 
101

Who's Afraid of Christabel

and Other Faux Modernist Tales

of Magic and Fantasy

By McCamy Taylor
Introduction

Before I started writing science fiction and fantasy, I read. I read a lot. All the time. In college, I was pre-med, but I double majored in Biology and English so that I would have a chance to keep reading.

Therefore, when I started writing fiction, it was only natural that I would think about poems, stories, plays and novels which I had read and think I wonder what would happen if....

This is a book of my fan fiction. A few of the stories are about the usual subjects of speculative fan fiction---Sherlock Holmes, King Arthur, Frankenstein's Monster. The rest are based upon the works of writers whom I enjoy, like Joseph Conrad, Virginia Woolf, James Joyce, William Faulkner, and, of course, my all-time favorite William Blake. Most of the references will be obvious, but in case they are not, I have a brief note at the end of each story.

If I had to pick a favorite story from among them, it would be "My Intended," because the ending of Heart of Darkness always ticked me off, the way that Conrad intended it to tick his readers off, and I would like to think that when he wrote the novella he was hoping that future readers would say to themselves That just is not right! Here is what should have happened. And is not that one of the reasons we write? In order to get it right this time?

Table of Contents

Who's Afraid of Christabel? 4

My Intended 9

The Girl in the Pear Tree 25

Marie Kelly 32

Urizen 39

Rosaline 58

Revenge of the Monkey's Paw 62

Psyche 65

M. Comes in from the Night 71

Elysium Suds 78

Who's Afraid of Christabel?

On All Hallow's Eve, Virginia summoned the ghost of her dead mother. By candlelight, she selected a photograph which showed Julia's classic profile illuminated against a black backdrop, light against shadow, the eternal struggle. In stories, light always triumphed, but in real life, darkness had a way of insinuating itself into family affairs. For too many years, the darkness of night and the silence of things which could not be spoken had held sway in the Stephens household. No longer. Tonight, the dead would speak, and the living would be forced to hear.

Her mother's image clear in her mind, Virginia turned from the photograph to the book in order to arm herself with words which Coleridge had written almost a century before. "'Tis the middle of the night by the castle clock--'" True, but hardly pertinent. She scanned the page. When she found the words which she sought, she read them aloud.

"'She stole along, she nothing spoke

The sighs she heaved were soft and low

And naught was green upon the oak

But moss and rarest mistletoe:

She kneels beneath the huge oak tree,

And in silence prayeth she.'"

There was no tree beside the window of the attic room where Virginia conducted her midnight summoning, but she had acquired an oak branch with a little piece of shriveled mistletoe still clinging to the bark. She held the limb in one hand and her candle in the other, as she recited the poet's words.Did the wind pick up a little at the end? She listened for several long moments. Hearing nothing, she laid down the branch and turned the page. Underlined in red ink were the words

"'This she knows, in joys and woes.

That saints will aid if men will call:

For the blue sky bends over all!'"

At the sound of these words, the wind definitely picked up. The shutters creaked. Somewhere, in the distance, a dog howled. The hairs on the backs of Virginia's arms rose. She was suddenly afraid. Afraid of what? Not of God. Of her mother? What would Julia say if she knew the secret her daughter had hidden all these years? Would she blame the girl or the man, Virginia's half-brother? Eve brought sin into the world, the Christians said. However, Christianity played no part in this agnostic home on any night, especially not this one.

Virginia turned another page.

"I stooped, methought, the dove to take,

When lo! I saw a bright green snake--"

She choked on the final word and could not continue. No need. The frightening memories which the lines triggered were enough to ignite the spell. The wind blew open the attic shutters and extinguished the candle flame. Moonlight poured through the open window, coalescing to form the shape of a woman dressed in a white shroud.

"Who calls?" the ghost asked.

Virginia swallowed. "It's me. Your daughter."

"Why do you disturb my rest?"

She licked her lips. The words would not come. There were some things which were never meant to be spoken aloud. Better to leave it all in darkness, sweep it under the bed, lock it in a closet and throw away the key.

The specter oozed across the attic floor. It held out one white, thin, translucent hand. "You tremble. Why?"

Soothed by the sound of her mother's voice, Virginia replied. "I--I'm afraid."

"Afraid?" The ghostly woman's smooth brow was marred by a frown. "What troubles you?"

"Not what. Who. I--it's George, my brother. He--"

The spectral face lost its beauty.A serpent stared down at her, a hooded cobra with glowing eyes. "What hasss he done?" the apparition hissed.

Terrified, Virginia clutched the book of poems. She raised the heavy volume overhead, as if to hurl it at the serpentine spirit, but at the last moment, she dropped the book. Or rather, she let go of it. The leather bound volume continued to hover in midair between the girl and the ghost .

The spirit extended her pale, iridescent hand. With one finger, she turned the pages until she found the poem's final stanza. The words glowed in the darkness, as if they had been written with a quill dipped in fire.

"'A little child, a limber elf

Singing dancing to herself...

And pleasures flow in so thick and fast

Upon his heart, that he at last

Must needs express his love's excess...

To mutter and mock a broken charm

To dally with wrong that does no harm...

O sorrow and shame should this be true!'"

The serpent-woman's lips moved as she read the blazing words. Her glowing eyes narrowed. Her white shroud turned a deep, crimson red.

"Enough!" the ghost said. "Sleep here, tonight. I will take your place in your bed." She shook her head, throwing off sparks which struck the walls, floor and ceiling of the attic, forming tiny, glowing globules of light. Worm like, the creatures slithered to the center of the floor, where they merged to form a white, sack like structure. Slowly, the luminous blob took the shape of a naked girl, first the body, then the arms and legs, finally the head. When the transformation was complete, the creature wore Virginia's face

"What will you do?" her daughter asked.

"Better for you not to know. Stay here and think about Christabel, a poor mute girl who could not defend herself. Do you want to share her fate, Virginia? If not, you must become a warrior who uses words as her weapon. Take up a pen, child and write down everything that your brother has done. Leave out nothing. Make two copies. In the morning, hand him one and keep the other."

With these words, the spirit sank into the floor. Below lay Virginia's room. The girl pictured the creature shaped like her putting on one of her nightgowns, crawling between the sheets of her bed, lying there in the darkness, waiting for the sound of heavy footsteps, the fumbling at the doorknob, the creak of bedsprings--

"Take up a pen and write down everything that your brother has done," her mother had told her.

Virginia rekindled the flame of her candle. She found paper and ink in a old schoolroom desk. By moonlight and candlelight, she began to write down the details of the various acts committed upon her body by her half-brother . There was something reassuring about putting the words down on the page. She recalled the feeling of relief that she had felt when she had first read "Christabel" and recognized the story hidden within the story.

However, unlike Christabel, hers would be no hidden tale. Virginia described her brother's actions with scientific accuracy. Enough shadows, enough silence. She was a warrior and words were her weapon...

She fell asleep in the middle of making the second draft. Early next morning, she finished the copy. Then, she crept downstairs to her room.

The covers of her bed had been tossed aside, and the pillow lay on the floor on the far side of the room. No bloody accusation was scrawled across the wall. No penitent villain dangled by a noose from the curtain rod. The scene was almost depressingly normal.

However, there was a difference. She could not put her finger on it, but she grew strangely calm as she washed and dressed. When she was ready, she picked up one copy of the document she had written and proceeded downstairs.

She was both relieved and disappointed to see her brother sitting alone at the breakfast table. It would have been convenient if he had died of fright. On the other hand, if he had died, his death would have been on her conscience, and she had already carried more than her share of guilt, thanks to him.

She sat down at the table across from him. He looked pale, and he avoided looking her in the eye, even when she asked him to pass the jam. What had her mother said to him? What had she done?

Recalling her mother's instructions, Virginia passed the handwritten pages across the table. As George read them, his face turned even whiter. "Lies," he whispered. "It didn't happen the way you wrote it. You've twisted everything around. Like you did last night naked on the bed, your legs spread so wantonly, your eyes cold and mocking, filth rolling off your tongue--- " He choked and his face turned purple.

Sweetly, Virginia asked "Is something stuck in your throat? Do you need me to pat you on the back?"

Shaking his head, her half-brother fled the room, clutching the incriminating document.

Smiling for the first time in months, Virginia poured herself a cup of tea. The pen truly was mightier than the sword. She had chosen her weapon well.

The End

(fiction based upon Virginia Stephens Woolf, poetry by Samuel Taylor Coleridge from his poem Christabel)

My Intended

For three days and two nights I was in misery. Thank God for Maggie, my Irish maid. If not for her, I would have disgraced myself by demanding that the Captain turn back the ship or set me down on the closest piece of solid ground. However, with Maggie's help, I persevered. By the evening of the third day I was able to keep down water and a little toast. That night, I slept for the first time in my cabin. I dreamed that I was being rocked in a cradle strung to the bough of a tree that swayed in time to the beat of a distant drum.

When I woke on the fourth morning of our sea journey, my head felt clear and my legs were steady. After bathing and changing into fresh clothes, I made my way to the main deck.

It was a smallish ship. The passengers, servants and crew were not segregated as they are on larger ocean going vessels. I found Maggie engaged in a conversation with a young crew man of dark complexion. So dusky was his color that I was not surprised to discover that his mother was a native of the continent to which we were sailing. However, I was surprised to hear Maggie chattering to him in a language with which I was not familiar.

"I have an ear for languages," Maggie explained. "Samuel here has been teaching me a bit of African. I thought it might come in useful." Her tone was apologetic, as if she thought that I would disapprove. Disapprove of what? That she was talking to a sailor, a young man with an African mother? Or disapprove that she was more clever than a girl of her class was supposed to be?

"There is no single African language," Samuel corrected. His English was perfect. "This dialect is but one of many. But it should do where you are going." He stared at me with open curiosity.

"I hope you don't mind, Miss,"" Maggie interjected quickly. "I told him about the mission you are building. And about the trunk full of Bibles."

It took me a moment to catch onto the lie. The so called "trunk of Bibles" was in fact a trunk full of books. Their subjects ranged from the continent we were about to visit to China and from China to the Americas. There were books of philosophy and poetry. Books of science, books of theology. There were even a couple of books dealing with the black arts. In the past year and three months I had developed an interest in such unwholesome subjects. "The Bibles. Yes. Are they safe?" It was not a complete lie. Somewhere among the books there were two Bibles, one King James, the other Catholic. I had brought them for reference. I would have to remember to dig one of them out and start carrying it in my reticule, like a proper missionary.

Maggie bobbed her red head. "Quite safe, Miss. Now, if you have no need for me, I will be seeing to the laundry."

That night, as I opened my steamer trunk to remove a nightdress, I caught a glimpse of the embroidered cloth that concealed my Intended's final present to me. Sent by a special courier of the Company, it arrived three months, two weeks and four days before his death.

I had ceased to fear the contents of the package. Now, when I unfolded the heavy cloth it was not out of morbid curiosity. I knew every detail of my Intended's gift, the idol carved of wood, its head thrown back, its full lips parted in a mocking laugh, one arm raised above its shoulder as if to throw a spear, the other close to its side, its torso studded with nails and bits of iron, its navel sealed with wood, cotton and twine as if to say "There are secrets here, in this place which is the source of life, the umbilicus that links one human generation to the next like pearls upon a strand."

In the year and three months since its arrival upon England's shore, that little idol had spoken to me with a clarity and honesty which I had never heard before. Not from the mouth of the male of my species, anyway. It told me "Why do you wait for him to send you scraps? Are you not hungry for more? Is not the Heart of Africa bounteous enough to feed one extra woman?"

When I hesitated, it whispered "Do not be afraid, little sister. See the nails which they have driven into my woody flesh? Do I cry out or flinch in pain? No, I throw my head back and laugh for joy no matter how they use me. No matter how many wishes they demand or spells they attempt to cast, their longing and their greed only make me more powerful. More whole.

"We are alike you and I, though you are a woman, tall and pale from the cold north, and I am a twisted little man made of dark wood carved from the trunk of an African tree. Those who seek more than life has to offer are drawn to us, they fall at our feet, they raise their hands in supplication, they make promises--and then they seal the bargain with a dagger, a nail, a wedding band, a kind lie. Why? Because we are the source of magic, the well of dreams. We are its dark heart, you and I. And if they could, they would devour us whole."

I folded the little idol back into his pouch of heavy cloth. The exotic fabric never ceased to amaze me. Such a brilliant shade of coral red with threads of something that gleamed like gold. There was nothing in England to compare with that color, except for a rare sunset. And a woman could not clothe herself in sunset, not in Britain anyway.

But in Africa...

Maggie seemed to enjoy herself on the journey south, making friends easily with the crew members and other servants. In contrast, I kept to myself. My mourning clothes and veil were like armor. They said to the world "Leave me to my misery." Since most people have enough sorrow of their own, no one tried to intrude upon mine. I spent most of my journey writing in my journal and reviewing my books about Africa.

The texts were woefully lacking. Most of them discussed the customs of tribes to the north or south of the region where my Intended died. From the differences between these two groups, I surmised that Africa was much like Europe and that a knowledge of the Berbers would be of as little use to me as a book on the Belgians would be to someone planning to visit Rome.

When I was not reading, I recorded my thoughts in the journal which I had begun keeping. My Intended was not on my mind as much as people might have imagined from my widow's garb. For some reason, I found myself thinking more often of the man sent by the Company to tell me of my fiancé's death than of my fiancé himself.

He lied to me. When Marlowe said "His last words were...your name," I knew that he was lying. I covered my face and pretended to cry so that he would not see the doubt in my eyes, the bitter twist of my lips or the angry flare of my nostrils. How dare he lie to protect me? How dare he patronize me?

And yet, what else was he to do? I had not told him the truth. My widow's weeds, my mournful voice, the gold band on my left fourth finger--these were no less lies than Marlowe's final words. Men are so easily manipulated. Clutch a handkerchief and sniff back an imaginary tear, and they will do anything, tell you anything in order to set the fairy tale right.

He told me what he thought I wanted to hear. From this I deduced that my Intended's final words were of such a nature that no man would repeat them to a flower of English womanhood. This knowledge fortified me. I resolved to carry out my scheme and see for myself what lay at the heart of Africa.

Maggie had more luck at learning what lay ahead of us in Africa. Her sailor friend, Samuel grew up on ships--his father was a captain-- and he had been to Africa a number of times. Also, his mother had told him stories of her people. From him, Maggie learned that the slave trade was still thriving, though now the captives were taken north for the most part, to be sold to the Turks. She learned that the so called "savage" tribes had lived in their homeland for thousands of years, growing the same crops that their ancestors grew, following the same rules, observing the same religious feasts. Very few were cannibals. Indeed, Samuel believed that those few who claimed to be cannibals were lying because it was understood that the Europeans were afraid of cannibals.

"Though," as Maggie said "Why the soldiers, armed with their guns should be more afraid of teeth that have chewed human flesh than teeth which have chewed only animal flesh is a mystery to me."

Maggie made me feel very old and dull sometimes. She was like a spark of light which renewed itself with its own fire. In contrast, I was like a shadow. When surrounded by people and noise and distractions, I faded to nothing.

However, when I paced the deck alone at night, peering up at the stars or down at the white flecked waves--then I felt the power inside me. There was a dark place within me that burned, in its own way, no less brightly than Maggie.

As I feared, the coast of Africa almost proved to be Maggie's undoing. The first time we saw a white man beating a black man, I thought that she would grab the whip and turn it on the one who had wielded it. However, growing up in Ireland, she must have seen atrocities almost as bad. I felt her take charge of her anger, grab it by the horns and wrestle it into submission.

"Miss," she whispered harshly into my ear. She reached into my reticule. "Here is your Bible. Perhaps it is time to use it."

I had kept up Maggie's convenient lie. When a lady in black tells the world that she has been called by God to convert the savages, the world may shake its head in private and call her mad, but aloud it proclaims her a heroine. After all, was that not our avowed purpose for being here in the Dark Continent? To educate, to reform, to save?

I took the leather bound Bible that Maggie offered me. Raising it over my head, I approached the master and servant. I had no idea what I would say, but when I opened my mouth the words poured out, a mixture of New Testament and common sense tied together with a thread of righteousness at once so delicate but so strong that the man holding the whip let his weapon drop to his side and stood there, mute and pale while his servant seized the opportunity to sprint away.

There was quite a crowd gathered by the time Maggie took my arm and interrupted me with a whispered "When we get back to England you should take up preaching."

The trance was broken. My mouth closed. As the words stopped flowing, I felt a rush of embarrassment tinged with just a touch of worry. My Intended had possessed a skill with words. It was that which first drew me to him. However, if my suspicions were correct, he had used his talents for unworthy ends.

That is the danger of words. They can be twisted into meanings for which they were never intended, put to uses which God or the human mind or whoever or whatever it was that created the talking ape never predicted. Words can tell deep truths, but they can tell terrible lies, too. Like the words that Marlowe spoke to me. His words were like a magic spell. With them, he would have imprisoned me forever in a tower of glass, a fairy tale princess with no hope of escape except for death.

Thank God I now know how to see through lies. Or should I be thanking the little carved idol? Is there a difference?

My hand trembles as I write this last bit of blasphemy. But no thunderbolt appears to knock my pen from my hand. The earth beneath my feet does not split to swallow me up.

Outside, they are hanging a man. The fact of his dying was bad enough for me, but Maggie, being herself, had to find out more.

"It is a native man. A servant. He struck an officer," she told me. Her green eyes were ablaze with angry fire. "He struck an officer when the officer tried to take his woman. Now they are taking his life. The woman is dead, at her own hands, because she has been defiled."

Oh, it is too much. The dark place within my heart aches to hear it. I want to close my eyes and hide my head and dream it all away. But there is no dreaming away Maggie's anger. It is a beacon, a light in the darkness. It will make itself seen whether the world wishes it or not.

Not for the first time, I wonder if I should insist that Maggie remain here on the coast while I make the journey up the river. Before, I had worried for her safety. Now, it is a different fear that gives me pause. If such horrors exists here, in a place where there is sunshine and people to see, what is happening inland? If Maggie can barely restrain her fury now, what will happen when we reach the dark heart of the continent?

And now I tremble. For the little statue which sits on the table beside me tells me truths which I do not want to hear. He tells me "Maggie is here for a reason. You know that. You want to see what she will do. You want to unleash her fury on all that is evil in the world."

Could it be true? I search my heart and find only pity. I want to blanket the world in the gentle darkness of night so that each injured soul can mend its wounds. Can it be that my heart is lying to me? No, the darkness is no lie. It is as real as the hand which clutches this pen, as real as the words upon this page--

But could it be that there are two truths? That one is the darkness which heals and soothes and the other is a blazing sword?

I am so confused. Even words do not calm me as they usually do. I will go for a walk. I will take my Bible, a book which I no longer believe. Strange how it is more valuable to me now than it was during those years when I fought its tyranny. Now that I know that it is nothing but paper and words, I see it for the useful tool it is. With the Bible held before me like an olive branch, they must listen to me. I will go down to the place where they have hanged a man for loving his wife too much, and I will speak.

Afterwards, Maggie is worried for my safety. "People who lie to themselves that they do evil things for good reasons--those people don't care to hear the truth. They like their lies. Their lies let them sleep easy at night. I think we had better be away from here."

She no longer calls me "Miss" or asks my permission to do things. It is now clear which of us is in charge. I sit here, writing meaningless words in my journal while she packs our possessions and arranges for native men to carry out trunks through the jungle to the steamer which awaits us on the river.

