 
Blue Tara;

Or, How Is a Hyacinth Macaw Parrot Like a Tibetan Goddess?

### Part One Blue Tara Trilogy

Book One Princess Tara Chronicles

### By Michael Ostrogorsky

### Copyright 2019 Michael Ostrogorsky

### Smashwords Edition

### Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this eBook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

If you enjoyed this book, be sure to read the rest of the Blue Tara Trilogy. Part Two of the Blue Tara Trilogy, Book Two of the Princess Tara Chronicles: The Princess Witch; Or, It Isn't As Easy To Go Crazy As You Might Think, available from Smashwords.

Part Three of the Blue Tara Trilogy, Book Three of the Princess Tara Chronicles: Parrots and Witches; Or, Love. Desire. Ambition. Faith. Without Them, Life Is So Simple, Believe Me, also available from Smashwords.

You can never keep a good witch down. Stay tuned for future episodes of the continuing saga of the Princess Tara Chronicles. More witches. More monsters. More daemons. More pterodactyls. More parrots. And more coffee. We promise to make it worth your while. Follow Princess Tara and her friends and villains in the Kālarātri, or Black Night Trilogy. Part One of the Kālarātri Trilogy, Book Four of the Princess Tara Chronicles, She Was Not Quite What You Would Call Refined, available from Smashwords.

Part Two of the Kālarātri Trilogy, Book Five of the Princess Tara Chronicles, She Was Not Quite What You Would Call Unrefined, also available from Smashwords.

How do you defeat a goddess who controls death and time? Can you? Find the answer in the third and last installment of the Kālarātri, or Black Night Trilogy, Book Six of the Princess Tara Chronicles, _She Was the Kind of Person That Keeps a Parrot_ , coming 2020.

Dedicated to the Hyacinth Macaw Parrot Princess Tara, my favorite witch. And yes, she really is a witch. I should know.

Special mention to the Blue and Gold Macaw Parrot Aboo, Princess Tara's sidekick. Princess Tara is a hard act to follow, but rest assured, Aboo will get his special place in the spotlight.

A special thank you to my editor, Helen O. Jones, for catching my mistakes.

### Introduction

I originally got a parrot because an old black guy with a parrot store convinced me that would help me pick up chicks. And I don't mean the poultry kind. Picked out a parrot at this old black guy's bird store here in Seattle that was big, blue, and loud. And a princess. The loudness I didn't learn about until too late. But that was the least of my problems. First of all, turns out I did not actually pick out the parrot. The parrot picked me. Not only was the parrot big, blue, and loud. And a princess. The parrot was a witch. Not a figurative or allegorical witch. A literal witch. A witch of the spell casting kind. The abracadabra kind. A witch with a coffee addiction, and a penchant for pizza and beer. Once I entered the bird store the parrot cast a spell. The kind of spell that caused me to clean out my bank account for a big, loud, blue-feathered witch. The kind of witch who did not abide with girlfriends. The kind of witch who did not abide with not getting her way. The kind of witch who turned out to be my guardian angel and the proverbial albatross around my neck at the same time. A witch named Princess Tara.

### Chapter One

### Part One

Driving makes me hungry. Driving up Aurora Avenue in North Seattle I craved a cookie. Any kind. I just wanted a cookie. I wasn't particular about my cookie obsession. I pulled into the PCC parking lot. PCC. Puget Consumers Cooperative. One of the many lefty cooperatives that sprang up around Seattle back in the fifties and sixties of the last century. Like geoducks after a hard rain.

Maybe not like geoducks. Geoducks aren't flora. Or fungi. Geoducks are giant mollusks. The macaws of the mollusk world. I like to throw geoducks out in conversation because what separates true Seattleites from the countless immigrants flooding the city to work at Amazon or Starsucks or Microsoft is knowing how to say geoduck correctly. But back to cookies.

I just wanted a simple cookie. Oatmeal raisin. Chocolate chip. Gingersnap. Didn't matter. I have a weakness for cookies. I admit that. Snickerdoodle is one of my favorites. And PCC makes one of the best snickerdoodles in Seattle. I parked and walked up to the door thinking cookies. What would it be? Snickerdoodle? Or chocolate chip? Or maybe I'd splurge on a chocolate biscotti?

Guy standing at the door stopped me. He was hard to miss. Besides the fact he stood in the doorway with his arm outstretched and the palm of his hand stuck into my chest blocking my entrance. A stunningly brilliant blue and yellow parrot perched on his shoulder, a piercing black eye pinned on my face. Properly called a Blue and Gold macaw (Ara ararauna) I later learned. One of the largest and most brightly colored of the macaws. Hard to miss. Especially when there's one right in front of you perched on a guy's shoulder blocking the entrance to the store that sells the cookies you're currently craving.

On this day I knew nothing about parrots. I'm an historian. Got a Ph.D. in history. And another Ph.D. in archaeology. So I know Ph.D.s. I've gone through life collecting academic degrees like some people collect cars. I've got a bunch of them. Bachelor's. Master's. You name it. Certificates I can't even remember now. Pretty useless. I never enjoyed a particularly stellar academic career. I wrote a lot. Mostly reports people never read. Published some. Traveled for research and field work. I had my ups and downs. Mostly just downs, now that I think about it. I could never achieve tenure, so I bounced around living out of a suitcase as an adjunct professor. Idaho, Oregon, Alaska, California. Finally Seattle. But it kept me from making pizzas or washing dishes for a living. Not that I didn't make pizzas or wash dishes while I was collecting my degrees. But don't get me started.

I can regale you with countless stories about Seattle history until your eyes glaze over. But parrots? On this day, the day I had my heart set on a cookie, I didn't know a damn thing about parrots. Sure, I knew people with parrots. Knew one guy who even went everywhere with his service parrot, one of those big white cockatoos, perched on his shoulder. To the gas station, grocery store, everywhere. He even brought his parrot over to my house once. But he's strange. I generally thought people walking around with parrots were strange. I'd occasionally see people strolling through the Ballard Farmers Market in my Seattle neighborhood with their parrots on their shoulders. I thought they were strange. My mom even had parakeets when I was growing up. My little child mind thought they were strange. Remember them fluttering around the house and landing on my head. Mostly I remember them pooping in my hair. Then mom would make me wash my hair out after she corralled the parakeets back in their cage. My early association with birds was not uniformly positive.

Back to the guy with the parrot perched on his shoulder, standing between me and a cookie. Had never seen this guy before. Had never seen such a gorgeous creature before. Not the guy. The parrot. Stunning. Stopped me in my tracks. And what's really strange. This guy. This guy with a large colorful parrot perched on his shoulder. Someone I've never seen before. He physically gets between me and my cookie. I ran into him because I was so focused on my cookie. This guy put his hand out to stop me and said, "There's a blue parrot at Charlie's Bird Store you need to see."

### Part Two

Charlie's Bird Store occupied a small part of the catacombs in the lower levels of Seattle's Pike Place Market above the downtown waterfront. Several levels below the standard tourist haunts. The arcade with the Seattle T-shirt hawkers. The flying fish. The flower mongers. The Russian bakery. Did I mention cookies? The geoducks. The brass pig. Down the block from the first Starbucks ever. And it goes without saying, every time I visit the market I duck into the Three Sisters Bakery to snag a chocolate pretzel.

I patiently circled the market until a parking spot opened I could fit my truck into. Chocolate pretzel in hand, I patted the brass pig on his snout for good luck as I headed for the top of the Pike Place Hill Climb. The flying fish and geoducks, the brass pig and chocolate pretzels are a good two hundred feet above Seattle's sea wall. And only about two hundred feet away. Straight up. And straight down. But the thing about parrots is, just follow the squawking. I could hear the parrots well before I found Charlie's shop about half way down the hill climb off Western Avenue.

Charlie's Bird Store is gone. Part of Seattle history now. A legend and foundation story for many Seattle bird people. Charlie is an eccentric elderly black guy who pretty much keeps to himself these days. Tall. Wiry. Old school military. Fancied himself to be a bird whisperer. A born salesman. Today, if not parrots he'd probably be running a pot shop. Back then he sold parrots. Charlie retired after all these events were said and done. Told me he had gone one parrot too many. One particular parrot too many. The closing of Charlie's Bird Store was big on the local news, Charlie being the celebrity he was. Turned out to be quite the show when hundreds of birds needed to be moved out of the market to new digs.

∆∆∆

"Come In" read the sign on the door to the shop. I took a deep breath and pushed the door open. The din of hundreds of birds, parrots, parakeets, and God knows what else rolled over me like the tide at Golden Gardens beach. I thought I heard someone say "Hello."

I paused in the doorway in an attempt to acclimate to the noise level. My eyes pressed shut involuntarily as if my eyelids could mitigate the noise assaulting my eardrums. Hundreds of birds. Small birds. Big birds. Loud birds. Parakeets, lovebirds, cockatiels, conures. I thought maybe retreat might be my best option. "Hello," I distinctly heard a voice say.

I forced my eyes open. The incessant chatter of the small birds muffled the source of the greeting. Low ceiling, brown concrete block walls, one bank of dingy floor to ceiling warehouse windows facing the water. In another room toward the back I could see larger birds. African Greys. Cockatoos. And the macaws. But no sign of Charlie. "Hello," the voice repeated from the rear of the shop.

Beyond the door to the back room the largest bird I had ever seen in my life sat perched in a stainless steel cage. Solid blue. The bird, not the cage. Cobalt blue from the crest of the bird's enormous head to the tip of the sweeping tail. Only parts of the parrot not blue were the gigantic black beak and glowing black eyes. If black eyes could glow. And these black eyes glowed. That and the reflector yellow skin ringing the eyes and lower mandible. "Hello," the parrot said, indisputably, a magical voice cutting through the din from the birds in the shop.

That was all the magic necessary to enchant me. I stood in front of the cage frozen in awe of the parrot's color and size. The blue parrot entranced me. "Hello," I responded. I reached my hand out toward the bird's beak.

"Hello boss," someone behind me said, startling me. My hand jerked forward. The parrot's blue feathers ruffled. A hand grabbed my shoulder and yanked me away from the cage. I wheeled around. I could feel my face flush in embarrassment. "Three hundred pounds per square inch," a tall older black guy sternly cautioned me. "Only takes fifteen pounds per square inch to take your finger off." The man dropped his hand to his waist. "Charlie's the name. Birds are my game. How can I help you?" A wry toothy smile broke across his face, as if he dared me to ignore his warning. How do you respond when an older black guy calls you 'boss'? This is the socialist hellhole of Seattle, not South Carolina. "You looking for a parrot? You come to the right place," Charlie continued. He leaned forward. He raised his hand to pat my shoulder, trying to put me at ease. I stared up into Charlie's face. His blue eyes seemed as inscrutable as the parrot's. _Three hundred pounds per square inch? Great sales pitch_ , I thought. I stifled my tendency toward sarcastic replies least it be misconstrued as an insult. I was in a parrot store looking at parrots. Of course I was looking for a parrot.

"Hello," the blue parrot repeated. I spun around.

### Part Three

"What ya know boss?" Charlie said as he stepped to the parrot's cage. "Tara here has never said two words to anyone before. She likes you."

I stepped closer to Charlie to hear him over the din of whistles and squawks and shrieks that reverberated around the concrete walls of the shop. "Well, it's one word actually." I replied. "She just keeps repeating it. She probably hears it from every customer who walks in the door. Parrots don't actually know what they're saying, do they?"

"Tell the truth boss, most customers scared of her beak," Charlie said. "I haven't heard Tara say 'Hello' more than twice in the time she's been in the shop. Usually she just grunts or hangs upside-down and honks."

"What is she?" I asked. "I've never seen a bird this, well. . . blue."

"Princess Tara is a macaw. Specifically a hyacinth macaw."

The deep blue of Tara's feathers shimmered in their cobalt brilliance in the afternoon light streaming through the shop's dust caked floor to ceiling windows from the sun beginning its descent into Elliott Bay. One enormous paw grasped her perch. Head tilted sideways, she held a wing up in front of her beak like a Roman shield. One burning black eye peered over the top of her wing. She grasped one of her trailing flight feathers with her other paw. "Hello," she said.

Her black eye mesmerized me. "What did you say her name was?"

"Princess Tara. And she really is a princess. Her parents are a Duke and a Duchess."

"So she's not a parrot?"

Charlie replied, "All macaws are parrots, son. But not all parrots are macaws. Macaws are the largest of the parrots. There's something like three hundred and sixty species of parrots on six of the world's seven continents." At least it was 'son' now. Guess that beat being called 'boss'. "Of those three hundred sixty species the largest fifteen or so are macaws. And the princess here is a hyacinth macaw. Ano - dor - hynch - us hyacinth \- in - us. That's the Latin for it. Just love saying that. Ano - dor - hynch - us hyacinth - in - us. Hyacinths are the very largest of the macaws. Tell the truth boss, don't think there's a larger parrot anywhere in Seattle." Back to 'boss'.

Okay, I thought. "I'm really just looking," I replied. I caught my breath and took a step back from the cage. "Someone told me I needed to come see this bird." I noticed there was no price sticker on Tara's cage, unlike all the other cages I could see.

"You married boss?" Charlie asked.

"Married?" I replied to his query with a question mark, trying to give myself time to figure out if this was a conversation I wanted to continue.

Charlie could see he was losing me. "Women love parrots, is all. And women really like guys with parrots. I should know. I've got more women hanging over me than parrots have feathers," he grinned, slapping my shoulder. _Yeah sure, ya betcha_ , I thought to myself. This conversation was getting noticeably unsettling. I stepped back toward the cage to get a better look at the parrot. I glanced over Charlie's shoulder toward the door. I prayed another customer might come in to allow me to beat an escape. Tara's head turned in response to my moves to keep her coal black eye pinned straight on me. I started feeling a little bit uncomfortable. In my mind I counted the steps to the shop's entrance. Charlie could see me eyeing the door. He opened Tara's cage. He stretched his arm out to the bird. _Brave_ , I thought. "Step up," he told the parrot. She stayed motionless on her perch. "She's particular about who she likes," Charlie noted, with a glance at me. After a moment's hesitation, the parrot stepped onto Charlie's arm. She skipped up on his shoulder.

Without a pause, Tara morphed into a study of grace in motion. Before I could react, let alone step out of her way, she jumped off Charlie's shoulder and with a couple of graceful flaps of her two foot long wings, settled onto my shoulder like she belonged there. I felt strangely unconcerned about that giant beak next to my nose. "Hello," she said.

"That's different boss," Charlie said. "She likes you."

_Now what_? I thought. "What do I do now?" I asked Charlie. Tara placed her beak against my cheek. "You are mine," Tara whispered into my ear, or so I thought I heard her say to me. My head jerked back. "Did you hear that?" I asked Charlie.

"Hear what?" he replied. Charlie seemed genuinely surprised at the parrot's reaction to me, seemingly as mystified by her behavior toward me as I was.

Tara rubbed her big black beak against my neck. "Get me out of here," she whispered in my ear.

### Chapter Two

### Part One

I craned my head to peer into Tara's eyes. I feared someone was putting me on. The sense of a primordial intelligence behind those gleaming black eyes sent a shiver up my spine. I shook my head to break the grip Tara's eyes held on mine. I turned to face Charlie. "I'm almost afraid to ask," I said. "How much is the parrot?" I started to pull my wallet out of my pocket. The wallet slipped out of my fingers and hit the floor when Charlie told me the price. "I've never paid that much for a car!" I exclaimed.

Charlie bent down to retrieve my wallet. He handed the wallet back to me. "And that's just the parrot, boss. Cage and stands are extra. But I'll throw in a free bag of parrot food to get you started."

"No cage," Tara whispered into my ear.

"What?" I muttered. I stared back at Tara.

"I'll throw in a free bag of parrot food to get you started," Charlie repeated.

"Did you hear that?" I asked Charlie. My eyes bounced back and forth between Tara and Charlie.

"Hear what?" he replied, trying to suppress an annoyed frown.

"I'm sure I heard Tara say. . ." I hesitated. I craned my head to study the parrot sitting on my shoulder with that huge black beak next to my face. "Do parrots actually understand what they say?" I continued. "Or do they just repeat what they hear?"

"Depends on the parrot, son. Some of the African Greys there," Charlie said, pointing across the room to the smaller parrots, "they're smarter than most. Can count. Can add. Know colors and shapes. Tara here, I've heard Tara say her name once or twice. Mostly just says 'Hello'."

"I can talk plenty," Tara said to me, her beak to my ear. I heard the words plain as the sunny afternoon outside. My eyes popped open wide as saucers. "Give me a chance," she continued. I detected a note of exasperation in the parrot's voice.

"Okay. Somebody's playing a trick on me." I faced Charlie. "You didn't just hear her say, 'She talks plenty'?"

I thought I saw Charlie's face blanch. Or the sunlight streaming through the windows played tricks on my eyes. "It's probably the other birds, what with the noise and everything," he replied. "You just think you heard her speak to you. These concrete walls play tricks on your ears." Charlie took a deep breath. "Course some people have a gift for communicating with animals. People have told me I have a gift for understanding birds. Maybe you have that gift too?" More a statement than a query.

Charlie winked at me. I tried to comprehend if this magnificent creature perched on my shoulder could really be talking to me. "Get me out of here," Tara whispered in my ear. "Please!"

Turns out I had enough cushion on my credit cards to cover the purchase. "So you sure, boss? No cage?" I nodded. "You want a pet carrier. I'm not responsible for anything might happen to your parrot once you step out the door. I think I got a carrier in the storeroom big enough for her. Let you borrow it if you promise to return it."

"No box," Tara said.

"No. . . wait. What?" My neck ached craning my head to stare into Tara's face. My shoulder ached with Tara's claws clamped into my skin. I felt flustered and more uncertain whether I was the butt of a grand joke or a giant scam.

"No box," Tara repeated.

I was about to ask Tara how I was going to get her home without a cage or a carrier, but thankfully caught myself. "Sure, I'll take the carrier," I told Charlie.

"No you will not," Tara insisted.

"Yes I will. Wait. What?" I stared at Charlie. "You didn't just hear Tara say 'No you will not'?" I pleaded with Charlie. Charlie shook his head as he retreated into his storeroom to find a pet carrier. "Don't give me any grief," I replied to Tara. Charlie returned with the carrier. "So how do we get her in there?" I asked.

"I could always throw a towel over her," Charlie offered, "but let's try the direct approach. Put your arm out and place your hand in front of the carrier." I did so. Charlie pulled the carrier door open. "Now tell her, 'Step Up'."

I did as told. "Step up," I said. Tara sat on my shoulder, unmoving and seemingly not planning to move. I craned my head again to peer into those big black eyes above that huge black beak next to my cheek. I sensed the bird mocked me. "You know what?" I piped up. I shrugged my one free shoulder. "Let's forget this. This is crazy. I don't know what I'm doing here. This is getting too weird." Charlie slapped a hand to his face to try to hide his disappointment. Tara raced down my arm and into the carrier faster than I thought any bird could run. She pivoted and swept her long tail around behind her. Her black eyes glared up at mine. "Okay then," I grinned euphorically.

I could see Charlie breathe a sigh of relief. "Okay boss. We're making progress."

With Tara parked in the pet carrier Charlie pulled out a parrot stand and a bag of parrot food. I sensed he sped through the transaction before I changed my mind. He slid the receipt across the counter to me with a toothy grin across his face. I chugged the stand and the bag of parrot food up to my truck parked at the top of the market. I returned for Tara. Charlie waved me out the door as I exited the shop with a parrot in a box. As I climbed back up the hill climb with Tara's face pressed to the carrier door I pondered how much poorer I was on what I feared was a snap decision. Tara's eyes peering up at mine eerily reassured me I was much richer for the decision.

I had parked my truck directly in front of the Pike Place Market Starbucks. After buckling Tara onto the passenger seat the thought of an iced americano appealed to me. The delectable aroma of fresh brewed espresso wafted out the shop's open door. The repeated trips up and down the hill climb on this warm sunny Seattle spring afternoon with my heavy loads made me sweat. As I started to close the passenger door, I heard Tara's voice from inside the carrier. "Do I smell coffee?"

### Part Two

I live in the old Saint Charles Hotel off downtown Ballard, a delightfully eclectic village of two and three story turn of the last century red brick piles of Victorian commercial utility, and wood frame working class cottages. Seattle's charge toward world class modernity and sterility thankfully has passed Ballard by, for the most part. Ballard once was a free city of Scandinavian mill workers and Yankee mariners, and the battle against incorporation by its ravenous and larger neighbor in the early years of the last century played out fierce and bloody. Unfortunately the tradition of rigging elections is old and storied. Standing at the lower end of Ballard Avenue close by the marine supply warehouses, the old hotel gave a distinctly dowdy appearance, like a spinster standing in the back of old Victorian family tintypes. Built as a working man's boarding house, the floor to ceiling bay windows on the upper floor provided the only relief to the unassuming facade of the two story red brick building. Local lore has it that the bay windows allowed women of the night to advertise their trade.

The first floor of the building long ago had been gutted and converted to self storage. The old rooms on the upper floor were converted to studio apartments. Mine is the studio in the northwest corner with a view toward downtown old Ballard. Few years ago I enjoyed some small success with the lottery. Enough that I no longer need to teach. Now I roast coffee out of one of the storage units below my studio. And I write. Mostly just snarky comments on political blogs. But I try.

From my bay window on the Ballard Avenue side I could look all the way up the tree lined street to the old Ballard City Hall bell tower, taking in the hustle and bustle of bars, restaurants, boutiques, and coffee shops. The trees lining the avenue burst with new buds, giving a green hue of expectancy to the village just coming out of the doldrums of a long dark soggy winter.

