. To draw first was to reap the greatest advantage and possibly win the game, for there were certain cards that when drawn could not be challenged. However, there were other advantages to be had in claiming first pick, for the tall card always told a story and gifted the bearer with a unique foresight, however cryptic that message might be. Cyril had never had the opportunity to glimpse at such a card in all the years he had been playing. But tonight he felt that karma or the unbalanced boundaries of the universe might favor him with at least an opportunity. He was reminded that reality could be influenced and even created by one's own thoughts if they were so singularly focused, for not unlike Maude's baby grand piano the frequencies when plucked correctly could make magic happen.

The cards lay beneath two vortexes of swirling smoke, both possibilities waiting to expose their truth below the opposing storm fronts that provided a strange miniature theater of thunder and lightning. This microcosm of a storm grew and then combined into a single tornado funnel before slowly fading from sight. It was then that both suits instantaneously appeared at the exact same moment. This unexpected development caused an obvious conundrum, for fate had favored neither card over the other, which could only mean that the draw had been a dead even match. It was an example of yet another first in a long line of firsts this night. But if neither participant held the edge, then neither player would claim the high position. And so together they watched as the tattoos bled through to reveal the suits and numbers that fortune had cast before both the wicked and the wanting in the hopes of ending this stalemate.

The Travelling Man's card displayed a city of ruin, a dead city. The suit was of black. The corresponding number was that of 92. Here, Galan had not drawn another 39, but rather a sacred number, an evil number, a holy number, a God number. 92 was the basis of all creation, in that there were 92 naturally occurring elements in nature. This number was especially powerful and could even trump a 99 if the avatar was of sufficient strength, which this card had. So as far as cards went the Travelling Man's was the equivalent of an atomic bomb. However, Cyril's card was also of considerable merit, for he had drawn the death merchant on a white canvas and its number was also that of 92. And so for all intents and purposes, the suits were evenly matched, and where one held an advantage in one regard, the other held an advantage in another. However, they could not have a tie on the second tier of the pyramid because that was not how the game went. There had to be an obvious victor for either of them to go any further up the chain. So the question then was what happened next?

"We've an immovable object before an unstoppable force and now we've broken the path beneath our feet into pieces," the Travelling Man grumbled. "If it do ye well, I'd propose a bargain."

Cyril gave the Travelling Man a baleful glance. "You mean a bargain like all those others you brokered with me over the years on this level of the game?"

Galan waved his finger back and forth in chastisement. "Listen to me, Legacy. We've come to an impasse and there is no referee to attend the stakes. We are to make a compromise or accomplish nothing at all, so take your pick."

Cyril glanced at Maude and tried to remain pragmatic. It was true: they could not have a deadlock but yet he was quite familiar with the Travelling Man's concessions. Many times over the years Galan had held the vantage point, and once there, he had used that position to broker some truly cruel deals. As always he used his exclusive right to draw in what he regarded as "The Death Card." It was a creation of his design and a means of determining how many went into the hard obstruction and who out of that unfortunate lot would go. And of course there was always a compromise which was yet another example of the depths of the Travelling Man's cruelty. If the Travelling Man drew a 17, then 17 souls would be dragged down to the lowest level of the Totem. However, this number could be negotiated, and of course that bartering of the livestock had always cost Cyril dearly. Once, the Travelling Man had drawn a 94, a seriously steep tax to be placed upon the humble citizens of Orchard Cove. However, Cyril had negotiated that tariff down to just 26 souls, 1 of which who just turned out to be none other than his beloved son Daniel. It had been an agonizing decision, to give up his only son so that he might save many but he had done so just the same. It was his curse for being a Legacy and a Child of Eden, for his duty as Guardian was quite clear: mind the livestock and reclaim the land where and when you can. And he had done so faithfully, even losing his loving wife Patricia to the bartering block. Yet despite the terrible loses he had saved numerous lives, or more importantly, souls, and that was his function in the game. Still, despite having saved so many he would never be free of the guilt, never forgive himself for those he had failed before the Tall-Mind. He alone was to blame, and he alone would suffer the judgment of Jerusalem's Almighty King when the time came. But at the moment none of that mattered because the Travelling Man was offering a proposition and Cyril was pretty sure what that son of a bitch was about to suggest.

"We are stuck on the second tier," Cyril said shrewdly. "Make your barter and then we'll see if it's worthy of my attention."

The Travelling Man sat back, the very ease of his movement speaking to his arrogance. "It is clear that you love this woman...so then...if you give me the pick at the high card, then you can keep her...that or I'll toss her into the worst corner of Hell that I can find."

"Ah...I see...not a proposition, but rather a threat."

"No...a promise," the Travelling Man replied with a wide grin. "There's a difference. Now listen to me old timer...despite the deadlock, you are still at a serious disadvantage here. Your foolish heart and the love therein will ultimately be your undoing, for you, like your master are weak sentimentalists." Galan offered a soft laugh. "You are so easily bound to the fate of others that it's pathetic. You're like lemmings jumping off a cliff: so goes one, so goes the rest."