Part of me is aware of the physical discomfort of Africa, the heat, the humidity, the mosquitoes, the stench. But that part of me seems very far away now. The part of me which used to care what people thought of me--I think I left that behind in England. It must have been mixed with the breakfast which I vomited into the cold, northern water. When women look at me and shake their heads, I feel pity for them. When men look at me and mutter, I feel pity for them, too.

"It is time to leave," Maggie says.

I blink my eyes. In the doorway there stands a fine looking young man, with short curly red hair, dressed in khaki trousers, a white shirt and a jacket covered with pockets.

I blink again. "Is that you, Maggie?"

She deepens her voice. "I'll be going by the name of Jim for a bit. Jim, your younger brother. Come." She holds out her arm. Her shoulders are thrown back, her chin is held high and proud. When I lay my fingers lightly on her forearm, it is masculine strength that I feel there. At the moment, Maggie looks capable of carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. And she would carry it lightly, too. For her it would not be the heavy lead weight which seems to be buried deep within the soft, dark center of my heart.

The jungle is beautiful. I never want to leave. Sometimes I pause to stare into the eyes of a brightly colored bird or gaze at a lovely crimson flower.

Once, I found myself eye to eye with a green snake. Its tongue flickered as it tasted--no, smelled the flesh of my outstretched hand. Snakes smell things with their tongues. I read that somewhere. You can learn a lot from books, but you cannot learn what it is like to stare into the eyes of a snake and know another creature and know also that is knows you.

After several minutes, the snake turned and slithered away. I looked up. The natives were staring at me, eyes wide with fear and something more, something like awe. Maggie was as pale as a sheet. She can talk to natives easily using the language Samuel taught her. She translated for me. "The men say that snake is poisonous. One bite can kill an ox."

"I know," I replied calmly. It was true. Even before she spoke the words, I understood that the serpent's bite would be deadly. But I also understood something that she, for all her intelligence could never know. The snake would not bite me. How did I know? Does it matter? Is not the knowledge enough?

The jungle is the most beautiful place that I have ever seen. Sometimes it seems to me that I have always been here, and my life before, my girlhood in England, my engagement, the death of my Intended, the ocean voyage--all of these were just the dreams which an embryo uses to while away the time until he is born.

The jungle gives way to the River.

The River is wide and deep and dark, like my heart. It cools the air and soothes the spirit with its gentle motion and sound. Immediately, I am drawn to it. I stand at the water's edge and look down. There, amid the reeds and tiny fish stands a woman dressed in black. Her face is veiled. I throw back the flimsy fabric and see a face as pale as death. No wonder they fear us. We wear our skulls outside our skin. We are death made flesh.

It is fortunate for me that I have Maggie to tell me what to do. She guides me up the ramp that leads onto the steamer. She sees to our luggage. She pays the servants and offers them a few words of advice in their own tongue. They are friendly with Maggie. They talk easily to her. Me, they watch with hooded eyes. If I stare directly at them, they look away quickly and make gestures with their hands to ward off evil.

I see one of our servants talking to one of the steamer's crew. His skin is as black as coal except for a pink patch of vitiligo on one cheek. He glances at me, just once, but it is enough for me to know that they are talking about me. What is the porter telling the sailor? That I am mad? The thought makes me smile. Indeed, I am mad. Just as my countryman, William Blake was mad.

I recall that one of my many books is a collection of Blake's poetry. I hurry towards our cabin where I throw open my trunk of books, searching until I find the slender volume I seek.

Words are useful tools. With words a world of lies can be created, but words can also tear apart the lies. That is when words cease to be merely tools of communication and become magic in themselves.

How strange. I have travelled a thousand miles to another continent to discover a truth that was there all the time.

I spend most of my time reading, which gives credence to Maggie's story that I am a widowed missionary. There are no other women on board. Now I see the wisdom of Maggie's masquerade. One woman accompanied by her brother is odd enough to excite conversation. Two women would have been a cause for panic.

One older gentleman, a soldier with a heavy moustache and mutton chop whiskers, has taken it upon himself to be my protector and adviser. "Your brother is very clever for a boy. But he's still just a boy. He knows the native tongue as well as any white man I've met, but he doesn't yet understand the native ways. He still thinks that we can deal with them on equal terms. He believes that if we speak with the voice of reason they'll hear."

"And what would the voice of reason tell them, Sergeant Blackthorpe, if it were to speak?" I ask coolly.

"Why, it would tell them that they have the opportunity to lift themselves out of the darkness. In a generation, they can gain what it took Europeans a thousand years to acquire."

"And what is that?" I inquire.

If I were a man, he might suspect me of baiting him. Since I am a woman, he merely thinks me stupid. "Civilization, of course. The bright and shining beacon of civilization."

At that moment my own bright and shining beacon appears. I am so used to seeing her in her masculine garb that I cannot imagine her dressed any other way. She pretends to be friendly with the Sergeant, but I know the truth. In private she has said terrible things about him. I am not surprised when she makes up an excuse to get me away from him.

"He is harmless--" I start to say.

Maggie rolls her eyes. "He's a butcher. Do you know what this steamer is carrying?"

Is this a trick question? "It is carrying us."

She shakes her head impatiently. In a whisper "No, its cargo. The hold is loaded with weapons. Weapons and explosives. To reinforce the inland troops."

"Oh." What else can I say? Weapons and explosives have no function in the warm, dark place where I now exist. Weapons and explosives are part of Maggie's world. Let her deal with them.

Later, when I retire to my cabin for an afternoon nap, the wooden statue grins up at me. "Are you not the least bit curious to see how she will deal with them?" he seems to ask.

"Why should I be curious?" I answer. "In time, all will be revealed."

I a mad. Quite mad. It is a very comfortable feeling.

I find our River journey less satisfying than our trek through the jungle. It takes me almost the entire journey to realize why this is so. I can see the water. I can smell the moist, green scent of wet vegetation . When the engine is idle, I can hear the sound of waves lapping against the sides of the boat. But I cannot touch The River, and it cannot touch me. To know something, you must be able to touch it, to feel it, to be it. You must put your life in its hands, and you must hold its beating heart in your own.

If not for the steamer, I could be at one with the River. All I have to do is stand at the stern and take a step--

It is not the Sergeant who calls me back. It is not Maggie, dear, sweet, brave Maggie. It certainly is not the "mission". Even writing the word makes me smile. No, it is none of these that makes me pause with my foot above the water. It is the little carved statue of a man. I need to see the place which gave birth to him. I need to meet his creator. I need to strip off my widows weeds and wrap my body in the setting sun. Only then can it begin--

What? What will begin? Reading the words which I have written in my journal gives me a headache. I must stop looking backwards. As our steamer fights against the current of the River, dragging us ever deeper inland, so must I resist the pull of madness which threatens to unmoor me.

But my dreams--ever since we came to the River, I have had such dreams. Some faces are dark, others pale. Some dress in strange clothing. Others wear nothing at all. There are rifles and weapons worse than rifles, machines that spit fire, cannons that can be held comfortably in a man's arms, green fruit that explodes taking with it the hand or the arm of the one who holds it, yellow vapors that cause the eyes to bleed and the flesh to peel. And there is blood, so much blood. How can a dream contain so much blood? In life, that much blood would cause the oceans of the world to spill over their beaches and civilization as we know it would come to an end.

"And this is a bad thing?" the little idol asks.

"Without civilization, there is chaos," I whisper.

"Chaos is what happens when civilization meets civilization."

"You are confusing me," I complain .

Is it just my imagination or does his grin widen? "Good. For a while I was afraid that you were not listening."

"The jungle is too quiet," the Sergeant says. "By now the natives should have made at least one attack. Poisoned darts at the very least." His eyes narrow. "They are up to something."

Maggie is up to something. I can tell from the lightness of her step. Several times I catch her speaking in a low voice to the crew member with the pink scar on his cheek. She pays no attention to me, but if the sergeant or one of his soldiers happens by, she breaks off the conversation immediately.

What is she up to? I do not ask, because I know that she will not tell me. Or could it be that I do not ask because I am afraid that she might tell me?

She tells me other things. She tells me about her older brother who was tied to the back of a carriage and dragged to his death by the man who owned her father's farm in Ireland. No one in her family ever learned what crime if any the young man was guilty of. She tells me about a dozen youths hanged in a day for "conspiring against the crown." She tells me about babies dying from hunger, while Irish beef is sold abroad. And as she speaks of Ireland, her eyes tell me more.

Could it be that she has already told me what she intends to do but there is a part of me which refuses to hear? Can we know something and still pretend not to know? If we refuse to acknowledge what we know, does that make it less true?

I wish that Mr. Marlowe was here. I would like to discuss the question with him. He hesitated for a moment before he told me the lie. That is good. It would have been better if he had told the truth, but even the hesitation was something. He considered what he was doing. He debated the options. Any other man would have lied without a moment's pause. Mr. Marlowe was onto something, just as my Intended was onto something. What held them back? What made them turn their faces away from the truth? Was it too dark for them to bear?

Maybe, when I stand face to face with the darkness, I will know. Maybe, I will go mad. Maybe I am already mad, and when I face the darkness I will go sane.

No one except Maggie knows that Kurtz was my Intended. As we near the compound, the men begin to speak of him, first in whispers, then more loudly. They do not talk openly in my presence, but I am so quiet and dark in my widow's weeds that I merge into the shadows. Often they forget that I am there.

"...saw it with my own eyes. Human corpses piled up beside a giant cooking pot. Skulls used for goblets. Cracked human thigh bones, the marrow sucked out..."

"... a native woman. Some kind of princess. They used to strip off their clothes and paint themselves with blood.."

"...children butchered. There are limits. Even when dealing with savages, there are limits. He went too far..."

The speaker is wrong. My Intended did not go too far. He did not go far enough. He went only half way. He found himself standing on the shore of a strange land and he panicked. Where am I, he asked? What is this place? Since he had no words for it, he called it Evil, because it was easier to be Evil than to be Nameless.

I recall the mulatto sailor's story. The British fear cannibals. We are afraid that the dark heart of this continent will gobble us up. My Intended was afraid, too. Being an extraordinary man he decided that he would devour the continent, but instead, he ended up devouring himself.

Tears run down my cheeks as I think of how it must have been for him. When simple cannibalism no longer inspired feelings of disgust within him, did he seek worse crimes? Is that why he murdered children? Is that why he put human heads on pikes around the perimeter of the camp? Not to frighten away intruders but to frighten himself, to make himself feel something that he could put a name to? Better Evil than Nameless.

How sad. How pitifully sad.

Tonight I stood on the deck of our steamer. I could feel eyes within the darkness of the jungle watching me, measuring me. Like the green snake, the owner of those eyes could have killed me with a single dart, but she did not. Yes, she. It is a woman who watches me. It is a woman who makes sure that no one on our steamer is harmed. Not because she gives a damn what happens to the men on board our ship--no, she would gladly consign them all to Hell. She wants to protect Maggie. I can understand why. What I do not comprehend is why she wants to protect me.

I have a book in my hand, a Bible. One by one I tear out the pages and throw them into the water. I do not know the African names of the children my Intended killed, so I make up names for them. "This page is for you, Sunshine. This is for you, Shadow. Here, Morninglark, I give these words to you." I cannot give them back their lives, but I can give them my love. Maggie would say that it is not enough, and she would be right. But she would be wrong, too.

I realize suddenly that it is her curse to believe that there is only one way to love and it is my curse to recognize that there are two. The shining light offers no sanctuary for doubt, but the dark heart--it has room enough for all things.

We reach landfall in the hour before sunset. The compound which my Intended established has grown in the year since his death. The skulls have been removed. There are real streets and real buildings. Some of the natives wear European style clothes. There is even a woman, the wife of the Company Agent. She is glad to see us, especially me.

"You don't know how I have longed for a female companion," she exclaims.

Behind her, stands a native woman, her presence a silent reproach.

I am lead to a room that has been furnished like a British drawing room. I am served tea in china cups and biscuits from a tin. I have come one thousand miles only to find myself back home.

My collar begins to feel tight. I loosen it but get no relief. I unbutton the front of my dress. My hostess looks alarmed. "Are you suffering from fever?" she asks. "Shall I fetch the doctor?"

"Yes," I reply, to get her out of the room. The moment she is gone, I slip through the far door and out the back of the house. There are drums beating in the distance. They are telling me something that I do not want to hear, but the message is clear all the same. Death is coming. Not for me. Not for Maggie. But it is coming.

I run to the River. Maggie is there, supervising the unloading of our luggage. "Careful," she snaps as two men fumble with my trunk of books. "Don't get it wet!" She is usually so polite to the natives. Why the anger? What is so special about my books.

She sees me and frowns. "What are you doing here?"

I simply stare. The truth is written all over her face. How can the others not see?

Time passes. A minute? An hour? She tries to take me by the arm. I pull away and begin running towards the plank that connects the steamer to the shore. Maggie, in her trousers, is faster than me. She grabs me by the waist and knocks me to the ground. As we hit the dirt, the earth trembles. Flames rise into the sky followed by a wall of water which drenches us.

I rub my eyes and peer at the River. The steamer is gone. All that remains of the ship are a few pieces of burning timber. All that remains of the crew are a few corpses which float face down in the water . A wave washes a severed arm onto the shore.

As the Europeans in the Compound run and shout, natives appear from the jungle. First, they take charge of my trunk, carrying it into the trees. They move quickly, quietly so as not to attract attention. When they pry open the lid, they will not find leather bound volumes, for my books went up in the explosion. Inside the trunk there are weapons, rifles, ammunition, the remains of the explosives. If I had placed them there myself I could not be more certain.

Next the natives come for Maggie and me. I do not resist, because there is nothing I can do now. It is too late. The damage has been done. Maggie is a murderer. We slip away into the jungle. No one sees us leave. Later, when they realize that we are gone, they will whisper about abduction. They may even send out a search party, though they will not search too hard. After a while, people will convince themselves that we were on board the ship when it exploded, and they will call off the search.

I can see the future as clearly as I see Maggie. Her cheeks are flushed. Her short red hair sticks out around her head like a halo of flame. Her eyes pick up the light of the moon and reflect it. She looks so happy. The ghost of her poor dead brother has finally been laid to rest.

Poor girl. I pity her as I pity all things.

She opens her mouth to speak, but before she can utter a word I raise my hand and slap her across the face, first one cheek, then the other. Once I let it out, my anger becomes a tornado. I tear at her hair. I kick her in the stomach. The others pull me away from her and restrain me. I can feel the tension within them. If she gives the word, they will cut my throat and toss my corpse into a ditch.

Rubbing her stomach, she glares at me. "Why did you do that?"

"You know." My voice is the growl of an angry she-wolf.

"What? All the natives were off the ship when we blew her up. Only the soldiers were still on board--Ah! That's it!" Her expression hardens. "This is war. They were soldiers. They knew the risks. I'm not going to pretend to feel sorry that they're dead, not even to please you."

She turns to her rebel companions and begins to speak to them in their tongue. Her tone is almost conversational as she and they discuss their next move. When did she join their cause? During our journey through the jungle? Before that, in the days we spent on the coast? Or did Samuel, the captain's son recruit her? Does it matter? She is doing what she must. She is being true to her nature, as I must be true to mine.

Gradually, my captors slacken their grip on me. When they are deeply engrossed in their discussion, I turn and slip away into the dense undergrowth.

The River is calling to the darkness within me. Now that the steamer is gone, there is nothing standing between me and the water. The souls of the dead men call to me. Though it is too late to save them, I can join them. The River is wide enough, deep enough to hold us all. Our tears will hardly be felt in that immense, swirling artery of water. It will carry our corpses to the ocean, and though our hearts have ceased to beat, the rhythm of the waves will sustain us.

Dense undergrowth snags my long, full skirt, slowing me. I tear the fabric away. My veil is gone. My hair streams down my back. If anyone is pursuing me, they will find my trail easy to follow. I must hurry. I must not stop to listen to the sounds of night, the birds which call, the panthers which growl, the mosquitoes that whine. I must not pause to stare into the luminesce eyes which watch me from a low branch of a tree. I must not let the scent of night blooming flowers fill my head driving out rational thought. I must not...

_But you must_ a voice says to me from the darkness. It is the little carved idol. _She is waiting._

Who is waiting? I peer into the shadows. Beneath that tree, is that a vine or a--

The shadow unfolds into a woman. Tall, dark, with hair like wool. Golden bracelets encircle her wrists and ankles. Her face is shaped like a heart, a perfect black heart.

We stare at each other mutely. The jungle falls silent. There is a cry, faint as a kitten. The woman glances once over her shoulder then back at me. She stares with an intensity close to hatred, though why she should hate me, I cannot imagine. I do not know her, though I recognize the eyes. They are the eyes which have watched the steamer for days from the jungle.

Again, the silence is disturbed by a thin crying. The woman turns and stoops to pick up something from the ground. The bundle of cloth in her arms wiggles. A small, brown hand emerges.

Holding my breath, I take one step forward. The child is four, maybe five months old. His skin is lighter than his mother's. His nose is longer, his jaw is square. I recognize the nose and jaw. They belong to the man whom I once called my Intended.

Now I know why the woman stares at me. She must have seen my picture. Does she think that I have come to take her son? _His_ son? Does she imagine that I have come to steal her memories of him so that he will be all mine in death as he was not in life?

I would laugh, except that I know that she would not understand. How do I tell her that I do not want him or his memory or his son? How do I tell her that I made this journey to free myself from the man she chose to love?

The answer is on my left hand, on the fourth finger where I wear my engagement ring. Why? He has been dead a year. Why do I still wear his ring? What does it mean? A thin band of gold, a paltry trinket compared to the bracelets that adorn her smooth arms and legs, but to me it has been a shackle.

"Kurtz," I say as I slip off the ring. I offer it to her. "Kurtz"

She looks from the ring to my face then back to the ring again. Tentatively, she reaches for the band of gold.

I let it fall into her palm. As the golden rings drops from my fingers, I feel the weight in my heart lift. It is done.

Smiling, I turn my back on her and walk away. If she wishes to, she can kill me now. I have made it easy for her. She would not even have to look me in the eyes. But she will not harm me. The inner voice which has whispered vague hints of things to come is suddenly clear. I know tomorrow and next week and next year as if they have already happened.

The River still speaks to me, but it does not summon me. I have no grief to drown in its dark water. Instead, I walk along the shore for one, maybe two hours. As I walk, I shed a boot here, a stocking there. Before long, I am naked. The leaves caress my bare skin. Fallen petals cushion my feet. For a time, a small bird rides on my shoulder. I am not surprised when it alights or sad when it flies away.

An acrid odor catches my attention. Lifting my chin, I sniff the air. There is a fire nearby. I let the smell of roasting meat guide me. I have grown so accustomed to the drums, that I do not notice them until I begin to feel the beat through the soles of my feet, meaning that the drummers are near. I listen and hear them. They speak to me.

Through the trees, I catch a glimpse of firelight. A few more paces bring me to a clearing where women dance around a bonfire while men watch. Their skins are black as night and so slick with perspiration that they seem to be made from liquid onyx and moonlight rather than flesh and blood.

Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse two steamer chests. Laughter bubbles up in my throat. Maggie and I have taken two different roads to reach the same place. She is a rebel, plotting strategy, calculating acceptable losses and advantage. I am a woman running through the jungle, shedding her clothes. Both of us are on the right path. Both of us are sane.

Naked, I join the dancers. My skin is obscenely pale in the darkness. Those closest to me draw away, as if afraid that I am Death come to claim them. But the music does not stop and the dancers continue to stamp their feet and sway. The fire singes my face and arms. I throw back my head, savoring the heat. It dries the tears which pour down my cheeks as I picture each dead soldier. Mentally, I tear pages from the Book of Psalms, reciting the words from memory, a different psalm for each man.