I placed the parrot stand, a stainless steel loop supporting a heavy manzanita perch, right in the bay window to allow the parrot an unobstructed view of the street outside. Charlie assured me the manzanita would hold up to the parrot's beak. The stainless steel loop had small rings attached to hang toys. I made a mental note to get on my computer and order some parrot toys. Tara had been eerily quiet since departing the market. As we drove north up Western Avenue toward Ballard I sipped my iced americano and surreptitiously peeked to observe Tara's reaction to the ride. She fluffed her feathers out every time I peeked at her. She fixed one of her big black eyes on me as I drank the coffee. I seriously began to think I had fallen victim to an elaborate scam.

So now was the time. The parrot stand stood in the window. I placed some of the parrot food in a dish at the end of the manzanita perch. I lifted the pet carrier up to the perch and opened the door. Nothing. I looked inside. Tara looked back defiantly. "Step up," I said, remembering the command that Charlie had used. I waited. Nothing. "Step up," I repeated. "My arm's getting tired holding you up here."

"Put the box down!" Tara demanded. I almost dropped the carrier. I placed the carrier on the floor as commanded. Tara waddled out, her huge feet giving her the gait of a duck. I remembered Charlie saying something about Tara honking.

I tentatively put my hand down to her and repeated the command, "Step up." Tara cocked her head to peer up at me. She hesitated, then hopped on my hand and scurried up my arm. Her blue feathers fluffed out, glittering like cobalt crystals in the late afternoon sun streaming through the bay window. Stepping back to the play stand I again demanded that she "Step Up."

"What do you want me to do with that?" Tara retorted, so clearly and certainly I almost flung her off my arm. Sensing my alarm, Tara pressed her claws into my arm. Her nails nearly punctured my skin.

"Ouch. Dammit!" I cried out, shaking my arm. Tara ran up onto my shoulder and brushed her beak against my neck. "I love the way you smell," she said. "So much nicer than the dump I have been confined to."

"What did you say?" I said, knowing perfectly well just what she had said.

"I need a cup of coffee. Bad. Can we?" she pleaded. The spring afternoon was verging into evening, but still pleasant outside.

"But I'd have to put you back in the carrier."

"No. Please no. I have been stuck in that cage and. . ." Tara fixed one coal black eye on me. She gave me a forlorn look, if a parrot can be said to give forlorn looks. "Charlie let me out once after I got dumped in his place. And regretted it. I may have done something out of spite. Think he was scared of me. Think he suspected that I. . ." Tara trailed off. She asserted, "And rightfully so. He never let me out again. Until you showed up."

This conversation seemed so surreal I began to think I was dreaming. Either that, or I was nuts. Or this bird was different. Most likely I was nuts. I know I've developed a bad habit of talking to myself on occasion. Now I was talking to a parrot. At least with the talking to myself part, I manage to keep from answering myself. "But what's to keep you from flying away?" I asked, chagrinned that I would ask such a silly question of a bird.

"Why, coffee, of course," Tara replied. I thought I saw the parrot wink at me. "I promise I will not. Fly away. And if I do I will not go far. Promise. I will come back. Anyway, birds fly. That is what we do. So what is the big deal?"

I stood flummoxed, my mouth gaping open, my chin dropped to my chest. The big deal was my suddenly empty bank account. "So you just sit on my shoulder while I walk down the street?" I asked.

"Promise."

Guess I was going to become one of those crazy parrot people I saw around town. With an emphasis on the crazy. And anyone who caught me conversing with the parrot would be certain of it.

### Part Three

Tara and I took a good half hour to walk the three or so blocks to Caffe Umbria, right by the old Ballard City Hall bell tower. I did the walking. Tara just went along for the ride. The afterwork crowd started filling the sidewalks looking for food and drink and entertainment. Or just looking. Plus, I was a bit hesitant about making a spectacle of myself. But that couldn't be helped. Not with a breathtakingly beautiful blue bird on my shoulder.

"Is it real?"

"Is it a parakeet?"

"Can I pet it?"

"Will it bite?"

"Does it talk?"

"Polly want a cracker?"

Women seemed particularly attracted to the parrot. Maybe Charlie had been right about that after all. Guys that stopped me generally had parrots of their own. Having a parrot drew parrot people out of the woodwork. Or brickwork in the case of downtown Ballard. Total strangers who wouldn't dream of looking a passing stranger in the eye suddenly demanded my time and attention just because of a parrot on my shoulder.

I spotted empty chairs outside the coffee shop. I threw my jacket over a chair before heading inside to order coffee. My favorite barista worked behind the coffee bar. "Hi Jean," I said. Linda Jean looked up with one of those pasty local television news anchorperson smiles while pulling an espresso for another customer. Her smile warmed considerably when she recognized me. Her name tag read 'Linda', but she was Jean to her friends. Reasonably tall, her long brunette hair tied back in a ponytail, she looked athletic without looking like an athlete. She was at that age that was hard to guess. Not young. But not older. Her skin, what little was visible from under her clothing, denoted a damp and pallid Seattle winter long without sun. Brown brooding eyes matched her hair to give her a faintly Slavic mystic. Black boots. Printed flowery leggings under a very short tan canvas skirt. Plain blue cashmere sweater. A strange ensemble but Jean had the body to make the ensemble work. She was one of the two reasons I frequented this coffee shop. That and she pulled a very fine shot of espresso.

"Oh. My. God!" Jean's face showed her surprise when she realized what was on my shoulder. "You have a hyacinth macaw!" She laughed. "Of course you know that already. You need to tell me all about it. I'm due for a break. What'll it be?"

"Double tall iced americano." My drink of choice. I drank iced americanos summer, winter, spring, and fall. "And for your friend?" she jokingly inquired.

"Coffee," Tara interjected.

"What?" I said, craning my head to look at Tara. The question was reflexive since I clearly heard what Tara said.

"And for your friend?" Jean repeated, thinking my question had been directed at her.

"Sorry Jean. I thought I heard Tara say something. You didn't hear her speak just now?"

"Coffee," Tara repeated. Customers ahead of me in the line stared at me. I could feel the stares of customers in the line behind me as well.

"You didn't just hear that?" I asked Jean, tentatively. Jean looked at me quizzically. "You know what, Jean. Just an iced americano. Double tall."

"You'll have to sit outside with the bird. Health regulations and all. Okay, hon? I'll bring the coffee out to you." Jean in all the years I've know her had never before called me hon. I started to feel good about my decision to get the parrot.

I stepped outside with Tara. I slid onto the chair my jacket held for me. Tara's beak seized my ear. "Ouch!" I cried out. I jerked my head back. Several customers and passersby stared at me. I pressed my fingers against my ear to stem the throbbing.

"What are you drinking?" Tara blurted out. "The coffee is mine." Before I could respond, still trying to rub the pain out of my ear, Jean appeared with my americano and sat down at our table. She pushed the cup across the table to me.

A big grin broke across Jean's face as she admired Tara. "Where did you ever get a hyacinth macaw?" she asked.

"Charlie's Bird Store, down at the market." Seattleites immediately know what you're talking about when you say, 'the market'.

"Wow. Double wow! My dream bird."

"Oh yeah? How did you know it's a hyacinth? Just this morning I would not have been able to tell you a hyacinth from a velociraptor. I didn't know anything about parrots before I walked into the store."

"I've shopped Charlie's. I have an African Grey parrot named Corky."

"You do? I didn't know that."

"No reason to. I didn't know you were a parrot person."

"Before today, I didn't know either," I grinned. "I just picked her up this afternoon."

"No shit!" Jean exclaimed, slapping the table top with her hand. I liked a woman with a loose vocabulary. "The wing's clipped?" she asked. "You have a harness?"

"By clipped you mean shortened?" Jean nodded. "No. She seems to be fully flighted."

"She? And she doesn't fly off? I'd be scared to death to take Corky out."

"Well, she hasn't yet. She promised she wouldn't."

"She what?" Jean studied my face, sure I was mocking her. I held my breath as I smiled weakly. "I like you. You're funny," Jean continued. I resumed breathing. "Does she talk? You haven't told me her name."

"Jean, meet Princess Tara."

"Hello," Tara said.

Jean hand jerked out to grab my arm, almost knocking over my coffee cup. "She talks!" Jean exclaimed.

"You heard that?" I queried, hesitantly.

"Yes I did."

"She talks when she wants to. Sometimes I think I imagine her talking, but it's probably just in my head."

"What's with the princess bit?"

"Charlie says she's a real princess. Her parents are a Duke and a Duchess. Don't know if he means name or rank or what."

"Cool. You'll have to tell me more, but I need to get back to work." Jean jumped to her feet. "Sure you don't want some water or juice for Tara. I mean Princess Tara. Excuse me, your highness."

"The coffee will be fine," Tara stated.

"She's joking," I said.

"About what?" Jean asked as she stepped away from the table.

"About drinking coffee," I replied, unsure if Jean heard Tara's comment.

"You're funny. I like guys with a sense of humor," she said. A sly grin broke across her face. "Birds are so intelligent sometimes I imagine entire conversations with my grey." As she turned toward the door her eyes squinted at me sternly. "Doubt Charlie told you, but coffee is bad for parrots. Caffeine is a neurotoxin."

"Mind your own business," Tara responded as Jean hustled back into the shop. I couldn't tell if Jean heard that either. I wanted to be a guy that Jean thought was attractive funny. Not crazy funny. So people could hear Tara talk. At least some of the time. I hadn't gone totally nuts. Yet. This was the first time Jean ever took a break with me. I didn't want it to be the last. "Give me the coffee," Tara insisted, interrupting my daydream. Before I could respond she ran down my shoulder and plunked her beak in the cup. I had never seen a parrot drinking up close. Her black leathery tongue worked like a miniature paddle wheel, sloshing the coffee into her mandible. Then she raised her head and gurgled the coffee down her gullet. She easily drank half the cup before I thought to push it away from her.

"I want some of that too," I insisted.

"Did I ever miss that!" Tara added. And so it began.

### Chapter Three

### Part One

As the sun fell behind the old brickwork lining the west side of Ballard Avenue the fetid odor of salt water wafted over the street and assaulted my nostrils. The scent of salt water brought with it a distinct chill. I slipped into my jacket. Princess Tara rested on the table top, one foot tucked up into her feathers, her beak nestled behind her wing, her eyes half open. I appeared to be the coffee shop's last customer of the day. I noticed the 'Closed' sign hung on the door.

Music and muffled conversation spilled out of the assorted bars, eateries, and dance halls lining the street as the chill drove people indoors. The plaza around the bell tower emptied out except for one old bag lady. Elderly in appearance but probably not in age. Short. Squat. Stringy matted white hair stuck out of a green Seahawks wool cap pulled down over her ears. Soiled black dress about two sizes too big. Topped off by a frayed grey striped Pendleton blanket wrapped around her that dragged on the sidewalk. A pilfered shopping cart parked next to her carried probably every worldly possession she owned, her entire life metaphorically reduced to a stack of garbage bags.

I tried not to give too much thought to homeless people. Sure, I regularly made donations to the Ballard Food Bank. I participated in holiday food drives. I wrote checks to homeless shelters. I occasionally dropped clothes off at Goodwill. That's about as far as it went. Many homeless people are mental cases and I preferred to give them a wide berth when I encountered street people on their territory. Thanks to debit cards I rarely carried cash with me. It pained me to turn down the inevitable request for spare change.

Something about this particular bag lady unnerved me. Sitting on the steps under the old Ballard City Hall bell tower she seemed to stare directly across the street at Tara. I was certain of it. I tried to ignore her, but I noticed one of Tara's eyes fixed on her. Every time I glanced across the street at her she grew more animated in response, jumping to her feet and waving her arms, in the way homeless head cases tend to perform their involuntary and unselfconscious street theater.

Slipping into my jacket seemed to be her cue to act. She jumped to her feet and scurried across the street with more energy and purpose than I thought possible for a hobbled old bag lady. "It's a devil!" she screeched, just like I imagined a parrot might. She pointed a gloved hand at Tara resting on the table top. "Don't you see?" she beseeched me. I sat frozen in stunned silence. Startled, Tara in turn awoke out of her slumber and fluttered down to the sidewalk. "It's a devil come to roost!" the bag lady yelled again. She darted after Tara. Tara excitedly flapped her wings as she scurried across the sidewalk to avoid the bag lady.

"What the fuck are you doing?" I yelled at the woman after collecting myself. Tara dashed under the table. The bag lady reached down as if to grab her. Thinking she intended to harm Tara I seized the woman's blanket and flung her back. She fell on her butt, but with surprising agility and speed sprung up and commenced after Tara once again.

With a couple of sharp flaps of her wings against the pavement Tara hopped up on the table. The bag lady futilely tried to stretch across the table to grasp Tara. Tara ruffled her feathers as she raised her beak into the air above her head. Her beak gaped open. She screeched with a volume of sound I did not think possible. I clasped my hands over my ears to try to protect my eardrums. My eyelids squeezed shut so hard my eyes stung. My elbows sank to the table top as I leaned over, my head wracked with pain.

∆∆∆

I forced my eyes open as the last echoes of Tara's screech evaporated from my skull. Jean stood before me. She grasped my arms. She pulled my hands away from my ears. "Are you okay?" she asked, her face furrowed with worry.

"What just happened?" I asked.

"Your bird screeched so loud I dropped the tray of dishes I was washing. Is she okay?"

We both turned to look at Tara, me fearing the worst. Tara sat quietly on the back of a chair preening her feathers. She ruffled her wings when Jean and I looked at her. "Where did she go?" I asked. I whirled around, breaking out of Jean's grasp. I noticed the shopping cart still parked next to the bell tower.

"Are you okay?" Jean asked me nervously. "Tara's right here."

"No, not Tara. The old lady. The bag lady. She tried to attack Tara."

"What? What bag lady?"

"There was a bag lady right here," I insisted. I pointed across the street toward the shopping cart. "She tried to attack Tara. She was screaming some shit about Tara being a devil. Last thing I remember was Tara screeching." We both turned to look at Tara again. And then back at each other.

"Okay," Jean said. "Now what?"

"You didn't see her? She was right here. I swear."

Jean gave me that crazy funny look I feared. "With that screech Tara must have scared her off. Sure the fuck scared me. She can't be far. You sure you okay?" Jean asked, grasping my arms again. That was twice in one day. "Can I get anything for you and Tara before I lock up?"

Too shaken to recognize an invitation when one stared me in the face, I just said, "I think I should get Tara home."

"Okay," Jean said. I seemed too late to notice the note of wistfulness on her face. "You take care of the princess. I'd hate anything to happen to her."

Jean walked back into the coffee shop. I put my arm out and asked Tara to "Step up". Without hesitation, she hopped on my arm and ran up on my shoulder. "What just happened?" I asked rhetorically, to no one in particular, certainly not Tara.

"I made her go away," Tara responded.

### Part Two

I pretty much muttered to myself all the way back to my studio, trying to comprehend my question and Tara's answer. Mostly I was trying to pretend I had not in fact heard Tara say, "I made her go away." Unfortunately I distinctly heard Tara say "I made her go away."

Once inside I commanded Tara to "Step up" and placed her on the play stand, thinking she must be getting hungry. I know I was getting hungry. As if reading my mind, Tara responded, "What you got to eat?" I froze, incredulous. I stood next to a parrot that first claimed to disappear people, and now wanted to see a dinner menu. Tara cocked her head, fixed one coal black, or one fiery pit of Hell black eye on me and asked again, "What you got to eat?" I shook myself out of my lethargy and pointed to the dish of parrot food on her perch. "Are you kidding me? I want real food," Tara exclaimed.

Without thinking I took my chance and asked Tara, "What happened tonight?"

"I made her go away."

"You said that already," I said, admitting to myself that she really did say that. "How can you make her go away? You're a bird." Seemed self-evident. Birds don't generally disappear people. Shit on them, sure. But disappear people? Not so much in my experience.

"I will tell you if you give me some real food." I stared at the parrot. Okay. I was losing it. I made a mental note to call my doctor soon as possible. "I promise," Tara said. "I will tell you if you give me some real food." What couldn't be happening was really happening. A parrot, a big blue beautiful parrot, was talking to me. More like at me at this particular moment. And not in the 'Polly Want a Cracker' sense. I tried to compose myself. "I want some real food!" Tara demanded, her voice tinged with exasperation.

"Well, I've got some caprese salad in the fridge I was planning on eating for dinner," I responded defensively.

"What is a caprese salad?" Tara asked with considerable interest.

"Cheese, peppers, tomatoes. . ."

"Yes. Yes. And yes! Please," she begged. Muttering to myself I stepped into the kitchen and retrieved the tub of caprese salad from the fridge. Returning to Tara's play stand, I dumped out the parrot food and spooned some salad into the dish. Flakes of cheese and slivers of red veges started flying off Tara's beak as she munched down on her dinner. She scarfed cheese balls down whole. "Anything to drink?" she asked.

"Would you like some wine with your salad, your highness?" I responded, not wholly in jest.

"Would I!"

Without thinking of the absurdity of the situation, I retrieved a bottle of cabernet from the fridge. I poured some cabernet into a wide brim glass and held the glass up to her. Tara ducked her beak into the glass. Her tongue started paddling like a Mississippi River paddleboat as she tried to drain the glass. After Tara took several drinks, I raised the glass to my mouth and guzzled what remained. "Okay," I demanded. "What happened to that bag lady? Is she dead?"

Tara furiously shook wine off her beak as she appeared to collect her thoughts. "I made her go away."

"You said that already. Is she dead?" I repeated. Seemingly Jean and I would have noticed a body sprawled out on the pavement.

"I bent time and space and made her go away."

"You what?" I refilled the glass with wine and chugged the glass. Now time and space entered the equation. This could not be happening. Not to me anyway. I had two doctoral degrees. In history and archaeology. I believed in research and science. Not in parrots that talked about bending time and space.

"I am sure the woman is fine," Tara added. "I bent her time and space to the beach across the water." Tara stretched her wing to point out the bay window across Shilshole Bay. "She will wander around until someone picks her up. They will take her someplace where she can get the help she needs. Can I have some more of that wine?"

"How can you possibly know that? How can you possibly do that? How does a parrot bend time and space?" I had to ask.

"Are you sure you want to know?" Tara replied.

I hesitated, but responded, "Yes."

"Okay. Do not say I did not warn you. But only because I like you. A lot!" Tara's eyes seemed to twinkle. Tara continued, "Some people can see me for what I truly am. Some people who do not live in your reality, like the bag lady, can see me for what I am. I think that Charlie could nearly see me for what I am. He had a sense. Or he suspected. That is why he was afraid of me."

### Part Three

The sun had set. Street lights twinkled through the heavy glass panes in my bay windows to cast eerie shadows across my walls. The cherry wood in my studio glowed softly from the vintage art deco wall sconces, sole surviving fixtures from the room's old hotel days. I studied Tara. Tara studied me. The lights blinked out. All light. Not just the light in my apartment. The room turned dark. Not dark as in absence of light. Dark as in absence of existence! I lost all reference to reality. I floated in a void. I felt weightless. Astronauts at least can see the world below their feet, albeit two hundred miles below their feet. I could see nothing. I sensed nothing. I heard nothing. Not even my own heart beating. I felt as if a black hole opened in my apartment from which no light or existence could escape.

After a few moments, or possibly even a few eons with no anchor to measure time or space; after a few moments a bluish orb formed and commenced glowing in the center of the room, if there could be assumed to be a center of anything in this blackness. The bluish orb commenced vibrating, then spinning, then growing. The blue orb encompassed the entire space of my existence. A damp pungent heat enveloped me and assaulted my senses, as if I had just stepped into a Savannah summer afternoon. I struggled to breathe from the oppressive weight of this phenomenon, which pressed at me from every direction.

Black nothingness coalesced into a brilliant blue somethingness. My brain struggled to comprehend the new construction of space and time before me. The glowing orb became searing blue light and heat which turned into an apparition and then a solid construct. She stood before me. "Tara?" I nervously offered. My entire life's philosophy of existence and reality flew out the windows.

She stood easily six feet tall. With change to spare. Totally. Butt. Naked! Her only adornment was one huge battle axe hanging from a loop around her waist. Her long hair cascading over her shoulders shed light from its blackness. Her crystalline blue skin glowed, not from the light in the room, but from the heat emanating from her body. Her body rippled with muscles. Most frightening and entrancing of all, however, was her one gleaming yellow eye.

She sported one pendulous breast. Jagged scars cut across her face and chest where her left eye and left breast should have been. She appeared frighteningly beautiful. And beautifully frightening. "Do not be afraid," Tara finally said. Her voice had changed. Instead of a parrot's voice I now heard the sultriest voice ever spoken since Lauren Bacall's Slim asked Humphrey Bogart's Steve, 'You know how to whistle, don't you Steve?' I didn't even pretend to understand how she could speak a language I could understand. "You see me as I really am," she added.

In my shock I could barely muster a reply. "What are you?" I finally managed to ask.

"Everything will be explained in due time," she offered. "We have all of eternity, if we choose it." I sensed that with her time and space really could be molded to suit her needs. "But now I want you," she said.

"For what?" was the best response I could offer.

"Come here," she commanded. I stood still, my muscles frozen with fear. The blue woman stepped up to me. It occurred to me she could have demanded that I 'Step up'. She placed her hands on my shoulders and pulled me to her. Her crystalline blue glowing skin seemed strangely cool and soft to my touch, like Tara's feathers, even though I could feel the heat radiating from her body. She stuck her one breast in my chest. "Do not be afraid," she whispered in my ear. Her black tongue flicked out of her mouth and swept across my chin. And then my lips. I reflexively put my arms around her, mostly to keep from falling over. I commenced shaking. She pushed her tongue into my mouth, like Napoleon's Grande Armée marching into Russia, broad, strong, and determined. She met no resistance from me. One of her hands went up inside the back of my shirt. The other hand slid into my pants. At that point my consciousness dissolved into a state of unconscious being. I passed out.