"I don't expect you to understand empathy or sympathy you miserable bastard, but I do expect you to understand that a threat is not going to ease this stalemate. So if you've got a real proposition, then I suggest you offer it!" Cyril was irate, not just because Galan had threatened his beloved Maude but because he genuinely felt that he was due to claim the pinnacle. So many years he had negotiated the livestock from a position of weakness and here he was so close to ruling the game that he could hardly stand it.

The Travelling Man seemed to twist within the red rawhide of his skin. He did not care to be spoken to in such absolute terms, especially by a lowly mortal. "Mind your tongue, Legacy. Or so help me God..."

"No!" Cyril snapped. "You listen to me! We will shuffle the decks together and then we will let the suit determine the victor!"

The Travelling Man was prepared to fire back an angry retort when he suddenly calmed down and became almost affable. Cyril figured that Galan wanted to be finished with this charade every bit as much as he did, especially since the cards were acting so damn peculiar.

"And how do we do that exactly?" Galan asked.

"White will be my suit, black yours, and red evens will be mine and the red odds will be yours." Cyril understood that there were more odd numbers than even numbers in the deck, but he figured the Travelling Man would never agree to the terms if he did not have the upper hand.

"Done!" Galan exclaimed with a fist drum of his hand upon the velvet like a gavel pronouncing a final judgment. "I will shuffle the decks and ye shall place the final throw?"

Cyril considered this, mindful that if they were playing with a traditional set of cards, that the Travelling Man could easily cheat. However, these were not typical cards---these were carved from human flesh and had a tendency to be unpredictable and perhaps even a little bit nasty. Cyril finally nodded. "Agreed...I will draw the final card."

The Travelling Man scooped up the three decks, brown, red, and black, and shuffled them together quickly and efficiently. Yet despite Cyril's certainty that the cards could not be intentionally ordered in a specific way he nonetheless kept a close eye on the Travelling Man lest he fall victim to some sort of Three Card Monty trickery.

The cards, thoroughly mixed, were set below the pyramid closest to Cyril. The Travelling Man eyed the Legacy while Cyril eyed Galan, neither of them trusting the other. This was it---the moment of truth---the deciding factor that would determine if the garden rose would ever blossom again or would it remain strangled by thorns.

Cyril took a card from atop the deck and slowly eased it onto the pyramid's pinnacle, his eyes never leaving the Travelling Man.

"Your first draw at the pinnacle," the Travelling Man said gruffly. "And it will surely be your last."

Cyril's eyes fell to the square on the highest tier and watched as the spiraling smoke performed its magic. The show was the same as it had been with the others, except that the twirling vortex ran through the colors of all the possible suits: brown, red, and then finally, black. And then the tattoo bled through the desiccated patch of flesh, or that's to say, the tattoos. At first, the card showed a deader than dead tree, it suit was of black. Next, it showed a monolithic altar with an empty water basin, its suit was of red. Then, there was an angel siren with vibrant green eyes, her voice singing through a golden flute, its suit was of white. And then came the final card---the one that would pass judgment over the night's proceedings---the card that would either herald in an age of darkness or an age of light.

The card was of a golden harp that sat atop the great Celestial Totem. Its integer was that of a power number---92. And its suit was of _white!_ It was none other than God's Harp, the instrument by which all things had come into being. It was the ultimate card. The grail of cards. And Cyril had drawn it true.

The pyramid immediately went up in a flash of fire. The smoke stunk of burning human flesh. The emerald velvet burst into flame. And yet beneath the fire he could see that a scale model of Orchard Cove had just suddenly materialized. Within the scarlet hue the forests and the buildings burned to ash, and it was quite obvious that nothing would be spared from the fire's wrath. The Travelling Man had lost the garden along with all the souls he had taken prisoner for an age untold, and as an act of retribution he would see that nothing in Orchard Cove was left to stand. It was a scorched earth policy for if the Travelling Man and the Serpent couldn't have the chattels along with Eden's Meadows then no one would.

Cyril fell back out of his chair and watched as the fire swiftly grew and erected a wall between him and that foulest of fiends named Galan Whicker. From within the pyre, the screams of chattering monkeys could be heard to shriek in agony, as could his beloved Maude. But then that couldn't be right, for the Travelling Man had lost all claims to the garden along with the chattels upon losing the game, and as such, had title over no one. However, that wasn't entirely true. He could still bring harm to the worldly flesh, for it was his prerogative, and where he maimed and killed the living for both sport and reprisal, he also set free their souls unto God's divine care. Yes, Maude along with all the Orchard Cove poker titans had just been murdered out of sheer spite but their souls would be free of the Serpent and would be swiftly carried upon the wings of the Eagle unto their final reward. Still, it was cold comfort, for Cyril had so longed to hold her one last time. After all, she was his reward for a lifetime of service, and here the Travelling Man had also kept that from him as well. It was a petty act of cruelty, mean, and worthy of the most pathetic creature known to man.