When I finish the last psalm, I bow my head. When did the music and the dancing stop? How long have they been watching me, listening to me?

A hand closes over my shoulder. Maggie's voice breaks the silence.

"I was worried about you."

"There was no need. I was safe."

She must notice that I am naked, but she does not comment on it. "When you slapped me, I was angry."

"No," I correct her. "When I slapped you, _I_ was angry. You were hurt. I'm sorry that I hurt you. I am not sorry that I was angry. That was what killed him."

She frowns. "Killed who?"

"Kurtz. He looked around and saw so much to be sad and angry about that he thought to himself 'I must do something.' As if feeling the sadness and the fury was not real enough. Once he started doing, he couldn't stop. Nothing he ever did was going to erase the sadness or the pain, but he couldn't stop doing. And in the end, doing was his undoing." I chuckle at the absurdity of my last words.

Maggie shakes her head. "You aren't making any sense. You're delirious."

I laugh. "No, the world is delirious. Maggie, did I tell you that I met a woman? _His_ woman. They had a child together. She loved him. Why didn't he stay with her? He had a choice. He could have stayed and found something to live for. Oh Maggie, what if he thought that he was coming home for me? What if _I_ was the thing he wanted to live for? It breaks my heart to think of it--"

"Then don't."

Wise words from one so young. In her own way, she is more wise than me. I allow her to lead me from the fire to the shadows. There are blankets on the ground. A thin clothe is spread over me to keep out the insects. Something brushes my forehead. Did she kiss me? When did I start loving her? Always, I think. We are light and darkness, fire and water, and yet, we were meant to be together, my Beloved and me...

After that, I remember nothing.

Maggie rescued my journal. Did she read it? I have not written anything here that is not true, but I worry that the truth may be too much for her. It drove Kurtz mad and almost did the same to me.

She saved my little carved idol, too. I no longer need him, but I am touched that she thought of me. She knew how much I treasured the statue, even though she could never understand why. To her it was just a piece of wood with sentimental associations. How can I make her understand that it was the statue that freed me?

There are clothes, too. Respectable European clothes. When I woke and found myself dressed in them, I tore them off. I refused to wear anything until a woman presented me with a length of cloth the color of coral. Now, I wander about the native village clothed in sunset, my feet bare, my hair streaming down my back.

Maggie's comrades still look away if their eyes happen to meet mine, but they no longer make gestures to ward off evil. They call me a Holy Woman. They think I bring them good luck. Already, I have warned them of two ambushes. I am looking for Maggie now to tell her that my dreams have shown me a dozen well-armed men creeping up from the River at dawn. She will have warriors waiting for them. Their blood will feed the River. I will cry for them. I will cry for Maggie, too, because she cannot cry. Her way is not the way of tears.

I have found my Intended. It is not a man. It is not even Maggie, though her comrades refer to me as "his woman." They still think her a man. A strange European man with breasts and no penis. It is easier for them to conceive of an anatomic freak than a woman who can fight.

My Intended is not a person. It is not even a place, though I had to come here in order to find it. My Intended is a dream, as rare and beautiful as a blooming rose in winter. My Intended is the reverse of the lie. My Intended is the dark heart which illuminates. My Intended is.

The End

(Based upon characters from Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness)

The Girl in the Pear Tree

Part 1. Easter

The bloodhound pup wagged its tail then made a sudden, affectionate leap at the Boy, who fended him off with grim determination. "Mam told me she'd tan my hide if I got my church clothes dirty."

The pup cocked its head to one side, as if debating the Boy's words.

"You git now!" Billy told him sternly.

"Git" sounded a lot like "sit". The pup planted its haunches more firmly in the dirt and waited expectantly for a pat on the head and words of praise.

"Git!" the Boy repeated fiercely. He punctuated the command with the toe of his shiny black leather Sunday school shoes. The pup scampered under the porch, where he crouched, whimpering.

"Why'd you have to go and kick him?" a high, soft voice demanded from above. "All he wanted was some love."

Billy craned his neck. Perched on one of the highest branches of the pear tree was a girl about his own age, a skinny little thing, all elbows and knees, wearing a dress that was too tight across the chest and so short that he could see her underwear, which was dirty and ragged. Her light brown hair was bobbed short, like a boy's.

"He's my dog," Billy said . "I reckon I can kick him if I want."

"I reckon he can bite you if he wants, but he won't do it, 'cause dogs don't do that kind of thing to the people they love."

Billy, who had just endured a scolding from his mother, was in no mood for another, especially not from some tom-boy he had never met before. "What you doing in that tree? That's our pear tree. No one told you you could climb our pear tree."

The girl wrapped her arms around the limb on which she perched and buried her nose in the fragrant, white blossoms. "The tree told me I could climb her."

"Trees don't talk!"

"Shows what you know. Trees talk all the time. Especially when it's windy. Trees have been around a lot longer than you and me. They know all kinds of stories."

"What kind of stories?"

The girl sat up. Her legs were wrapped around the tree branch. She stretched her skinny arms above her head. "Stories like how when a baby is born, Heaven makes an angel-baby to follow that baby where ever he goes. When the baby is sad but can't show it 'cause his Mam told him to hush, the angel-baby cries for him. When the baby wants to kick up his heels and play in the dirt, but he ain't supposed to get his church clothes dirty, the angel-baby plays for him."

"I guess your angel-baby must be good as gold," Billy sneered. "If she's the opposite of you."

The girl grinned at him, revealing a gap where her two front teeth ought to be. "I ain't got no angel-baby. I got a devil-baby. My devil-baby's a mean, nasty boy who kicks puppies and tells people they can't climb his pear tree, 'cause he can't, and he don't want no one else to have no fun."

Billy stooped to pick up a rock. He hurled it at the girl, who dodged it laughing.

"You know what happens if you kick an angel-baby or hit her with a rock or beat her with a stick?" she called. "You're the one who feels it. Beat her black and blue, and you'll be the one who ends up bruised." Abruptly, she stood up. Grasping hold of the end of a branch, she lowered herself to the ground. The branches whipped up towards the sky, releasing a shower of white petals, which fell on the girl's upturned face.

Billy watched her, spellbound. He had never seen anyone get down from a tree like that before. It was like something a hero in a storybook would do. Except heroes in storybooks were never skinny girls in too small dresses and dirty, ragged underwear.

"You an angel-baby?" he asked finally.

"Sure am," she replied, beaming. Her skin had a faint, luminous quality, as if she had been drinking sunlight through her pores.

"You my angel-baby?"

"Nope. You can't see your own angel-baby." She took a step closer. She smelled of pear blossoms and cedar. Her scent made Billy feel weak kneed and a little dizzy.

"Who's angel-baby are you?" he murmured, his voice softer than the whispering of the pear tree overhead.

"I'm your Mam's angel-baby."

At the mention of his mother's name, the spell was shattered. "That's a lie. My Mam ain't never climbed no pear tree."

The girl nodded her head, her expression sorrowful. "I know. That's why I gotta climb it."

"Billy!" A shrill voice called his name from inside the house. "Get in here so I can comb your hair!"

The Boy glanced over his shoulder. Seeing no sign of his Mam, he decided to stay outside a moment or two longer. He had dozens of questions he wanted to ask the strange little girl who claimed to be his mother's angel-baby. But, when he turned to look at her, the skinny little girl in the too short dress was gone.

Part 2. St. John's Eve

Summer nights were the worst. No matter how the Boy tossed and turned, he could not get comfortable, not with the sheets damp from the humidity and his own pent up, adolescent yearning. At half past midnight, he threw aside the covers and leapt out of bed. The open window beckoned. He climbed up onto the sill. A breath of wind from the south stirred the tiny hairs which had recently appeared on his chest. He shivered with anticipation.

"You gonna stand there all night?" asked a familiar voice from the tree outside his window.

Billy squinted. It had been five years since he encountered the girl in the pear tree, but her memory had not dimmed. If anything, it grew more vivid with the passage of time, like a favorite childhood story. "Is that you?" he asked.

"'Course it is! Who else would it be?" she asked, laughing.

The Boy eased himself down onto the closest branch of the tree. The limb was dotted with fruit, some of the pears almost ripe. He snatched one and took a bite. The flesh was hard and tart.

The girl watched him, her eyes wide and luminous in the near dark. She was bigger than he remembered her. The too tight dress now strained across a young woman's breasts. The thighs which encircled the branch on which she sat were white and soft. Her bare feet kicked against the breeze which had grown stronger. Rain was coming.

"Whatcha doin'?" Billy asked.

"Waitin' for my lover," the girl replied loftily.

He flushed at the word. He felt hot all over, as if he had taken a big bite of pepper, and his tongue had not noticed yet, but his blood had. He threw the half eaten pear to the ground. "Who's your lover?" he asked, wondering if she was referring to him and what it would be like to squeeze one of those white thighs or press his face to those soft, round breasts.

"A colored boy from across town."

His blood froze. "I thought you said you was my Mam's angel."

Her eyes were black as night and filled with starlight. "I am your Mam's angel." Her voice was as soft and sultry as wood smoke.

"My Mam ain't never waited in no pear tree to meet a colored boy!" Billy snarled.

The girl let her head fall back. "I know," she whispered sadly. "That's why I gotta wait for him."

"I don't believe you," he muttered angrily. "You're no angel. You're just some trash girl." He scrambled from the tree back into his room, where he slammed the window shut and drew the curtain. His heart was hammering against his chest. Blood rushed in his ears. There was something fierce and wild within him, which made him long to hurl things against the wall and jump up and down, even though he knew that it would wake his mother and father who lay sleeping in their room on the ground floor.

He imagined smooth, dark flanks encircled by soft, white thighs. He pictured the girl's head tilted back, waiting for the warm, full lips of her lover--

With a stifled cry of rage and desire, the Boy pulled back the curtain and threw open the window. The pear tree was empty. The girl was gone. Thunder sounded in the distance. A few minutes later, the first drops of rain began to fall.

Part 3. Halloween

He was not a Boy anymore, except in his dreams. He shaved every morning and got a paycheck each Friday. At night, he slept beside his wife in a bed just wide enough for them to lie side by side without touching.

He glanced at her still, supine form. Her gown was spotless white with lace at the throat and cuffs. The bandages which encircled her left wrist were white, too. The self-inflicted wounds had finally stopped oozing.

They were on their honeymoon, when she sliced her wrist open with his straight razor. He recalled the way the bellhop had looked at him, his world weary eyes hard and accusing, as if it was something Billy had done which caused his young bride to try to end her new life just as it was starting. Together, they had hauled her naked, dripping body from the tub of lukewarm, crimson water. Billy had pressed a white towel to the oozing wound on her wrist, wandering how much blood the human body contained and how much she must have lost to have grown so pale. As white as a ghost.

The bellhop called a doctor. The doctor patched her up and said she would live but that she needed to be with family. Billy almost said "I'm her husband," then he realized what the doctor meant.

It tore at him inside, knowing that he would never really be her family. Maybe, if they had a child together, and she was its mother and he its father, then there might be a bond between them more substantial than lust. Until then, he was an interloper, a stranger in her bed.

They had returned home, to his family home--she could not bear the shame of letting her own kin know what she had done and did not seem to understand that it was just as shameful for him, the husband who had driven his young bride to suicide, to have his mother, father and brothers see the white bandages on her slender wrist. Their eyes accused him of crimes too dreadful to imagine--

It was too much. He would go mad if he did not get out of this room, away from this stranger whom he thought that he loved and whom he imagined had loved him, when all the while it was death she craved. He would suffocate if he did not get some fresh air.

He rolled over cautiously, moving slowly so as not to wake his bride. A man now, he did not have to creep out of the house. If he wanted to go out and get drunk and come home after dawn, no one would try to stop him. He could put on his shoes, go downstairs and leave by the front door. If his mother heard, she might call to him "Where you goin', Billy?" from the front steps, her hand clutching her robe together under her chin. But she would not tell him to get back to his room and back to bed. No one would ever tell him that again. He was a man, now, and not a boy.

Tears streaked his cheeks. He was about to turn away from the window and crawl back into bed, when he noticed something on the other side of the glass. It was a girl's face, pale and smooth as the full moon. She held out her hand, beckoning him. The rest of her body was lost in his own reflection.

Time stopped. He moved as if in a dream. His fingers fumbled with the latch. The window opened silently. The ground was so far away. It seemed much farther than three stories. He leaned forward, breathing in the cold, damp air of autumn.

"Careful," a familiar voice said. "You'll fall."

Billy looked up. There, in the pear tree was the angel. She was grown now, as was he. Her dress covered her to the knees and long, curling brown hair fell over her shoulder, hiding the soft swell of her bosom. In her hands, she held a Red Chief tablet, the kind school children use to practice writing their letters.

"What you doin?" Billy asked.

"Reading a story," the woman replied.

Intrigued, he eased himself out of the window onto a branch of the pear tree. It creaked and groaned under his weight, but it held.

"What kind of story?" he asked, trying to get a glimpse of what was written on the page.

The girl pressed the Red Chief tablet to her chest, laughing. "A good one."

"What's it about?"

She smiled, and though it was autumn and the tree was losing its leaves in preparation for winter, buds appeared in the branch, flowers as white as her dress, which released a sweet, pungent scent that made his head reel. "It's about your Mam."

Billy was taken aback. "You trying to tell me that my mother has started writing?" He was the author in the family. Everyone knew that. Why would his mother take up writing at her age?

"I didn't say your Mam wrote it," the angel replied tartly. "I said it's about her."

"Oh. I see. Because she can't write her own story, you wrote it for her."

The corners of the angel's eyes crinkled. Her smile was as wide as the Cheshire Cat's. "No, silly. You're gonna write it. And when you're done, you're gonna cry your eyes out. Here!" Abruptly, she thrust the Red Chief tablet into his hands. He glanced down at the page. It was empty. When he looked up, she was gone.

Part 4. New Year

It seldom snowed in this part of Mississippi, and when it did, the snow almost never stuck, therefore, when Billy glanced out the window of his bedroom that morning, he exclaimed to his wife "The pear tree's blooming!"

"Don't be silly!" she scolded, peeking over his shoulder. She had lived up north, and she knew what the white substance frosting the bare branches of the tree was. "That's snow."

"Snow," he echoed. He threw open the window. The air was so cold that it made his lungs hurt to breathe it.

"Close the window!" his wife exclaimed. "You'll catch pneumonia!"

He ignored her, as he ignored most things she said nowadays. It was pregnancy talking. The baby which had swollen her belly to the size of a watermelon made her protective. She treated everyone, even her fully grown husband, as if they were babies in need of a mother's care.

Mother. Two months since she had died. The ache had not lessened much, though everyone said that her death was a blessing, considering what she could have gone through, with a tumor as large as hers.

His wife paused with her hand on the bedroom door. "You coming downstairs to breakfast?"

"Later."

He heard the door click shut behind him. Being a writer, the sight of all that snow made his fingers itch. However, there was something missing. He knew what he wanted to write, but he did not know how to begin. He gazed at the white frosted tree for inspiration, wishing that the angel or whatever she was would appear and tell him how to start the story.

"Start here," the familiar voice whispered in his ear. "Start with a grown man child telling the world his sorrow and pain."

He whirled on his heels. The room behind him was empty. The only sound was the pounding of his own heart. His eyes searched the shadows, the ceiling, the floor. Finally, they came to rest on the Red Chief tablet. His fingers trembled slightly, as he picked it up and opened to the first blank page. He fumbled with a pencil. As graphite scratched against paper, he heard the sound of soft, contented laughter coming from outside. It was Her voice--his mother's and the angel's. Out of the corner of his eye, he seemed to glimpse a pair of long, pale legs encircling a snow encrusted branch. Determinedly, he continued scratching out the words of his story, slowly at first, then building up speed as he found the voice he was looking for. His own voice.

The End

("Billy" is a fictionalized William Faulkner, "the girl in the pear tree" was his inspiration for The Sound and the Fury)

Marie Kelly

When I became the chronicler of a great man, I gave up one of the privileges of the storyteller, namely the power to arrange and rearrange the characters in my tales like so many pieces on a chess board. At times, I feel myself little more than a vehicle, a hand which wields a pen, so that his words may be spoken, his tales recounted, and his truths made real.

Never have I felt the indignity of my position more than now, as I tell this story. For he has set the terms under which I may record this most extraordinary case. A case which, were it known, would overshadow all others of its kind. This is a case to end all cases, every chronicler's dream. And yet, though I feel privileged to be writing these words, I am filled with discontent, because he has set one condition. Though I may apply pen to paper now, no eyes save his and mine may read these words for one century plus one decade plus one year.

The injustice of it weighs upon me. And yet, he gave her his promise, as I gave him my promise, and I am no less a gentleman than he. So here, citizens of 1999 is the story which your sister century was denied. Here is the truth of the Whitechapel killings.

It began just as it was ending, one autumn morning in the year 1888. There had been another murder in Whitechapel, the fourth so far. I knew it even before I read of it, because the paper boy in the streets kept shouting the news.

Knowing that my friend Holmes had been consulted on the case, I stopped by his rooms on Baker Street to see how the investigation was progressing. I was not greatly surprised to find him absent. Knowing of his careful attention to detail, I assumed that he had gone to the morgue to inspect the corpse himself.

I made myself at home with a cup of tea and a copy of Coleridge. The Ancient Mariner took my mind from the morning's news. Now, as I write this, it occurs to me to wonder did I pick this book by accident or had I some premonition that fate would hand me a burden as heavy as the mariner' albatross, a weight which could only be lifted from my shoulders by the act of telling this tale? Poor Mariner, trapped alone on a wide sea with no one to listen. Poor Watson, trapped alone in a city full of people and no one to tell.

I digress. Though this story will not see the light of day again until the year 1999, I must do my duty as a scribe. I was reading the familiar lines of the poem, when I noticed a damp patch on the floor beside my feet. Thinking that I had spilled my tea, I took my handkerchief from my pocket and leaned forward to wipe up the stain, before it could reach the carpet. Imagine my surprise and concern when the white linen turned dark crimson.

Being a surgeon, I recognized blood by its color and its distinctive smell. It was not fresh but not old either. Had my friend been recently injured? Had he cut himself during one of his experiments? I knelt on the floor and peered beneath my chair. There, half hidden in the shadows, I spied a leather satchel which I removed and opened.

The smell of rust filled the room, giving me some hint of the bag's grisly contents. This foreshadowing was nothing compared to my horror when I reached into the leather sack and withdrew a knife, coated with sticky blood, its handle also stained with spots of older, long dried blood. Beneath the knife was a scarf that seemed familiar, though the last time I saw it, the wool was gray not black and matted with blood. Beneath the scarf lay a pair of blood soaked gloves I knew well, for I myself had given them to my friend, Sherlock Holmes.

If it were just the knife I could have reasoned with myself , "He has solved the case. He has found the fiend and confiscated his weapon." How could I explain the blood soaked scarf and gloves? Terrible thoughts filled my head. He had caught the murderer in the act and had been horribly wounded as he attempted to save the latest victim. Even now, he might be lying in a surgery somewhere in London, too weak from loss to blood to tell his name or to ask for me, his friend.

There was a problem with this theory. How did the knife, scarf and gloves come to be in his apartment? A man who has been mortally wounded does not return to his own home to conceal the weapon before seeking the care of a surgeon.

Readers of the future, I am ashamed to admit that another theory occurred to me. As my dear friend Sherlock Holmes is so fond of saying, a detective must consider all possibilities. Were this any other man, the most likely explanation for the leather satchel and its grisly contents would be that he was the murderer, and he had hidden the incriminating items in his room and planned to dispose of them at a later time.