∆∆∆

When I finally came to I found myself sprawled out on my apartment floor. Night had passed into day. Light flooded into the apartment from the sunny blue day outside. I found myself totally naked. Not even any clothes strewn across the floor. I rolled over in an attempt to gain my bearings. Tara, the parrot, sat quietly and calmly on her play stand in the window, one foot up in a napping position, gently preening her feathers with her big beak. She ruffled her feathers when she saw me stirring. "What the fuck!" I said, not a question, but a statement.

### Chapter Four

### Part One

I wandered into the bedroom in something of a daze to find some clothes and get dressed. Slipped on my shoes. Grabbed my jacket and keys. I walked up to Tara. "Come on. Step up," I sternly demanded. I stuck my arm out in front of her. "We're going to go see somebody." I didn't dare leave her alone. I feared I might find I didn't have a home to come back to.

I climbed into my truck. Tara hopped onto the passenger seat headrest. She didn't make a sound for the half hour or so it took me to drive down to the Pike Place Market. Not a peep out of her. Not a peep out of me. It took about four loops driving around the market before a parking place opened up. I parked the truck and gathered Tara up. This time no chocolate pretzel. No coffee. No cookie. I scurried past the brass pig and skipped down the hill climb to Charlie's Bird Store. I ignored the onslaught of questions regarding Tara from just about everyone I passed.

Strangely quiet before, Tara perked up when we got to the door to Charlie's shop. Her claws dug into my arm. "No. I am not going back in there," she emphatically insisted. "You are not taking me back! What are you doing?" she pleaded.

"I need to talk to Charlie."

"I am not going in there!" Tara repeated. Couple of passersby gave me a strange look before darting across the street.

I opened the door to Charlie's shop. Tara flapped her wings. Her claws released my arm. Before I could think to grab her feet she darted fifty feet into the air. My jaw dropped to my chest. I did not believe anything that big could fly that fast. I watched her in shock as she flew out of sight back over the top of the market. I ran out into the street in front of the shop screaming, "Tara!"

The driver of an oncoming car slammed on his brakes. The driver laid on his horn and yelled before swerving his car around me, "Get out of the road you stupid fuck!"

Charlie appeared at the door. "Tara?" he asked. He glanced around when he didn't see her with me. He already knew the answer. "You can't bring her back here, boss," he added. "I have a 'No Refund' policy."

"She flew off my arm and up over the building when I tried to go into your shop. I've got to go look for her."

"She'll be okay, son. Take my word for it." Charlie motioned for me to get out of the street. "So why did you bring her back here then?"

I hopped up onto the sidewalk as a delivery truck roared up the street, its horn blaring. "Well, I didn't want to leave her at home unattended," I explained. "Something strange happened to me last night," I continued. I peered into Charlie's eyes. "I think you might have an idea what it is," I added.

Charlie frowned. "Maybe you should come in," he directed me with a wave of his hand through the door. More a command than a request.

I stayed put on the sidewalk. "The weirdest thing happened with Tara last night," I continued. "I know you're going to think I'm nuts, but. . ." I paused, trying to think of the right words. "I might as well just say it straight out." I took a deep breath. "Tara raped me last night." Charlie's eyes nearly popped out of his skull. "There, I said it." I paused. I took another breath. "Maybe rape is the wrong word, but she took certain liberties with me, and I'm not talking about the goddamned parrot."

Charlie stared at me for the longest time without any noticeable reaction. _Okay, he hasn't fled into his shop and locked the door. That was a good sign_. Finally he asked, "Tara show herself to you as she really is?"

"Yes, she did." I replied.

Charlie leaned back behind his door and flipped over his 'Come In' sign to the 'Closed' side. "Buy me a beer," he said, "and I'll tell you a story."

"Okay," I agreed.

We walked up to the next level of the hill climb and dropped into a Mexican dive called El Puerco Lloron. Apparently Charlie was no stranger here. Charlie called out to a husky tattooed Latino guy with a goatee and spiked black hair behind the counter, "Buenas tardes Raúl. Necesitamos cervezas. Dos para mí y dos para mi amigo."

"¿Su amigo está pagando por la cerveza Señor Charlie?"

"Igual que siempre hermano."

The guy named Raúl deposited four ice cold glass bottles of Negra Modelo on the counter. Charlie grabbed two. I grabbed the other two. We sat by the windows, looking down over Elliott Bay where we could see the ferry boats coming in and out of Coleman Dock. "This is going to be a two beer story," Charlie offered. He spread his lanky body over the metal folding chair and propped his back against one of the concrete pillars in the room. We drank in silence for a few moments. Charlie broke the silence. "So you know there's more to Tara than meets the eye?" he asked.

I wanted to say, _'No Shit Sherlock_!' I said, "She made somebody disappear last night." Charlie didn't show the slightest surprise. "We were in downtown Ballard," I continued after a sip of my beer, "and some old bag lady tried to attack her. Kept calling her a devil. Then suddenly she just vanished. Into thin air. And that wasn't even the strangest part."

"There's more?" Charlie asked, squinting over the top of the beer bottle in his hand.

"After we got home," I continued, "she scared the shit out of me. She transformed herself from a parrot. . . a parrot that just by the way can make people disappear, she transformed herself into some sort of freak that can bend time and space."

I half expected some kind of reaction from Charlie. Nothing. Charlie drained the beer in his bottle. "Not a freak," Charlie interjected. "Not hardly."

"Maybe that's the wrong word. Extremely beautiful in a very frightening way. Did I mention she was totally naked?" Charlie looked up at me with a bemused look. Finishing one beer he started the other. "She had this skin that glowed blue like cobalt," I added. "And then she made love to me. Or at least I think she did. That's when I passed out."

"We may need more beer, son," Charlie said.

### Part Two

"Looks like Tara showed you more of herself than she ever showed me," Charlie offered. "When Tara first came into the store her owner dropped her off and ran. I mean ran away as fast as she could go. Was supposed to just board the bird for the weekend, but the lady never came back. Never called. Nothing. I mean who in their right mind abandons a bird worth more than most cars? So I'm setting up Tara's cage," Charlie continued, "and this guy comes into the shop and starts teasing the bird. Pokes at her. Tries to pet her. Touch her. So she bites him. He's so mad he hits Tara with his fist." I turned from the window to stare at Charlie. He continued, "I come running out of the back and I'm ready to tackle this guy and beat the crap out of him. Before I get half way there Tara lets out this tremendous shriek that stops me dead in my tracks. And shuts up every other bird in the place. And the guy plum just disappears." Charlie chugged the remainder of his beer. I motioned to the clerk to bring another round. Charlie continued, "So once my head clears and I can hear again, I get on the phone with the aviary over in Spokane that Tara came from. Just to see if I might get an indication that something is different with her. It's run by this Indian guy. Not Lone Ranger and Tonto kind of Indian, but Indian Indian. From India," he added for clarification.

"I get the picture," I replied.

Charlie said, "I started telling him a small part of what happened and he started blabbing at me in his broken English about mantras and Buddhas and reincarnation and all kinds of witches and gods and goddesses and shit. I decided I better drive over to Spokane on my closed day and meet this guy. Maybe I could understand him better face to face. Long day but it was worth it. I got him good and drunk and got one hell of a story out of him." I felt goosebumps race up my back. The clerk brought four more beers out to our table. Charlie nodded and continued, "See, there's this ancient race of warrior witches that can take animal form in some of the most wayward and godforsaken parts of the world, far away from normal people. Tibet. The Ural Mountains of Russia. The Andes. The northwest coast. Turns out Tara is one of those warriors. An Amazon. . ."

"I thought she was a macaw," I interrupted.

"A Jason and the Argonauts kind of Amazon. Not the bird kind," Charlie clarified. _I started thinking four beers might not be enough_. Charlie continued with his story. "This witchcraft was all fine and good when the world was large and distances were great. Humans and witches kept to their own worlds. But as the world got smaller and distances got shorter, well then, the world of witches and gods started spilling over into the world of men." Charlie started on another beer. "Then the most powerful of these witches, these gods, decided they would enslave mankind to do their bidding. They started hiding among us in positions of authority and power. Those they couldn't subvert they killed. And took their place. See, these witches are shapeshifters. They can take animal or human form and hide among us. The only checks on their powers, the only protection people had, were the ancient shamans who knew how to counter their magic. Now, even the shamans aren't strong enough to stand up to these witches."

"You're shitting me," I muttered. _Thirteen years of graduate school down the drain_ , I thought to myself.

"So this Indian guy lets out that these Amazon warriors like Tara only reveal themselves when there's a threat to their existence. Which ipso facto means a threat to our existence." A big grin broke across Charlie's face every time he said a Latin word. "And apparently there's a threat. A bad threat. A god of war, a warlock, a really bad hombre, killed his shaman on the Canuck coast at the turn of the last century and escaped his homeland and has been extending his empire over the world of men ever since. This god of war is called Winalagalis." Charlie stretched his hand across the table to grasp my arm. "Ever wonder why the Twentieth Century was so bloody? What with all the world wars and cold wars and revolutions and such."

Okay, I thought. _What the hell have I got myself into_? "The Winalagalis is a myth," I insisted. "A fantasy story. You know anything about him?" I asked Charlie.

"Only that he comes from a race of warriors in Canuck Land, called the Kwakwaka'wakw."

"So what do we do?" I asked very rhetorically.

"That's where Tara comes in," Charlie said. "Apparently there's a whole passel of Taras. Twenty-one different kinds of Taras. But the Blue Tara, what Tara is, is top dog. . ."

"Or top parrot," I interjected with a smirk.

"This is not a joking matter," Charlie continued, a stern frown across his face. "Tara is one of the fiercest and most powerful warriors of them all. Did she have a battle axe?"

"Yes she did," I responded. "And just one eye and one breast."

Charlie reached across the table and grabbed my hand. "Tara is one of the most powerful and one of the most secret of the warrior witches. She only shows herself to special people." The hair on the back of my neck bristled. Hell, all the hair I had left on my body bristled. "That's why not everybody can see her the way she really is. But the people she shows herself to, those people have a special role in whatever game she's playing. Your seeing Tara as she really is. . ." Charlie dropped back in his chair, "is both a blessing and a curse. For your sake," Charlie whispered, "I hope to hell she's flown off and you never see her again!" I didn't know what to say. I stared at the beer bottle in my hand. "And you know what else?" Charlie added. _Oh my god, there's more_? I thought to myself. "There's more than one of her. Blue Tara that is. Something about the birds that bred her. . ."

"Duke and Duchess, you mean?"

"Yeah, Duke and Duchess. There's something about them that's magic. The magic that's in Tara and the others comes from them." An old proverb came to mind. _When you find yourself in a hole, you should probably stop digging_. Okay, maybe not completely germane, but something along those lines. Charlie polished off his beer. "You know where to find me," he said. He kicked his chair back and jumped to his feet. "I got to get back. Whatever you do, you be careful boss," Charlie said shaking my hand. "You're getting into a whole world of shit like you've never believed possible."

I jumped to my feet. "Oh my god. I've got to go look for Tara," I reminded myself. I paid the tab and headed up the hill climb to the top of the market. I figured I'd stop by Starbucks to pick up a coffee to counteract all that beer I just drank. Up top, I found my truck surrounded by a crowd of people. An assortment of tourists, hobos, bums, and vendors. I feared something had happened to my truck. I elbowed my way through the crowd. The crowd of people surrounded my truck gawking at a giant blue parrot named Princess Tara perched on the cab of the truck. Relieved, I stretched my arm out. Tara flapped her wings. She hopped off the truck onto my arm.

"Is it real?" the question flew out of the crowd.

"Does it talk?" someone shouted.

I ignored the questions. I was in no mood to show Tara off, let alone talk to anyone. I skipped the coffee. I unlocked the cab and climbed into the truck with Tara. Tara hopped onto the passenger seat headrest. The crowd backed off when I gunned the engine. I backed out of the parking spot and drove off. "We need to talk," I said. To Tara.

### Part Three

But first I needed to see Jean. I dropped Tara at the apartment. I parked her on her play stand. I poured leftover caprese salad into her dish and told her I'd be right back. I decided to risk leaving Tara unattended. I didn't think I could go through the rest of my life with a parrot attached to me. I hustled up the street to Caffe Umbria. The hour was just past closing but I hoped that I could catch Jean before she left work. Jean was locking the door when I ran up. "Jean!" I practically yelled in her ear. She nearly jumped out of her shoes. "I need to talk to somebody," I told her. "It's things about Tara I can't make heads or tails of. I think I'm going nuts, and I just want to talk to somebody I know is sane. Like you,"

Jean's hands grasped mine. She blurted out before I could continue, "Am I glad to see you." _You are_? I thought to myself. Things are looking better already. "Where's Tara?" she asked.

"At the apartment chilling her claws, I hope."

"Did you catch the news today?" she asked.

"News? No, what's up?" I don't watch television anymore ever since Dear Leader turned the news into his own personal state media. "Too depressing," I explained to Jean.

"That bag lady that was here last night. . ." I perked up. "That bag lady. . . She was picked up in West Seattle by the cops and taken to the psych ward at Harborview for evaluation. They showed her on the local news. She kept raving about devils and parrots. So it was true, what you said about her." I glanced across the street. The shopping cart stacked with plastic bags still sat parked next to the bell tower.

"I've got something to tell you," I told Jean, "that's going to blow you away." I felt Jean's fingers press into my hands. I took a chance. "You doing anything? You want to come by for a glass of wine? See Tara?" I thought I'd throw the bird in for good measure per Charlie's advice. "I just live up in the old Saint Charles Hotel."

"Love to," Jean responded. My heart raced. We walked up the street silently holding hands. The jumbled thoughts in my head crashing around my brain prevented me from coming up with anything coherent to say. So I kept my mouth shut, and kept my hand on Jean's.

Back in the apartment I poured some wine. We sat at the dining table. "Okay, here goes," I said. I took a deep breath. "Buckle up."

"Okay," Jean said. She took a sip of wine. She gazed at me with her brooding brown eyes.

"Tara is a witch."

Jean slammed her hands on the table. "She's a what?"

"Witch. Goddess. Deity. Take your pick. She does things that witches and goddesses do. You know, if it walks like a duck. . ."I paused, wondering how ridiculous I sounded. "And that's not the weirdest part. Tara is not a parrot."

We both turned to look at Tara perched quietly on her stand. "Well, she looks like a parrot," Jean tentatively offered.

"Okay, she's a parrot. But she's not just a parrot. The parrot is just the form that people see. In reality. . ." I pondered whether reality was the word I was looking for. "In reality she's an Amazon."

"You mean like Amazon parrot? Now I am confused."

"No, I mean Amazon warrior. Like in Greek mythology. Hercules and Achilles, and all that. Battle axe and all." Jean seemed somewhat incredulous. "Tara revealed herself to me last night. She took human form. If you can call a being with one eye and one breast human. She carried this huge battle axe. And did I mention, she was completely naked?"

"Now you're putting me on."

"I went to see Charlie today. He's seen what she does. He knows what she is. He knows how powerful she is. And he knows why she's here."

"He does?"

"Apparently the shit is about to hit the fan."

"So how do you fit into all of this?" Jean asked.

"Oh, no big deal. Fate of the universe. Survival of Western Civilization. End of the world as we know it. Just your average history professor at work."

"You used to teach at the U Dub, right?" U Dub is what Seattleites euphemistically call the University of Washington. Another method to differentiate true Seattleites from interlopers.

"Charlie said the people Tara chooses to reveal herself to have a special role to play in whatever game she's up to. But I don't think it's a game at all. It's real. Myself, I just don't see me wielding a battle axe any time soon."

"I like guys with battle axes," Jean joked.

"Now you tell me."

"I'm trying to make sense of this. Either you're feeding me one load of bullshit, or this is the greatest pickup line any guy has ever come up with."

"Or maybe it's all true," I offered. Jean stood up and bent over the table to kiss me. "What's that for?" I replied, surprised. After the kiss.

"I like guys who save the world."

I stood up and kissed her back. Lips to lips. Tongue to tongue. She tasted like a fine coffee liqueur. I put my hand up her sweater. Why you fox you, I thought. No bra. Instead I found a pair of perky breasts. Jean squealed as I fondled her nipples. Jean unzipped my pants. She pulled down her skirt. She pushed me back onto my chair. Kicking her skirt off she straddled my thighs. She wrapped her arms around my shoulders as she pressed into me.

It was hard to differentiate whether the screech or the blackness came first. I thought I heard Jean scream in my ear. Or maybe that was me. Blackness turned to blinding blue light. Black void turned to whirling blue somethingness. Blue somethingness coalesced into Blue Tara's effervescent crystalline blue Amazon form. When some form of reality as I understood it reestablished itself, Blue Tara stood before us in my apartment just as I had seen her. Blue Tara stood fully naked. Jean and I stood half naked. We stared at each other. This just isn't going to do my sex life any good at all, I thought to myself.

"He is mine," Blue Tara finally spoke. She pinned her one gleaming yellow eye directly at Jean.

### Chapter Five

### Part One

Jean and I scrambled to get dressed. "Don't I have any say in this?" Jean asked, her eyes gaping wide in shock, staring at Blue Tara.

"Can't you be a little less dramatic?" I muttered.

"The future of your world is in your hands," Tara insisted. "I have been stranded in that bird store for much too long."

I raised my hands to stare at my palms. "The future of the world is in my hands?" I responded incredulously. "The fate of the world is in these hands?" I turned the palms of my hands toward Tara. "Just what do you want from me?"

"I need you to find the turndun," she stated.

"What?" I asked. "What in the hell is a turndun?"

"The turndun is not in Hell," Tara explained. "The turndun is on Earth. It is an instrument that will allow me to summon a gathering of the Taras."

"A gathering of the Taras!" Jean exclaimed. She grabbed my arm. "You mean there's more of them? Of her?" She pointed to Tara.

"I wouldn't know what a turndun was if my life depended upon it," I insisted.

"Your life does depend upon it. And her life. And the life of all the living. You study ancient cultures and worlds, do you not?" Tara asked me.

"Yes he does," Jean piped up. "He's an historian."

"Retired," I insisted.

"I need you to find the turndun. I need to use the turndun to awaken Lord Garuda from his epochal sleep so he can summon a gathering of the Taras to the coming conflagration."

"Who is Garuda?" Jean asked.

"You mean Garuda as in king of the birds? Messenger of the gods? Right? That Garuda?" I responded before Tara could reply. I turned to walk into the kitchen. "I don't know about anyone else, but I need a drink." I pulled a bottle of wine out of the fridge. I filled two glasses for Jean and me. I hesitantly looked at Tara. I held the bottle up. Tara stepped into the kitchen and took the bottle out of my hand. She chugged the bottle down. Jean and I sat down at the dining table. Tara stood on one foot, like a parrot, her right foot raised up and placed against her left knee. "Am I right?" I asked Tara. "King of the birds?"

Tara nodded. "Garuda has been asleep for an eternity. Only the turndun can awaken him. He must summon the Taras before the Winalagalis unleashes his demons of war for the final reckoning."

"So this turndun thing. What is it? And better yet, where is it?" I asked.

"The turndun is an instrument that awakens Lord Garuda to call the Taras to gather for battle. Only the turndun can summon Lord Garuda from his eternal sleep."

"And where do we find one of these turndun things?"

"There is one in a place you call the Burke Museum, here in Seattle," Tara replied.

I was dumbfounded. How could Tara possibly know that I knew the Burke Museum from my graduate school days at the U Dub? I attended graduate school archaeology seminars in the museum lab while I worked on my archaeology dissertation. "Why me?" I asked meekly. "How did I get involved in this?"

"I sent my most trusted servant, Aboo, to find someone who was knowledgeable, brave, generous, and trustworthy. Most importantly, someone I could trust would rescue me from my exile in Charlie's store. Someone who would not shirk from the truth of the coming apocalypse."

"Geez. So now we're dealing with an apocalypse?" Jean smirked.

"Let's back up a moment, shall we?" I interjected. "Who is this Aboo fellow you mentioned? I think I might have noticed running into a servant of a god."

"The great bird you met that directed you to me at Charlie's store. The Blue and Gold macaw parrot. That is the form Aboo takes in your reality. He chose wisely, yes? He needed to find someone who could be trusted to follow through. And you did."

_I swore never to eat another cookie ever again_. "My mistake, for sure," I muttered.

"Not a mistake. A great opportunity."

Jean jumped into the conversation, "Maybe you should tell us more about this apocalypse. What can one person possibly do to stop something as big as that?"

"The Winalagalis has scattered his demons and his witches throughout the world of men. . ."

"And women," Jean added.

"The world of men and women. The chiefs in all endeavors of humanity. Police. Military. Courts, Government. These chiefs have been targeted and replaced by the demons of Winalagalis."

"And Winalagalis is. . . ?" Jean asked.

"The god of war of the north," I replied. "Charlie told me about him. He killed his shaman and escaped his homeland. In ancient times the shamans possessed the magic to keep the demons in check. Now his power is unrestrained. His demons have infiltrated government. These demons can take any form, animal or human. They can resemble any person or animal and move about without causing alarm." _The thought occurred to me that maybe I should be paying more attention to the news_. Was it a coincidence that Dear Leader suspended the Constitution when he imposed his New American Order? Dear Leader revived the military draft to bolster the ranks of the armed forces stretched thin by foreign expeditions and domestic counterinsurgency campaigns. Dissent and public protest were strictly forbidden. The news media had been nationalized and only state sanctioned news cleared for broadcast. Following the lead of San Francisco, the Seattle City Council recently approved a plan to designate Seattle as a Free City, free of federal tyranny. Portland also debated a similar proposal. Many people on this coast floated the concept of an independent Cascade Republic. Needless to say, Dear Leader was not particularly happy with these developments. I asked Tara, "How high does this conspiracy go?"

"There is no limit imposed by man," Tara replied cryptically.