Despite his wish to rush into the fire and save Maude he knew that she was already a goner, as were they all. In a few seconds she would be ash for an urn and in a few hours so too would Orchard Cove. And so ignoring the terrible ache in his heart and the tears in his eyes he climbed onto his feet and raised a hand against the fire's searing heat. The only thing that he could think to do was to lash out at the Travelling Man for having robbed him in the wake of his great victory, and thus he did so with the weight of his words.

"I beat you, you son of a bitch! I'm the winner! I am the master here! The Garden is mine! The chattels are mine and you have nothing! My beloved is in God's hands, not yours!"

Suddenly, the molten face of the Travelling Man appeared in the fire, his eyes filled with intense beams of jade ghost light. "I stole your life! I kept your loved ones prisoners for years! And I will take back this acreage from your ancestors in time! And most of all...I denied you, your true love!"

Cyril winced as the fire spread towards him. He desperately wanted to win this war of words but realized that time would not afford him such a luxury. He needed to retreat, to escape back across the river because if he could make it back to the other side of the coin before midnight then he could die in his own world, which meant that he would die on his own terms. That in itself would be a further insult to the Travelling Man, not to mention that there was something else that Cyril felt needed to be done before he finally cashed in all his poker chips. And so with his survival instinct driving him onward he tucked tail and scampered back the way he came, his knee screaming with each haphazard step that he placed, while those final deep scarring words of the Travelling Man echoed on inside his head:

And most of all...I denied you, your true love!

(4)

Cyril ambled along the worn path carved into the hardpan, the surmounting heat driving him forward like a lashing whip across his back. He could feel his shirt and pants soaking up the hotness and felt they would soon come to flame if he didn't get back to the river quickly. The emerald ghost light continued to bleed out of the very molecules of all creation, except for the trailing wall of fire that seemed to ignite the gas within the very air itself. The fog obscured the way forward, masking the river from a clear line of sight. However, Cyril knew that it was there waiting to be crossed, for he could smell its odor beneath the hot breath of the encroaching flames. Of course all he had to do was keep following the groove laid out within the desert floor, for the trail led back the way he came. But then, what would be there to greet him when he emerged from the emerald veil? The girl by the name of Ann Marie had helped him to reach the other side of the river, but would she still be there when he got back? The only thing that he really knew at the moment was that he would rather drown than burn to death, and so, if only for that reason alone, he lurched onward without bothering to hesitate on a doubt.

The jade cloud dissipated to reveal the bronze ribbon of enchanted water. It was exactly as he had seen it last: deathly morbid and yet alive with a haunted energy. He did not pause en route to the stones, and although his gait was wobbly and prone to a mishap, and his eyes were blurred with tears, he moved with the sort of reckless abandon that conveyed his desperation. He was a man on a mission that would either see it through to the end, or die trying.

At the river's edge he was met once again by the girl's ghost. She looked up at him from beneath the water and smiled upon him approvingly and with the deepest of condolences. Her countenance was not nearly as pallid as it had been the first time she had ferried him across the sorrow and Cyril felt that he understood why. She was free now---free of the Travelling Man---free of the Garden of Lions---free to ascend unto that wondrous reward in Heaven, and all because Cyril had drawn the God card. Fate had blessed him this night along with the girl, and while their meeting was a sad byproduct of an unfortunate circumstance they were nonetheless well met.

Ann Marie winked at the old man with the bad knee and the broken heart and mouthed the words: thank you, to which Cyril replied with a simple nod of his head. And then just as she had done before she froze the water solid so that Cyril Emery could easily slide across the sorrow to the other side, where the past was ever so much more forgiving than it was in this ungodly place.

(5)

Cyril exited the gym, sobbing uncontrollably. Here, he had abandoned Maude to flame, and although there was nothing he could have done to prevent it, he still could not shirk his intense feeling of guilt. He had wanted to be her champion, her guardian, and yet she had fallen to the lick of fire, her flesh tortured to death out of a petty act of cruelty. His anger towards the Travelling Man was without measure and his resentment towards God was unparalleled. Neither Heaven nor Hell was a preferable fate at present, for they had each claimed their pound of flesh of him. Still, he moved forward, scooting through the elementary school's foyer toward the front door trying to survive when all he felt like was dying. He could smell the scent of steam trailing in his wake and understood that the Travelling Man's firestorm hex had boiled away the ice that had helped Cyril to flee. He could hear the inferno's roar growing behind him, and for a second he thought that the fire might take the form of some god awful demon train and burst out of the gymnasium and run him down beneath the molten iron of its fiery wheels. But the train did not come, nor did any other spiritual abomination, just the lick of flames as they ate through the building's materials with a gluttony that went well beyond the ability of any ordinary fire. Yes, the source of that wild heat was not of this bizarre world, nor any naturally occurring phenomenon of the other, but rather a hellfire dredged up from the lowest level of the Totem where the Serpent reigned supreme. The fire possessed a sort of demonic half-life, and would use its dark energy to hunt down the Legacy wherever he may choose to flee. However, Cyril believed that the fire would not be able to breach the boundary that separated this reality from the other, for mindless beast or not, it still had to obey the laws of karma every bit as anything else.