Treacherous thoughts, yes, but once they seized hold of me, they would not let me go. I recalled my friend's disdain for women, and the way his mood would turn suddenly from mania to despair when he was in the depths of one of his cocaine binges. I recalled that he was fond of dressing in beggar's garb and prowling the streets of London at night. For the first time in our acquaintance, it occurred to wonder what exactly he did in the back alleys of our city.

Then another, less sinister explanation occurred to me. My friend, Sherlock Holmes might have had another visitor this morning, an agent of his nemesis Professor Moriarty. What if the scarf and gloves had been stolen by the murderer and used in the commission of the vile act, so that blame would be cast upon the scourge of criminals, Sherlock Holmes? The murderer or an accomplice then waited for Holmes to leave his rooms and crept inside where the evidence was placed so as to seem hidden. The bag would then be found by his cleaning woman , who would raise an alarm. Even if the police decided to discount the evidence, Sherlock Holmes' name would have been sullied.

Of all the possibilities, this third seemed most likely. If this theory were true, Holmes was doubtless unaware of the leather satchel or its contents. For, if he had discovered them already, he would be hard at work studying them for clues.

How could I tell for certain which scenario was true? I would watch my friend closely. If he had no knowledge of the bag's contents, then he was innocent. If he knew what the bag contained then I...

My grim reverie was broken by the sound of footsteps in the hall. Hurriedly, I closed the leather satchel and thrust it back beneath the chair just moments before the door opened and Holmes appeared.

He looked so much like his usual self that I felt relieved. "Watson!" he cried. "I was at your house looking for you , and your wife told me that you had come here to see me." He threw himself onto the sofa. Gazing at the ceiling, his eyes focused on some distant, imaginary point he said "I have a most extraordinary story to tell you."

"I am listening. Continue.."

"It's about the Whitechapel murders."

Readers of 1999, try to imagine what it feels like to have ones blood turn to ice in one's veins. That was what I felt at that moment. My eyes were drawn to his hands. Did those long, tapered fingers commit murder? Surely there would be some sign. A murderer's hands could not look like an ordinary man's hands. Nor could a murderer's face be as innocent as my friend's was at that moment. He appeared tired, but there was no sign of guilt, worry or anger on his countenance. About his gray eyes there was a slight sadness, as if he had seen something that troubled him, but his were not the eyes of a murderer.

Sternly, I reminded myself that I had encountered many murderers and few of them bore any physical signs of their guilt.

Holmes turned his gaze from the ceiling towards me. "I see you have looked under the chair," he remarked dryly. "What do you make of the evidence? Am I a heartless murderer? A fanatical moral reformer bent on cleansing the streets of London? Or, to quote my associates on the streets, is it 'a frame up'?"

My face must have registered my shock, because he changed his tone. Lightly, he said "Let this be a lesson to you, Watson. You should learn from Pandora. Never open a box--or a bag--unless you are prepared for what you may find inside. Fortunately for you, what you have found doesn't mean what you think it means."

He stood up and began pacing back and forth across the room. I admit that I was nervous. Though he is not a large man, he is strong, and insanity can give a man superhuman strength.

It had to be a malady of the mind, I reasoned. Sherlock Holmes was neither a heartless murderer nor a fanatical moral reformer. Perhaps, it was the cocaine. I had seen men experience fits of passion while under its effects. Or maybe he had acquired a taste for some more exotic and dangerous hallucinogen.

"You might as well stop imaging the worst and let me tell you the whole story." Holmes said. He sat down at his desk. His chair was little more than a foot from mine. His eyes were on the satchel. He made a slight forward motion as if to reach for it but then appeared to have second thoughts. "Watson, please, I promise not to murder you. Why would anyone want to murder the man who has made him immortal?" He reached into a drawer of the desk and removed a pistol which he handed to me. "Point this at me. If I start foaming at the mouth , you have my permission to shoot me." He settled back into his chair. Crossing his legs he asked "May I now begin my story?"

I am ashamed to admit that I actually checked to see if the pistol was loaded. However, I had the decency to point the barrel at the floor rather than at my friend.

"My dear Watson, I am not the Whitechapel murderer," he told me solemnly. "If anyone deserves that title it's Marie Kelly."

"Marie Kelly?" I interrupted. "That's the name of the latest victim."

"Correct."

"But Holmes, even if a woman were capable of these crimes, how could she commit such acts upon her own body?"

"She couldn't. That's why my gloves and scarf are soaked in her blood. I am responsible for the grisly scene which the police discovered."

This seemed as good as a confession. "So you admit it? You killed her?"

"No," he corrected impatiently ."I sliced up her corpse. Since she was already dead of natural causes, there was no murder involved. Please, no more interruptions until I tell you the rest of the story.

"The police consulted me after the second poor woman was found. Unfortunately, by the time I was called in, the coroner had already mangled the body, and the police had destroyed the evidence as they always do. I was left with few clues to follow. However, I left specific instructions that if the killer struck again, I was to be summoned immediately. When the third corpse was found, I had a chance to examine both the murder scene and the body.

"Almost immediately, I determined that the victim had died before the first knife cut, though only a matter of minutes before. The coroner scoffed at my findings." His expression made it clear what he thought of the coroner and his methods. "No doubt the first two 'victims' also died of natural causes before their bodied were butchered. However, by that time the bodies were too far gone for a second autopsy to be of any use.

"Fortunately, once I knew that this was no simple case of serial murder, the few clues which were available to me fell into place, and I found Marie Kelly. I was with her the night she died--please, my dear Watson. If you judge me before you hear all the facts you will despise yourself later for doubting me."

His tone was so sincere that I began to wonder if it was possible that he was not a murderer. However, I kept a firm grip on the pistol.

Restlessly, he rose and began to pace like a panther which had decided for the moment that it would pretend to be civilized, but which, at the slightest provocation, might revert to its wild ways.

"Marie Kelly was close to death when I found her in her tiny room in Whitechapel. Had I come the next day, I never would have learned her story. And it is an amazing tale." He turned to me. "Watson, I must have your promise before I tell this story. Marie Kelly confided in me on the condition that I keep her confession a secret for not less than one hundred eleven years. She was very specific about the time. I will require the same assurance from you before I can proceed."

"Holmes, you can't expect me to keep quiet---"

He held up his hand to silence me. "If I promise you that I will prove to you beyond any doubt that no murders have occurred or will occur in Whitechapel and that the poor women who live there have nothing to fear except the poverty, disease and indifference which society has inflicted upon them, will you give me your word?"

Reluctantly, I agreed.

"It began, she told me, when her friend Polly lay dying. I will try to quote her exact words. 'Me friend were ill, and it were clear that nothing could be done for her. I sat beside her, wiping her brow with a damp towel, talking to her about this and that. To ease her mind a bit. For a while she were delirious with fever, but then all of a sudden like, at the end she opens her eyes wide and says "Marie, don't let them throw me in a pauper's grave. Don't let them forget my name, Marie. Don't let them forget." And with these words she died.'"

Strange how the voice that came from my friend's throat had changed. He was now a woman of the lower classes, telling a tale of sorrow and despair.

"'I sat with her a bit, thinking about how there was no money to bury her and about how she would be thrown in a pauper's grave and forgotten. No one cared about one whore more or less. Every day, we died of fever or consumption, and the world paid us no mind. It was as if we had never lived. As if our feet had never walked the earth and the air never moved in and out of our lungs. There was sickness and sadness and poverty all around, but no one saw it for the evil it was. Aye, evil.'

"'That was when I was seized by the notion. I picked up a knife and butchered my friend Polly. I cut her dead body to pieces so that they wouldn't forget her. I cut her so that they would have to say to themselves "This was a woman. Her death was an evil thing."'

"'Afterwards, I vomited. But it was just as I planned it. Polly, whose death from fever would never have been noticed become famous, So, when me friend Annie went , I did the same for her. And for Lizzie. I sat beside them, giving them comfort in their last hours of life, and then I made their deaths count for something. I made the world mourn them'"

Holmes' voice resumed its normal pitch and inflection. "Watson, if you could have seen her. If you could have heard her voice. Even weakened from her illness and burning with fever, she spoke with conviction. 'And now my time has come, and I will be thrown in potter's field. No one will care that I lived, and no one will understand the evil that killed me---'" Abruptly, he stopped pacing and turned to me. His eyes were bright, his face flushed. "Watson, if you could have seen and heard her, you would have done what I did.

"Her last words were a request. 'Please, Mr. Holmes, do for me as I did for them. And keep my secret the way you promised. I want them to know the horror. I want them to understand it in the only way they can.' And then she breathed her last and closed her eyes. When I was sure that her heart would not start beating again, I did as she had requested." With a sigh, he lay down on the sofa and folded his arms across his face.

I knew my friend too well to doubt him. Every word he said was true. "But Holmes, you can't mean to keep the bargain you made with that woman--"

"Marie Kelly," he interrupted irritably. "She has a name. And yes, I do intend to keep it. Just as I intend that you will keep the bargain you made with me."

"Think of the panic. Think of all the poor women who are afraid to go to sleep at night for fear that someone will cut their throats? What about them?"

He shook his head impatiently. "Would anyone care about 'the poor women' if it weren't for tales of the Whitechapel murderer? Marie Kelly was correct. When her kind dies of consumption, no one spares them a moment's thought. Watson, there are worse things on the streets of London than a murderer with a knife."

Still, I could not reconcile myself to silence. "What if some other man hears the tale of the Whitechapel murderer and decides to copy him? Innocent blood will be on our hands."

He laughed. "Watson, you know human nature better than that. Does a boulder roll down a hill because it sees another boulder roll down the hill? No, it rolls down the hill, because that is its nature. The nature of a killer is forged young. Murderers do not choose to be what they are. They are created by this world. Just as Marie Kelly was created by this world." He leapt to his feet. His expression was fierce. "The world made her ,and then it said to her 'You are imperfect. We will deny you. We will forget you.' But Marie Kelly wouldn't be forgotten. No, Watson, you will tell no one what I have told you. If you break your promise, I will show this bloody knife to the police, and I will confess myself the Whitechapel killer."

"They will never believe you capable of it."

"Why not? You thought me capable of it, and you know me better than anyone. Think for a moment. People of lesser intellect fear genius. They think it but one step from madness which leads to chaos and from chaos to evil. Were I to confess to the crimes, the public would have no difficulty believing me."

As always, he was correct, and so, reluctantly I agreed to abide by the terms of our agreement. However, he did allow me to write this account of our conversation, with the provision that I would seal the document and place it with my attorneys along with strict instructions that it was not to be opened and read until the year 1999.

Since I gave my word, I will do as he asks and trust in his good judgment and hope that no harm comes of this. However, I worry that Marie Kelly's plan will fail, and that one day it will be the "murderer" that people remember and not the "victims." For it is human nature to try to give a name and a face to evil, while we ignore the evil within ourselves.

In one respect, I cannot fault my friend. I am glad that he was with that poor woman, Marie Kelly when she died, and that he cared enough for her plight to honor her last request. If more people were like him, perhaps Marie Kelly would not have felt compelled to do as she did.

The End

(Sherlock Holmes is Sherlock Holmes. Marie Kelly was 'Jack the Ripper's' last victim. Sad that a person with a made up name is more famous than the woman he killed.)

Urizen

Rica was handing out peanut butter and crackers to the little kids when a sniper shot out the back window of the kitchen. In the midst of flying glass and screaming children, she remained calm enough to notice the metal canister that was hurled through the shattered window. The words, "Property of the United States Army" were printed on it.

Rica made a lunge towards the canister, but she was seconds too late. It exploded with a loud bang and a flash of light. Something bitter filled her nostrils. Her eyes started to water. Coughing, she grabbed a damp rag from beside the sink and pressed it to her face.

The damp rag probably saved her life. The flash of the tear gas canister ignited the gas stove, sparking a flame which seared her back and legs, but her lungs were spared. The blast hurled her through the open window, away from the inferno that swept through the crowded kitchen . She struck the ground head first and lost consciousness just as the children's screams reached a crescendo...

So this is heaven, she thought, as she stared up at the endless blue sky. The ground beneath her back was firm, nothing like the clouds upon which angels were said to tread.

She rolled over. The grass was blue. Not Kentucky bluegrass blue. Deep blue, like the ocean. Tiny droplets of dew clung to the blades. Nestled in the grass, a caterpillar was molting. Entranced, Rica watched as a butterfly emerged. It unfurled shimmering turquoise wings on which black markings formed a pattern that bore an uncanny resemblance to a bearded human face.

Rica gasped. Hurriedly, she rose to her knees to pray. The face on the wings of the butterfly was that of God the Father, the same image that graced the wall of the community dining hall at the Church. Every morning for three years, that stern but benevolent face had watched over her as she ate her meals.

Her stomach growled loudly, interrupting her prayers. She clapped her hands over her belly and glanced around to see if anyone had heard. Angels did not eat or drink or have bodily functions. Maybe her spirit had not grown accustomed to its new form yet. If she ignored the sensation of hunger, it would pass.

To get her mind off food, she stood up and began walking. There was a grass covered ridge nearby. She decided to climb it to get a better look at her surroundings. The slope was steep and by the time she reached the top, she was panting. She leaned forward with her hands on her knees to catch her breath.

"Father," a voice cried weakly. "Why have you done this to me?"

Startled, Rica glanced up. Towering above her was a wooden cross. Nailed to the cross was a naked young man.

She did not stop to think. With the aid of a jagged piece of rock, she pried the nails from the young man's hands. Then, supporting his weight on her shoulders, she freed his feet. He collapsed on the ground before the cross, gasping as he tried to catch his breath. His eyes were closed, and his skin was an unhealthy shade of blue. Fearing the worst, Rica prepared to start CPR, but when she checked his heartbeat, she found it strong and regular.

Rica leaned back on her heels and studied the young man. He was nothing like the golden haired, white winged angels in the story books. His hair was dark in color, more blue than black. The crusted blood on his hands and feet was deep purple, and even after he caught his breath, his skin remained cyanotic.

Before her parents joined the Church, Rica used to watch videos and play games like ordinary kids. Though she knew it was sacrilegious, she could not help thinking of the "Wizard of Oz". Heaven was a lot like the Emerald City, except that everything was blue here instead of green. She glanced down at her hands and was only mildly surprised to find that she had taken on a slight but definite bluish tint.

The young man made a moaning sound and opened his eyes, which were blue with slit like pupils that ran up and down, like the eye of a Siamese cat but darker. "Who are you?" he croaked. "Are you an angel?"

"I was gonna ask you the same thing, " Rica replied. "This is Heaven, isn't it?"

"Heaven?" He laughed harshly. "No, my lady, this is not Heaven. Perhaps it is Hell" As he hauled himself to a sitting position, the wound on his left wrist start bleeding again. The sight of his own blood seemed to make him faint. He closed his eyes.

"You shouldn't try to move," Rica scolded. She pressed her hand against the oozing wound. As her flesh touched his, an electric spark passed between them.

The blue young man pulled his arm away. "What did you---" His jaw dropped. The wound on his wrist had healed. "Did you do that? How?"

"I--I don't know."

He held out his other arm. "Do it again."

Hesitantly, Rica obeyed. The wound healed at the touch of her fingers, as did the jagged holes in his feet.

"You must be an angel," he murmured. "My name is Oric. What is yours?"

"Rica. Short for America. My family name is White, but we don't use family names at the Church." The Church. She recalled the fire in the kitchen and the sound of children screaming. The memory made her shiver.

"You are trembling, my lady. Are you cold?"

"Not cold. Just---" She did not know what she was feeling. Could this be a dream? If so, did that mean that the fire was part of a dream, too?

"I have never seen hair like yours," Oric said. "So soft, like spun sugar. And your skin is hardly blue at all. More brown, like the color of tree trunks in the old days, before--" He bit his lower lip. "You are not from this world, are you? Where do you come from? How did you get here?"

"I--I don't know. I was making lunch for the kids when someone threw a tear gas canister into the kitchen. It must have been the police. The canister made a spark, and the stove blew up. It was hot, so hot. Then I was flying through the air. I think--I think I must have died." She sobbed quietly for a few minutes. "This can't be Hell." She sniffed. "I've been good. I say my prayers every day and read my Bible. See, it's right here." She fished around in the pocket of her apron for the small leather bound volume. However, the book which she found was not her Bible. Instead, the spine was engraved with a single word, Urizen.

Oric's catlike eyes widened then narrowed. "Urizen. My grandfather. He is the one who nailed me to that cross."

"Your grandfather? Why?"

"For the greater good, he claimed."

"What good can come from nailing someone to a cross? Unless--Are you Jesus?"

"Jesus? Never heard the name."

"Are you a carpenter?"

At this he laughed. "A carpenter?" He showed her his hands. They were soft and smooth. "Until today, I was a prince of this realm. Now I am outcast. If not for you, I would be dead." He opened the book and began to read. "'Lo, a shadow of horror is risen in eternity...' These are not the words of Urizen. Not the one I know." He turned to the title page. "'The Book of Urizen, by William Blake.' Who is William Blake?"

"A poet, I think. He wrote something about a tiger. "

He frowned. "You are carrying one of his books, but you do not know who he is?"

"I don't know where the book came from. I've never seen it before."

He turned the page and read aloud: "'Lo! I unfold my darkness, and on this rock place with strong hand the Book of eternal brass, written in my solitude: Laws of peace, of love, of unity, of pity, compassion, forgiveness. Let each chose one habitation, his ancient infinite mansion, one command, one joy, one desire, one curse, one weight one measure, one King, one God, one Law.' The words sound much like something my grandfather would say. Except for the part about 'one law'. He has one thousand laws, which are carved on stone tablets, perched high atop the city of Kirk."

"Kirk? Is that your home?"

The young man bowed his head. "I no longer have a home."

Rica tried to imagine what it would feel like to be nailed to a cross by one's own grandfather. Poor Oric. Compared to what he had suffered, being burned in a kitchen fire was nothing. She was trying to think of something comforting to say, when they were interrupted by the sound of falling rocks. Someone was climbing up the far side of the ridge.

"Stay where you are," Oric whispered. He dove for cover behind some bushes.

Rica was too startled to move. Seconds later, she found herself eye to eye with another blue skinned man, this one a little older than Oric, with thinning hair and a scraggly beard. He wore armor and carried a sword and a bow and arrows.

The soldier was so surprised to see Rica that he did not notice that the cross was empty, which gave Oric plenty time to sneak up behind him and knock him unconscious with a rock.

"That was fortunate." Oric stripped the soldier of his clothes. He dressed quickly and armed himself. Then, he tied the soldier to the base of the cross. 'We had best hurry. When this guard fails to return, Urizen will send others."

"Where are we going?" Rica called. . For a man who had narrowly escaped death from crucifixion, he moved quickly. She had to struggle to keep up with him

"Somewhere far away from Kirk," was his terse reply.

A few miles later, he finally agreed to a short rest. Rica's stomach was now churning. "Do people in this world eat?"

He seemed amused by the question. "Everyone eats. Oh, I see. You are hungry. I suppose I should catch something for supper, before it gets dark. Wait here." He disappeared into the trees.

While waiting for him, Rica decided to start a fire. She had a box of matches--the one she used to light the gas stove-- in her apron pocket, along with a pen, a few coins, and the strange little book. She gathered twigs, dry leaves and a few larger, fallen branches. After she had a small blaze going, she sat down and began to read at random.