_Could Dear Leader be the Winalagalis_ , I wondered? "Okay. Say we find the turndun. You awaken Garuda. Garuda calls the Taras to battle. Then what? What can we do that could possibly make a difference? The Winalagalis killed his shaman. If only the shamans have the knowledge and the power to contain the Winalagalis, then what can we do?"

"You are an historian. You study the mysteries of the past. You can find the knowledge of the shamans and make it powerful again. You can find the tlogwe. You can stop the Winalagalis."

"The tlogwe?" I asked, perplexed.

"The tlogwe," Tara repeated. "The gift of special powers. The ultimate treasure the spirits grant to those brave enough to enter their realm."

Jean and I glanced at each other in wonder. _No pressure_ , I thought to myself. Jean piped up, "Why do you need our help at all? You're a goddess. You're all powerful. Are you not?"

"No," Tara surprisingly replied. "I am the Ekajati. My powers are great. My enemies fear me. I move Heaven and Earth to spread the knowledge of the evil arrayed against us. I gave my right eye and my right breast in my fight to stop this evil. But I am not all powerful, or Winalagalis would not be in ascendancy." She continued, "I am Blue Tara, but I am not invincible. I am one of twenty-one Taras. The sisterhood of the Taras is a force to be reckoned with. If we can be summoned in time."

"Okay," I said. "Say I find the turndun. You awaken Garuda. Garuda summons the Taras. Then what?"

"You must find the magic the shamans possessed to contain the Winalagalis. The Taras can defeat the Winalagalis in battle, but only if the magic he possesses can be contained. If you fail this, there is little hope for the Taras, and no hope for your world."

I forlornly stared into my wine glass. Jean took my hand. "Like I said, I like guys who save the world." I bent over the table and kissed her, keeping a wary eye on Tara while doing so.

### Part Two

Jean spent the night with me. And Tara. Me anyway. I think I spent the whole night awake with one eye on the bedroom door. We arose early in the morning to find Tara in her parrot form perched asleep on her stand. Jean had to open the coffee shop. I needed to visit my old friend Mike, my former office mate from my teaching days at the U Dub, Dr. Michael Bulgakov.

There probably is no more class stratified system in America today than university education. Regents, deans, coaches and department heads rule over a medieval fiefdom that the Borgias would be proud of. Tenured professors comprise the knighthood and baronial caste. Adjunct professors find themselves little better than the dregs of the medieval class structure. Janitors are considered more useful by the ruling elite and treated better.

The location of a professor's office gave the best visual evidence of where they fit in the medieval class structure. Tenured faculty enjoyed offices in sparkling new glass office towers built with the avalanche of tech money flooding the campus. Or at the least offices in buildings with windows that opened. Non-tenured or adjunct faculty, well. . . Michael's office, my old office, lay in the catacombs of the university's cathedral to knowledge and reason, the gorgeously collegiate gothic stone Suzzallo Library, built in the 1920s, back when books and education were still an object of veneration and worship. Specifically buried in the sub-basement, along with the building's obsolete and derelict coal furnace. This had one advantage. From my time in these catacombs I recalled that I never had to worry about interruptions. My students could never find me.

I parked my truck in the visitors' parking garage. With Princess Tara perched on my shoulder, I walked across Red Square, named not for any political predilections on campus but for the red brick that paved the square. I walked past the ornate main doors to the side of the library to a little known and little used maintenance doorway. Thankfully, Princess Tara drew remarkably little notice or attention as we crossed the square. Most students and staff we passed walked bent over their mobile devices. I was constantly amazed by how few accidents I witnessed caused by such inattentive walking over the uneven brick surface. I unlocked the maintenance door and hustled down two dark and dingy flights of stairs. A well lit welcoming open door at the end of a drab concrete hallway indicated the professor was home. From force of habit I entered without knocking.

To stretch his stingy adjunct professor pay Michael had set up housekeeping in his office. Not kosher, but stealthy enough in these dark catacombs not to get picked up on the university's radar. I knew he kept a cot in the closet and used the university gym for showers. Michael sat at his desk with his back to the door, his black office cat Margarita snoozing on a mat at his feet.

Margarita glimpsed Tara on my shoulder. She let out a howl that could wake the dead. She leaped onto Michael's lap with such alacrity she knocked Michael over backwards in his chair. I managed to catch the chair before he fell over on the floor. The cat jumped onto the desk and arched her back, her short black fur standing on end. Tara fluffed her feathers. She dug her claws into my shoulder.

"Well, fuck all!" Michael exclaimed. He jumped up shaking cat hair off his pants. "What is this? I didn't know you got a bird." Michael brushed himself off. Medium height. Slightly chunky in all the wrong places. Could stand to spend some time in the gym working out. Short cropped brown hair noticeably thinning and turning white on the ends. Clark Gable mustache. Standard adjunct professor outfit. Khaki pants. Polo shirt. Sweater vest.

"Mike. Meet Tara," I said. "Princess Tara," I added with a grin.

"Hello Tara," Michael said.

"Hello," said Tara.

"She speaks," Michael replied, bemused.

"More than you know." Tara and Margarita seemed to be trying to stare each other down. "Glad to see that Margarita is still doing well after all these years." Margarita meowed, as if to thank me for my compliment. Margarita sported solid black fur with a tinge of red, except for a white spot just above her eyes, almost like a third eye. She lay back on her haunches, like a coiled spring. She kept her eyes fixed on Tara.

"So what brings you to the catacombs. It's been what, a year since you've come down here? You don't call. You don't write."

"Been busy roasting coffee."

"And now you're into parrots? Must be nice to win the lottery." Michael had never quite forgiven me for abandoning academia. Or knowing when to give up.

"Still no new office mate?"

"One was assigned to me, but she took one look at the place and never came back. Don't think she ever formally relinquished her claim, because no one else has been assigned down here. What brings you back, besides showing me the bird?"

"I need your help, Mike," I said. "Specifically I'm picking up some research on northwest coast ethnography." A bit of a lie, but I ran with it. "You know anything about something called a turndun? In the Burke collection?"

"As a matter of fact, yes I do." Michael gave me an inquiring look. "The Burke asked me to evaluate it for its cultural significance. Why? How do you know about it? It's really top secret. Hasn't been publicized at all."

"So what is it exactly?"

"It's a turndun. Also called a bullroarer. An ancient musical instrument with great religious significance that allowed people to communicate over vast distances."

"How does it work?"

"It's a serrated wood slat, about two feet long, attached to a long cord. You spin it around your head either horizontally or vertically and the sound it creates from its vibration can travel for miles. Long or short pulses depending on its rotation, horizontal or vertical, can create something of an ancient Morse Code."

"I need to see it."

"Not likely. Like I said it's top secret. Seriously. The feds have stepped in and sealed access to it. Me and the museum director are about the only people allowed to handle it."

"Why would the feds care about an old northwest coast artifact?"

"Well, they don't say, but there's something really odd about it."

"Such as?"

"Its antiquity for one thing. This particular turndun was excavated in the 1890s by the great Franz Boas on English Bay where Stanley Park sits today." Boas was a legendary pioneering archaeologist and grave robber. The Indiana Jones of the Nineteenth Century. Michael continued, "Most turnduns in collections in this country are no more than a few hundred years old. Wood artifacts just don't hold up well buried in dirt over extended periods of time. The oldest turndun ever found was in the Ukraine by a Soviet archaeologist. He dated it to be about 17,000 years old, which is highly suspect. The Burke turndun. . . well, we got the radiocarbon dates back. It was twice as old."

"That's not possible," I retorted. "The Bering Land Bridge was not open that long ago."

"Precisely. The Burke has me trying to figure out how the dates got so screwed up."

"They are not," Tara interjected. I had almost forgotten her on my shoulder. Michael's jaw dropped to his chest.

### Part Three

"I guess this is where I explain there's more to Tara than meets the eye," I said.

Before Michael could reply, Tara spoke again, "Maybe your friend can explain why Black Tara is living with him in this dungeon."

"Black Tara?" both Michael and I exclaimed simultaneously, staring at each other in confusion.

Michael's black cat sprung up onto her hind legs on Michael's desk. Her forepaws flailed the air before her. "It is my pleasure to serve you, Lord Tara," the cat called Margarita distinctly said to the parrot called Princess Tara. Michael and I stood dumbfounded, our heads bopping between the bird and the cat. A talking parrot already stretched my credulousness to its breaking point. A talking cat seemed utterly beyond comprehension.

"I'm going to sit down now," Michael said. He dropped into his chair. "Either you're going to explain how you pulled this trick off, or I'm going to check myself into the university medical center."

Princess Tara continued speaking. "The being you call Margarita is one of the twenty-one Taras, the ones who protect. Black Tara, the Terrifier, serves me as my instrument of wrath, punishing evil with whatever force necessary. With the ferocity of a tiger she devours any demons that stand in her way. With her three eyes no demon can hide from her." Parrot Tara bowed to feline Tara. "It is my pleasure and honor to find you here."

Michael jumped back onto his feet. "The parrot keeps talking nonsense, and you're not explaining it to me," he said with noticeable exasperation.

"It's not nonsense," I replied. "Tara is a witch." Michael's mouth gaped open. "Apparently your cat is a witch, too."

"Enough already. How are you doing this? Ventriloquism?"

"This is going to be tough to explain. Maybe you better sit down." Princess Tara had other plans. A screech rolled out of Tara's beak. Michael and I both fell to our knees, our hands slapped to our ears. Michael's office disappeared. My Ballard apartment appeared. Before either of us could react Tara screeched again. We found ourselves back in Michael's office. My head throbbed in pain as I picked myself off the floor. Michael lay curled up on the floor in a fetal position for several moments before struggling to get back up. I didn't think I was ever going to get used to this time space bending trick.

"What the fuck!" Michael swore. His face was as white as the note paper on his desk.

"Believe me, I went through this same state of denial when this first happened to me."

"Okay," Michael said, sliding into his chair. "Say I'm not just totally fucked up. How did you get involved with a witch? And how did I get involved with a witch?" He cocked his head to stare at Margarita hissing under his desk.

"Just a couple of historians saving the world, is all," I smirked. "We need to get the turndun. And we need to get into the Boas field notes. I seem to remember from my grad school days that Boas described ceremonies he witnessed on Vancouver Island regarding the Winalagalis. . ."

"The god of war of the north? That Winalagalis?" Michael interrupted, incredulously.

"There's an evil deep within our government involving the Winalagalis that needs to be rooted out. I'm also thinking the key to rooting out that evil is buried somewhere in the Boas field notes."

"Jesus. Fucking. Christ!" Michael cried out. "Now you're into conspiracy theory too?" He shook his head in disgust. "The feds sequestered all the Boas field notes," he continued. "Everywhere, not just here at the U Dub. The Internet has been scrubbed of any digital copies. And library copies all across the country have been seized. Can't imagine what the feds want with those field notes."

"I can," I said glumly.

"This is getting too deep for me," Michael retorted.

"I thought so too at the beginning. But I learned there's a reason Princess Tara chose me. And there must be a reason why Black Tara chose you."

"Say all this is true. And I don't for a moment believe that it is, if you want to know the truth. What can I possibly do. I have a career to think about. I don't have the luxury of winning the lottery."

"Oh come on Mike. You don't have a career, for chrissakes. You teach Intro 101 classes. That's not a career. That's treading water." Michael looked at me glumly. "Sorry to be so blunt, but it's true. I was in the same boat. If you haven't achieved tenure by now you never will. Now we have a chance for a breakthrough that will blow the dust and cobwebs off this corner of academia all the way to Hell and back. I need your help. Tara needs your help."

"To do what?"

"We need that turndun. And I need to look at the Boas field notes."

"Well, Hell. The turndun is under lock and key in the basement of the Burke Museum. And the Boas field notes are locked in the Special Collections room on the main floor of this library. What are you going to do? Just walk in and ask for them?"

"No, I'm just going to waltz in and take them."

"Say what? You're kidding?" Michael said.

"You just saw what Tara is capable of."

"Somehow I don't think it's that easy. And I'm not exactly sure what I saw. Or what I believe I saw."

"What do you know about the Winalagalis?" I asked.

"Bad dude. Fierce warrior. His home base is on the northwest coast among the Kwakwaka'wakw peoples. From there he travels the world in his magic canoe making war and basically making a nuisance of himself."

"If he's just one dude, how much trouble can he cause?"

"Oh, there's more," Michael replied. "Way more."

"Do tell."

"He has an army of ghouls in his service. Let me see. There's Toxuit. He's invincible. There's Hawinalal. He's immortal. Same thing I guess. He has monsters at his beck and call. A gigantic cannibal called Baxbakual. A giant cannibal grizzly bear called Nanes. Though cannibal grizzly bear is probably redundant. There's Nontsistalal, a fire breather, maybe the origin of the fire breathing dragon myth? So, monsters, cannibals, dragons. Even zombies. Winalagalis has a lieutenant, a cannibal warlock called Hamatsa who turns people he eats into cannibals and zombies, creating an army of zombie cannibals."

"Geez," I sighed.

"Wait, there's more, like they say on television. My favorite demon hands down is Qoaxqoaxual. A giant raven who feasts on the eyes of the people devoured by Baxbakual. You want me to go on?" I shrugged. Michael continued, "And if that's not bad enough, these dudes pack some serious heat. How about a magic harpoon which brings death to anyone it's pointed at? Burning fire like napalm that consumes everything in its path? And you can't kill these suckers because Winalagalis has got this Water of Life which resuscitates the dead!"

"I didn't actually say it was going to be easy," I offered.

"Just for sake of argument, say this is all true and real. How you think you're going to make a goddamned bit of difference is beyond me." Michael leaned back in his chair, pressing his hands to his face. Margarita sidled up to Michael. She rubbed her head against his ankles, purring gently.

I said, "We've got Blue Tara on our side. And now we've got Black Tara as well. That must count for something."

### Chapter Six
### Part One

Tara piped up, "I want coffee." Michael nearly rolled out of his chair in shock.

"If that doesn't take the cake!" he exclaimed, righting himself. "Now I've heard everything. Does she really drink coffee?" I nodded. "There's usually a coffee cart or two parked on Red Square during the day. You buying?"

"Yes, he is buying," Tara stated unequivocally.

We headed outside, Tara perched on my shoulder. Margarita sauntered along behind Michael. Michael couldn't stop laughing at the thought of a coffee drinking parrot. We found an espresso cart parked by the steps to Suzzallo Library and joined the line. Several students complimented me on Tara while we waited to be served by the barista, a tall attractive African woman draped in a bright red hijab, speaking with a distinctly British accent. One or two of the students bent over to pet Margarita, who clearly enjoyed the attention.

As we waited in line a couple of black clad Deportation Police goons wandered by. They stared menacingly at the barista and the waiting line of students. The Deportation Police rarely showed themselves in public in Seattle in the early days of Dear Leader's regime, but had become more evident as the Free Seattle movement took hold. They sported standard Deportation Police black. Black boots. Black pants. Black sweaters. Black wool caps. Black bulletproof vests. Black sunglasses. The only part of their getup not black were the words

### ICE

### POLICE

stamped across the back of their bulletproof vests in white print. The officers slowly stepped along the line of students waiting for coffee, carefully observing each student. Several students decided to skip the coffee and leave. The others stared back at the officers in a less than welcoming manner. The officers cut into the front of the line. One student shouted out, "Line forms in the rear!"

The larger of the two men, a husky bruiser with a Marine Corp haircut turned and walked back to the protesting student. "You got a problem?" he pressed the kid. He probably outweighed the kid by a good hundred pounds. The kid stammered an apology and dropped his eyes to his feet.

Michael turned toward the officer and repeated, "Line forms at the rear." Since we were the end of the line, he pointed behind us.

The other officer demanded to see the barista's identification. The larger man walked up to Michael and said, "You looking for trouble?"

I interjected, "We're just looking for coffee, officer."

The cop stared at Tara perched on my shoulder. "Who are you? Doctor Doolittle?" I could feel Tara's claws clamp into my shoulder. Margarita hissed. The cop leaned into me, his nose nearly touching mine. I nearly gagged as the smell of death and decay of his breath washed over me.

"Careful of that beak," I cautioned. I took a step back, holding my breath.

The other officer again demanded to see the barista's papers. Several students suggested he leave her alone. The cop angrily reached across the espresso cart and grabbed the barista's hijab. He dragged her across the cart nearly ripping off the hijab in the process. The second officer grabbed my free shoulder. "Are you threatening me?" he sneered.

Tara leaned across my neck and sank her beak into the cop's hand. A stream of profanity poured out of the cop's mouth. He yanked his hand off my shoulder and out of Tara's beak. His other hand reached for his service revolver tucked in the holster strapped to his belt. Margarita hissed. The second cop kicked Margarita, sending the cat flying across the red brick. "God damn it!" Michael screamed.

Before Michael could make a move, Margarita jumped back on her feet. The second cop pulled his pistol out of his holster. He pointed the barrel at Tara. I froze in shock. Margarita let out an earsplitting howl as she stretched up on her hind legs. Her forelegs twirled around like a ballerina's arms. The black cat disappeared in a whirl of motion like a whirling dervish. The dervish flew into the air toward the cop. I glimpsed what appeared to be steel claws slicing through the goon's neck. His head flew off his shoulders to roll across the red brick of Red Square. The pistol slipped out of his fingers to clank on the red brick at my feet. The cop's headless body slowly toppled over as a stream of red blood gushed from his neck like a geyser.

The other officer dropped the barista. He reached for his weapon. Tara raised her head and screeched. I fell to my knees, my hands pressed futilely against my ears. A spinning orb of brilliant blue light flew off my shoulder and landed in front of the officer. The cop attempted to raise his revolver. The spinning blue orb coalesced into a glowing blue human form. I distinctly saw a flash of blue steel. The goon's head rolled off his shoulders and down his back to bounce onto the red brick. His body toppled over, almost in slow motion. I thought I heard people screaming and running. Everything happened so fast I seemed to be having one of those bad dreams where hours of action are compressed into a few moments. I felt like I suffered from shock. I pressed my hands against my ears. I squeezed my eyes shut until I could feel tears dribble down my chin. I fervently prayed that I would awaken from a nightmare.

I thought I heard someone ask if I wanted a coffee. _Coffee? Surely I was dreaming_. I hesitantly opened my eyes. I found myself standing in front of the coffee cart. The red hajib draped barista smiled at me with her dazzling ivory smile. "What can I get you?" she asked in her superiorly British accent. I glanced about me. Tara sat quietly perched on my shoulder. Margarita lay curled on the pavement, basking in the sun, licking her fur. The only concession to what might just have happened, Michael stood behind me, pale as a ghost, his face blank, his eyes gazing unfocused across the square. No bodies. No heads. No Deportation Police goons. No blood. No blades. "What can I get you?" the barista asked again.

∆∆∆

Coffee cups in hand, Michael and I walked to a bench away in the corner of Red Square and sat down. Tara crawled down to my lap. She dunked her beak into my coffee cup, and commenced lapping up the coffee. Michael finally broke the silence. "What. The. Fuck?"

"Tara?" I asked. Tara's beak kept bopping into my coffee cup. I pulled the cup away from her. "Tara?" I repeated.

"There were bodies without heads," Michael glumly observed. "And heads without bodies. I could have sworn I saw headless bodies!"

My coffee cup out of reach of Tara's beak, she cocked her head and pinned one big black eye up at me. "I bent time and space so no one else could see what you saw. I disposed of the bodies. And the heads. The men were bad men. Agents of evil. I made them disappear."

"This can't be happening," Michael responded, sinking forlornly into the bench.

"For all intents and purposes, I guess it didn't happen," I suggested. "Tara just disappeared the goons."

"Won't someone notice?" Michael asked.

"Most certainly," Tara responded. "But they will simply go missing, never to be found. Their bodies are shark bait out in the middle of the ocean."

### Part Two

"Something tells me this isn't going to end well," Michael said. "We can't go knocking off federal agents and no one notice? Can we?"

"It has started," Tara said.

"What has started?" Michael asked, perplexed, staring wide-eyed at Tara.

"The beginning of the end. The culmination of the scheme the Winalagalis has put into motion. The great reckoning."

Sprawled across the red brick at our feet, basking in the sun, Margarita raised her head and added, "You have our protection."

"Swell," I commented.

"I don't know if I can handle this," Michael said.

"There's nothing for you to handle," I said to Michael. "You just need to take me to the turndun. And to the Boas field notes. It seems to me the Taras are plenty capable of taking care of the bodies," I added with a smirk.

"Well, I can certainly show you where the turndun is. But the Boas field notes are secured under lock and key somewhere inside the Special Collections room of the Suzzallo Library." Michael raised his thumb over his shoulder for emphasis. "But the feds aren't allowing anyone to look at them. Not even me." I jumped to my feet and started walking across Red Square. "Where are you going?" Michael asked, reluctantly rising from the bench.

"The Burke Museum. You're going to show me where the turndun is stored."

∆∆∆

The Burke Museum is located at the entrance to the University of Washington in a drab square gray single story concrete and glass building of a kind popular during the 1960s. We entered the museum through the staff entrance at the back of the building, Tara perched on my shoulder, Michael cradling Margarita in his arms. The woman at the security checkpoint recognized us. I remembered her from a couple of my archaeology seminars some years back. "Oh, how cute," she said. "What a pretty bird. We don't normally let people bring their pets into the building."

"It's okay," Michael responded. "We're just going to be a minute. I lost my wallet," he lied. "I want to check the lab and see if I left it there." She buzzed us in.

We walked down the stairs into the basement and Michael unlocked the door to the lab. Inside, row upon row of floor to ceiling gleaming white steel cases filled the immense room. "This is going to be easier than I thought," I told Michael. "You have the keys to the cases? I can stick the turndun under my jacket and we can just waltz out of here. They'd never notice."

"You might want to take a look up," Michael said. "Act casual." I glanced up. Security cameras covered the ceiling, literally a camera above each case.

"That's different," I said. "Weren't any cameras when I worked here."