He put a shoulder into the front door and burst out into the night to find a town in complete and utter chaos. The children that had taunted him before he had entered the school now skittered along the street, their mutated bodies still fused together into some sort of unspeakable monstrosity. Their voices wailed and laughed maniacally in chorus, their deformed limbs fighting with each other as if to free themselves of the horror in which they had been trapped. He looked across the street of hopscotch squares and watched as his home along with his beloved Maude's burned to the ground. He mourned all those precious memories lost to the fire as well as all those years that had been lost to a lie. He took a small degree of solace that she was in God's care now or at the very least, Heaven's, and that perhaps in time they might be reunited on the next level of reality beyond this one. Maybe there they would come to spend eternity together and that in itself was a reward worthy of their loss.

His eyes, soaked on tears, searched the entire street which was a raging inferno, a fire set not by the vindictive flame of the Travelling Man, but rather by a riot's act of arson. The whole town was in flames, a fitting end to a summer that had been nothing but suffering heat. Across the municipality, car's burned like Molotov Cocktails, their gas laden tanks exploding in thunderous booms. The trees in Harvest Forest burned so fierce that their trunks burst at the core. The roads and sidewalks warped and cracked from the sweltering temperatures while high above the Medusa's Eye burned with a sadistic glare. The smell of burning tires, melting plastics, and cooked wood was everywhere and choked the humid air with a toxic plume of black smoke. It was everything for Cyril to take a breath without falling into a coughing fit. There would be no way that he could hope to walk let alone run to the double twist, but then he just might be able to drive there.

His car sat in the driveway, its tires flattened, its windows smashed to smithereens---even its body had been hammered into a dent riddled carcass. Still, it had not yet been set aflame and he doubted that the mindless goons had bothered to pop the hood and tear the engine apart. No, that kind of vandalism took premeditated reasoning of which he felt the mind-numbing horde had very little of. And so he ambled over to the car, pried the door open, and then sat down behind the wheel. He dug through his trousers, found the car keys, and jammed them into the ignition. He then leaned his forehead against the steering wheel where he steadied his sobs down into a quiet prayer. "Dear Lord...wherever you are...please let this old beast crank one more piston." He turned the starter and the Impala sputtered to life. "Thank Jesus!"

He jammed the car into reverse and tore out of the driveway, the rims sparking off the asphalt, the rubber flapping wildly. He put the transmission in drive and stepped on the accelerator. The rims spun orange spurs while the flattened wheels babbled incoherently. It would be an arduous journey back to the Pharmacy for the firestorm would no doubt present more than its share of obstacles. However, if he was lucky, maybe he might cruise through with little to any resistance. _Time will tell,_ he imagined as he swerved between the fiery wrecks that dotted the boulevard, _time will tell._

(6)

The roads were a gauntlet of burning fallen trees and vehicles, not to mention that the smoke was so thick that Cyril could barely see where he was going. With any luck the highway would have better visual conditions but as for that strip of blacktop it was still three miles away. If only he had some windows to roll up then he would have a barrier against the elements, but he was completely exposed to the firestorm's fury, and where the heat tormented his skin, the smoke irritated his lungs. Several times he had almost driven off the road into a ditch because of his coughing spasms, but miraculously he had managed to hold onto the trail.

_What path do ye fancy,_ he thought, _which path will ye take?_ And of course he could not help but reflect upon those terrible last words as spoken by the Travelling Man: _And most of all...I denied you, your true love!_

He blinked hard as to clear away the tears that kept welling up in his tired old eyes. It was more than just sorrow that had placed them there it was also a physical reaction to the smoke. Despite his anguish he was still in survival mode and he doubted that he would ever have the time to grieve for Maude properly. After all, the death clock was still ticking and he had to keep mobile if only to defy the Travelling Man with one last act of defiance. He was on the last leg of his journey, running a sprint at the end of grueling marathon and as a result there was a part of him that just wanted to lie down and be done with it. Here, he could just pull the car over and let the firestorm claim what little was left of him. After all, it would be a merciful ending to a miserable life. Yet he could not bring himself to settle into the grave on this side of the coin, for the soil was not of his homeland, and a certain aspect of his psyche wondered that his soul might never be at peace if he was to fall in this cursed dead land. Nothing was at peace upon this astral plane and he doubted that anything ever would be. No, it was best to secure the other side of the coin or die trying, and so he pressed the accelerator harder, effectively taking a greater risk to achieve the end goal rather than succumb to his weary soul and mortal fatigue.