"They named the child Orc; he grew fed with milk of Enitharmon... They took Orc to the top of a mountain. O how Enitharmon wept! They chained his young limbs to the rock with the Chain of Jealousy beneath Urizen's dreadful shadow---"

"Good," Oric exclaimed as he entered the clearing, carrying a small animal that looked like a cross between a rabbit and a raccoon. "You started a fire." Quickly, he gutted and skinned the creature, then he speared it on a stick, which he propped over the flames.

Rica's religion forbade the eating of flesh. However, she was hungry enough to eat her own foot. And for all she knew, this was a dream, in which case it was no sin to devour an imaginary creature.

"What about your parents?" she asked Oric, as he turned the spit over the fire. "Didn't they object when your grandfather decided to have you killed."

"My mother died in childbirth. No one knows who my father is. Urizen is all the family I have---" He clenched his jaw.

On a hunch, she asked "What was your mother's name? Was it Enitharmon?"

"Enitharmon? No, but you are close. She was called Tharmon. She was Urizen's only child. According to all reports, he loved her dearly, and her death was a terrible blow to him." His expression darkened. "After she died, he started writing his laws."

"Laws? What kind of laws?"

"Laws about everything. He has been working on them for years. The first ones were basic rules. 'Do not kill.' 'Do not tell lies.' 'Do not steal." Then he started writing laws about fornication and blasphemy. Later, he started writing about the clothes people should wear and the color of their skin."

"The color of people's skin," she echoed. "You mean, he decided that people with certain color skin were inferior to others?"

"Certainly not. We are all equal in eyes of God. That is Law number 12. Though Urizen is more equal than most." His laughter sounded forced. "About ten years ago, he decided that people should be blue, like the heavens. So he wrote a law. Number 297, I think. I get them confused. Since then, everyone in Kirk has had blue skin and hair."

"Are you saying that you dye your skin blue?"

"No, my skin is this color naturally. Because Urizen decreed it."

Now she was totally confused. "Just because a person writes a law saying 'Everyone will have blue skin' that doesn't make it happen."

"It does if the person writing the laws is my grandfather. Do not ask me how he does it. It is a power which only he possesses. Do you have a coin?"

"Huh?"

He repeated the question.

Rica reached into her pocket and found a quarter.

He examined it. "I have never seen a coin such as this." He tossed it into the air. It landed heads. He tossed it again and again. Each time it came up heads. "When I was a boy, if you tossed a coin , it would come up heads half the time and tails the other half. But a few years ago, Urizen decided that he did not like having his face against the ground--his image is on all the coins of Kirk--so he decreed that any coin that was dropped or tossed would always come up heads. Supper is done. Watch your fingers, it is hot."

They ate in silence. Afterwards, they drank water from a stream. By this time, the sun had set. It was now too dark to travel, so Oric agreed that they would rest for the night. He spread the soldier's cloak on the damp earth so that both of them could sleep on it.

"Can I ask you a question?" Oric asked after they were settled down for the night.

"Go ahead."

"You said you were from another land. How did you know my mother's name?"

Rica told him about the book, including the part about his own crucifixion.

Oric propped himself up on his elbow and gazed down at her in wonder. "You appear from nowhere, a woman with brown skin and hair like soft wool, carrying a book that records events that had not yet occurred when the book was written. Are you sure you are not an angel?"

"I'm not sure of anything."

"Tell me about yourself and your world."

She told him about the Church, including their recent troubles with the law. Social workers had demanded that the children be removed because they were not getting proper schooling or health care. Their parents had refused, so the police were called in.

"They surrounded the building. At first we were terrified, but days passed and nothing happened. We got used to having them out there. It meant no one could go outside, but we had food enough for a month. They cut the electricity and the water, but we had plenty of bottled water and the stoves were all propane---" Her voice broke.

He gave her hand a squeeze. "You do not have to continue if the memories are too painful."

"No, it's OK. I was in the kitchen, feeding the kids. I had just lit the stove so I could start working on the evening meal. There was a rifle shot. The bullet broke the window . Someone tossed a tear gas canister into the kitchen. It had government markings on it. I guess it was the police trying to force us out. The stove exploded and the blast threw me out the window. The last thing I remember is hitting the ground outside and the sound of kids screaming as they burned---" She started to cry.

Oric put his arms around her. She fell asleep sobbing with her head on his shoulder.

The next morning, they resumed their journey. When Rica asked where they were going, Oric replied only "Away from Urizen."

"Is there a city nearby?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "No one knows what lies outside the kingdom of Kirk."

"Why not?"

"Because no one ever leaves Kirk."

There was an old black and white TV show that Rica used to watch late at night. The Twilight Zone. This world was beginning to remind her of it.

"It was not always this way," Oric continued. "When I was a small child, there were ambassadors from other kingdoms and traveling bards and merchants who brought exotic animals and strange foods to sell in the market." He frowned. "That all ended when I was five. Urizen closed the gates of the city to visitors, then he wrote law number 547. "Though shalt not stray into the Wilderness." Since then, no one from outside has visited our kingdom, and none of the citizens have traveled beyond the boundaries of Kirk."

"Aren't there books in Kirk? Some of them must describe the world outside."

"Urizen outlawed them. They disappeared overnight."

"It's only been--what?---fifteen years?"

"Twelve. I am sixteen years old."

Funny, he seemed older. "Twelve years isn't all that long. There must be people in Kirk who remember what it was like to travel. Couldn't they tell you what's outside your kingdom?"

"They have all forgotten. " He sighed. "Sometimes I think I only dreamed about the visitors. How could my memories be right and everyone else be wrong?"

"It sounds to me like you're the only sane person left in Kirk. Is it OK if I ask why your grandfather decided to have you crucified?"

"I broke the law."

"Which law?"

"Urizen's law."

"You said he had a thousand laws. Which law did you break?"

"You do not understand. It does not matter which law was broken. No one breaks Urizen's laws.It is impossible. Once the words are carved in stone, they become reality."

Now she was really confused. "I don't get it. If no one can break Urizen's law, then how did you do it?"

He frowned. "That is a good question. "

"And if it's impossible for people to leave Kirk, then why are we here?"

"Another good question. Maybe we are still in Kirk. Maybe there is nothing but Kirk, and people who try to leave end up walking in circles forever." He looked very glum.

Rica tried to cheer him up. "We know there must be a world outside Kirk, because I come from somewhere else."

"Unless you are a figment of my imagination. Oww! Why did you do that?"

"Can a figment pinch you like that? I'm real. As real as you." Maybe even more real, she thought. What if Oric was the dream? The thought made her sad. She was starting to like him.

After that, they walked in silence, and Rica had a chance to notice things. Like the fact that the grass was becoming a little less blue and a little more green. When they stopped for lunch beside a stream, she thought she caught a glimpse of a yellow butterfly out of the corner of her eye, though when she turned to look it was gone. These and other subtle changes in the landscape made her suspect that they were indeed outside Kirk. Or very close to its border.

She said nothing of her suspicions, but she decided to conduct a test. From time to time, she would take out a quarter and toss it. All day it came up heads. However, as they were making camp for the night, the coin landed tails up.

She showed the coin to Oric. His eyes widened then narrowed. "It is a good thing Urizen is not here. He would have you crucified, too."

Rica shook her head in exasperation. "Don't you get it? Urizen's magic only works in Kirk. That's why he won't let anyone leave. The further away we get, the weaker his power becomes. Your skin is already less blue. In another couple of days, you'll be back to your normal color. So will the grass. So will the flowers. You'll be able to spit and swear and fornicate and do all the other things Urizen says you can't do." She blushed when she realized what she had just said. Would he read it as an invitation? Rica had never kissed a boy, much less had sex with one.

To her relief, Oric made no reply. Instead, he disappeared into the forest to hunt for supper. Rica passed the time building a fire. It was not really cold, but she found the light comforting. And the red color of the flames was a nice change after all that blue. Would Urizen get around to changing the color of fire one day? Why this preoccupation with the color blue?

And why was not she afraid of fire? After what had happened, she should have been terrified by it. If she closed her eyes and concentrated, she could still feel the heat on her back and hear the deafening blast of the explosion. What an awful accident. She wondered how many children were burned and how many died. The memory of their screams brought tears to her eyes.

The preacher was always saying that God's ways were mysterious, but why did He fill the kitchen with children and then have the police throw a tear gas canister right next to a gas stove? Was it a test? If she had managed to reach the canister in time, would He have saved them? Or maybe the atheists were right. Maybe there was no God, and life was just a joke. Or a dream.

Such thoughts made her feel very small and very lonely. She was relieved when Oric returned with their supper. They had roasted fish that night and some kind of nut that had a soft texture. For desert, there were sweet, ripe berries. The fish could have used some salt, but other than that, it was one of the best meals Rica had ever eaten.

"Something puzzles me," Oric remarked as they finished the berries. "As I was walking through the woods, I thought to myself 'Too bad there is not a hesternut tree nearby. This is the season for hesternuts.' The next thing I knew, I was standing in front of the biggest hesternut tree I have ever seen. I gathered some nuts and continued on my way. Next, I started thinking about berries."

"And you saw a berry bush?"

"Loaded with fruit. It was almost dark by then, and I had not come across any game. 'Too bad there is no pond nearby' I said aloud. I blinked, and there was a pond. 'Oh dear,' I said. ' I forgot my fishing rod. Would a couple of plump fish jump out of the water and into this sack?' That was how I got tonight's supper."

"You're like Urizen!." She exclaimed.

Oric glowered. "How dare you say something like that? My grandfather is mad. A cruel, mad tyrant."

"I didn't mean it that way. What I should have said is you've got his power to change things."

He sighed. "If I have inherited his power, maybe I have inherited his insanity, as well."

"You seem perfectly sane to me."

"A figment of my imagination would say that."

"I already told you---Look, you only have a quarter of his genes. Blood," she corrected, realizing that people in this world might have no idea what genes were. "Odds are, even if his madness is hereditary, you don't have it."

This only made him look more glum. "There is something I have never told anyone."

"Go on."

" No one in the palace would speak of it aloud, and later they seemed to forget. But when I was very young I heard the whispers. The reason I had no father was because my grandfather was also my father."

"You mean--"

"---Urizen committed incest with his own daughter."

"Oh."

Neither spoke for a long time. The fire burned down to embers. Though the sun had set, the temperature was still perfect, not too cold and not too hot. Was this Urizen's doing or Oric's?

Finally, Rica broke the silence with a question that had been puzzling her. "Why does Urizen want everything to be blue?"

"It was my mother's favorite color."

So much for her attempt to change the subject. "Now that you know the truth about your power, what are you going to do?"

He yawned. "I am going to get a good night's sleep and think about it in the morning."

Rica did not go to sleep right away. She remembered the book. It had described many of the things which had happened up until now. Maybe it would give her some clue about the future. Moving quietly so that she would not disturb Oric, she built up the fire again, so that she could read by its light.

To her surprise, she saw that the lettering on the spine of the little book had changed. Where it used to read "Urizen" it now read "America." Her name. With trembling fingers, she opened the book and began reading. "The shadowy daughter of Urthona stood before red Orc." Could the shadowy daughter be her? And red Orc--now that the blue was fading, Oric was beginning to look a little bit like an American Indian, with ruddy skin and black hair.

She continued reading. It was at once the story of the American Revolution and Oric's story. She read how he broke his chains and freed the other captives. He confronted his oppressors. "'I am Orc, wreathed round the accursed tree. The times are ended; shadows pass, the morning 'gins to break. The fiery joy, that Urizen perverted to ten commands...that stony law I stamp to dust.'"

She fell asleep pondering these words.

In the morning, when she woke, Oric was packing their few belongings.

"Get up lazy bones. We have a long journey before us."

She yawned and stretched. "Just how far are you planning to go? We're outside Urizen's sphere of power. Isn't that far enough?"

"We are going back. Back to Kirk."

She did not ask him why. The book had already given her the answer.

Strange things began to happen that day. Wherever Oric's feet touched the grass, the blue changed to green. He looked different, too. His skin was copper colored, and his hair and eyes were dark brown, almost black. He still had the slit like pupils, but other than that he looked like a perfectly normal Native American.

Rica checked her hands. They had returned to their usual pecan color. She did not have a mirror, but she assumed that the rest of her was back to normal, too. Maybe better than normal. Were her breasts this large before she came to Kirk? Was her waist this narrow? From time to time she caught Oric looking at her in a way that made her blush. Did he think of her as attractive? Had he used his power--unconsciously--to make her even more attractive? It was a disturbing thought. Not the part about him finding her attractive. She was attracted to him, too. It was the thought that he could alter her to suit his tastes that bothered her. No one should have that much power.

Things got even stranger around midmorning. It should have taken two days of hard walking to return to their starting point. However, they had been traveling only a few hours when they came to the ridge where Oric had been crucified.

"It seems we will reach Kirk sooner than I expected," was all Oric said.

A few hills later, they came upon a cottage with a thatched roof. A short, skinny man was outside the house, feeding chickens. He was blue from his balding head down to his bare feet. When he saw Oric and Rica, he hurried inside. Moments later, he reappeared with a tall, brawny middle aged woman wielding a broom. They stared at the travelers as if they were freaks.

"Who are you?" the woman demanded. "What do you want here?" When Oric approached, she raised the broom threateningly. "Stay away from us. We are good law abiding citizens."

"There is no more law," Oric said quietly.

The farm wife glared at the travelers. "No more law! What nonsense!"

The farmer squinted over his wife's shoulder. "You're that prince, aren't you? The one with no father. Demon spawn. I heard they crucified you. What are you doing here?"

"I have come to spread the news. Urizen's Laws have been broken."

"Such talk---Oh my! What's happened to your face, Henry?"

The farmer stared back at his wife. "My face? You should see yourself. You're the same color you used to be all those years ago, before everyone turned blue."

It was true. Their skin had changed from blue to brown in a matter of seconds.

"Law 432." Oric said. "Or is it 433? Broken. Can I borrow your coin, Rica."

She handed him the quarter.

He tossed it. The first time it came up heads. The second time was tails. "There goes another law. See the grass? It is starting to turn green again. Urizen's laws are breaking one by one. If it is not too much trouble, could my companion and I have a drink of water from your well, before we continue our journey to the city?"

"The city? What are you going to do there?" the farm wife asked.

"Spread the news. Urizen rules no more. "

When they left the farm to continue their journey, the old couple followed them, as did many of the people Oric and Rica encountered that morning. At each farm house it was the same. At first, they were met with hostility. Once Oric demonstrated his ability to defy the Laws of Urizen, attitudes quickly changed.

"Finally the tyrant is going to get what's coming to him."

"It's about time. All this blue--I'm sick of blue. I want green."

"Yes, green. And red and yellow."

"The old bastard's done for."

"Death to Urizen! Long live Prince Oric!"

"Long live King Oric!"

At some point, someone must have run ahead to spread the news. As the travelers neared the city, they came upon a group of drunken men and women who were celebrating noisily in the middle of the road. Many were half naked. Some of them were dancing. One couple was making love in a ditch. At the sight of Oric and his followers, they let out a loud cheer.

"Look! It's the Prince!"

"He's here. Prince Oric is here to break the tablets and free us from the tyrant."

"Urizen's dead! The Law's no more!"

"Death to Urizen! Long live Oric!"

"Look what I can do. I can spit." The old man who uttered these words spit on the road. "I haven't been able to do that in years. Not since that bastard in Kirk wrote a law against spitting. Want to hear me fart?"

Rica declined his offer.

"We are going to the city," Oric announced. "To spread the news. Any of you who want to come are welcome."

Those sober enough to walk took him up on the offer. Their party now numbered fifty. They made enough noise for a crowd twice as large.

There were no more hostile farmers after that. People seemed to sense what was happening. Many were waiting beside the road to see the prince pass, and a fair number decided to accompany him. Fifty grew to seventy, then to one hundred.

Now, more than ever, Rica felt as if she was in a dream. Only in a dream could faces change from glum blue to joyous bronze before her eyes. Only in a dream could a man walk across a blue field and leave green grass and golden flowers in his wake. Only in a dream could a blue butterfly alight on a sleeve and change to violet before taking wing again.

"It's magic," people kept repeating. "The prince's magic is stronger than Urizen's."

At first, Oric tried to explain that all he was doing was restoring reality. No one listened. Soon, he stopped bothering.

"There it is." Oric shaded his eyes. "It's Kirk. "

Rica squinted. In the distance she saw a dark blue mountain shrouded in mist topped by a high plateau. "Where?"

His hand trembled slightly as he pointed. "On the side of the mountain. The city is carved into the rock. Urizen's fortress is on top." He looked pale. Or was the blue tint returning to his skin?

Rica gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. He returned her smile, but his heart was not in it. The sight of Kirk had awakened a deeply rooted fear.

He was not the only one who felt it. When the shadow of the mountain fell over the travelers, people went silent. Their smiles turned to fearful frowns. One by one, their ruddy coloring was replaced by blue. One by one, they fell back, until Oric and Rica marched alone across a desolate plain where small clumps of blue grass struggled to sink their roots into the rocky soil. Now, when Oric's feet touched the grass, the blades seemed to shrink away, as if they found his touch distasteful. There was no other wildlife on any kind.

"It's so--grim." Rica shivered as a cold wind blew down from the mountain. "Why do people stay here?"

"It is the law." He gazed up at the mountaintop. "Urizen's tablets are up there. Each one is carved with laws. There were almost one hundred tablets when I---I left Kirk. I would not be surprised to find that he has added one or two more in my absence." He sighed. His shoulders slumped forward. "I am tired. Let us rest."

Rica had a premonition. If Oric sat down now, he would not rise again. "It's just a little bit farther. I'll read to you from the book while we walk." The new poem, "America" would help him regain his fighting spirit, she thought. She took out the small leather book volume and opened it at random. The page was blank. She turned one page, then another. Nothing. The words she had read the night before had been erased.

She could not tell Oric. He might interpret it as a bad sign and give up his quest. She would have to make up something. What was that poem she memorized in school? "Tiger, tiger, burning bright...." As she recited from memory, the words came back to her.

The poem seemed to encourage Oric. "I saw a tiger once, when I was a child. It was in a cage. It paced back and forth, never looking at those of us who had come to gawk. It was a sad creature, with mangy fur and cloudy eyes. I did not like seeing it locked up. It did not seem right. I told my nanny that I wanted to buy it and set it free. She told me that if the tiger was set free, it would eat all the children of Kirk, including me. I did not care.

"That night, I dreamed that the tiger slipped out of his cage. He came to me, in my bedroom. His eyes were as bright as two burning coals. 'Thank you,' he said. 'Thanks for what?' I asked. He did not answer. At that moment, I woke up. There was shouting in the street. The tiger had broken free. He must have fled into the wilderness surrounding Kirk, because he was never seen again. I used to wonder if it was my dream that set the tiger free."

"Maybe it was." Rica did not like the thought of walking across a plain that might be inhabited by a tiger. If the beast appeared suddenly, there would be no place to hide. "Hurry up. It will be dark soon."

"So?"

He had a good point. What difference did it make it they arrived in Kirk by daylight or after dark? "It's getting colder."

He put his arm around her shoulders. "I should not have brought you here. It is too dangerous."

She could not help but laugh. "Dangerous? Let me tell you about dangerous. Dangerous is standing in a kitchen with a gas stove, watching someone shoot out the window in order to toss a tear gas canister inside." If only she had been a little bit quicker to act. If only she had moved a little bit faster. "If my land were like yours, I supposed I could have wished the canister away. But in my world, people can't do that. Things are the way they are, and no one, no matter how rich or smart or powerful can make them any different. You're lucky, Oric. You actually have a chance to do some good." Her enthusiasm returned. "Urizen's just one man. Don't let him spook you, Oric. That's how he wins. He makes people think that he has already won, so they don't even try."