"That was a more naïve and innocent time." Michael replied. "Follow me." We walked through the lab until we reached the back wall. There we found a steel vault built into the wall. Locked, of course. "There's the turndun," Michael said, pointing to the vault. "The lab director has the only key. The director is required to be here with me any time I want to study it. And it's on his schedule, not mine."

"Looks like you need to schedule a visit," I told him. "And you'll have company."

"Please tell me he's not going to lose his head," Michael pleaded. "Otherwise I won't go through with this. He's actually a pretty nice guy."

I knew the director from my graduate school days. "I don't think anyone will need to lose their heads over this, will they Tara?" I craned my head to peer into Tara's eyes. Tara didn't respond. "You make the appointment Mike, and let me know so Tara and I can join you. Just don't tell him you'll have company."

"You never told me what you're going to do with the turndun. You're not going to damage it, are you? It's a priceless artifact."

"Are you kidding. This is me you're talking to. Tara just needs to use it to call the Garuda, to summon the other nineteen Taras."

"Garuda?"

"King of the Birds. Messenger of the Gods."

"Sorry I asked," Michael replied.

"We'll give it back to you, soon as Tara is done with it. Promise. Right? Tara?" Tara again refused to respond.

∆∆∆

In Level C of the basement of the Henry M. Jackson Federal Building in downtown Seattle, a federal agent of the Department of Homeland Security, monitoring a bank of computer screens in a top secret and heavily fortified room filled wall to wall and floor to ceiling with computer consoles received an alert on one of his screens. He retrieved a video file from a security camera mounted above the U Dub's Red Square on the roof of the Suzzallo Library. He tapped his bluetooth com and hailed his supervisor. "Chief, you need to see this."

A gaunt, balding and wiry man wearing black pants, a white shirt with a pocket protector stuffed with pens, and a green visor like a blackjack dealer would wear, appeared at the agent's station. "What you got, Agent Cooper?"

"Chief, we just lost Deportation Police Team Six."

"Lost? Did they sign off their shift?"

"No, sir. I mean we lost them. They vanished. There's no signal from their beacons. And check out this security footage from Red Square." Agent Cooper clicked the replay button on the video feed. The two Deportation Police agents could be seen walking across the square and coming up on the coffee cart. The video clearly showed one of the agents confronting the barista. The other agent could be seen interacting with a couple of adult men at the back of the line.

"What is that?" the chief asked. "Is that a parrot?" The video feed blurred. There seemed to be a glint of steel in the sunlight. The agents vanished. "Get this video to Control right away Agent Cooper. I need to call Washington," the chief said.

### Part Three

Once the world's largest office building, the Old Executive Office Building in the other Washington sits on the site of the original War/State/Navy Building. Built in grandiose French Second Empire style, the building epitomized America's original longing for empire in the heady years following the American Civil War, when there seemed to be no end to American expansionism. A radical departure from the neoclassical look of previous federal buildings, the Old Executive Office Building was universally scorned and ridiculed by the White House employees working there, so much so that the scorn and ridicule eventually drove the architect to suicide.

Perfectly fitting then that Control chose this building in which to set up shop. Simply put, Control did for Dear Leader's regime exactly what the word implied. Control controlled. Control implemented the vision and dreams formulated for the regime by the Winalagalis as expressed through the cult of personality personified by Dear Leader. The various law enforcement agencies that existed before the regime, such as the FBI and the DEA, continued to function untethered from the niceties of constitutional restrictions. Control existed to ensure that nothing stood in the way of implementing the New American Order. Dear Leader represented the friendly face of the regime. Control contained the brains of the regime.

Control sequestered itself out of the light of day and media attention in the highly secret and heavily guarded basement of the Old Executive Office Building. The chief of Control rarely left the confines of Control to venture outside the facility onto the streets of the city. Even Dear Leader came to Control whenever necessary to consult with the chief. His staff addressed him by his code name, Hamatsa. A tall thin man with long disheveled black hair which he tried to contain underneath a black leather fedora, the chief hid his scaly pale yellowish skin as much as possible under a black ankle length leather coat, black leather boots, and black leather gloves which he wore constantly, even within the confines of Control. A creature of the dark, the flickering lights of the computer monitors provided the only illumination within the chamber. The darkened chamber unintentionally highlighted Hamatsa's gleaming red eyes.

Hamatsa stood next to a computer monitor with his lieutenant, an equally tall svelte dark-skinned muscular woman with a military bearing called Kinqalatlala. They kept replaying the same security camera video from the University of Washington's Red Square. "It is Blue Tara. It has to be," Hamatsa insisted. "There is no other explanation why the two agents simply disappeared. And the cat must be Black Tara."

"Why Seattle?" Kinqalatlala asked. "Why now after all this time?"

"Blue Tara must be summoning the witches. The Taras. She must have found an instrument that will allow her to call her cohort together."

"To what end? And why Seattle?"

"Only one reason. To counter the Winalagalis before his power becomes unstoppable. Seattle must hold the key to her plans. There must be a reason she chose these men to help her. I want to know who they are and why she chose them. Especially the man with the parrot."

"Yes, master."

"Dispatch the furies. Instruct them to find these two men. Wherever these men are, Blue Tara will be close. Have the furies bring the man with the parrot to me. Alive."

"And the other?"

"He will be their reward. They can feast on him for all I care. And this talk of feasting is whetting my appetite. Bring me one of the undocumented so I may eat. Make it a female this time. Female meat is so much more succulent."

"Right away, master." Kinqalatlala smartly turned and practically ran out of the room. When Hamatsa demanded to be fed, his hunger needed to be placated as quickly as possible. For Hamatsa was a cannibal. Kinqalatlala was his slave. The victims Hamatsa devoured in turn became cannibals and zombies, themselves needing flesh to continue their existence in Hamatsa's service. Slowly and surely, victim by victim, meal by meal, Hamatsa built his own private army of cannibals and zombies. Soon his power would rival that of the Winalagalis. Kinqalatlala had no desire to fall victim to Hamatsa's hunger for flesh. She was perfectly happy to be the one to provide the meals. The new regime seemed to be blessed with an endless supply of flesh from the countless numbers of dissidents rounded up on a daily basis. She knew that one day even the Winalagalis would notice Hamatsa's hunger for power. And she would prefer not to pay the price.

Kinqalatlala selected an appropriate female victim from the holding cells adjacent to the Control facility, which she delivered to Hamatsa's private suite within the facility. Trapped in a drugged stupor, the victims invariably allowed Kinqalatlala to walk them to their fates willingly and unquestioningly.

This distasteful task concluded she hiked to a secure anteroom hidden in the back recesses of the Old Executive Office Building's basement. She flipped on the lights. A large wheeled steel cage stood alone in the center of the otherwise empty chamber, covered by a canvas tarp. She rolled the cage out into the hallway and pushed the cage to the freight elevator. The elevator carried the cage up to the roof of the building. Once on the roof, she pulled off the tarp, revealing four extremely large birds perched in the cage. Four furies, a giant raven, a giant crane, and two condors. "Greetings Qoaxqoaxual. Greetings Hoxhok. Greetings Gelogudzayae. Greetings Nenstalit." She bowed before each bird. She opened the door to the cage. The four furies hopped out onto the roof. Qoaxqoaxual, a giant raven. Feasted on the eyes of Hamatsa's victims. Hoxhok, a giant crane. Cracked open the skulls of his victims with his great beak and devoured their brains. Gelogudzayae and Nenstalit, feathered guard dogs and bodyguards, if guard dogs had the teeth and claws of grizzly bears.

This flock of feathered furies served Hamatsa as his eyes and ears, throughout Dear Leader's realm. No one could hide from them. No one escaped their notice. Kinqalatlala pointed westward toward the setting sun and commanded, "Go. Blue Tara has been spotted out in the west in a place called Seattle." The furies growled upon hearing Blue Tara's name. They shook their wings. "You must find her and stop her before her power returns. Go. And remember. Bring the one with the parrot back to your master. Alive." The furies hissed. "The other you can do with as you wish. But beware the Taras. They are not to be trifled with. Combined, their powers are more formidable than you know. Go!" She pointed off again to the west. One by one the furies flapped their wings, took a couple of awkward steps, and took flight. They cleared the building and banked toward the west as they took to chase the setting sun.

### Chapter Seven

### Part One

I got home to Ballard just about the time I thought Jean would be locking up the coffee shop. I parked my truck, parked Tara on her play stand in my apartment, and ran up the street. I caught Jean locking the door to her shop. "Am I glad to see you," I told Jean, leaning against a bike rack in front of the shop to catch my breath. "I feel like I've been running on empty all day."

"I'm dying to hear how it went at the U Dub today," Jean said, a broad grin across her face. She stepped up to me. She took my hands in hers. She bent over to kiss me.

I whistled. "Damn, you look good girl," I remarked. Jean sported casual clothing for a cool Seattle spring evening. Black jeans and a dark wool sweater. The sleeves of a navy blue wool pea coat hung tied around her waist. Her long brunette hair flowed loose over her shoulders. "Funny you should mention dying," I quipped.

"Where's Tara?" Jean asked.

"I left her at home. She had a big day. Jumped straight on her perch to take a nap. Only killed two people," I joked.

"What?" Jean asked, astonished. She jumped back a step. "Killed what two people? What are you talking about?"

"Okay, so she only actually killed one person. A cop. Michael's cat killed the other. . . Cop."

"She killed a cop? Now you're putting me on," she insisted, hands on her hips, a stern look on her face. Then she changed her mind. "Oh my god. No. I know better than that. So what happened?"

"We got into a scuffle with a couple of Deportation Police goons on Red Square."

"Deportation Police? They rarely come into the city. Usually stay out in the country where the turf is friendlier."

"Seems ever since this Free Seattle movement took hold, the federal goons have boosted their visibility. They were harassing students on Red Square, checking papers and whatnot. Somehow Michael and I got in the middle of it. One of the goons kicked Michael's cat Margarita, and tried to shoot Tara." Jean's eyes bulged wide as saucers. "She, Margarita. . . well. . ." I paused to collect my thoughts. "She's a witch. Just like Tara. She took the guy's head clean off."

"Oh my god!" Jean exclaimed.

"Turns out she's one of the Taras that my Tara is looking for. Black Tara to be specific. Black Tara is a witch of vengeance, and damn if she didn't deliver some vengeance. Then Blue Tara took the head off the other goon before he could shoot us."

"Wow. The place must have been crawling with cops after that. How did you explain it all?"

"That's the thing. There was nothing to explain. Tara. . . Blue Tara reset time and space back to the starting point. We had been standing in line at a coffee cart. And when it was all over we were back to standing in line at the coffee cart. The goons simply disappeared, like that bag lady. Heads and all. Not even a blood stain."

"My lord. What have you gotten yourself into?"

"Right now, anyway," I said, taking Jean's hands into mine, "I've got myself together with you." I bent over and kissed her. She put her arms around me. My tongue swept across her lips and into her mouth to meet her tongue.

"Oh my," Jean said. "Maybe we should head up to your place before I rip your clothes off here on the sidewalk. I'm off tomorrow, so I can stay up late and play. You hungry?"

"Starved."

"Let's pick up a pizza on the way."

"Sounds like a plan," I said. We dropped into Ballard Pizza across the street from the Saint Charles Hotel. I picked up a garlic and onion pizza. Thin crust. Olive oil base. Jean's suggestion. _A woman after my own heart_ , I thought. I paid of course. We ran across the street to my apartment. I had wine in the fridge.

∆∆∆

Tara perked up from her nap once I set the pizza box on the dining table and poured a couple of glasses of cabernet. "Food?" Tara asked.

"Pizza," I replied.

"What's pizza?"

"Baked bread covered with a sauce and cheese and some veges."

Tara flapped her wings. She flew off her perch and onto the table. She bit off a hunk of the pizza slice I picked up for myself. "Oh yes," she said. "Food. This is even better than caprese salad." After several big bites she dunked her beak into my wine glass. Wine splashed across the table and pizza.

"So much for pizza," I said.

"Never mind the pizza," Jean said. She took my hand and pulled me toward my bedroom. "Come with me." I grabbed the bottle of wine and followed Jean into the bedroom. I pushed the door closed behind me. Jean kissed me while she unbuttoned my shirt and unzipped my pants. She pushed the shirt back off my shoulders. She pulled my pants down to my ankles. Her tongue licked my lips. Then my chest as she pulled me back to my bed.

"My. Oh. My!" I exclaimed.

"Careful what you say, hon. Tara may hear you." Jean fell back onto the bed. I held my breath. "Come to momma honey. What are you waiting for?"

"I'm waiting to see what Tara does." I didn't wait long. I joined Jean on the bed. With the bottle of wine. But not to sleep.

∆∆∆

I had visions of sleeping in the next morning with Jean in my arms, but the visions were rudely rent asunder when Michael called early to tell me the campus was crawling with Deportation Police. We talked for about half an hour. Well, he talked mostly. I just listened. "What's going on?" Jean asked drowsily.

"Looks like the feds have put out a news bulletin about our headless goons. They're asking any citizen who knows anything about a couple of missing goons to step forward."

"Yeah, I'm sure people will come crawling out of the woodwork volunteering information," Jean joked.

"There's nothing for anyone to report. No one in this reality saw anything," I said. "Tara took care of that."

"Then we haven't got anything to worry about," Jean added.

"There's something else," I said.

"What's that?"

"Michael said that several people have been attacked on campus and seriously injured."

"Injured? How so?"

"They were attacked by, get this, giant birds. One lady even had her eyes pecked out. I remember something Michael told me about the legend of the furies. He wants me to come over to the campus as soon as possible. Says he's got some new info for me. Why don't you come along? You can meet Michael and Black Tara. But first, we've got to go and warn Charlie about what's going on."

"Well, okay," Jean demurred. "But you're buying the coffee."

### Part Two

Jean and I got dressed. I found the pizza box empty on the dining table. "No breakfast for us," I said, dropping the box. I stepped Tara up and we went out to my truck.

This time I parked directly in front of Charlie's Bird Store, right in front of a 'No Parking' sign. Tara refused to get out of the truck, so I left her in the cab. Jean and I walked into the store. First thing, I noticed the shop eerily quiet, in spite of the hundreds of birds packed into the store. I spotted Charlie in the back behind Tara's old cage arguing with a customer. More like the customer arguing with him. Right off, he didn't seem to me to be a parrot kind of guy. Lanky, almost emaciated. I would have thought anorexic if he had been a woman. Pale skin even noteworthy by Seattle standards of pale skin. Big bald spot accentuated by the remaining hair tied back in a ponytail. Not so much a beard as unkempt stubble. Clothes that might have been in fashion back in the 1980s. As Jean and I entered, he turned to face us. His severely bloodshot sunken eyes sent shivers up my spine.

Charlie didn't so much as greet us. In fact, he didn't greet us at all. He acted like he didn't recognize me. "Sorry folks. I'm closed early today. Not feeling well. Think I'm coming down with the flu or something."

I ignored his warning. "Hi Charlie," I said, walking up to him with my hand out to shake his. "Who's your friend?"

"He said he's closed," the man replied gruffly, in a voice so guttural I had to play it back in my mind to make sure I understood him. "You should leave," he insisted.

I stared at his sunken bloodshot eyes. Then looked back at Charlie. "I'm glad I caught you," I told Charlie. "I need to talk to you about Tara."

I thought I saw Charlie mouth the word 'No'. The other man's eyes almost popped out of his head. "Tara? You know Tara?" he asked me.

Charlie interrupted. "Sorry son, I sold Tara to some guy come up from Portland. She's not for sale anymore. Sorry you had to make the trip for nothing."

Jean took my hand. "Maybe we should leave," she said.

"What do you know about Tara," the man snarled.

"Didn't you want to buy some parrot food for your African Grey, sweetie?" I asked Jean. "There's some over there," I said, pointing to the back wall.

I started to step past Charlie. The man grabbed my shoulder to stop me. "What do you know about Tara?" he pressed me. I tried to brush his hand off my shoulder. He gripped so hard I almost fell to my knees in pain. He opened his mouth. Instead of teeth I saw fangs. Jean screamed. He leaned over to sink his fangs into my neck. Charlie grabbed a cast iron poker he used to open and close his windows. He clobbered the man over the head. The man staggered back, releasing my shoulder. He turned and grabbed Jean, his arm around her neck choking her. "If you want your precious to live, you will tell me where Tara is." He bared his fangs.

"Don't let him bite her!" Charlie yelled. "He'll turn her into one of them." Jean's knees buckled as the man choked her. I grabbed the poker from Charlie. The front door blew open.

Blue Tara appeared in the middle of the room, battle axe in her hand. She raised the battle axe over her head with both hands. She flung the axe at the man. The axe made an eerie whirling sound before the blade split the man's head neatly in two. Her mouth gaping open, Blue Tara let out an ear-splitting screech. Before the goon's body could even hit the floor the man vanished. Into thin air. Just like the goons at Red Square. Jean fainted. I grabbed her before she could fall to the floor. I cradled her in my lap.

"That was a close shave," Charlie remarked, his eyes wide in astonishment. "Sorry to get you into this mess, boss. Who's your friend? Is she okay?"

"Hope so. Probably scared half to death, I guess."

Jean gasped for breath as she regained consciousness. I helped her to her feet. I noticed Princess Tara the parrot perched in her old cage. The din of hundreds of screeching and calling birds, deathly quiet when we entered the shop, resumed to assault my eardrums. Everything seemed back to normal. "What was that?" Jean managed to mutter.

Charlie turned to stare at Princess Tara. "Well there Princess. That was quite the show."

Jean threw her arms over my shoulders to hug me. "Oh my God! What happened to that guy?"

"Tara disappeared him," I replied.

"I thought I was a goner," Jean said.

"You and me both."

"My whole life flashed before my eyes when that blade came whizzing by my nose," Jean said.

"That's the first time I've seen Tara as she really is," Charlie said.

"So who was that guy?" I asked. "And what did he want?"

"Tara of course, boss. He wanted Tara. And he wanted you."

"What did you mean when you said he'd turn Jean into one of them?"

"He's a. . . was a cannibal. And a zombie. Probably created when another cannibal took a bite out of him. He would have turned you and your friend into cannibals, and zombies, if he'd taken bites out of you."

"But where'd he come from? What did he want with you?"

"He served the Winalagalis, I'm guessing. Most likely he was one of his slaves. Looks like the word is out about Blue Tara. He wanted to find you. To find Tara. Somehow they must know about you. You need to watch your back, son. There's a whole world of hurt coming down on your head. And anyone close to you," Charlie added, looking directly at Jean. For the first time I saw fear in Jean's eyes. I just hoped she didn't see the fear in my eyes. I took her hands in mine.

"How about you?" I asked Charlie. "Apparently they know about you too."

"Just a lucky guess, I'm thinking. Being as I'm the only parrot store downtown. And pretty well known. They could just as easily have started with Denise's. Or Inca's. Or Apollo's."

"Aren't you worried they'll be back?"

"Next time I'll be ready. They won't catch me off guard again. I'll have my friends Smith and Wesson by my side from now on."

I looked at Jean. "We need to get over to the campus and warn Michael," I said.

"Who's Michael?" Charlie asked.

"We found Black Tara." Charlie shuddered. "Michael is an old colleague of mine at the U Dub who just happens to have a black cat who is a witch. Like Tara."

"You take care of yourself, son. And you take care of your friend here too. Okay?" Charlie patted Jean on her back. "Otherwise I may have to take care of her for you." Charlie winked at me.

"You sure you'll be okay?" I asked Charlie.

"Absolutely. Especially with a forty-five on my hip. Now go. Warn your friend."

I stepped Tara up out of the cage. We ran out to my truck. If that didn't beat all, I found a parking ticket under my wiper blade.

### Part Three

At the summer solstice the Hudson's Bay Company post of Fort Rupert at the northern tip of British Columbia's Vancouver Island is bathed in almost constant daylight. When the sun finally dips into the Pacific Ocean for its short rest, the shaman of the Kwakwaka'wakw people gathers his warriors by the rocky beach on Queen Charlotte Strait. The shaman is resplendently dressed in his ceremonial trappings of his trade. Deer skin leggings and shirt, richly decorated with sea shells and trade beads. He wears a bear skin cloak pulled over his shirt. And over the bear skin cloak he drapes a crisp new green and blue striped Hudson's Bay Company blanket presented to the shaman by the post's chief factor just for this occasion. The shaman's face is black with soot. Red ochre lightning bolts are painted across the black soot. A red and black painted cedar mask sits atop his head, not covering his face, but looking skyward. The hand carved and brightly painted mask depicts the raven clan that are his forebearers and ancestors, shamans all.

As the warriors gather by the beach, the mournful sound of beating drums breaks the stillness of the night. Even the surf seems to lay down on the beach noiselessly. At the precise moment the sun sinks into the Pacific Ocean on that summer solstice night, the shaman drops his mask over his face and signals for the ceremony to begin. About a dozen warriors walk out of the surf carrying an intricately hand carved cedar log canoe onto the beach. Carved from a single massive cedar log, the canoe is easily twenty feet long. Fierce painted serpent heads adorn each end of the canoe. A large tarp made of bear skins stitched together covers the canoe. The canoe is placed on the beach at the feet of the shaman, and the bearskin tarp pulled off. The flickering light of several great bonfires casts a strange and magical aura over the gathering. The beating of the drums grows louder and more intense. The shaman raises his hands over his head and begins an incantation. The drums go silent.

"Hoi'p Hoi'p.

Baxbakual goes with me around the whole world. Hiai, hiai, ai, ai, hiai, hiai. Baxbakual walks all around the world. Hiai, hiai, ai, ai, hiai, hiai.

We are afraid of Baxbakual's body which is covered with blood. Hiai, hiai, ai, ai, hiai, hiai. Baxbakual is feared by all because his body is terrible. Hiai, hiai, ai, ai, hiai, hiai."