Slowly the miles crept by and just as he was about to pull out onto the onramp that would lead him to the open highway and then onto Pestle & Mortar Pharmacy, the Travelling Man suddenly appeared.

(7)

Cyril locked up the brakes and stopped the car approximately 50 feet from the smoldering husk of Galan Whicker. The fiend stood in his human form, except that all the skin on his body lay buried beneath a pile of 3rd degree burns and oozing pustules that pulsated with gruesome two-headed serpents.

"Going somewhere?" he said in a cawing like voice.

Cyril revved the engine as he set a bead on the Travelling Man via the engine bonnet's hood ornament. "The road is mine!" Cyril shouted.

However, the Travelling Man did not offer the appropriate reply which of course was: "And I yield the road." Instead he slowly marched up to the car until he was less than 3 feet away from the Impala's grill.

_Ram him!_ Cyril thought. _I should ram him!_ But deep down he knew that this encounter would not be settled so easily. After all, the Travelling Man was a creature of the hereafter and would not be so simply dispatched.

"The road is mine!" Cyril repeated. "I won the game, and so I have the spoils, so clear a path!"

"One last deal," the Travelling Man said through a sickly twisted grin, the flesh of his lips peeling like onion paper.

"Say your piece and make it quick!" Cyril demanded. "For the road is mine!"

"Time...I'm offering you time."

Cyril's eyebrows hunched and he once again revved the engine to express his impatience. However, he could not dissuade his curiosity over this latest proposal. _Time---what does he mean by time?_

"I can reset the clock," the Travelling Man said. "We can go back to the first day that we met and erase what was, if only you agree to settle your bones here in this place."

_Go back in time,_ Cyril thought. _Is he out of his mind?_ But then he understood that time travel was well within the Travelling Man's capabilities. However, he also understood that there would be a terrible price attached to such a journey.

"No deal!" Cyril snapped. "So give me the road, for it is mine!"

"Think now you old fool," Galan argued. "You could have a beautiful life with Maude, and live out a rich full happy existence without having to suffer the game ever again."

Cyril's foot went to press on the accelerator as to protest the offer by means of the engine's roar but he hesitated. Suddenly he wanted very much to negotiate this deal, for the temptation to go back and set things right was just too enticing a proposition to pass up. Maybe, he could save everyone this time around, if only he agreed to settle his bones on this side of the coin. It was then that he realized the lie of it, the "to settle his bones on this side of the coin," provision.

Cyril grinned and shook his head. "You're offering me a life in this world...a world where you can shape reality into whatever you see fit, but you and I both know that clock would still be ticking forward on the other side. Nothing here would be real...it would all be just an illusion...a lie."

"A lie can be more real than the truth sometimes, Mr. Emery," Galan countered patiently. "I'm offering you a joy so wonderful, that you could never imagine it. Think about a life in a perfect world, a world where you are always catered to and always get what you want. All you have to do is but settle here, in the Garden of Lions, and you could have it."

"The deed's been transferred, in case you didn't get the memo," Cyril replied sarcastically.

"Yes, and God's AWOL, so what good is it?"

Cyril considered this deeply and soon understood that Galan might very well be correct: if God was indeed missing then who would claim the real estate? In a sense Cyril's victory in the game was little more than a lien against the property for the transfer of ownership lacked a kind of metaphysical signature on the paperwork. _Books and Clocks and Boons and Docks,_ Cyril thought as he recalled the wording above the elementary school's door. _It makes sense now...filing documents, time travel, gifts for favors, and ports of call for a Travelling Man._

"I'll take my chances on a proxy," Cyril replied defiantly. "Now yield the road, before I run you down!"

The Travelling Man appraised the old man with a scorn that went beyond reason. "And I yield the road," he whispered in a voice that choked on its own rage. And with that said, Galan Whicker, otherwise known as the Travelling Man, split into dozens of crazed screeching bats.

The flock burst into the car's interior, each of their wings slapping the Legacy in the face as a final insult. Cyril covered his head in an effort to fend off the fray, but the onslaught came in at him from every direction. He could feel the welts growing across the sooty mat of his skull as each bat hit with the force of a blunt fist. If the assault did not end soon, he would fall into unconsciousness and then most likely death. He doubted that the Travelling Man would just leave him alone at this junction, especially seeing as Cyril had failed to negotiate a deal. No, as far as Orchard Cove went, it was a scorched earth policy, Legacy included. Besides, Cyril was fated to die this day, so what difference would it make how that end came or exactly when it came? It was all semantics as far as the Travelling Man was concerned, a form of prophesy that was open to interpretation.

The attack went on for what seemed like hours, dozens of angry bats smacking and swatting him over and over again. He could feel hot blood running down his face, neck, and back in generous streams, and several times it felt as though he might blackout, but he held on, if only out of fear that he might end up back in time with the Travelling Man, the victim of a deal forced upon him.