Oric's smile looked forced. "Were you a philosopher in your own world?"

"A philosopher? Heavens, no. I already told you. I was an ordinary girl. At least, I was ordinary until I moved into the Church commune with my parents."

"Did the church have rules?"

What was he trying to get at. "Sure, lots of them?"

"Did you believe the rules? All the rules? I am not asking if you followed the rules or gave lip service to them. Did you truly believe what you were told?"

Rica considered the question. "No," she answered finally. "I didn't really believe it. Not all of it, anyway. It was what my parents wanted to do, and I went where they went. I suppose in a year or two, when I was old enough to be on my own, I would have left. Most of the teenagers left."

"You did leave," he corrected. "You left your world and came here."

She had never thought of it that way.

"If an 'ordinary girl' can journey from one world to another," Oric continued. "What is to stop a prince of Kirk from breaking a few laws? Hand me that book. Maybe I will find some words to inspire me."

Before Rica could think of an excuse, Oric snatched the volume from her hands. What would he say when he realized that she had lied to him? Would he be angry? What would he think when he found the pages blank? Would he be frightened?

Oric opened the book at random. He glanced at the page, then did a double take.

Oh no, Rica thought.

Oric looked at her then back to the page. "What an odd little book!" He closed it and handed it back to her. He was smiling. "Hurry up."

Rica had to run to keep up with him. "What's the rush?" The mountain city of Kirk, which had seemed so distant moments before, was now right in front of them.

He did not answer. They were close enough that Rica could make out the individual faces of the citizens of Kirk. Two husky, blue skinned men dressed in armor flanked the only visible gate. Oric headed in the opposite direction. "There is a secret entrance," he explained as he pushed aside some bushes .

Rica peered into the gloomy, narrow passage. "Where does it go?"

"All the way to the top. The laws of chivalry decree that ladies should go first, but in this instance I think we can suspend the rules."

She had never liked small, closed in spaces, and this was worse than most. In some places, she had to turn sideways to proceed. And the effort of climbing all those stairs made her chest burn and the blood pound in her head.

"Just a few more steps to go," Oric said encouragingly.

"Maybe--you should--go on---without--me."

"I need you."

"What for? I'm only---"

"An ordinary girl? You are the angel who saved my life and taught me how to overcome Urizen. Careful now. The last bit of the passage drops down suddenly.

Despite his warning, she would have fallen if he had not caught her. He held her close for just a moment. Something brushed her hair. Was it a kiss? Before she could ask, Oric released her and marched forward.

She expected to find that night had fallen while they climbed the secret stairs. Instead, the sun was high overhead. The heat had burned away the clouds. When she peered over the edge of the plateau, she saw a vast city stretching all the way down to the plain. The height made her dizzy. She straightened up and turned. The "plateau " was too perfect to be natural. Spaced at even intervals across the wide, circular platform were enormous engraved stone pillars .

"Just how long were we in that tunnel?"

"Thirty, forty minutes."

"So why is the sun higher than it was when went in?"

"Because I need light in order to write," he replied, his voice matter of fact, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for a man to tell the sun to rise. He stooped and picked up a piece of shiny, blackish rock. "This is going to take a while. Maybe you ought to get some rest."

She did not realize how sleepy she was, until he said these words. Smothering a yawn, she looked for a good place to lie down. The air had gone from cold to hot. She found a shady spot behind one of the stone pillars and curled up in a ball. Soon she was fast asleep and dreaming. Dreaming about children. Children in a land far away....

She woke briefly, then fell asleep again.

The next day, her eyelids stayed open long enough for one of the aides to notice. The nurse called the doctor, but by the time he arrived, Rica had slipped back into her coma. She did not open her eyes again or move or speak for two more days. Then, on the morning of the third day, she regained full consciousness.

"How--how 'ong?" she attempted to ask. Her lips and tongue felt as if they had swollen to twice their normal size.

"Three months," the nurse replied. "You've been in the hospital, unconscious for three months."

This was no hospital, Rica soon decided. This was hell. The nurses assured her that she was in the burn unit at the county hospital and that she was doing well and would make a full recovery. Rica knew better. She had left Heaven--and Oric--- and fallen into the Inferno.

Noticing her depression, the nurses brought her a television set. For the first few days, Rica ignored it. However, late one afternoon, a familiar face appeared in the television screen. It was the pastor of her parents' church. He and seven other church members were on trial for the deaths of the children. Prosecutors claimed that he and other "cult members" had decided to commit mass suicide by setting fire to their church.

"No," Rica whispered aloud.

The nurse noticed her agitation. "Do you want me to turn it off?"

"No," Rica said again, louder this time. "They have it wrong. I need to tell them what really happened."

"But---"

"Now. Call the reporters . And the police. Do it, or I'll walk out of here."

It was an idle threat. She was too weak to roll over much less get out of bed. However, the nurse brought in a policeman. When Rica demanded reporters, she brought them, too. They appeared so fast that Rica assumed that the press had been camped out at the hospital, waiting for her to talk about what happened in the kitchen that day.

"It wasn't the pastor, " she told the people assembled in her hospital room. "It was a terrible, tragic mistake. I saw it all. Someone shot out the window. There was flying glass, but no one was seriously hurt. Someone tossed a metal canister through the window. I don't know much about stuff like that, but I don't think it was a bomb. I think it was a tear gas canister. It made some nasty smelling smoke. And a spark. Just a little one, but it ignited the stove. There was an explosion and then everything was on fire. Children were screaming. The blast sent me through a window, otherwise I would have been burned alive, too."

There. It was done. Rica closed her eyes. She was so tired. Thank God it was over. Now she could rest. Her only regret was that she would never see Kirk again and never find out what happened to Oric. Would he defeat Urizen? Or would his grandfather triumph?

Silly girl, Rica told herself. It was just a dream.

Or was it?

Her eyes flew open. "Who here has studied William Blake?" Three of the reporters raised their hands. "Can anyone tell me if he wrote poems called 'Urizen' and 'America'?""

Many puzzled glances were exchanged, but finally one woman stepped forward. "Yes, he wrote those poems."

"Does Urizen start 'Lo, a shadow of horror is risen in eternity'?"

"That sounds familiar."

"Would you expect to find those poems in a school book? An elementary school book."

The reporter laughed. "Heavens, no. They were tough reading even in college. Would you mind telling me why you are so interested in William Blake?"

Rica was no longer listening. So the poems were real. And if the poems were real, that meant that Kirk and Oric....

Rica woke to the sound of voices shouting accusations. Cautiously, she sat up and peered around the stone tablet which sheltered her from the sun. A tall, broad shouldered man with a snow white beard and long, flowing white hair was staring at the closest pillar with an expression of fury on his lapis blue face. "Who dares to desecrate the tablets? Guards, search for the heretic. I want him captured. Alive if possible."

"Do not bother. I am here." The voice was Oric's. Rica shifted position slightly so she could see him. His complexion was a healthy bronze, except for his hands which were black with charcoal or soot.

"YOU!" Urizen roared.

"Yes, me," Oric replied quietly. "I have finished. I wrote it one hundred and ninety eight times---twice for every tablet, once on the front and once on the back. I was afraid I would run out of graphite, but I managed to get the job down. Your thousand laws are obsolete, grandfather. They have been replaced by the one true law, the law to end all laws."

What on earth was he talking about? Rica glanced up. Something was scrawled on the marble in black, but from this angle she could not decipher it. Cautiously, she rose. This was what she read.

"One law for the lion and ox is oppression."

She had barely finished reading the words when the stone tablet began to crumble. Not just this tablet. All the tablets.

The old man remained frozen for two or three seconds. Then, he started screaming for someone to save the tablets and kill his grandson. His bulging eyes were red with blood, and white foam frothed at his lips. The blue color of his skin rapidly faded to pale brown.

The guards looked confused and worried. When Oric suggested calmly that they go back to their garrison and let him handle "the old man", they seemed relieved.

"Fool!" Urizen shouted when he recovered his voice. "You've unleashed the darkness and brought ruin upon us all."

"No," his grandson replied quietly. "I have unleashed freedom." He stooped and picked up a handful of powder which had once been a stone tablet. As the fine sand ran between his fingers, he said "Every man--and woman," he added, smiling in Rica's direction "Creates the world anew with every breath, and each of those worlds is bigger than the whole. Unless the creator tries to make the whole world his, in which case it becomes less." With the last word, he tossed a few grains of dust into the air. Before they reached the ground, the old man groaned.

"What are you doing to me?"

"Saving your soul, I hope. If that is too far gone, then saving Kirk from your madness." He offered his hand. "Grandfather. Father."

Urizen cringed "No."

"Yes. Maybe. It is all the same in the end."

The older man backed away from the younger. "No," he kept repeating. "No, no, no." Suddenly, without warning, he turned and leapt from the platform. The drop was so far that they did not hear his body strike the ground.

Oric stared over the edge. Though the man who had just died had tried to have him killed, he looked heartbroken.

Rica crept forward. She took one of Oric's hands between hers. "It's for the best. "

He did not answer.

To distract him, she said "A law to end all laws. That's good. When did you think it up?"

"Think it up?" He appeared confused. "It is not my idea. I borrowed it from your book. When we were approaching the city, I opened it at random. The words were staring up at me, almost as if they had been written for me."

"But the last time I looked the pages were blank!"

"You read a poem about a tiger."

"I pretended to read. I didn't want to discourage you by letting you know the book was empty."

"Discourage me? You are the one who gave me the courage to fight! " With his free hand, he stroked her hair. "Now that your work here is done, my angel, will you return to your own world?"

"Not if I can help it," she muttered under her breath.

"Pardon me. I did not catch that."

Real or dream, it did not matter, for it was suddenly clear to her that the world was not something into which people were thrust by chance. It was something that people made, through their actions, hopes, fears and dreams. "I said 'This is my world now.'"

The End

(Poems and characters from William Blake)

Rosaline

The quickest route from the ticket office to the props room was through the theater and across the stage. Since I knew the way by heart, I never bothered turning on the lights.

What was different about that night? It must have been the moonlight, streaming through the hole in the roof. The tiles had been damaged in a hailstorm. A fierce northern wind had blown away the tarp.

As I stepped onto the stage, I noticed a figure standing frozen in a pool of moonlight. Closer inspection revealed a marble statue of young woman dressed in Renaissance garb. Her flowing gown was perfectly rendered, from the ruffle around her low cut bodice to the wide, dangling sleeves. Her carefully coiffed hair was decorated with lilies so lifelike they could have been real.

If only the artist had spent as much time on the woman as her clothes. Her face, while perfect, was bland, the kind of countenance that is easy to forget.

"Who left that here?" I wondered aloud. Our next scheduled production was Chekhov. The statue seemed a more suitable prop for a Shakespearean play.

"Rosaline," someone whispered.

I jumped. "Who's there?"

No answer. Slowly, I turned around. The shadows were thick. There were a dozen places where someone could hide. Trying not to show my fear, I crept towards the front of the stage. The leap into the orchestra pit wrenched my ankle, but that did not stop me from running at full speed to the ticket office. There I locked the door, then dialed 911.

Predictably, the intruder was gone by the time the police arrived. After checking out the premises, the officers advised me to get the locks changed. They offered to escort me home, but now that the lights were on, the deserted theater no longer seemed frightening, and I declined.

Had I only imagined the voice which whispered a woman's name? Rosemary? Rosalinda? No, Rosaline. The name seemed familiar, though I could not place it.

As I was preparing to leave, I noticed that the statue was missing. So there had been someone here after all. Probably one of the production crew. No burglar would bring a statue only to steal it. Poor thing. I had probably scared her as much as she had scared me. I say "she", because the voice that spoke to me from the darkness was too high pitched to belong to a man.

As I locked the front door, I made a mental note to tell the manager to get someone to fasten the tarp back onto the roof. However, the next day was hectic. I was too busy to remind anyone about the hole in the roof, much less question the cast and crew about who had been in the theater the night before.

It was after seven before I finished. A gathering storm had brought an early night fall. In the distance I heard thunder. Recalling that I had left the windows of my car rolled down, I grabbed my purse and hurried towards the front door.

As I crossed the stage, something caught my eye. It was the statue again, illuminated by a beam of moonlight just as it had been the night before.

Close inspection revealed that this statue was not the same one I had seen last night. This one's head was tilted to the side, and one hand was extended. Someone had brought a second statue and placed in here on the stage for me to find. Why?

The hairs bristled on the back of my neck. I clutched my car keys more tightly. If necessary, I could use them as a weapon.

"Is someone here?" I asked. My voice did not betray my fear.

"Rosaline." It was the voice from the night before. A woman's voice. I relaxed slightly.

"Where are you?"

"Here. In front of you."

I frowned. The only thing visible in the shadows was the statue standing in the moonlight. On a hunch, I reached forward. Instead of stone, my fingers brushed silk. So the "statue" was really a mime.

"Is this an audition? Are you looking for a part? If so, you need to come back during the day. I'm just the set designer--"

"A part," she echoed. The bland, beautiful mask that was her face did not alter. "I want a story of my own."

"A leading role? You'll have to talk to the director."

As if it was a great effort, she shook her head slowly. The lilies in her hair released their perfume. The material of her gown rustled. "Not a role. I had a role, once. Ice maiden. Perpetual virgin. I scorned Romeo. He turned to Juliet."

"Rosaline. As in 'she is rich in beauty, only poor that, when she dies, with beauty dies her store.' That Rosaline? She never appears on stage. How could you have played that Rosaline?"

"I was never a player. That was the problem." The white faced woman extended her hand a fraction of an inch more until her fingers touched mine. Her skin was icy cold.

I snatched my hand away. "Who are you? What are you?'

Colorless lips parted as if to speak, but at that moment thunder crashed. Storm clouds covered the sky, blotting out the moon. As the beam of white light disappeared, so did the young woman who claimed to be Rosaline. By the time I found a light switch, she was gone.

Fortunately, the storm was over quickly, and the water damage was minimal. Next day, the manager had the roof repaired. I told him to be on the lookout for a strange young woman with experience as a mime, but she never showed up asking for a part.

The production was a great success. My set designs were widely praised, and as a result I was invited to take part in an open air production of "A Midsummer's Night Dream."

Though there was a half roof to keep rain off the outdoor stage, the sets were still exposed to the elements, so I had to be careful in the materials I used. Since some of the scenes would be staged in minimal light, to simulate the atmosphere of a forest at night, I decided to check out the visual effect of my set design by moonlight.

The theater was located on the grounds of a small, private college. Just to be safe, I brought my Doberman, Freddie. He searched the bushes, sniffing for raccoons and other nocturnal animals to chase while I examined my sets.

It was a clear night. The air was sweetly scented with honeysuckle. Not long after sunset, the moon rose over the trees. Moonlight bathed the stage in white gold, bringing my sets to life.

Freddie barked.

"Shhh!" I told him. "It's just an animal."

The dog whimpered.

"What is wrong with you---?" That was when I felt it too. The air had gone from warm to cool. The smell of honeysuckle had been replaced by the funeral scent of lilies.

Slowly, I turned. There, on the stage, stood the young woman who called herself Rosaline. Her hair and costume were the same as before. Her face was still completely white. When I touched her outstretched hand, I found her skin to be as cold as marble. Just to be certain, I touched her cheek. Ice cold.

"What are you?" I asked.

"I am Rosaline," she replied. Even her voice was cool.

"I didn't ask your name. I asked what you are. Are you a ghost?"

Her lips barely moved. "To be a ghost, one must die. To die, one first must live. I have never lived."

"So what are you?"" I demanded again.

"A dream. An excuse. A name. I am the reason why Romeo went to the party and met Juliet. I am the catalyst that set the play in motion--and I am nothing."

"What are you doing here?"

"I am doomed to be cold and beautiful forever, a spirit which walks the stage at night, visible only when moonlight touches the boards. Will you help me?"

"Help you? How?"

"Give me a story of my own. Free me from this curse. Let the ice maiden thaw."

I considered her words. "You want me to write you a play? But if you are only visible by moonlight, how can you perform it before an audience."

"Let another bring the role to life, as so many actors have given life to Romeo, Juliet, Mercutio and the others. Write a play and call it 'Rosaline.' Tell the story from my point of view."

"I don't know. I'm a set designer. I have never written anything--"

"Please." For a moment, she looked almost human. Her eyes were wide and swimming with silvery tears. She bit her lower lip.

What could I say? "I'm no playwright, but if it will release you from this curse, I'll write you a story." But what would I write? "Let's see," I mused aloud. "Why would a beautiful young woman vow never to marry? Because she has had a bad sexual experience? Rape? Incest? Maybe you were sexually abused by your father. No, too cliche. How about this? Rosaline scorned Romeo, because she was a lesbian. Also, she was secretly in love with Juliet. What a twist."

A single cloud passed over the moon. As its silver light vanished, it took with it the beautiful, pale Rosaline. However, in my mind, she grew more real as I began to imagine her story...

The End

(Quote from Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet)

Revenge of the Monkey's Paw

"Ego is always trying to achieve spirituality. It is rather like wanting to witness your own funeral." Chogyam Trungpa from Cutting through Spiritual Materialism

Chick was searching the trash for aluminum cans, when he came across the small, blacked fist. It could have been a baby's hand, tanned and preserved as a trophy by some sick hunter who considered all living creatures fair game. However, when he spread the fingers, revealing the slick, leathery palm, he noticed that the creases were wrong. The thumb did not work, either. Not the way thumbs were meant to work.

It was, he realized with a little snort of laughter, the hand of a monkey. Being well acquainted with the old tale about the monkey's paw, he imagined the havoc it might have wrecked on the upper class family whose trash he was raiding. Did the father wish for a promotion? Maybe junior wanted to get into Harvard. Who died as a result of these selfish desires? How much pain and suffering were caused by the greed of those who already had more than enough?

Too bad such stories were fantasy. It would nice to see people get their just desserts for a change. The woman who let her Doberman off the leash to attack him last week was high on his list of snooty rich folks who needed to be taught a lesson. Maybe he should drop the monkey's paw in her mail box. At the very least, she would get a shock when she reached in and touched it. If she recognized what it was, she might make a wish or two. This being the real world and not a story, nothing would happen. And then she would feel like a fool. On the other hand, if the tales were true, then something really nasty might occur.

A car turned into the alley. It was a cop car. Quickly, Chick pocketed the monkey's paw and started walking, his plastic trash bag of tin cans slung over his shoulder. The street was a public thoroughfare. He had a right to walk here. However, the police could arrest him for loitering if he did not keep moving.

What would the plump, blonde haired young man behind the wheel of the patrol car wish for if he had the monkey's paw? A winning lottery ticket? A wild night of hot sex with a movie star? A cure for his mother's cancer?

The last thought stopped Chick in his tracks. The words "April is the cruelest month" starting playing through his mind. Funny how he remembered things from his college days more clearly than the events of last week. He seemed to be living in a fog, each day blurring into the one before and the one to follow. He could not tell you who the vice president was, but he remembered why Thomas Sutpen's daughter could not be allowed to marry her suitor and how Byron died and which plays were Shakespeare's last.

"April is the cruelest month." Hope, despair---two sides of the same coin. A coin called desire. It was not people's anger or tears or death that made them suffer. It was the awful, empty space deep within their guts that made them want and want and want.

The patrol car stopped. The young officer got out.

"Do you have business in this neighborhood?" he asked. One hand rested lightly on his pistol.