The incantation continues for several more verses, and stops. The shaman steps away from the canoe. For a few moments the silence is so acute the warriors can hear the beating of their own hearts. The warriors jump in fright when hands appear from the darkness within to grasp the sides of the canoe. A giant figure slowly rises and stands up. The warriors gasp and stagger backwards, as if to retreat into the darkness of the forest behind them. The shaman calls out to them to stand their ground.

Slowly the ogre Baxbakual steps out of the canoe. A giant, he towers over the shaman. The black hair on his body is matted and greasy, so thick it looks like fur. He has not one mouth, not two mouths or even three mouths, but his body is covered with mouths. Hungry red gaping mouths that have not feasted since the previous summer solstice. He starts beating his chest and crying out, "Eat! Eat! Eat!"

Two of Baxbakual's servants appear out of the night sky and fly down to the beach. Qoaxqoaxual, a giant raven, and Hoxhok, a giant crane. "Eat! Eat! Eat!" they cry. The giant raven jumps at the crowd of warriors and with his huge beak grabs one of the men unlucky enough to be standing too far away from the safety of the group. Qoaxqoaxual drags him to the canoe. The giant crane crushes his skull with his great beak and sucks out his brain. The raven devours the man's eyes. He rips his flesh. Baxbakual steps forward and lunges toward the warriors.

The shaman jumps in front of the ogre who is at least twice his size. From under his Hudson's Bay Company blanket the shaman produces an immense glowing crystal of pure quartz. The shaman places the crystal on the beach directly in front of Baxbakual. The ogre recoils at the sight of the crystal. He retreats to the canoe. The shaman raises his arms over his head one more time and commences to dance around the crystal while singing another incantation.

"Hoi'p Hoi'p.

You frightened everyone by your magic, Baxbakual, hia, hia, hia, ya.

You frightened everyone by your wild cry, Baxbakual, hia, hia, hia, ya.

You frightened everyone by your great servants, Qoaxqoaxual and Hoxhok, hia, hia, hia, ya.

You go all around the world, magical Baxbakual. You destroy everyone before you, hia, hia, hia, ya, ya, hia, ya, ya, hia, hia, hia, ya.

Hoi'p Hoi'p."

As the shaman sings he steadily advances toward Baxbakual, never taking his eyes off the monster, forcing the creature back to the canoe. The birds of fury snarl and hiss, but retreat toward the canoe as well, dragging their victim with them. The shaman picks up the glowing crystal and holding the crystal out before him, he advances toward the ogre. The shaman forces Baxbakual to retreat back into the canoe.

At that, the shaman signals the warriors. Two men step forward dragging a naked woman between them, squirming and struggling to get out of their grasp. But they are too strong for her. They drag her to the canoe. They lift her up and throw her inside. She screams when she sees Baxbakual, but the screams are quickly stifled. Baxbakual drags the woman into the depths of the canoe, and the screams stop.

A few of the warriors run up and toss the bear skin tarp back over the canoe. The host of men that brought the canoe out of the surf onto the beach lift the canoe up to carry the craft back into the water. As the canoe disappears into the dark surf the shaman removes the cedar mask from his head. He wipes sweat off his brow, streaking the red and black ochre across his face. He turns and walks back toward the village with the satisfaction of knowing his people are safe for another year. The warriors move out of his way. They dare not speak to him.

Sitting incredulous at the back of the beach on this summer solstice night of 1896, watching this remarkable and mysterious ceremony seen by few western eyes, the young German archaeologist Franz Boas could not believe what he had just witnessed. A German Jew with a freshly minted doctorate from the University of Heidelberg, Boas ran away from the rising tide of antisemitism in his native Germany to seek adventure and treasure in the virgin field of American archaeology. He feverishly transcribed notes describing the ceremony he had just witnessed into his field book by the light of the bonfires. As he snapped the cover shut he noticed the huge crystal of quartz sitting on the beach where the shaman had last placed it, no longer glowing. Jumping up Boas grabbed the crystal. He wrapped his jacket around the prize. Checking first to see that no warrior was watching, he stuffed the rock into his field pack for safekeeping. This clearly was an artifact of great power and mystery worth further study.

### Chapter Eight

### Part One

Leaving Charlie's Bird Store I hopped onto the Interstate and drove over the Ship Canal up to the U Dub campus as fast as possible without getting another ticket. Jean insisted on getting something to eat since we ran out of the apartment without breakfast. I pulled into Dick's Drive-In and ordered hamburgers and fries. I paid of course. Tara grabbed one of my French fries. She devoured the entire bag. Then she grabbed Jean's bag of fries as well as we drove to the campus. Thankfully I saw no sign of Deportation Police as we walked out of the parking garage onto Red Square. Students mingled about, or walked purposely across the square. The same coffee cart sat parked in the same spot next to the steps to the Suzzallo Library. The same red hijab draped African woman pulled shots from the espresso machine. Spotting the coffee cart, Tara tightened her grip on my shoulder and tried to steer me to the cart, but I wasn't having it. I picked up my pace around the library building.

As we approached the maintenance door to the basement levels Tara growled. She fluttered her wings and fluffed her feathers. I stopped so abruptly Jean nearly ran into me. Tara commenced turning her head in short jerky motions, pinning her eyes and looking around the square. Mostly looking up. I looked up. I saw Jean looking up. "What is it?" Jean asked.

"Got me," I said. "What's the matter, Tara?"

"I sense a darkness," Tara simply said, continuing to survey the roof tops of the buildings surrounding the square.

I thought something on the roof of the Suzzallo Library looked odd. "Have there always been gargoyles on top of the library?" I asked, I guess to Jean, since I didn't think Tara would know.

Neither did Jean. "Wouldn't know," replied Jean. "I haven't been on the campus in years."

With a couple of broad flaps of her immense wings, Tara launched herself into the air. She flew up and disappeared over the roof of the library. This time I knew better than to call out to her. A passing student who stopped to watch Tara fly off asked, "Does your bird always do that?"

"Yep," I lied. I didn't know. I didn't have a clue if Tara did that all the time or not.

"It's not going to get lost or anything?" he asked.

"No. She's an experienced flier," I said. That part was true. Tara was an experienced flier, far as I could tell.

"Cool," the student said, as he walked off.

Jean didn't appear as confident. "You sure she's okay?" she asked me.

"As sure as I can be." We stared at the roof of the library for a short time. "I'm sure Tara can take care of herself," I concluded. _What the hell, I knew Tara could take care of herself_. We entered the library building and hopped down the steps to Michael's office.

"Where's Tara?" Michael asked, answering my knock on his door. I found the door closed. And locked. Margarita lay curled up on her sleeping pad next to Michael's desk.

"Flying around Red Square," I replied. "There's something not right. I sensed something. And Tara definitely sensed something. So she took off looking for it, I guess."

"Should we go look for her?"

"I think she'll let us know one way or another if she needs us."

"Hi. I'm Jean," Jean said, reaching out to shake Michael's hand.

"Oh sorry," I said. "Michael, meet Jean. And this. . ." I said, pointing to the cat, "is Margarita. Or I should say, Black Tara." Margarita growled ever so lightly while arching her back and stretching her front paws out before her.

"So you know about the Tara thing?" Michael asked Jean.

"Oh yes," she replied. "I've encountered Blue Tara, in the flesh, so to speak."

"You know about the heads? And bodies?" Michael hesitantly asked, glancing down at his cat. Jean nodded. "I don't know how many more heads rolling I can take," Michael dourly added.

"We witnessed Tara in action this morning," Jean said. "I know exactly how you feel."

"Oh? What happened?" Michael asked. He motioned to us to step into the office.

"At Charlie's Bird Store," I replied. "We stopped to warn Charlie to watch his back. We were too late. Turns out one of the regime's cannibal goons beat us there. Almost made zombies out of us."

"Tara split his head open with her battle axe, while he was trying to eat me," Jean interjected. "And then she disappeared the guy. I thought I was a goner."

"What do you mean, almost made zombies out of you?"

"He tried to make lunch out of me and Jean," I replied. "I thought I was a goner, too. But Blue Tara in all her naked glory jumped in right in the nick of time and saved us. He was a cannibal. The guy had fangs, for chrissakes!"

"Oh geez," Michael said. "This is getting weirder by the day. Any chance Tara could just reset the clock for us to before this insanity ever started? Just let us go on our merry quiet way? Teaching history Intro 101 classes doesn't seem that bad anymore."

"Don't think that's how it works," I replied. "There's got to be a reason Tara picked me. And there's got to be a reason Margarita picked you. Somehow I don't think this is simple happenstance."

"And they know about you," Jean added.

"What?" Michael asked. A look of frightened bewilderment creased his face. Margarita jumped to her feet and hissed.

"They know about me, anyway," I clarified. "The ghoul at Charlie's was looking for me. To lead him to Tara. Not sure if they know about you specifically. Or Black Tara. But you shouldn't discount the possibility. Or probability."

"You need to be really careful," Jean said. "Believe me, you don't want to end up being zombie lunch." Michael turned white as a ghost.

"You need to protect yourself," I said. "You got a gun?"

"A gun? You kidding me? Michael replied, startled. "I'm a university professor. Not a gunslinger. You taught too much Old West history. This may be the West, but it's not the Wild West anymore."

"It's more wild than you realize," I said. "You need to watch your back, anyway. Keep your door locked. Maybe you should carry Margarita around with you for protection. She could sit on your shoulder," I quipped. Margarita growled at me. "So. What's up? You told me on the phone this morning you have new information to share."

"That's right," Michael replied. "You guys have a seat," he said, pulling out a couple of chairs. "I've got a story to tell you."

### Part Two

"I dug out my old field notes from my grad school days," Michael commenced. "You probably remember, and Jean probably doesn't know, that I wrote my dissertation on shamanism on the northwest coast." Michael grabbed a stack of weather-beaten, dog-eared and tattered field books on his desk. The books sported day-glo hard yellow covers, so if you dropped one out in the field the book would be easier to find. "One of the things I was interested in was the source of the shamans' powers. Why did shamans have supernatural powers that no one else had or could acquire?"

"Don't know that I've ever read your dissertation," I said.

"You and most people. I figured there had to be something more to it than just the song and dance routine that the shamans performed during their various ceremonies. Certainly some of the incantations have powerful magic behind them, but it's not just all abracadabra, like with Harry Potter."

"Love those books," Jean interjected.

Michael squinted at Jean, annoyed. "Those aren't real, you know?" Michael continued. "There had to be an actual source of power the shamans drew upon. Like a giant battery or fuel cell that allowed shamans to perform the miracles they've been documented performing."

"Makes sense to me," I said, not actually sure whether anything made sense or not.

"Going through my old grad school field books. . ." Michael picked up one of his field books and flipped through the pages, "I found numerous references, either archaeological or ethnographic. . . artifact or spoken word," Michael clarified for Jean's benefit, "to immense crystals of pure quartz, crystals that glowed white hot. Crystals that seemed to provide the source of the shamans' powers."

"Have any crystals been excavated from archaeological sites along the northwest coast," I asked.

"Not intact. But I've excavated shattered crystals, which were generally written off to be decorative or ceremonial." Margarita jumped onto Michael's lap. She curled up, purring gently, evidently finding the story of interest. "So I got to thinking about a tale my old grad school professor at Wazzu told me years ago." Wazzu is a colloquial term for Washington State University, the cow college off in the grain fields of eastern Washington. "I thought the story was pretty much bullshit at the time."

"Who was your professor again?" I asked.

"The guy's name was Grover Krantz."

"Oh yeah, the Sasquatch guy." Grover Krantz was an old school archaeologist best known for being a Sasquatch hunter, which pretty much killed his reputation as a credible archaeologist.

"The guy did some solid work in northwest coast archaeology," Michael insisted, "before he became a nut. He told me about a field school he attended as a grad student back in the 1950s. He and his prof and a couple of native guides ran an archaeological survey up the Fraser River. They got lost in an early winter storm and while trying to find their way back to camp stumbled upon a cliff of pure quartz crystal. He claimed the storm blew in so hard it actually rained crystals."

"That would be different," I admitted.

"Well, the native guides freaked out and literally dragged him and his professor out of the area through the storm as fast as they could walk. They claimed the cliff was cursed and that any natives who ventured in there came to a bad end. Krantz said he'd never been so miserable in all his life and they nearly froze to death, but they made it back to camp."

"What freaked the guides out?" I inquired.

"They told him about four brothers from their tribe who trekked out on a vision quest years before. They had not eaten in about four days and were becoming delirious. They encountered this cliff of quartz crystal and tried to shelter beneath it when a storm blew in. Quartz crystals rained down and the brothers got covered in crystals. After the storm cleared, the brothers discovered they possessed the miracle of flight, like birds. They soared into the sky and flew around the crystal cliff. They flew in and out of the trees in the forest, and flew down to the coast. Only hours were required to cover the distance that had taken days on foot."

"Well, that could be cool," Jean said.

"Maybe not," Michael replied. "Not having eaten in something like a week now, they found themselves famished. So they flew back to their village."

"Bet that didn't go well," I said.

"When they returned to their village their people couldn't recognize them. You see, they had transformed into giant birds. Into furies. Feathers, wings, beaks, claws, and all."

"Furies?" Jean asked.

"Curses personified, according to the ancient Greeks," I said.

"The four brothers transformed into a giant raven, a giant crane, and a pair of condors, giant birds by definition," Michael said. "They did not possess the knowledge to change themselves back into human form. The only way they could survive was to feed on the villagers. And of course the villagers weren't willingly going to oblige."

"So what happened?" I asked.

"The villagers scattered into the forest to hide in the trees and caves. The shaman organized the warriors into a posse to hunt the furies down. But before that could happen, a great cannibal called Hamatsa took advantage of the shaman's absence to offer the furies a bargain. Not like they had a lot of options. Hamatsa would feed them and protect them on the condition that they serve him. And him alone. The furies would in effect become his air force and do his bidding. His eyes and ears in the sky."

"So this is what we're facing?" I asked Michael.

"By the sounds of it. Students reported attacks by giant winged creatures, giant birds, during the night. One woman even got her eyes pecked out."

"Oh my," Jean exclaimed.

"What if Tara runs into them?" I asked. "Can she handle four ghouls at once?" Michael shrugged. Margarita jumped onto the floor and commenced pacing. I continued, "If I ever stumble across a cliff of pure quartz I'll be sure to avoid getting covered in crystals. But how does that help us?"

"The crystals are the source of the shamans' powers," Michael concluded. "That's how the shamans managed to keep Hamatsa and company in check all these eons. And that's how we can fight them."

"By finding the crystal cliff?"

"That'd be nice. But we just need one intact crystal."

"Okay. Where do we get one?"

"There's one right here in the Burke Museum collection."

"There is?"

"Franz Boas collected one at Fort Rupert in 1896. Boas hit Seattle on his way back east in 1897 just as the Klondike Stampede broke out. There wasn't a room to be had in Seattle for all the gold in Alaska because of the flood of Klondikers into the city here. Boas traded the crystal and some masks and other artifacts he had collected to the university in exchange for lodging on campus until he could book passage to the east coast. All that stuff ended up in the Burke collection. I've seen the crystal. But I didn't think anything of it before. To me and everyone else in the museum it was just a pretty rock."

"Is it locked up with the turndun?" I asked.

"No, it's not." Michael pointed at me. "And I guess you're right about the Boas field notes. He must have recorded some context for the crystal and some description of how it was used. Incantations and what not that activated it. Clues that will show us how to use it again."

Margarita growled loudly and clawed at the office door. I remembered what I wanted to ask Michael. "Have there always been gargoyles on the library roof?"

"Gargoyles? What gargoyles?" Michael replied, perplexed.

I jumped to my feet. I bolted out the door. "Hey. Wait up!" Jean yelled behind me. I raced down the hall and rushed up the steps, Margarita at my heels. Jean and Michael ran after us.

### Part Three

The three of us, and one black cat, ran out onto Red Square. I came to a screeching halt. Jean and Michael nearly ran into me, like a scene out of an old Three Stooges movie. I struggled to gain my bearings. Something was very wrong. For one, we found Red Square deserted. Not one student to be seen going about their business. Then I noticed the coffee cart. Tipped over like a tornado blew through, paper coffee cups and napkins strewn about the square. Smashed syrup bottles littered the red brick. The shining chrome espresso machine lay busted on the brick. I could see no sign of the barista.

I thought to check the gargoyles. I counted three that I could see. I thought I had counted four when we arrived. I started to turn to ask Jean and Michael to keep an eye out for Tara. A whistling sound caught my ear. As I spun around to try to locate the sound, a body hurtled to the ground from the top of one of the three monoliths adorning the square, one hundred and forty foot red brick towers. The body landed with a bone crunching thud, face up. The barista, the African lady with the British accent, her body wrapped in a floral print abaya. Her red hijab fluttered to the ground after her. Blood oozed onto the red brick from her broken body. Jean screamed, "Look at her eyes!" I looked, horrified. Her eyes had been pecked out.

Margarita stretched up on her hind legs and howled. I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. I looked up at the gargoyles. One of the gargoyles morphed from stone to liquid motion, wings unfurled. Then the second. And the third. "Get underneath the monoliths," I cried out. Michael and I scrambled for cover. Jean turned to look for Margarita. She tripped over the barista's legs, falling to her knees. I ran to her to help her get up. I heard the swoosh of great wings flapping. The fourth furie, the giant raven, dived off the top of one of the monoliths, where the creature had devoured the barista's eyes, and spiraled toward the ground. As I struggled to help Jean get up from the pavement, one of the giant bird's great claws reached down to latch onto my shoulder. Wings flapping furiously, the creature climbed back into the sky. I floated weightless into the air. Thankfully I wore a cheap jacket I picked up at some thrift store. That and I'm probably packing a few extra pounds. As my feet came off the ground, Jean grabbed one of my legs. The stitching on the arm of the jacket gave out. I dropped back to the red brick, taking Jean down with me. The giant raven flew up into the sky, rewarded only with my jacket arm dangling from its beak. Crazed with adrenalin I jumped to my feet and pulled Jean to the safety of the monoliths.

One of the condors, a great hulking beast that looked like an overgrown buzzard on steroids, dove toward us. Margarita let out an ear-piercing roar. She leaped at the condor, her forelegs spinning like a black dervish. As the cat whirled through the air, she transformed into a vision of a monstrous lion with claws of flashing steel blades. With one well-placed blow of her enormous claws she knocked the condor out of the air. The condor rolled onto the pavement, stunned. Blood seeped from a jagged tear across the condor's face. Margarita landed on all fours. She prepared to pounce on the creature again. Wings flapping, the furie recovered. The second condor landed to render assistance. The condors took a couple of halting steps toward Margarita, her back arched, fur standing on end, growling at the furies. But instead of attacking, the condors spread their wings and launched themselves back into the air.

"We've got to get off the square," I yelled to Michael and Jean for no apparent reason since they were standing right next to me.

Before we could move, the giant crane landed on the square directly in front of us. The creature seemed tall as a giraffe. I grabbed Jean and pulled her to me. The crane took several steps towards us. The furie pinned darkly penetrating eyes directly at me. Before we could retreat the bird spoke, "You will call the witch Blue Tara to us."

I felt as if my blood had turned to ice water. I started to shake in fear, chilled to the bone, the unfortunate barista's eyeless face burned into my brain. "Run!" I yelled at Michael and Jean. "I'll distract them." Michael and Jean stood motionless. I grabbed their arms and pushed them away. "Go! Hurry," I insisted. I pushed them off. I turned to face the giant crane. The crane took a step forward, head bent down as if preparing to attack. I moved first. Without even thinking about the consequences, I ran forward and leaped on the crane's back, throwing my arms around the creature's giraffe-like neck. The crane staggered under my weight and nearly toppled over. The creature's head shook violently, but the great beak became useless as a weapon against me. Striding across the square, wings flapping, the giant crane became airborne. I was weightless again, riding a giant bird, a furie, into the sky.

Michael and Jean ran toward the Suzzallo Library for shelter as Margarita cantered along by their side. The giant raven swooped down and attempted to sink claws into Michael's shoulders, but Margarita once again whirled into the air and batted the bird away.

The crane flew circles around the square, attempting to shake me off. With my weight on the creature's back, the giant bird could not gain sufficient altitude to clear the buildings surrounding the square. I began to fear we might crash into one of the buildings and tumble to the ground. I really did not want to become lunch for the furies. The giant crane maneuvered toward the monoliths, getting closer and closer with each pass. I realized the bird wanted to use one of the monoliths to brush me off its back. I did not see a good end to this dilemma. As the crane approached the closest monolith, the creature reeled over and banked hard to strike the monolith. I didn't think. I just jumped. The bird struck the monolith and bounced off. I would have been toast if I had stayed on the creature's back.

I pressed my eyes closed and waited for the inevitable result of free fall. The air stopped streaming past my face. Otherwise nothing. No life in review flashing before my closed eyes. No white heavenly light to great me. I waited for what seemed an inordinate amount of time. Still nothing. I counted to ten. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Still nothing. So this is what the afterlife was like, I thought to myself. A lot of nothing. Then I thought to open my eyes. My jaw dropped to my feet firmly planted on Red Square. I stood safely and unhurt on the red brick. Blue Tara stood in front of me grasping my shoulders in her hands. I stared eyes wide in wonder at Blue Tara's stunning crystalline blue naked glory.

I heard Jean and Michael yelling as they ran up to me, chased by the four furies. Blue Tara released my shoulders. She grasped the battle axe strapped to her waist. She stepped between me and the furies. A cacophony of cawing drowned out whatever Jean and Michael were yelling. I looked up. They looked up. Hundreds if not thousands of crows swarmed the square. Black, beautiful, cawing crows. The crows swarmed the furies like mosquitoes on a moose and drove them off and out of sight.