Cyril swung his arms defensively, trying to thwart off the throng with haphazard hammer blows, when it suddenly dawned on him: _The road is mine!_ He drew in a deep breath and shouted at the top of his lungs. "The road is mine! The road is mine! The road is mine!" And with that said he hit the gas and drove up the onramp and out onto the highway where the Impala slowly climbed up to a respectable speed. The change in velocity ejected most of the bats out of the car's rear window and allowed Cyril the opportunity to swat the others free of his body. Still, the flock remained stubborn and dive bombed him repeatedly as he raced on. However, he was able to swerve the car back and forth, effectively keeping the Galan flock scattered and disorganized. Still, the occasional volley would wallop him a good one and almost send him flying off into the burning forest.

_If I can just make the off ramp,_ Cyril thought as he veered back and forth. _Then I'll have him!_

The Impala floated like a boat on its loose suspension, the rims a shower of sparks trailing in the night, the rubber all but lost to the blacktop. He had a white knuckle grip on the steering wheel, wrestling with the sluggish car every inch of the way down the 102. His vision was aided by the burning trees that acted like streetlights along the asphalt's rough surface. His face was a lather of blood and sweat and tears and soot. He looked like a raving lunatic, eyes wide, pupils dilated on adrenaline and---

\---his stomach unexpectedly contorted, launching a spasm of vomit onto the dashboard. The puke had a pungent vinegary odor and lay peppered with thick blood clots. It was the effects of the waking pills---they had finally come home to roost. The poison was causing internal bleeding and soon he would hemorrhage to death, that's if the Travelling Man's bats didn't finish the job first. He wiped a hand across his mouth, cleaning the barf off as best he could. He was on the death clock now, and time was ticking down to a dead stop.

"Please God," Cyril whispered as he crossed himself. "Let me make it to the other side, by all that is holy, let me make it home one last time!"

The off ramp came into view and the Impala almost flipped over onto its roof when Cyril took the turn hard. Still, the bats clung to his heels, slapping into the car and occasionally Cyril's head as he continued to race for his version of Orchard Cove. At present he had a choice: he could either stay on the off ramp, or he could take a shortcut. Given that he was under constant attack and his guts were bleeding profusely he opted for the latter. He jerked the steering wheel hard. The Impala broke through a guardrail and careened down a steep embankment. He crashed through a set of playground swings, clipping a tall steel slide in the process. The car swerved, its rear bumper bouncing off a set of concrete park benches before finally dashing out onto Haven Street.

As for the raging inferno, it had come here, too. The Tumble Dry Laundromat, Grab and Go convenience store, and Duggan's Pawn Emporium each lay engulfed in a pit of tall burning flame, and much to Cyril's chagrin, so too lay Pestle & Mortar, or that's to say, Eden's Acres. Here, that beautiful marble sign that had once hung above the door now lay shattered upon the sidewalk, its colorful quartz crystals dashed to pieces and thrown haphazardly into the baking street. There would be no way that Cyril could ever hope to enter into the store _now_ that it lay consumed by fire.

_This is the Travelling Man's scorched earth policy alright,_ Cyril thought. _And I'm just as torched as everything else._

Overhead he could hear the bats shrieking, their voices a sort of horrible mocking laughter. He could almost hear them taunting him, hear them say: _And most of all...I denied you, your true love!_

Cyril gritted his teeth and squeezed the steering wheel firmly in hand. "No," he muttered as he shook his head. "You'll not lay my bones to rest in this miserable place, so help me God!"

He stepped on the accelerator and before he, let alone the Travelling Man knew it, the Impala was on a direct collision course with Eden's Acres' front door.

(8)

The Impala impacted the storefront with devastating force as the fire weakened walls and support beams gave way easily to the car's mass velocity. Glass shattered out of the windows. Shingles blasted into the air. The silk curtains billowed out into the night like tiny scraps of burning paper. The shop inventory of enchanted elixirs exploded across the floor, the poisons and snakes held within trampled under the hail of falling debris.

Cyril banged his head off the steering wheel, and for a second he almost passed out, but he nonetheless held on. His eyes stung from smoke, his skin curdled by heat, but still he forced the Impala deeper into the store until he had reached the back wall. Despite his serious injuries, he crawled out of the car side window seeing as the door was now too warped to open and collapsed onto the floor amidst a tangle of rubble and pill bottles, his lungs panting and coughing for air. He was just a few feet from the helix and the staircase that would lead him back to the other side of the coin. He summoned up the strength to get moving and crawled over the remains of what had once been the service counter. The curtain that had barred the backroom had fallen off its brass rod and lay heaped in a pile upon the threshold. Cyril slunk over the fabric, dreading its touch and entered into the chamber at the top of the stairs. The heat and smoke continued to pile up inside the room and so he kept low to the floor, using the narrow gap as a buffer zone of protection.