Chick drew his hands out of his pockets slowly, to show that he was unarmed. "Just getting some exercise, officer. The doctor told me to walk a mile every day."

The patrolman relaxed. He did not buy the lie for a second. However, Click's quick thinking proved that he was not a burned out schizophrenic refugee from the local VA psych ward waiting to go ballistic. If he saw a bicycle lying unattended on someone's front lawn, he might hop on it and speed away, but he would not cut off a housewife's head with garden sheers and pour Draino down her throat.

"Better get walking, then." He softened his words with a smile. "You won't get much exercise standing there, looking at the street."

"Yes, sir." Once upon a time, words such as sir would have stuck in Chick's throat, like bitter, bile-flavored phlegm. Now, they were just words, little, insignificant words compared to the big ones. Words like desire.

Some say the world will end in fire, Some in ice.   
From what I've tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire--

---

The young officer nodded his head once. "You have a nice day, sir," he said, out of respect for Chick's gray hair. Then, he drove away.

Chick fingered the monkey's paw. He could wish for happiness for the young man who had been kinder to him than he had any right to expect. However, desire was still fire, even if it was for someone else. For instance, the police man might get shot in the head, causing brain damage that would leave him with the IQ of a child. At that point, he would be "happy" simply to be fed and bathed, but would that be real happiness? Not for the family that had to care for him.

The best thing would be to bury the monkey's paw at the bottom of a land fill. However, eventually, it would work its way to the surface again and fall into the wrong hands. There had to be a way to protect not just this generation but all the generations to come from its malevolent influence--

Chick's eyes widened. His jaw dropped. Could it really be so simple? There had to a catch. He turned his solution over and over in his mind, examining it for any possible loophole, but he found no flaws in his reasoning. He would turn the paw's power on itself.

He looked over his shoulder to make sure that he was not being observed. Would not want to blurt out a "damn you!" in the middle of his wish. Seeing that the street was deserted, he took out the smooth, blackened paw. "I wish that no one on earth will ever make another wish with this monkey's paw."

Before Chick and every other human being on earth vanished, he recalled the next line of Frost's poem.

\--But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate,   
To say that for destruction ice Is also great And would suffice.

---

This made him think about regret, another one of the big words, a word vast enough to occupy a man's thoughts for all eternity.

****

In the Pure Land, Bodhisattva Chow Lin watched his monitor. "Looks like another species just achieved collective enlightenment," he announced to his partner.

Bodhisattva Pierre Blanch checked his own monitor. "You sure about that? I don't pick up a mass of souls waiting to enter the Pure Land. Nothing but a couple of Rangoonian water priests and an Enlightened artificial intelligence from Zeta 3."

"Positive." Chow Lin pointed at the screen. "See. No more wishes on the monkey's paw in the third planet in the Sol System. That means no more desire. 'Desire is the root of all suffering. If you end desire, you end suffering--'"

"You don't have to quote the Four Noble Truths to me." Pierre Blanch peered over his partner's shoulder at the lotus blossom which represented the world in question. "You're right. The homo sapiens have all vanished. Maybe they bypassed the Pure Lands and went straight to Nirvana. Better send someone to pick up the monkey's paw. There's a planet in the Orion system that's about to evolve intelligent life, and I want to keep track of its spiritual development."

(Based upon the famous story The Monkey's Paw by W.W. Jacobs)

Psyche

I said "I do" , and then we did. And we did it as often as possible, until God blessed us with our daughter. How my man loved her when she toddled across the floor on her fat little legs, her face a fright with jam, her eyes this big. Thinking she would be His forever, not understanding that the reason she learned to walk so early was so that she could get an earlier start on leaving home.

Ah, but when she turned five, He understood. Quite a little miss she was by then, and He looked at her and I could almost see those wheels turning inside his head. "Daughters grow up and away," He was thinking. "But a son--a son is a son forever." Forgetting how fast He forgot His own father and His father's father and His father's father's fathers.

"Shall we have a son?" He asked. As if I could open a cook book and there would a recipe printed all nice and neat. "A dash of snail, a pinch of puppy dog's tail..."

But there was no saying no to Him. He was too dear when He looked at me like that, His great brown eyes full of pleading. Break a woman's heart, it would, to see a tear fall from that eye.

"I was thinking the same thing myself," I replied.

So we had our son. And a dark night I was. A terrible night. We had him, then we lost him, poor wee thing. I, near out of my mind with grief. And Him--Him so strong, so sweet, so gentle. So daft.

"He's in heaven," He said to soothe me.

"What do I care of heaven," I wailed. "I want my son!"

A well could not contain all the tears I cried. They would have overflowed an ocean. But the tears dried up as they always do, and the grief passed with the passing of the days. And then the nights, which gave me such terror in the months after my boy died--then the nights turned gentle and warm. I would throw off the blanket, then the sheet. Sometimes, I would throw off my nightgown, too. But He would just turn His back. Or maybe He would said "Shall I open a window, my dear?"

"No," I wanted to say. "I want you to open me, you fool." But I could not speak the words. Not with the grief hanging heavy over Him like a cloud of soot. Yes, grief. All that time I thought He did not miss our boy, all those nights I hated Him for not caring enough, and now I saw the truth. He cared too much. Grief had eaten Him up inside. Grief had carried away His soul and it was up to me, his wife, to find it and bring it home again or He would forever be a half man, living in the past.

"Give him time," my friends said.

"Give him time," the priest said.

So I gave Him time. But time was not giving my man back to me. Time plays tricks with us. I took me a while to see, but see I did, in the end. If I wanted my man back, I would have to go get Him.

My friends told me "Fix your hair different. Buy a new dress." But was not I already the belle of the stage? Did not I already have men swearing on their knees that they would die of love for me? Did not He have me near naked every night in the same bed?

"Give him more time," the priest said again.

I wondered what he would say if instead of complaining that me and my man were having no kids because He would not, I was to tell him instead "Oh Father, he is all over me. But only in unnatural ways."

That would have been the end of "Give him more time." Then the father would have sang a different tune.

Ten years passed, and finally even the Father got tired of saying "Give him more time." But not one of my friends had a word of advice, not one I cared to hear anyway. Annulment was out. I loved Him. If I did not love Him so dearly, I would have been thanking heaven every day that He had lost interest in me, instead of banging my head against the wall trying to think of some way to win Him back to me.

Love can make a woman desperate. And a desperate woman can do anything. She can pick up the pieces of her dead brother as that Egyptian princess did and glue them back together with her tears and breathe life into him and get herself with child by him. If an Egyptian woman could do all that with a dead man who had been torn to pieces then what was to stop an Irish woman from performing the same miracle with a man still living and in one piece? What magic did the Egyptians possess, I wondered? I asked my friends. All they knew was what they had read in romance stories. I asked the priest--no, I am joking. I know better than to ask the priest a question like that.

Finally, I asked myself. "Molly, if you want to know the secret of the Egyptians who do you ask?"

The answer was as clear as the nose on my face. You ask the Egyptians. In my profession, we meet a lot of travelling types. Finding a gypsy was as easy as finding grass in a pasture. Finding a real gypsy, one who knew more magic tricks than just how to make fools give up their money--that was a task worthy of Hercules. But I did it. A twisted up little slip of a woman, she was. Older than Methuselah but with a sparkle in her coal black eyes that told me at once "This old woman knows a thing or two about love."

"Your man is a Hebrew, I take it," she said.

"And what if He is?" I replied, all haughty.

She cackled like one of the old witches in Macbeth "I'm not trying to give offense," she told me. "I am asking a straight question, and I need a straight answer."

"Yes, He is. Or He was. He is not much of anything anymore."

She nodded her head. "As I thought. Jehovah is a vengeful God. He does nothing without reason. But once he gets a reason in his head, he keeps it there."

"You are saying that God is doing this to my man?"

"No, I am saying that your man is doing this for his god. He wanted a son. He got a son. And then he lost him. So now he is afraid to want."

"Look," I told her. "It's Him that always has His head in a book. Him that is always talking philosophy. I need to hear things straight."

"Then straight to the point, I'll be," she says. "When your son died, you cried and then you got over it. Oh, you still miss him, and occasionally a tear still comes to your eye. But you paid your price to love. Your husband, he has never paid the price. For ten long years he has been telling himself 'It was something I did wrong. God would not punish me in this way unless what I did was sinful. What did I do? I wanted a son. So wanting a son was sinful. Praise God.'" She rolled her dark eyes to show what she thought of this. "And meanwhile the Goddess of Love is saying 'What is wrong with you man? Are you daft? You lost your only son. You should be crying. You should be beating your breast. You should be shaking your fist at the sky and cursing God.' But your man, being of the mind that there is only one God and only one way to talk to him, does not even hear her.

"So now the Goddess is good and mad. She tells him 'If you don't let yourself feel this, my man, I'll never let you feel at all. No more love for you. Do you understand?' But still he does not hear her." Her eyes narrowed to two slits. She looked a bit like the cat when it watches a sparrow. "That is where you come in."

"Me? I have already tried love. I have tried every French perfume, every piece of indecent silk lingerie, every---"

She shook her old head. "You have hardly tried at all," she told me. "You are as bad as him, waiting for him to come home on his own. It is a wonder you have not lost him for good. Ten years? Are you mad? In ten years a man can change completely. How do you know that if you find him now you will still want him?"

I pounded my fist against my bosom. "I know here."

At that she smiled. "Very good. Maybe there is hope for you yet. Here is what you have to do if you want your man back." And then she told me.

My face must have been a picture, eyes wide, chin dropped to my chest. "I could not!" I exclaimed.

She gave me a wry look. "Why not?"

"Because I love my man! I could never do that to him."

She shook her head. "Then you do not love him as much as you say. What's a woman's virtue to the Goddess of love? A womb full of cobwebs. What's a woman's good reputation to the Goddess of love? Blasphemy." She spat on the ground at my feet. "Come back when you find your own love. Then we can start looking for his."

For months, her words haunted me. By day, I fought them. At night there was no escaping them. The old crone had planted seeds in my dream. The seeds brought forth unholy fruit, a garden full of naked men like so many trees. Their arms outstretched, their eyes on me. "Please," the wind seemed to whisper as it ran its fingers through their lustrous hair. "Please." After a few months of this, I could bear it no longer. I went back the Gypsy. She did not seem at all surprised to see me. "Have you found your love yet, Mrs. Bloom?"

I took a deep breath. "If it will win my man back, I am willing to do what you say. But not how you said it. Surely this Goddess --" Even though I knew that to believe in a Goddess was to condemn my soul to Hell for all eternity, I was willing to believe. For His sake.. "--if she is so all powerful, won't she know what I do behind closed doors? Won't it be enough for her if I take a lover in secret? Do I have to put my man through shame?"

The old gypsy shook her head and turned away. "You still do not understand," she said. But this time her voice was a bit more gentle. And she did not spit at me, which I took to be a good sign. I went home and thought about it. And thought about it. And thought about it some more. Until my head ached from thinking almost as much as my heart ached from missing Him.

And then I gave up thinking.

Next morning, bright and early, I was at her door step. "Tell me what to do, " I said. "And I will do it."

I will not tell you what she did then, what bitter potions she made me drink, what blasphemies she had me utter. To put the words to paper so that another's eyes can read them would be to multiply my sin, and in that morning I sinned enough to merit a thousand eternities in Hell. I would have done it for no man but Him. I only hope that when my time comes and I stand before St. Peter, the Gypsy's Goddess is standing behind me to tell the old saint "Let her be. She did it for love."

On my way out the door, the old Gypsy handed me a package. "Put this under your pillow." From the gleam in her eye, I knew that it was not a charm to give me sweet dreams.

You know the rest. Everyone in Dublin knows the rest, how I put horns on my husband, how I made myself a whore. What no one knows is why. I did not do it for spite. I did not do it out of boredom. I certainly did not do it to get myself with child--unnatural acts were the only ones featured on the program that day.

I did it for Him. And it was the hardest thing I have ever done, let me tell you. The night after, when midnight passed and He still had not come home, I thought "He has finally done it. He has jumped into the River. That old Gypsy was nothing but the Devil's minion sent to drag me and my loved ones to Hell."

When the church chimed two and still no sign of Him, I got down on my knees and prayed. "Jesus, talk to the Father and tell him that my Poldy has suffered long enough for his sin--if sin it was to want a son. And Mary, please tell him that the only thing my man is guilty of is being afraid to love."

When the church chimed three, it seemed to be tolling His death. He. Is. Gone. And then, in my darkest hour, a strange peacefulness came over me, and I seemed to hear a little voice whispering "Mama, don't cry. You've found him, Mama. Papa is coming home."

And so he did. And so we did. And did and did and did again. These men, with their soul searching and quest seeking, these men with their Holy Gimics and Flimsy Grails. Running round and round in circles, they are, like dogs chasing their own tails. No doubt He thinks He had a long journey, my man. And that all the time He was gone I have been sitting here knitting or making jam or taking lovers. I have been to Hell and back for my man, and I am bound for Hell again unless a miracle happens--

"What a greedy one, you are," a voice whispered in my ear. Inside my ear, where only I could hear it. Poldy was fast asleep, His head on my bosom.

"You have had one miracle already today, and now you want another."

"My lady," I answered her. My lips moved but my voice was silent. Instinct told me that this conversation was not for His or any man's ears. "Are you the Goddess of Love?"

"Indeed, I am," she answered me. "And I am in your debt for bringing this man back to me."

"I brought him back to you? I thought you brought him back to me."

"You have had him all along. Name your boon. I am in a generous mood today."

I thought about it a moment. It did not seem right to be asking favors for myself. But on the other hand, I would not do my Milly and Poldy much good in Hell. "Can you put in a good word for me up there?" I pointed towards heaven.

Have you ever felt an angel smile, deep inside you? That was what I felt then. Warmth and coolness, one following the other, from the top of my head to the tip of my toes. "Your place in heaven is secure. Now tell me, what do you really want?"

"I want a child. Another child."

"It is already done."

I laid a hand over my lower belly. "You mean? But I can't. This is not the right time of month--"

"If that old wive's tale was true, there would be only half as many people alive today in Dublin as there are. There is something else you wish to ask me?"

"The baby, can you make him----?"

"Healthy this time." I felt her shake her head inside me. It was like a shudder but more gentle. "No, but I can give you both the strength to love him whatever he--or she---turns out to be."

With that, she left me. But she is still here, deep inside me, and will be forever, as long as He is beside me and within me. Being a man, He will wake up and tell me about the long journey He made, about how He fought the demons (of jealousy) and mastered the ghouls (of doubt) and overcame the banshees (of grief). And being a woman, I will nod my head and murmur "How brave!" and "You didn't!" at the appropriate times, never letting Him know that it was I who went looking for Him.

The End

(Characters from James Joyce's Ulysses, Psyche myth from Greek mythology)

M. Comes in from the Night

The stranger paused on the threshold of the diner, blinking and shading his eyes with his hand. He stood six foot five, a big boned man with broad shoulders and brawny arms. His skin was pale, as if seldom touched by sunlight. His hair was the color of ripe wheat. The dirt caked, faded denims which he wore were a shade or two darker than his eyes, which were heavy lidded but watchful. Wary. He reminded Manuela of a wolf which has stumbled by accident into the world of men.

Surreptitiously, she reached for the pistol which she kept under the counter. "'Evening," she said.

The stranger's blue eyes widened, then narrowed. The scars which crisscrossed his neck and face tightened, as his mouth twisted into a grin. "Good evening." He had a faint accent, which she could not place, but his English was flawless. "Is it too late to purchase a cup of coffee?"

"Sign outside says we're open until nine. It's only half past seven. You want anything to go with that coffee?"

He eased his bulk onto one of the stools at the counter. He was not fat, just big. His hands were almost as broad as the iron skillet Manuela used for frying eggs. They swallowed up the white ceramic mug in which she served thick, black Mexican coffee.

"Careful," she warned him "It's hot."

"The warmth feels good after the cold." As he sipped the steaming liquid, his arctic blue eyes watched her over the rim of his mug, no longer wary but still alert.

"Don't you have a coat?"

"I haven't been able to find one big enough to fit me."

"I can sell you a blanket. Navaho wool. Antique," she added quickly. "I don't sell black market. Or buy it, either."

"Wise of you. And you're wise to keep a handgun, too."

She started. "How did you---?"

"I can smell the gunpowder."

"I haven't fired it in years." The truth was, she had never fired it. She was not sure that she would know what to do with it, should an emergency arise, but she felt safer knowing it was there.

His upper lip twitched, tugging at a scar that ran from his temple to his chin. "I have a very keen sense of smell. This is delicious coffee. Not like the usual watered down dishwater which Americans drink"

So, her first impression was right. He was a foreigner. "It's Mexican."

"Like you. What's your name?"

"Manuela." Was he flirting with her? Did he think she was so desperate for a man that she would spread her legs for someone like him? She pretended to busy herself wiping down the counter. Under her eyelashes, she examined the complex web of scars which covered his face and neck. They looked too old to be the result of a battlefield injury from a war that was only four years old. Had he been hurt in an industrial accident? Maybe he had other injuries, which were not apparent. That would explain why a big, strong looking man was dressed in civilian clothes when every able bodied man in America between the ages of 18 and 40 had gone off the battle the Germans and Japs.

She twisted her gold wedding band. Her Hank had been gone for almost three years, with only one brief shore leave. Three years. It seemed longer. Especially at night.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"Frank." He set down his empty mug and stood up. "Do you have a public restroom?"

"It's around back." She handed him the key attached to a block of wood. "Be sure to turn off the light and lock the door when you're done."

She watched his back as he left the diner and disappeared into the darkness of the desert night. Did he intend to skip out on paying his bill? She hoped not. Though he was ugly, he was soft spoken and polite, and it was nice to have company on a cold, lonely night.

*****

The stranger made his way through the darkness without difficulty, avoiding the cluster of prickly pear cactus and the bleached cow's skull propped up beside a tree stump. The sky was now sprinkled with stars. The mountains to the east formed a heavy, looming shadow, while the more distant peaks to west were faintly illuminated by the last rays of the setting sun.

He took a deep breath of cold, mountain air, which smelled of snow and pinion. He loved this land. The desert had room enough for everyone, even one such as him. Here, he was not a freak or a monster. Here he was a man.

He found the restroom unlocked. He pushed the door open cautiously, all senses alert for any sign of danger. The smells of sweat and urine were old. Nothing stirred within the tiny room.

Letting out a small, silent sigh of relief, he stepped into the restroom and closed and locked the door. He washed his hands. Then, without drying them, he switched on the light. A single bulb dangled from an insulated cord. Carefully, he removed the glass bulb and placed it on the soap holder at the edge of the sink, then he stuck his right index finger into the empty, live socket.

A powerful surge of electricity shot through his body, making his hair stand on end. The muscles of his arms and thighs swelled, straining the fabric of his clothes. His pale skin began to glow. The lattice of scars on his face, neck and wrists stood out darkly against the living tissue. His pupils filled with cold, blue fire.

Revitalized, he withdrew his fingers from the socket. After replacing the bulb, switching off the light and locking the door behind him, he retraced his steps to the diner. His skin glowed, very faintly, in the darkness.

****

Manuela poured Frank another cup of coffee. She was dying to ask what kind of business brought a man like him to this part of New Mexico. He did not look like the usual artist or naturalist, but he did not have the wind burned, sun browned complexion of a laborer or cowboy, either. Did he have anything to do with the government encampment to the west? The one which no one, not even locals who had lived here their whole lives was allowed to enter.

She had a frightening thought. Maybe he was an escaped prisoner. However, not all men who went to prison were dangerous. Her own younger brother was serving time for stealing a car, and Rodrigo would never harm a fly.