∆∆∆

In the other Washington, the chief of Control, code name Hamatsa, slammed down his phone after receiving a call from the chief of Seattle's Department of Homeland Security. Hamatsa squeezed his sunken red eyes closed. He took a deep breath to channel his anger. He stretched his black leather coat covered arms over his head, tilted his black leather fedora covered head back, opened his mouth and screamed a wall shaking mind-numbing screech. The agents working within the compound at the computer screens tumbled out of their chairs to the floor with head-wracking pain.

∆∆∆

Off in the distance but closing rapidly on Red Square, I could hear the pulsating wail of police sirens. "Remind me never to take another day off," Jean remarked. I took Jean into my arms and hugged her. And then I kissed her. "What was that for?" she smiled.

"For saving my life."

Blue Tara grasped my shoulder and pulled me toward her. "What do I get?"

Michael stood behind us, stunned. He stared at Blue Tara, his eyes popped open wide as saucers. Margarita sidled up to him. She rubbed her head against his ankles, purring softly.

### Chapter Nine

### Part One

"I don't think we want to be standing around here when the cops arrive," I thought out loud.

"That poor lady," Michael said wistfully, looking over at the broken eyeless body of the barista.

"Can't Tara just reset the clock and make this all go away?" Jean asked.

Blue Tara replied, " I can not undo what the furies have put into motion. But I can hide the bodies." A thunderbolt of brilliant blue light burst out of the clear blue sky to encompass the body of the unfortunate barista. The bolt of light dissipated just as quickly. The barista's body disappeared with the light. Blue Tara pulled her right foot up against her left knee and stood on one foot. She spread her arms and twirled. Her stunning crystalline blue naked body dissolved into a glowing spinning blue orb. The avian form of Princess Tara coalesced in the air, wings spread, flapping. She settled on my shoulder and folded her wings against her body. As if by magic, in fact because of magic, the square filled with students and faculty and visitors going about their business. Only one remnant of the battle with the furies remained. The toppled coffee cart still lay on the pavement, the gleaming chrome espresso machine dented and broken. "Someone else will need to clean up the mess," Princess Tara whispered in my ear. _Don't know what the cops will make of that_ , I thought to myself. The police sirens drew near. Their problem, not mine. We didn't stick around to find out. We retreated to Michael's office.

∆∆∆

Once we settled into chairs and caught our collective breath, I checked to make sure everyone was okay and not injured. Our tattered and torn clothing assured me that the events of the afternoon really did happen. "What were those creatures?" Jean asked, breaking the silence.

"Furies," Michael replied. "The four brothers who encountered the cliff of crystal and transformed into feathered ogres. Specifically, there's Qoaxqoaxual, the giant raven. Hoxhok, the giant crane. Gelogudzayae and Nenstalit, the condors. Calling them giant would be redundant. Servants of the great cannibal warlock Hamatsa. His eyes and ears. Hamatsa saved them from certain death at the hands of their own people in exchange for serving him."

"But that was like a century ago," I responded, somewhat dubiously. "How can they still be alive?"

"In the spirit world time is meaningless in the sense we understand it," Michael replied. "Just ask Tara. Plus, Hamatsa possesses the Water of Life. He can reanimate the dead and bring them back to life. Time and again. For all intents and purposes, we're talking about immortality."

"Crap," I succinctly stated. "How do we fight something that can't be killed?"

"That's what we need to figure out," Michael replied. The shamans were able to keep Hamatsa in check with their magic. They never were able to completely defeat and destroy him, but certainly keep him in check."

"Of course, we have something the shamans didn't," I responded.

"What's that?"

"We have the Taras." I brushed my hand over Princess Tara's head as she sat nestled in my lap. Tara purred in reply. "We still need to get Tara the turndun, and there's also the matter of the crystal you mentioned."

"I haven't been able to make an appointment with the lab director," Michael said.

"We can't wait on him," I replied. "We need to get into the lab as soon as possible. If today is any indication, we have a very limited window of opportunity to do something to stop Hamatsa's plans, whatever they entail. He's clearly on to us, and he's going to use every means at his disposal to try to stop us. And he seems to have some pretty unsavory allies."

Michael's face blanched. "You saw the vault," he replied. "How do you expect to break into it without the director's key?"

"We have something better than a key. We have Tara."

"Yeah, so?" Michael replied.

"You remember how Tara transported us from your office here to my apartment? And back again?"

"Did that actually happen? I mean physically? Or did we just visualize it? If that's the case, I don't see how that's going to help us. And even if Tara could physically transport us into the lab, we still need to get into the vault."

"Tara?" I asked. I stepped Tara onto my hand. I peered into her coal black eyes. I saw a stereo reflection of my face. "Tara?" I repeated.

A blinding bolt of blue light seared my eyes. A thunderclap seemed to shatter my head. I fell to the floor in anguish. Either Jean or Michael screamed. Or they both did. I opened my eyes and tried to make sense of my surroundings. Gleaming white steel cabinets towered over my head. We no longer sat in chairs in Michael's office. We sat on our butts on the floor in the Burke Museum. Specifically the lab in the basement. Blue Tara towered above me in her crystalline blue naked form. She leaned down to grasp my arms and pull me to my feet. Michael struggled to get up from the floor. Jean rocked on her back on the floor with her hands clasped over her ears. Blue Tara and I grasped her hands to pull her to her feet. Margarita leaped from the floor into Michael's arms. "I don't think I want to be your friend anymore," Jean muttered, her voice cracking with pain. I couldn't tell whether she joked or not. I hugged her.

"Sorry sweetie. There's no getting used to this. I know."

Then another noise. An insistent and obnoxious ringing, like a fire bell in my head, assaulted my ears. "Oh god!" Michael exclaimed. "We set off the alarms."

"We've got to act fast!" I exclaimed. I ran to the vault at the back of the lab. The others followed.

Blue Tara took my hands in hers. "I can not do this alone," she told me. "I can bend time and space into this box, but I can not pick up the turndun. I need you to do that with me, if you are willing to take the risk." I recoiled from her. She continued, her grasp on my hands tightening. "To be safe, we need to hold each other. Tightly. And follow the bend of time and space into this box. I will lead you, but you must not under any circumstances let go of me. There is danger because I have not seen the inside of this box. I can not risk having you materializing inside a solid object." _You got that right, honey_ , I thought to myself. "Describe the space inside to me," Tara commanded, looking at Michael.

"It's an empty vault. Inside the vault there's a steel table right in the middle. The turndun is sitting on the table inside a steel crate."

"Nothing else?" Tara asked.

"I don't believe so," Michael replied.

"You don't believe so?" I cried out, seriously annoyed. "This is my life. . . and Tara's. . . our lives, we're talking about." I looked at Tara.

"You'll be okay. . . pretty sure," Michael replied.

"For this to work," Tara said to me, "you need to take your clothes off."

"What?" Jean said, her eyes wide in surprise.

"What?" I echoed.

"We are running out of time," Tara insisted as the alarm bells blared. "Take off your clothes." I ripped my clothes off and dropped them on the floor. I stood naked.

"Now what?" I asked. Tara put her arms around me and pulled me to her. Her one breast stuck into my chest. She kissed me. I blacked out. I opened my eyes. I couldn't tell if moments or hours had passed. Tara still held me. We stood in a black hole. Tara's glowing crystalline blue skin provided the only light in the space. The heat from her body seeped into mine and infused me with a sense of euphoria. I did not want her to release her grip on me.

As my eyes adjusted to the blue light I realized we were standing next to a steel table. A steel chest stood on the table. Presumably the chest contained the turndun. "Pick up the box," Tara ordered. She released me from her grasp. I struggled to pick up the chest, which I found not small or lightweight.

"Now what?" I asked Tara.

"Hold on to the box with all your might," she told me. Tara stepped up behind me and put her arms around my chest. Her breast rubbed across my back. She kissed my neck.

"Did I really need to take my clothes off?" I asked Tara.

"No, not at all," she replied. "I just wanted to see you naked. Whatever you do, do not drop the box."

Before I could reply a burning blue thunderclap knocked me senseless. Again, I could not determine how long I lost consciousness, or even if I did. As I regained my senses I realized Tara and I were back standing in the lab outside the vault, with Tara's arms still wrapped around me. Thankfully, I still held the steel chest in my arms. Then I realized we had company. Lots of company.

### Part Two

Only thing more embarrassing than finding yourself naked in front of people you know is finding yourself standing butt naked in front of a whole bunch of people you don't know. People with guns. Thankfully the alarm no longer blared. But I found Jean, Michael, and Margarita surrounded by a squad of black clad Deportation Police, with short gun barrels mounted on big machine guns pointed at them. And then pointed at Tara and me. The odds did not seem to favor us. I dropped the steel chest to the floor and threw my clothes on fast as I could before someone with a gun told me I couldn't. A short balding man with a scruffy stubble of a beard holding a long stick instead of a machine gun stepped out in front of the goons. "Oh my god," Michael whispered to me. "A magic harpoon. Death stick. Kills anything it's pointed at."

The short man stepped up to me and said, "You're taking something that doesn't belong to you."

"I guess it's a matter of interpretation," I suggested. He swung his stick and clocked me alongside my head. I staggered and almost fell to my knees. I could feel blood dribbling down the side of my face. Before the short man could finish swinging his harpoon Tara grasped her battle axe with one hand and pulled me out of the way with the other. She swung the axe and separated the short man's head from his shoulders. The head bounced onto the floor and rolled down the aisle as the body toppled over. Blood spurted out from the neck turning the front of a gleaming white steel cabinet bright red. Without thinking I grabbed the harpoon before the weapon hit the floor. I pointed the magic harpoon at the nearest goon. He simply collapsed. Dead. "Get down!" I yelled, as I swept over the goons with the harpoon. They toppled over like a line of falling dominoes. The last couple of goons standing managed to fire a few short bursts from their machine guns harmlessly into the ceiling as Margarita whirled over their heads. They too fell to the floor, their throats slashed by Black Tara's gleaming steel claws. An eerie quietness gripped the room.

Jean stepped over to the goons and cried out, "Look at their faces!" Michael and I hurried over to look. We saw faces bleached white like parchment. Faces scarred with bulging black veins. Bloodshot eyes sunken in their sockets.

"Laxsa," Michael said.

"What the hell?" I asked.

"Laxsa. Warriors of the spirit world. Living dead. Zombies, for lack of a better word. Most likely Hamatsa's slaves. No telling how many lives these laxsa have lived. If they get killed, Hamatsa simply brings them back to life with his Water of Life." Blue Tara raised her battle axe. She walked up to the goons. One by one with a single swing of her fierce blade, she lopped off their heads. We quickly backed away as a pool of blood covered the floor. "What are you doing?" Michael screamed.

I knew. "Hamatsa can't restore life to bodies without heads. That's the only sure-fire way to kill them. But we're taking the magic harpoon with us, just in case. Now we've got a fighting chance."

"We should leave," Tara said, pointing out the obvious.

"Not without that crystal," I said. "Is it locked in here?" I asked Michael.

"It's on display upstairs in the Kwakwaka'wakw room."

"Lead the way!" I handed Michael the death stick. I picked up the steel chest with the turndun. I gamely struggled to keep up with the others as they ran up to the main floor. Don't think I ever appreciated how spooky a museum could feel after hours. I definitely did not want to spend a night in one. Running onto the main floor we entered the dinosaur hall, replete with recreations of towering dinosaur skeletons. It pleased me to no end to know that Hamatsa could not bring these monsters back to life. Running through the dinosaur and geology exhibits, we entered the ethnographic wing. Dioramas of native American life, the reimagination of precontact civilizations throughout the Pacific Northwest, greeted us.

I followed Michael to the Boas crystal on display with other assorted ceremonial and decorative artifacts collected by Franz Boas at Fort Rupert. A glass case protected the crystal. Not for long. I swung the steel chest against the side of the case, showering the floor with a cascade of glass fragments. A new round of alarm bells shook the hall. I yelled at Jean to grab the crystal. Pillaging a museum just did not seem to me to be an appropriate activity for an historian such as myself, even a retired one. I tried to shake off the feelings of remorse and regret. The alarm bells threatened to turn my brain to mush. "Tara. Get us out of here. . . " I did not have a chance to finish speaking the sentence.

When I regained my senses I found myself on the floor of Michael's office, the steel chest with the turndun on top of me. Michael and Jean struggled to get up off the floor. Jean cradled the crystal in her hands. Michael used the harpoon as a crutch to lift himself up. Margarita lay curled up on her sleeping pad next to Michael's desk, licking her fur. Princess Tara sat perched on the back of a chair, one coal black eye pinned on me.

Climbing to my feet I set the steel chest on Michael's desk. "Now we're getting somewhere," I said. "How about you stick that harpoon in a corner somewhere, so it doesn't accidentally get pointed at someone," I suggested to Michael.

"I'm guessing there has to be intent involved. Intent to kill," Michael replied. "It can't always just be on, can it?"

"Well. Let's not take any chances, okay? Open up that chest and show us the turndun."

Michael set the magic harpoon in a corner and stepped to the chest. He released the latch holding the lid secure. He swung the lid open. He reached into the chest with one hand to retrieve the turndun. A frown broke across his face. "Forgot how heavy this sucker is," he remarked. He reached his second hand in to pull out a simple slab of wood. Gleaming polished red cedar. Maybe two feet long by half a foot wide. Not quite an inch thick. Heavily serrated edges. Sort of reminded me of an airplane propeller. Looked brand new. "What the fuck? That's it?" I said. I stared at Princess Tara. "How can that be an antique? It looks like it just came from Home Depot. We left a trail of bodies for a piece of a board?"

"The radiocarbon dates don't lie. This piece of board is at least thirty-five thousand years old. This is solid red cedar. Heavy as a rock."

"Well, okay then. How does it work?"

"We tie a long cord on to the end of it," Michael replied. "The longer the better. The cord is twisted tight as possible and then the turndun is launched overhead. As the cord untwists it spins the turndun while the turndun swings around horizontal or vertical circles, making this incredible noise that can be heard for miles. Pulsing the noise, horizontally or vertically, works like ancient Morse Code."

I took the turndun out of Michael's hands. Michael wasn't kidding. This slab of wood seemed much heavier than wood ought to be. But I assumed this wasn't just any slab of wood. "What do you think, Tara?"

Tara flapped her wings and hopped onto my arm. She pressed her beak against the edge of the turndun. "This is not a simple piece of wood," she replied. "This is the turndun of the gods. As old as time itself. This instrument will broadcast even to the netherworld where Garuda sleeps. Once Garuda awakens, he can summon the Taras. Then we can face the Winalagalis."

Quiet until now, Jean spoke up. "I don't know about anyone else, but I'm starving. Can we go get something to eat and put off saving the world for a couple of hours?"

Tara fluffed out her feathers and spread her wings. "Pizza!"

### Part Three

I found Jean, Michael, and myself writhing in pain on the floor of my Ballard apartment to where Tara bent time and space. I struggled to my feet. I grabbed Jean's hands to pull her to her feet. Princess Tara sat perched on her play stand in my bay window preening her feathers. "For chrissakes!" I yelled. "Would you please warn us when you're about to do that. My head can't take much more of that."

"Humans are weak," Tara replied. "I am hungry. Jean is hungry. You are hungry." Princess Tara stated a fact rather than a question, and she wasn't wrong. I was starving.

Michael nodded weakly. "What about me? I'm hungry too."

I pulled my smartphone out of my pocket and did a quick search for Ballard Pizza across the street. I pulled up their online order form. "Large Mediterranean for me and Jean," I said.

Margarita, stretched out across the dining table, decided she needed to speak up. "Meat," she simply stated.

"Sounds good to me too," Michael added.

"One large cardiac arrest for the two Ms." I noted. "Delivery." I punched the 'Place Order' button. "I need a drink," I said, walking to the fridge. I grabbed a cold Rainier.

"One for me too, please," Princess Tara said.

"It's beer. Beer is an acquired taste."

"Let me acquire it," Princess Tara insisted. I emptied her water dish and filled the dish with beer. I gave Michael and Jean each a bottle. By the time I turned around, Tara had drained her water dish. I refilled the dish.

Jean and I sat down on the sofa. Michael plopped himself onto the couch. "The body count is adding up fast," Michael noted. "Did, uh. . . Tara? Did Tara clean up the mess in the lab?"

"I left the laxsa as a warning to the others," Tara replied.

"I think we can safely say your university teaching career just ended, Michael," I observed. "They'll have us on any number of security cameras. They'll ID you right away. And won't take them long to ID me as well."

"So what do we do?" Michael asked, guzzling his beer.

"I think we have a new line of work," I offered.

"How about you, Jean? I don't know if they'll be able to make you, but eventually they probably will."

"I got a feeling pulling espresso shots for a living is going to seem very dull and mundane after what we've been through," Jean replied. "I agree with you. I think we've got a new line of work. If you'll have me."

"Are you kidding me?" I leaned across the sofa and put my arm around Jean's shoulder. I kissed her. "We're a team." I started to kiss her again but the doorbell rang. "Pizza's here." I got up.

I buzzed the outer door open and walked over to the apartment door. I reached for the door knob. The door blew open in my face, knocking me on my butt. A monstrous bear burst through the doorway. The creature slapped me with an immense paw as I tried to get up. The force of the blow knocked me back into the kitchen, senseless. Jean screamed. Michael jumped up from the couch and cried out, "Nanes! The cannibal grizzly bear."

The creature bounded into the living room on all four limbs. Rearing up on hind legs, the monster's head smashed into the eight foot ceiling in my apartment. Long brown matted fur rippled in waves across the creature's body like a Palouse wheat field in a summer breeze. Baring murderous ivory fangs, the creature let out a roar that rattled the windows. The monster looked and smelled the picture of death. With razor sharp claws. The most foul and putrid odor filled the apartment. As I struggled to regain consciousness, I desperately tried not to gag.

Tara and Margarita sprang into action. Everything happened so quickly I seemed to be watching one of those 3D computer generated action movies. Margarita whirled toward the beast, transforming into Black Tara. Her gleaming steel claws slashed at the creature's neck. As large as a vengeful Black Tara could appear, the grizzly ghoul stood easily twice her size. The creature caught Black Tara with a blow from a massive paw and sent her flying through my bay window. Margarita screeched as the glass shattered and she tumbled to the street below.

Blue Tara coalesced out of a pulsating cloud of blue light. She flung her battle axe at the monster's gigantic head. The blade glanced off the side of the head and bounced to the floor at my feet. Blood streamed down the creature's fur from a long gash across the ghoul's skull. Blue Tara ran at the creature. She grabbed the monster's neck, and attempted to wrestle the creature to the ground. With one thrust of a giant paw, the bear flung Blue Tara across the room. Tara slammed into a wall head first. She crumbled to the floor. I climbed to my feet and struggled to pick up Tara's battle axe. With every ounce of strength I could muster, I could barely lift the weapon with both hands.

The monster spun into the living room and knocked Michael backwards over the couch. With a blow to her head, the creature knocked Jean against the wall. She fell to the floor, apparently unconscious. I screamed and flung the battle axe at the creature with all my might. The butt of the axe struck the creature's head and harmlessly bounced off. The monster scooped Jean's limp body up from the floor with one limb and scampered for the door on three legs.

Black Tara reached the door first, charging up the stairs. Twirling through the door, one of her gleaming steel claws cut a gouge through the creature's neck. Jean fell to the floor as the creature batted Black Tara across the room. Regaining consciousness, Blue Tara scrambled to her feet. She retrieved her battle axe. She raised the axe over her head with both hands, preparing to fling the blade at the monster. The creature placed one immense ivory claw at Jean's throat and spoke, "Halt! Or she dies and suffers a fate worse than death."

"Oh my god!" Michael cried out. "It's going to turn her into a zombie."

Without thinking I charged the creature but did not manage to take more than two steps. Blue Tara grabbed me and pulled me to her. "No. You can not stop Nanes. Not if you want your friend to live. As long as she is alive we have a chance to save her. If she dies, we have no chance. And if she dies at the hands of Nanes, she faces a fate much worse than death."

I looked at Michael crouched behind the couch. Michael appeared white as a ghost. My heart pounded so hard I thought my body would explode. Sweat stung my eyes. I could barely see. The creature picked up Jean's unconscious body. The monster backed out the door and down the stairs. I stumbled to my bay window to catch a glimpse of a giant man, not a monster, dumping Jean into the back of a white panel van. The man jumped into the vehicle. The engine fired. I heard tires squeal as the van darted into the street. Watching the van slip around the corner and out of sight I lost all feeling and sensation in my legs and limbs. Any connection between my brain and my muscles ceased, and I collapsed to the floor. Blue Tara rushed to my side. She took me in her arms and held me.

### Chapter Ten

### Part One

I had the damnedest dream. I dreamed that I stood one hundred forty feet in the air on top of one of the red brick monoliths in Red Square. Jean stood on one of the other monoliths. She tried to scream. But the cannibal Hamatsa had his arm wrapped around Jean's neck choking her. As I cried out Hamatsa bared his fangs and prepared to take a bite out of her neck. A good ten feet on air separated the two monoliths we stood on. I backed up as far as possible and took a running start and jumped as if my life depended upon making the jump. Because not making the jump was not an option. Somehow I cleared the space and landed on the other monolith. I bashed Hamatsa in the face with my elbow, knocking him backwards. I grabbed Jean as I leaped for the third monolith. With Jean's extra weight I could not make the distance. We tumbled through the air arm in arm and plummeted toward the pavement. Blackness enveloped us. In this dream Jean and I seemed to be flying. In the blackness of night I couldn't tell if we were flying downward, or upward, or straight away. I just wanted to fly with Jean. For all of eternity. I told Jean I loved her.

When I regained consciousness the next morning I found myself sprawled out on the couch. I flung myself up. Michael had fallen asleep on the sofa. Princess Tara napped on her play stand, one foot tucked up into her feathers, her beak nestled behind her wing. Margarita lay curled up snoozing at Michael's feet, apparently no worse for the beating she took. _Cats and their nine lives_ , I thought. I shook Michael awake. "Tell me it was a bad dream!"