He descended the first few stairs without much trouble, but the more he moved the more he aggravated his condition. His knee was a cauldron of pain and his guts were a stew of blood and poison. His life was effectively running on fumes and he could hear the death clock's hands ticking out his final moments. He was so close to being there, so close and yet so unimaginably far. If he was ever to have a chance at reaching the other staircase, he would have to stand up and walk. However, his knee was a ball of hate and the internal bleeding was making his head dizzy. He'd be lucky just to stand let alone traverse a flight of stairs. But he knew that was what he must do if he was to secure the goal. He would not die on this side of the coin, dared not. And so he reached deep down inside himself and found the resolve to pick his mangy hide up off the ground and march it down the spire's steps. It helped to use the wall for support and he tried not to think about the jade green lights that shone out of the wooden eyes that aligned the passage. He regarded them as being inconsequential, harmless sideshow theater, and nothing more. If anything they were helpful for they lit the way forward and helped him to gauge his progress as he slowly descended through the spire.

As he moved time dragged on with neither a metered rhythm nor a random pulse. The moments were without substance, lost to the ghost light and the swimming faintness inside his head. He could hear the roar of fire growing behind him, and although he knew that he should be frightened by its imminent approach he could not help but welcome its presence. At long last the ancient tree would not just be destroyed but demolished by the very fiend that had utilized its energy for an age untold. It was ironic: that a tool of evil should also be a victim of evil.

As Cyril made the final step he could not help but offer forth a wan smile. He was a sorry looking soldier, beaten and bruised from head to toe but still able enough to relish in one small victory. All that was left now was to climb back up the alternate passage where he could finally lay down his life and forgo the misery of his mortal flesh in favor of a more resilient spiritual form. But how far would he have to climb in order to attain salvation? Was it just one step, a dozen, or did he have to traverse all of them? He wasn't sure but felt it would be unwise to remain inside the pit of the ancient tree where his body would be cooked along with that of the meaty wood. But would he be able to make it that far in his current condition? He was reminded that hope in the face of no hope could be the cruelest of mindsets to cultivate. He had held out hope that Maude as well as the rest of them could be saved, when deep down he knew nothing of the sort would ever come to save her. They were all corpses, each and every one of them, and he would join the ranks of the dead and dying, and the deader than dead soon enough. For Cyril there was no hope, there never was, just the inevitability of the grave.

He rounded the passage arch and entered into the alternate spiral and began the long onerous trek of ascending the opposite stairs. He did not make it more than three steps when his guts suddenly released another ejection of projectile vomit. His vision was blurred and doubled, but he could tell his latest deposit was blacker than black. It was obvious that he was dying quick, and so he threw everything he had into one last push. His legs, limp and aching, staggered up the stairs. It looked like he was falling more than he was walking. However, what he lacked in grace he more than made up for in distance. Still, he could feel it deep inside his bones that he would never make it to the top of the spire. That his grave would be the innards of a burned out tree, his corpse lost to that of the wood ash and the terrible abominations locked within the bowels of the lowest level. He would no doubt come to rest in a place somewhere between salvation and damnation in a purgatory-like-world where he would find neither rest nor hellfire for his misdeeds, for both, neither the savior nor the tormentor held dominion over the middle ground. And so when he finally crashed down upon the wooden steps in an explosion of both pain and nausea he was not surprised to find out that his body could offer no more.

His quest was finally over.

If fate would discard him back to the other side of the coin, or allow him to remain in this his preferred version of reality, remained to be seen. Death held all the answers now and it was to that place that he would soon go. But before he gasped out his last breath he could not help but listen to that roaring inferno creeping up the stairs behind him. It was an odd noise that sounded more like a lion's roar rather than a chemical reaction. Yet for some unknown reason he couldn't help but think: _"that is what it actually is."_ And so when he turned his head and looked down the spiral twist he was not really surprised to see a large lion stalking up behind him. He had never actually seen a lion in real life but he could tell that this lion was perhaps the biggest lion on the entire planet. The beast put Cyril in mind of Aslan from the "Chronicles of Narnia," except that this lion had crimson gold eyes that burned as fierce as the Medusa's Eye and its breath puffed out a faint hint of ghost light as it panted heavily and hungrily licked its sharp ivory fangs in preparation of the meal to come. Of course he was delirious, poisoned on bad medicine and bleeding to death from the inside out. So suffice it to say, when he heard feet stomping down the steps towards him and looked up to find a beautiful woman with the long auburn hair and strikingly green eyes rushing towards him he dismissed it as being just another type of hallucination. After all there was no lion on the steps below him, nor was there a gorgeous woman coming to claim him from above. There was just the Travelling Man's raging fire and the dying light of Cyril's soul, and of course the encroaching darkness slowly filling his eyes with a void that was blacker than black, it was the epitome of darkness.