"Is your husband in the service?" Frank asked. He had noticed the ring.

"Navy."

He stared into his coffee, brooding. "I've never cared much for the sea. It holds unpleasant memories for me."

She held her tongue, hoping that her silence would encourage him to confide in her. Despite the disfiguring scars and his extreme pallor, there was something radiant about him. The shadows seemed a little lighter around him. The night seemed less frightening. When she refilled his coffee mug, and her hand brushed his, she felt tingly all over.

She was trying to think of a way to ask Frank what he did without sounding nosy, when a vehicle pulled into the dirt parking lot in front of the diner. She checked the clock. A quarter past eight. Late for travelers.

The front door opened, admitting a blast of cold air. Five men entered the small diner. Four of them were young, muscular men with clean shaven, sunburned faces. The fifth man was middle aged, with a thin, pinched face and a narrow mustache. The younger men were dressed in heavy slacks and brightly colored ski sweaters. The older one looked out of place in a wrinkled suit and an overcoat a couple of sizes too large for his spindly frame. He wore a pair of thick glasses that made his eyes seem ridiculously large. A leather satchel was clutched to his chest.

"You can sit where ever you like," Manuela called. She started to pick up her pencil and pad, but Frank caught her hand.

"Wait in the kitchen," he murmured.

"But, there's---"

"The kitchen," he insisted, his voice quiet but firm.

Her heart began to thud against her breast bone. What was happening? The five men had chosen the table nearest the door. One of them was staring at Frank's back , while the rest looked expectantly towards the diner entrance.

Her instinct was to run. However, if trouble was brewing, that would only make things worse. She took a deep breath to calm herself.

"I have to go back to the kitchen for some more coffee," she called across the diner to the travelers. "There are menus on the table. I'll be back to take your orders in a few minutes."

The men at the table gave no sign that they heard her.

Heart racing, she grabbed the pistol from under the counter and slipped in into the pocket of her apron, before turning her back on the dining room. The area between her shoulder blades itched, as if someone was aiming a gun or a knife at it. The five steps from the counter to the kitchen door were the longest five steps she ever took. Sweat beaded on her brow and soaked the underarms of her blouse. She desperately wanted to run, but she kept her pace slow and even, until she reached the kitchen and the door swung closed behind her. Then, she slumped against the wall .

****

Frank waited until Manuela was in the kitchen, then he turned on his stool and let the men at the table get a good look at his face. Four of them were strangers. The fifth recognized him immediately.

"It's a trap!" the middle aged man hissed to his young companions. "Get him!"

Four pistols appeared in four hands. Three managed to get off shots in the time it took for Frank to cross the room. One bullet went wild, smashing a glass on the counter. Two of the bullets found their target. The big man did not even flinch as he was struck in the chest and shoulder. He grabbed two of the bodyguards by their necks and crushed their cervical vertebrae with his bare hands. The third died under his foot, his skull smashed like an eggshell. He snatched up a fallen weapon and shot the fourth in the back of the head, as he was attempting to flee through the front door.

****

When the shooting started, Manuela dropped to her hands and knees and began crawling towards the back door. When the sound of gunshots, breaking glass and furniture gave way to silence, she paused. A familiar voice spoke. It was Frank. She could not make out the words, but he did not seemed to be injured. Minutes passed, and the only sounds she heard were the voices of two men talking. Curiosity overcame caution. She turned and headed back the way she had come.

****

The scarred, blonde giant and the skinny, middle aged man in the oversized coat watched each other warily.

"Where is it?" Frank asked in German.

"Why are you doing this?" This also in German. "Why are you helping the enemies of the Fatherland?"

"Fatherland?" Frank's eyes filled with cold, blue fire. "The Fatherland tried to kill me. So did my father, the Baron who created me. Pardon me if I don't feel filial devotion towards either. Where is it, Fritz?"

The skinny man clutched the satchel to his chest. A note of panic crept into his voice. "Over a century has passed. Germany is different now. If you come home, you will not be hated or feared. You will be respected for your strength, your superhuman abilities. You are the Uberman."

"Uberman!" Frank spat the word. "I never wanted to be the uberman. That was my father's idea. All I ever wanted was to be a man. Where are the plans?'

"What plans? I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't lie. We captured your courier. He told us everything. Cooperate, and you might escape with your life."

Fritz lifted his chin defiantly. "I'll die before I give them to you!"

"You'll give them to me, and then you will die." Frank grabbed him by the collar and began to twist the fabric. Fritz's face went from white to red to blue, but he did not relax his grip on the satchel.

"Is it in there?" Frank asked. He reached for the leather bag.

Manuela, who was peering through a crack in the kitchen door, saw a gleam of metal in Fritz's hand. He must have been holding a knife all along. "Frank!" she called. "Watch out!"

Her warning came too late. The blade sliced through Frank's fourth and fifth fingers, which fell to the floor. Blood spurted from the stumps. He used his powerful jaws to clamp down on the wounds. With his free hand, he ripped Fritz's head from his shoulders. A fountain of blood splattered the walls of the diner. The headless corpse swayed for a moment, then fell to the floor. Frank set the head, still wearing glasses down on the nearest table and knelt to retrieve the satchel.

****

Manuela should have fainted. She saw everything. The severed fingers, the severed head, and red blood everywhere, all over the tile floor she had polished just that morning and the tables Hank had helped her pick out and the lace curtains in the front window.

Any other woman would have fainted. Manuela did the opposite. She became very, very calm. With one hand in the pocket of her apron, she pushed open the kitchen door and walked into the dining room.

"What are you looking for?" she asked. Her own coolness amazed her.

"Plans," Frank replied without looking at her. "Top secret plans for a very special weapon. One that could turn the tide of the war in favor of whatever side controls it." He frowned. "It's not here. I wonder...." He tossed the satchel aside and knelt beside Fritz's body. A quick search of the dead man's clothing revealed the documents which had been sewn into the lining of his overcoat. "Found it!" When he looked up, his smile faded, for he found himself staring down the barrel of Manuela's pistol.

"Drop it!" she ordered. Her voice was steady, however her hands were shaking. She had not realized how heavy the pistol was.

"You don't understand."

"Yes, I do. I heard you talking German to that man. You're a spy."

"No, he's a spy. It's true I was born in Germany, but I'm working for Washington. I hate the Nazis. They represent everything I despise about the country which created me." He cocked his head to the side. In the distance, a siren could be heard. "That will be military police. They'll be here in a few minutes. If they see you aiming a weapon at me, they will assume that you are working with Fritz. Here, give me that." Moving as fast as a rattlesnake, he snatched the pistol from her hand. "It isn't even loaded!" he exclaimed after checking the barrel. "Get some bullets and have someone show you how to use it." He placed it back under the counter.

Manuela flushed with embarrassment. "I thought...."

"I know what you thought. You are not the first person to assume that I'm a villain, because of the way I look." He touched his scarred face.

Now, she felt ashamed. She was about to apologize, when she noticed the two holes in his shirt. She touched the one on his chest over his heart. Her fingertip came away covered with blood. "That's a bullet wound! You've been shot!"

"Twice."

"Twice? And then that man cut you." Her eyes dropped to his injured hand. Thanks to his miraculous powers of healing, the stumps had already stopped bleeding. "You ought to be dead!" Her dark eyes widened. "Who are you?"

"That's a good question, one that I've spent a long time trying to answer for myself." Frank reached into the pocket of his denims and fished out a business card. On it was printed a single letter, "M." "Give this to the military police. Tell them that M. has the merchandise. They'll understand. When they debrief you, tell them everything you saw and heard. I will mention you in my report. Who knows? You might get a medal." Ruefully, he surveyed the damage to the diner. "Better yet, I'll have the army send you a check to cover the cost of repairs."

Manuela did not know what to say. Thank you seemed inadequate. "Do you have to go?"

"Sorry, yes. Fritz isn't the only spy working late, tonight."

On his way towards the door, he stooped to retrieve his severed fingers. The army surgeons could replace the missing digits with others harvested from bodies in the military morgue, but he liked having a matched set.

"Wait!" Manuela called. "You said your name was Frank, but the card says 'M.' What does the M stand for?"

He paused with his good hand on the door knob, debating how he should answer. M. stood for his code name, Monster.

"Oh. I get it," the woman exclaimed. "The M stands for 'Man'. You're like that guy in the comic books, the one that can't be killed by bullets. Superman."

Softly, "Not Superman. Just a man." With that, he disappeared into the night from which he had come.

The End

(Character from Mary Shelly's Frankenstein)

Elysium Suds

I'm no hero. Far from it. The only thing I had on my mind that day was getting to Laverne's in time for my nail wrap. I was standing at the corner of Main and Sixth, waiting for the light to change, when this red rubber ball comes rolling out onto the road from between two parked cars.

Where there's a runaway ball, there's bound to be a runaway kid, right? I wish someone had told that to the bimbo who was driving the SUV. She didn't put on her brakes or even look to the side of the road to see what was happening.

The kid was about six, the same age as my brother. I called out a warning, but he didn't stop, so I tackled him from behind, pushing him out of the path of the SUV. At the last second, the driver tried to brake, but it was too late. I don't remember anything after that, thank God.

When I woke up, I was lying in the grass. There were people all around me. A chick wearing armor said "Bonjour, ma souer."

I mumbled "No parlez-vous."

This guy with shoulder length red hair and a close cropped beard stepped forward. He was wearing a dress but somehow he managed to look butch. Must have been the bulging muscles, hairy legs and raw hide boots, or maybe it was the sword at his side. Not one of those skinny little dueling blades. This baby was as wide as my arm and about three feet long. Looked sharp, too.

I was about to duck for cover, when the red haired guy spoke. He had an accent. Scottish, I think, or maybe Australian. I can never keep them straight. "Welcome to the Elysium Fields," he said.

I rubbed my eyes. Elysium Fields. Wasn't that a Beatles song? "How did I get here? Look, I'd love to stay and chat, but I have an appointment to have my nails done--"

"I don't think you understand---"

"---and if I'm late, Laverne will be pissed off, and I'll have to listen to her bitch about how time is money, and I---"

He raised his voice. "Madame, you're dead!"

My jaw dropped. "Is this some kind of joke?"

"No joke. You're dead. Because you died a hero's death, you will spend eternity in paradise."

"This is heaven?" I looked around. All I could see was green grass, flowering shrubs, fruit trees and lots of people dressed in weird clothes. There must have been thousands of them. Maybe millions. Fire fighters, police officers, knights in armor, ninja types dressed in black, Indians wearing almost nothing and some dark skinned guys with woolly hair who were stark naked. I blushed and looked away. "Where are the angels? Where's God? "

"This isn't Heaven. It's the Elysium Fields, where heroes go when they die."

"You mean like some kind of bonus for good behavior?" It was all starting to come back to me. The red rubber ball. The bimbo in the SUV.

"Indeed." He waved his arm. "All of this is here for your enjoyment."

"My enjoyment? You've got to be kidding? Where's the mall? Where are the restaurants?" I grabbed my head. "For Christ's sake, I can't spend eternity in a garden. I've got hay fever!"

"Don't worry. You'll get used to it," the red haired guy replied. He held out his hand. "My name's Art."

"Donna. Is there any place around here where I can get a drink?"

"An excellent idea." He helped me to my feet. "I know just the place."

The bar was called "Elysium Suds." It was as dark and unnatural on the inside as the Fields were light and colorful outside. The air smelled of stale cigarette smoke and beer. The floor was chipped linoleum. The walls were covered with imitation wood paneling. A row of neon signs hung above the counter, each advertising a different brand of beer. It could have been any corner bar in any city in America, except for the fact that the bartender was one of those half horse, half man creatures--Minotaur? Centaurs? I should have watched Xena more often.

There were enough people to make the place look busy but not enough to make it seem crowded. The patrons were dressed in the same Halloween costumes as the people outside, but they seemed more normal somehow. Like movie actors taking a break between takes. A couple of women were playing pool in the corner. One of them looked a lot like Wonder Woman, before she left the island of the Amazons. As she leaned forward, her short, pleated white skirt hiked up in the back, revealing shapely thighs and a little bit extra. The Chinese guy in a nearby booth was getting an eyeful.

I thought about warning the chick in the short skirt, but then I changed my mind. Why spoil the Chinese guy's fun? God knows there was little enough to do in paradise.

Art and I picked seats at the bar. There were only two left, and yet, when we sat down, two more empty seats appeared as if by magic. I ordered a margarita on the rocks, no salt. Art asked for ale.

"So," I asked, as I played with the green swizzle stick that came with my drink "What did you do to get into paradise?"

"I saved Britain," he said, without batting an eye.

"No shit." I am no egghead, but I'm not stupid, either, and I had seen Camelot. "Are you King Arthur?"

He nodded. "That's right." He proceeded to tell me about some of his battles. Meanwhile, his hand slowly inched its way up my leg.

When I died, I was wearing a black leather miniskirt with black tights and a sleeveless, black turtleneck sweater. Even though I had been run over by an SUV, my clothes were spotless. I wondered if I would have to wear this same outfit for the rest of eternity. Black is my favorite color--it's suitable for any occasion and makes me look ten pounds lighter--but it's nice to be able to change clothes once in a while.

Art was telling me about how he killed a dozen Angles with his bare hands. Meanwhile, his bare hand had just reached the hem of my skirt and was starting to edge upward. I was trying to decide whether I would let him get to third base on our first date, when this old guy with long gray hair and an even longer gray beard appeared. Unlike most of the people in paradise, he was dressed in normal clothes, a three piece navy blue suit with a white shirt and maroon tie.

"Art, my boy." the old guy said, slapping King Arthur on the back.

Art glowered at the old man. "Go away!"

"Now, is that any way to talk to your favorite wizard?" The old man took the seat next to Art---a vacant one had suddenly appeared-- and ordered a vodka tonic from the bartender, who always seemed to be there just when he was needed.

"Whadda you want?" Art mumbled into his mug.

"What makes you think I want anything?" the gray bearded man asked, looking all innocent.

"Because I know you."

Favorite wizard? I put two and two together. "You must be Merlin!"

Merlin gave me an old fashioned, courtly bow. "At your service." Though he looked old enough to be my grandfather, he had Art beat when it came to charm. "Arthur, aren't you going to introduce your friend?"

Art was sulking, so I introduced myself. "I'm Donna. I'm not really supposed to be here. I mean, I'm not a warrior or anything. All I did was save some kid who was about to get run over."

The old guy pretended to be impressed. "Where would the world be without children? Speaking of children---"

"I don't want to hear it!" Arthur shouted, slamming down his empty mug , causing glasses up and down the length of the counter to jump. Without batting an eye, the bartender wiped up the spills, using his tail as a rag.

"All I was going to say was that children nowadays are maturing at a young age," the wizard said mildly. "For instance, there's a boy in Pakistan who has discovered a way to hijack the US defense missile grid using a PC. All he has to do make a phone call, and half of Britain will dissolve in a mushroom cloud of smoke."

"So?" Art replied.

"So, Britain needs its hero."

"Screw Britain. And screw you, too."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I leapt to my feet. Hands on my hips, I exclaimed "I thought you were supposed to save England in its hour of need!"

"Britain, not England. And I've already saved Britain. Twice. Let Britain find someone else this time."

"Now, Arthur---" the old man began.

Art ignored Merlin. "You don't know the whole story, Donna. One hundred years ago, Merlin showed up here. He told me that Britain was being invaded again, this time by aliens from Mars, and that he needed my help to halt the invasion."

I held up my hand. "Hold on. History was never my best subject, but I think I would have heard if Martians had invaded England."

"You did hear about it," Merlin said. "A fellow called Welles described the invasion in a book. The British government forced him to publish the account as a work of fiction, but it was all true. The only thing Welles left out--because he didn't know about it--was the roll Arthur and I played in defeating the Martians."

"You mean the War of the Worlds? I saw the movie. I don't remember any knights. Didn't a germ kill the aliens?"

"Enterococcus rubricus," Merlin told me, beaming proudly. "That's the name of the germ. I created it."

"Really? So what did Arthur do? Did he sneak aboard the spaceship and put this enterowhatsit in the aliens' food?"

"Don't say it!" Art growled.

Merlin ignored him. "Arthur was the germ."

Art covered his head with his arms and groaned. "Now do you see why I don't want to have anything to do with this crazy old man and his hare brained schemes? I, Arthur, King of all Britain, came back to life as a bacterium! I killed the invaders by giving them diarrhea! God, it's so humiliating!"

I tried hard to keep a straight face. Red heads often have bad tempers, and I had not forgotten about the three foot long sword.

"But you won't be a bacterium this time," the wizard promised him. "All you have to do is stop one boy, and you will save Britain a third time. Think of the glory!"

"How much glory can there be in cutting down a child?"

"That's the genius of my plan. You won't kill him. You'll convert him to the side of peace. He'll become a great scientist, saving millions--billions of lives with his inventions. And it will all be thanks to you."

"Hmmm." Art stroked his beard. "I wouldn't mind being a peacekeeper, for a change. Like that Gandhi fellow. The women really go for him."

"You'll be bigger than Gandhi."

"Bigger than Gandhi?" I could tell that Arthur was beginning to soften to the idea, but he wasn't ready to concede yet. "You promise that I won't be a germ or a flea or some other disgusting creature? "

"Cross my heart and hope to die," Merlin swore.

"You're already dead," Art reminded him.

"On my mother's honor, then."

"Your father was the Prince of Darkness. There isn't much honor in being the Devil's doxie."

"If I'm lying, may God strike me down with a bolt of lightning."

"OK, I'll do it."

"I knew you would." Merlin took a short, wooden stick out of his jacket and waved it over Art's head. He mumbled some words that sounded like Latin. There was flash of light and a puff of smoke.

When the smoke cleared, Art was gone, and Merlin was sitting in his place. He ordered a second vodka-tonic for himself. "And get the lady another of whatever she is drinking, too."

Usually one is my max, but apparently alcohol in paradise isn't as potent as it is on earth. Even after two mixed drinks, my thoughts were crystal clear. I went over everything I had just heard. "You tricked Art, didn't you."

"Nonsense," the wizard said. He dropped one hand on my knee. "Everything I said was true."

"Yeah, but you didn't tell him the whole truth, did you?"

The old man's blue eyes twinkled. "Had I told him the whole truth, he would never have agreed." He was a faster worker than Art. His hand was now halfway up my thigh.

"So tell me, what's Art going to be when he gets back to earth?"

"A computer virus. A very tricky computer virus which will dog our precocious young hacker for years. By the time he finally locates and neutralizes the bug, he will have matured enough to realize that you can't save the world by destroying it. "

"Oh." I took a sip of my drink. "Art's going to be pissed off."

The old man shrugged. "Heroes are always temperamental. That's why they need people like me to manage their careers." He leaned towards me and nibbled my ear. His beard was as soft as lambs wool, and the palms of his hands were nice and smooth, not calloused like Art's. I recognized his cologne. It sells for sixty bucks a bottle.

"Mr. Merlin!" I exclaimed as one of those soft, skillful hands slipped down the back of my skirt. My skin tingled at his touch.

"Please, call me Merl."

I don't usually consider myself "easy", but there was something about the wizard that I couldn't resist. "Not here! People can see."

"There's a motel behind the bar," he suggested. "We can rent a room, get to know each other a little better. Afterwards, I'll take you to this nice little bistro where the chef makes a delicious coq au vin."

An open bar tab. Fine French cuisine. Charming men. Maybe paradise wasn't going to be so bad after all.

(characters from King Arthur, concept from H.G. Well's The War of the World)