Chapter Fourteen

An Ordered House

The room was cool and sort of smelled like the apples in Pestle & Mortar Pharmacy. In the background he could hear the irregular rhythm of the pulse rate monitor, its labored beeps and pings an indication that the death watch was slowly winding down to its inevitable conclusion. The sound also told him that he was in a hospital, probably Orchard Cove's Oak Ridge Memorial. He opened his eyes as best he could and spied the hazy shape of a woman standing over him. That delicious sweet scent of apples seemed to be emanating from her, and at first he thought it might be her perfume but soon realized that it was something else, something much more profound. He couldn't make out her face except for her piercing green eyes that seemed to stare straight into the very depths of his troubled soul. Her hair was a mane of fire, a beautiful shade of auburn foliage that glowed softly in the bright garish light of the ward room. She laid the comforting weight of her hand atop his, her fingers stroking his attentively.

Her head turned quickly when the heart rate monitor's beep suddenly faltered and fell eerily silent for an extended moment of time before finally recommencing its strenuous drone.

"Please God," the woman prayed in a gentle plea. "Too many have fallen this night as it is."

_Please God indeed,_ Cyril thought.

In the background a television news anchor spoke of a massive forest fire that was currently raging though Orchard Cove County. It was also said that numerous fire departments from around the province had been dispatched to deal with the colossal blaze and that a formal government request for aid had been issued to the surrounding provinces. They were calling it the "firestorm of the century" and that the confirmed death toll had already risen passed 76 victims. But deep down Cyril understood that many more souls would come to their end this night in Orchard Cove, for he had drawn a God card, and its corresponding number was that of 92. It would be a huge loss for a small community in the rural countryside of Nova Scotia and for that he couldn't help but mourn the fallen. Of course the cause of the disaster would most likely be contributed to that of a naturally occurring forest fire. After all the summer had been sweltering hot with no rain, and as such, the surrounding hinterland was ripe for combustion. However, Cyril knew better and he suspected that the woman beside his bed knew better as well, because there was something very special about her for he felt an immediate kinship with her, and knew without a doubt that they were both Children of Eden.

Slowly he eased in a breath, mindful that he did not have many to spare, and found the strength to speak, for he had a message to convey to the world or anyone that would lend an ear to his cause. "God's...missing."

He whispered this so softly that the woman could barely hear him. And so she drew in closer, her lustrous mane falling gently against his weathered cheek.

"Missing?" she asked.

"Yes."

"And what of Galan Whicker...Carrion...the Travelling Man?"

Cyril offered a barely readable smile because her understanding of things was a validation of his belief in her and that he himself was not crazy. It was apparent that together they were kindred spirits with a unique perspective on the world for in his heart he knew her to be family, and that their lineage meant something that very few people could ever hope to fully understand. "The road...is...ours."

The woman blessed his cheek with a gentle wreath of a kiss. "You are what is best in us Cyril Emery, my son."

_My son,_ Cyril thought, _my son._ "Eve," he sighed. "Daughter...of Eden."

"You say true," Eve replied. "You've done well. You have served your clan with both honor and distinction. Let your name live forever in the Book of Life. And let no soul speak your name without gratitude, for the world owes you a debt."

Cyril crooked a grin and almost managed a nod. "My...house...is in...order."

Eve smiled, kissed him on the forehead and then looked down on him lovingly. Gently, she lifted his fingers, kissed his hand, and then placed it caringly against her cheek. And through that show of affection Cyril could feel the wetness of her tears upon his hand. It was a beautiful comfort and a loving gift that she had given him---that he should not to be alone in this his final moment. Here, he would not come to ruin in the belly of the ancient tree nor be trapped between the celestial dynasties upon the endless purgatorial planes of the forsaken wasteland. He was going to receive his reward for a lifetime of service in pursuit of that which had been stolen from all of them. The Garden of Lions had fallen to the Garden of Eden in a game of chance, and no longer would that foulest of camps furl its flag above the sacred orchards and majestic meadows for their lease on the property was finally up.

Here, despite all his prior misgivings he did indeed have an ordered house.

Cyril drew in a soft gasp, closed his eyes, and then relaxed his body to that which was inevitable. His flesh and spirit had come to a parting of the ways, and where one fell, the other soared beyond the scope of the everlasting horizon. He was free of his moral obligations along with the trials and tribulations of the suffering Earth. The scythe had separated the stalk from the chaff and its blade was not cutting but rather tender. Merciful death had dashed the clock against the mortal stones and thus delivered him unto that realm where time was inconsequential. Eternity had at last claimed its long lost son and would forever keep him within the fold of its gentle flock where the music soothed the savage beast and the glory of Heaven shone eternal. And so when the beep on the heart machine briefly quavered and then fell into a lasting silence, it was understood that it was not the end for the Child of Eden, but rather a fond farewell from a dear friend that had finally gone home to rest.

The End