Two pizza boxes sat on the kitchen table, unopened. I noticed a plastic sheet taped across a gaping hole in the bay window. I spotted my cell phone on the floor. I scooped the phone up, hoping beyond hope for a message from Jean. I found one text message. Not from Jean. ' _You have something I want. I have something you want. We should meet. H_ '. I dropped the phone as I felt my legs give out from under me. I fell onto the couch to keep from falling down on the floor. "Whatever have I got myself into?" I thought out loud. "Goddamn Charlie!" But I knew it wasn't Charlie's fault.

"H? That's got to be Hamatsa himself," Michael said.

"No shit," I replied.

"We've got to free Jean," Michael added.

"No shit," I repeated. I picked up the phone and typed out a reply to the text message. ' _When and Where_?'

"How in the world did they find us so quickly?" Michael continued.

"Oh, who knows? They probably tracked my cell phone, I'm guessing. Or maybe they just did a Google search. I've been advertising my coffee. Wouldn't take a rocket scientist to zero in on me. I've been begging people to come find me, for chrissakes!

"How are we going to find Jean?" Michael asked.

My phone beeped with a notification alert. "I think they're just going to tell us."

"What?" Michael replied, eyes wide in confusion.

I looked at the screen and read the message out loud to Michael. "Red Square. Midnight. You and Blue Tara." I set the phone down. "Fuck it all!" I exclaimed.

"What's the matter?"

"We've got about twelve hours to break into the Suzzallo Library and steal the Boas field notes, and figure out how that crystal works."

"We may not need to," Michael replied.

"What?"

"I'm not usually noted for being the voice of reason, but hear me out. Hamatsa must know we have the crystal. He doesn't know that we don't know how to use it. He's got to respect the fact that we might know how to use it."

"But we have to respect the fact that we know that we don't know how to use it," I replied.

"Yes, but advantage ours. Assuming Hamatsa knows that shamanism is my field of expertise, he's got to give us the benefit of the doubt."

Princess Tara flew off her perch and landed on my shoulder. "We do not have much time," she said. "At dusk I need to use the turndum to call Lord Garuda from the top of one of those monoliths at your school. This Hamatsa has amassed great magic. Even more than I imagined possible. We can not fight him alone. I need help from the other Taras to stop him."

"The turndun is back in Michael's office," I said. "And my truck is parked in the campus parking garage."

"Grab the pizza boxes," Tara said.

I did. Princess Tara bent time and space to return us to the U Dub. Getting off the floor of Michael's office, my head pounding, I set the pizza boxes on Michael's desk. As my head cleared I said to Tara, "One of these days you've got to teach me how to do that. Would sure save on gas."

"It is easy," she replied. "If you accept that you can live in more than one reality at a time. All you need to do is visualize the place you are at and the place you want to be at and connect them together. Piece of cake, as you say. Maybe one of these days you will buy me a cake?"

"Something tells me it's not as easy as you say. Tell you what. Help me get Jean back, and I promise I will buy you the biggest cake in Seattle."

∆∆∆

Michael and I left Tara and Margarita in the office to feast on the cold pizza while we ran out to reconnoiter. Red Square seemed perfectly normal. "No sign of Deportation Police," Michael observed. A new coffee cart with a new barista sat parked by the steps to the Suzzallo Library. A bearded student age guy wearing purple and gold U Dub sweat pants and shirt.

"They probably don't want to attract attention," I told Michael. We walked up the steps into the Suzzallo Library. "Look," I said, pointing to an electronic reader board hanging in the entryway. ' _Burke Museum temporarily closed for repairs'_ , the board read.

"I bet," Michael smirked.

We walked into the massive cathedral of learning, with its soaring gothic ceiling sixty-five feet tall. I used to love working in this space during my U Dub teaching days. Wonderful light, even on those dark damp dreary Seattle winter days. We headed for the Special Collections room at the back end of the reading hall. The Special Collections room consisted of a large open glass enclosed space divided in two, a collections room and a reading room. Michael recognized the receptionist. "Hi Nancy," he greeted her.

"Hi Michael," she replied. She smiled at me.

I remembered Nancy from my teaching days. "Hello," I said. "Nice to see you again." Very attractive middle-aged Jewish woman. Fluffy short black hair. Engaging brown eyes. Pronounced nose. Brilliant smile between full rouged lips. Buxom. Snappily dressed in a wool skirt and Pendleton jacket.

"It's been a while, Michael," Nancy said. "Not doing any research these days?"

"Oh you know," Michael replied. "Heavy teaching load this quarter."

"Too bad," she said.

"I am looking for materials for a senior seminar I'll be teaching fall quarter on northwest coast Kwakwaka'wakw," Michael lied. "Special Collections has the Franz Boas field notes from Fort Rupert that cover the topic. I'd like to look at those."

"Franz Boas? With an S?" Michael nodded. "Let me look." Nancy ran a quick search on her computer and wrote down a reference number. "Okay. It should be over here." She walked up to the first row of collection stacks and counted down to the appropriate cabinet. Right away I noticed a bright red sticker taped over the lock.

"Oh, sorry Michael. This cabinet is restricted for security purposes. I'm not allowed to open it."

"Security purposes? What the heck does that mean?" I asked Nancy.

"It's a federal matter. Could be anything. Unfortunately I'm always the last to know. I just work here, you know."

"That's okay Nancy," Michael replied. "I'll take it up with the librarian and see what we can work out." We walked out of the library back out onto Red Square.

"That's okay Nancy?" I said to Michael with some annoyance.

"Not to worry. Now we know which cabinet it's locked in. We'll have Tara break us in tonight and get it out."

"In case you haven't noticed, Tara is going to be a little bit busy tonight. And so are we. And that wouldn't give us anywhere near enough time to go through the material."

"Yes, but it will give us an advantage. It's a matter of perception. If Hamatsa thinks we know something we don't actually know, we can use the not knowing to our advantage. We'll do what we can," Michael said.

"You're giving me a headache," I replied, in all seriousness. My head throbbed.

We ran across Red Square to a Bartell Drugs across the street from the campus to buy a case of beer and a spool of rope. The beer for us, since we faced a long night. The cord for the turndun.

### Part Two

A great man once famously said, "Flying is the art of getting tossed at the ground, and missing." In my dream I was flying. Or more accurately, plummeting toward the ground. Me and Jean. Arm in arm. We were flung toward the ground. And missed. And thrown up again. And flung back toward the ground. Repeatedly. Again and again. At some point in my dream I came to the realization we wouldn't miss. Or was this really a dream? If this wasn't a dream, how long could Jean and I keep flying before we smashed into the pavement? And why was my dream so dark? Couldn't someone turn on a light?

Right at dusk we trooped out from Michael's office to Red Square. Me, carrying the crystal and turndun. Princess Tara sat perched on my shoulder. Michael carried the magic harpoon. Margarita strolled along bringing up the rear. I breathed a sigh of relief to see Red Square pretty well deserted. At this time of the evening students generally were off eating dinner or home cramming for tomorrow's classes. "Why do you suppose the goons haven't raided your office?" I asked Michael.

"Probably because they don't know about it," Michael replied. "One of the university's best kept secrets. The department doesn't like to advertise its academic slums."

Step One. We nonchalantly walked into the Suzzallo Library. You would think two adult males accompanied by a parrot and a cat, and carrying some unusual items such a harpoon, a rather large crystal, and a slab of wood would draw some notice. The students working or studying in the library mostly had their heads buried in their books, laptops, or mobile devices. Except for a few confused glances from some passing students we walked uninterrupted across the great reading hall to the Special Collections room. Of course, being after hours, the room was closed and locked for the night. "Okay Tara," I said. "Do your thing." Tara bent time and space to connect where we stood out in the hall with the collections cabinets inside the locked room. Apparently I was getting used to this, because I only suffered a slight dizziness as Tara bent time and space to move us into the collections room. Unfortunately, the usual thunderclap accompanying the time and space bend got drowned out by the alarm bells clanging inside the Special Collections room. The students studying in the great hall noticed us miraculously standing inside the locked room. If not Michael and me, they certainly noticed a rather tall muscular crystalline blue skinned totally naked Amazon with a battle axe strapped to her waist. Several students walking by the room dropped their books and belongings as they stopped and stared, their bulging eyes glued to the glass.

"Do what you need to do," Blue Tara said. She grabbed the turndun out of my hand. And just like that Tara and Margarita disappeared.

"Well, thanks a lot!" Michael exclaimed.

"Oh shit!" I replied. I looked out at the growing crowd of students gathered by the windows of the Special Collections room gaping at us. I took the harpoon from Michael and smashed in the lock on the cabinet hiding the Boas field notes. I pulled the cabinet open. Inside I found half a dozen leather bound note books. I pulled one out to check its contents. Page after page of notes meticulously written in German, English, and Kwakiutl. "Jackpot!" I exclaimed.

"How do we get out of here?" Michael asked nervously, agitated by the growing crowd of students watching us from outside the room. I could see sweat pouring down his brow.

"Easy. Door's locked on the outside. Not the inside." Sizing up the situation we faced, I yelled at Michael, "Take the notebooks." I grabbed the harpoon and the crystal. Running up to the door, I turned the latch and pulled the door open. We ran out with our loot. The crowd parted like the Red Sea to let us through. I hoped to Hell that Tara could make this all right again before the night ended. Otherwise this wouldn't do my academic reputation any good at all.

Step Two. We ran out into the square. No one tried to stop us. "Take the notebooks back to your office," I told Michael. "Start going through them and find the key to this crystal. I hope you read German."

"Ya sicher ya betcha!," Michael replied. "My language in grad school."

I ran out to the monoliths looking for Tara and Margarita. "Damn!" I found Margarita crouched next to one of the monoliths, hissing. Hissing at a squad of Deportation Police laxsa that surrounded her. I counted six goons. Each packing a machine gun. Taking a chance, I bluffed. I held the crystal out before me and lowered the harpoon. Five of the six goons dropped their machine guns and ran away into the night. The sixth goon just stood there. "Sorry buddy," I said. "Downside to being a zombie. You're not very quick on the draw." I pointed the harpoon at him. He collapsed to the pavement. Dead. Margarita growled and whirled into the air. Manifesting herself as Black Tara she lopped off his head with one of her gleaming steel claws as she sailed across the body. She landed on her feet once again as Margarita. "Where's Tara?" I asked. Margarita stretched up the side of one of the monoliths and howled. I looked up. The top of the monolith one hundred and forty feet in the sky was lost in the blackness of the night.

I heard the strangest sound I have ever heard in my life. A vibration more than a noise. A vibration that began to pulse. The pulsating vibration caused by a spinning airfoil, the turndun. The vibration pulsed and grew in intensity as the turndun twisted and spun round and round at the end of its cord stretched out from Blue Tara's hand. Round and around the top of the monolith. Up and down. Round and around. The vibration kept growing in intensity as the twisting and spinning increased in speed. The vibration took on a physical form that pounded me and the monoliths. Margarita plaintively howled. I dropped to my knees and clamped my hands futilely over my ears. _I can't do much more of this_ , I thought to myself. The vibration rattled every cell in my body. The vibration shook the very foundations of the monoliths and seemed to cause the monoliths to sway. I fell over on my side. Just when I began to think the vibration would cause my head to burst, the sky appeared to explode in a blinding flash of light that turned night into day. Like an atomic bomb going off. The pavement shook as if we were riding out a Cascadian earthquake.

And then stillness. Absolute quiet and absolute darkness. I felt strong hands gripping my shoulders and pulling me up off the pavement. As my senses returned I realized Blue Tara stood before me. I threw my arms around her. She threw her arms around me. She kissed me. The heat radiating from her glowing crystalline blue skin seeped into my body and gave me a renewed sense of purpose. "I am so sorry," Blue Tara said to me.

"Sorry? About what?"

"The turndun is lost. The vibration caused it to dissolve into atoms. I can only hope that it served its purpose to awaken Garuda while we still have time."

"I don't care about the turndun," I replied. "I only care about rescuing Jean."

I saw shadows moving out of the corner of my eyes. Margarita growled. I heard the rustling of wings. Large wings. Out of the darkness surrounding the monoliths four feathered creatures appeared, as if coming out of a dense fog. The four furies. Qoaxqoaxual, the giant raven. Hoxhok, the giant crane. Gelogudzayae and Nenstalit, the condors. Qoaxqoaxual, the giant raven stepped forward and ruffled his feathers. "You are early," the raven said. "My master demanded your presence at midnight."

I lowered the harpoon, but Blue Tara restrained me. "Are they worth your friend's life?" I raised the harpoon, but I noticed that Tara tightly gripped her battle axe.

I stepped toward Qoaxqoaxual. "How is this going to go down?" I asked the giant raven, with a sense of bravado that surprised even me.

"My master is prepared to trade your woman for that witch," the raven said, pointing an immense wing at Blue Tara. I glanced at Tara. She stood expressionless.

"How do I know my friend is okay?" I asked.

"I say so," the giant raven replied.

"Not good enough," I insisted. "I want to see her." I started to lower the magic harpoon.

"Raise your weapon," a voice out of the darkness demanded. I peered into the blackness of the night, searching for the source of the voice. Three figures emerged by the monoliths. My heart raced.

"Jean!" I cried out. I instinctively wanted to run to her, but Blue Tara grabbed my shoulder.

"Careful," she whispered in my ear.

Jean appeared out of the darkness. I thought I could see tears in her eyes. A tall man whose disturbingly pale yellow scalloped skin and gleaming red eyes lay hidden under an ankle length black leather coat and black leather fedora accompanied her, his arm wrapped around her throat. An equally tall svelte black leather clad black haired dark-skinned woman stood behind him. "Hamatsa!" Blue Tara exclaimed.

### Part Three

Hamatsa whistled. Nanes, the monster grizzly bear that abducted Jean from my apartment, lumbered out of the darkness to stand at his side, like a very large puppy. Hamatsa placed a gloved hand on the monster's head. I noticed a jagged scar across the side of the monster's face where Blue Tara's blade had struck the creature. Michael came running out of the darkness yelling, "I've got it. I've got it! I found the secret word." He stopped when he realized we had company. "Oh my god!" he exclaimed. "It's Hamatsa."

"Who's that woman with him?" I asked.

"Most likely that would be Kinqalatlala, his slave. His procurer of bodies."

"So are you going to tell me the magic word?" I asked Michael. Michael whispered in my ear. "That's it?" I said, startled. "That's the magic word? You sure?"

He nodded. "Pretty sure."

"Oh, don't start with that again," I groused.

"Hey, I didn't have a whole lot of time to work with. I did the best I could."

"And I thank you for that," I replied.

"Is Jean okay?" Michael asked.

"I'm hoping so. They just arrived."

"What's the plan?"

"Plan? What plan? I'm just making this up as I go. What's the plan, Tara?"

Blue Tara looked at me. "You must be prepared to act when I give the word. Do exactly as I tell you to do. Understood?"

"Yes ma'am," I replied.

His arm choking her neck, Hamatsa forced Jean to step forward. "This woman means something to you," he said. "To me she is just flesh."

"They told me you were all dead!" Jean cried out.

Hamatsa choked her. "Silence!" he demanded.

"We never gave up on you Jean," I told her. "We're going to get you out of this."

"The only way you will get your friend out of this is by giving me Blue Tara. You disobeyed my command to come here at midnight. I should punish you for that. You forced me to leave my lair in the capital and venture across this cursed country to your despicable city. I will punish you for that." Hamatsa bared his fangs and glanced hungrily at Jean. "I have not enjoyed dinner yet tonight."

"Well, you and me both, buddy. And seems to me you're a bit early for our soiree as well."

"I assumed the witch you call Blue Tara would try to summon her coven to assist her in executing her nefarious plans. You think those witches want to help you? Let me tell you they only seek to help themselves. They use people like you to help them achieve their goals. And then they discard them."

"And what would those goals be?" I asked Hamatsa. My fingers tightened their grip on the harpoon.

"Domination, of course."

"Isn't that your goal? And the goal of the one called Winalagalis?"

Hamatsa seemed startled that I knew about Winalagalis. "You have been misled. I serve our Dear Leader. He only wants to secure peace and prosperity for his people. Resistance is futile."

"Yeah, that sounds familiar. But you're not getting Tara. And you're not going to harm Jean." I took a very deep breath. "So here's the deal. You're going to release Jean and I'll let you get your pasty putrid face and your menagerie out of here with your heads intact." I slowly lowered the harpoon.

Hamatsa pointed at me with his free gloved hand. "Go!" he commanded his overstuffed teddy bear Nanes. The monster roared and charged at me baring its gigantic ivory incisors. The creature jumped at me before I could aim the harpoon.

I jammed the end of the harpoon between the monster's teeth and down the creature's gullet. "Die! You fucker!" I yelled. The monster's jaws clamped down on the harpoon and snapped off the end like a flimsy toothpick. I desperately danced away trying to avoid the fangs as the creature lunged past me. Nanes slid to a stop and spun around to charge me again. I pointed what was left of the harpoon at the monster's gigantic head. The creature did not attack. I realized that a battle axe protruded from the creature's skull, planted squarely between its eyes. The monster groaned and collapsed onto the pavement.

"So much for following my instructions," Blue Tara scolded me.

Sometimes being tall is a disadvantage. I swung the harpoon right over the top of Jean's head and smashed the stick into Hamatsa's face. His black leather fedora flew off his head as he staggered backwards. Jean jumped free of his choke hold. "Are you okay?" I asked her, taking her hand. She nodded. Even in the dark I could see tears streaming down her cheeks.

The four furies encircled Hamatsa and Kinqalatlala as Hamatsa howled in pain from my blow. "You will pay for this!" Kinqalatlala exclaimed. "Laxsa! Take them." Several squads of black clad Deportation Police laxsa emerged from the darkness, forming a tight box around us. Machine guns pointed straight at us.

"Take them alive," Hamatsa ordered. Big mistake. That gave us the advantage. We could kill goons with impunity. The goons opened fire with their weapons and charged us. _Wait_ , I thought. What happened to taking us alive?

Blue Tara screeched. I felt a strange sensation in my body, in addition to the head-wracking pain of Tara's screech. Not the sensation of being riddled with bullets, but the sensation of seeming to become detached from my own body. To become detached from my own reality. As if I observed another me in another dimension. I watched with alarm and then amusement as streams of bullets passed harmlessly through my body, and Jean's body, and Michael's and Tara's and Margarita's bodies, as if through thin air, to smash harmlessly into the red brick monoliths. I glanced quizzically at Blue Tara. "I opened time and space in a circle," she explained with a wink.

The goons emptied their magazines. I lowered the magic harpoon and swept the death stick over the lines of goons. The harpoon still functioned in its truncated version. The laxsa collapsed where they stood. The furies spread their wings and flapping furiously ran into the darkness to take flight to disappear into the black night. Hamatsa pulled a glass canister out of his coat pocket and smashed it on the pavement. A white cloud roiled up and a mist rolled out in all directions, covering the square, like liquid nitrogen released on a movie set. As the mist touched each dead laxsa, the goon stirred and climbed back to its feet.

"Water of Life," Michael said.

"Reload your weapons!" Kinqalatlala commanded the goons. Blue Tara swung her battle axe at two of the laxsa closest to her and lopped off their heads. Margarita leaped into the air to transform into Black Tara. Whirling like a dervish, her shimmering steel claws separated the heads of several more goons. Slamming new clips into their weapons, the other laxsa aimed their machine guns at Blue Tara.

I dropped the harpoon and grabbed the crystal. I raised the crystal over my head, chanting, "Hoi'p. Hoi'p. Hoi'p. Hoi'p. Hoi'p. Hoi'p. Hoi'p. Hoi'p. Hoi'p. Hoi'p. Hoi'p. Hoi'p." The laxsa froze. The crystal commenced to glow. At first barely perceptibly. Then brighter. I kept chanting. Louder and louder. A radiant effervescent light emanated from the crystal and bathed the monoliths with a ghostly hue. Heat from the crystal burned my fingers. I refused to let go. I kept chanting.

Hamatsa covered his face with his gloved hands. He retreated into the darkness. Unexpectedly, Kinqalatlala dashed forward and dived at me, knocking the crystal out of my hands, nearly knocking me down. Qoaxqoaxual, the giant raven, swooped out of the black sky and latched onto Jean's shoulders. She screamed as the creature pulled her into the air. I screamed. Jean disappeared into the darkness. The screech of a large bird assaulted my ears. I felt powerful claws grab my shoulders and lift me into the air. One of the condors dragged me straight up into the sky. The furie set me down on top of one of the monoliths and disappeared into the darkness. As I struggled to gain my bearings I realized Hamatsa and Jean stood on the adjacent monolith. Just like my dream. Hamatsa threw his arm around Jean's neck, choking her. With his other gloved hand he pulled her shirt collar away from her neck and bared his fangs. I didn't even think. I ran across the monolith I was perched on and jumped with all my might. I just managed to clear the space. My momentum propelled me straight into Hamatsa. I smashed my elbow into his face, knocking him back. He lost his grip on Jean. I grabbed Jean's hand. "Jump!" I yelled. We jumped for the third monolith, hand in hand. We failed to reach the monolith. We flew through the darkness, hand in hand, arm in arm, just like in my dream. I couldn't tell if we were plunging toward the pavement, or plunging toward the sky. "I love you!" I yelled at Jean.

"I love you!" I heard her reply.

### Epilogue

I seemed to have a dream within my dream. Overbearing darkness suddenly changed into blinding golden light. So blinding I still couldn't tell if Jean and I were plummeting toward the pavement, or the sky. A magical figure of immense proportions appeared. So large the figure filled the entire sky. So large the figure appeared to be above us, and below us. In front of us, and behind us. The immense figure of a majestic and fearsome bird. The blinding light emanated from the massive bird's golden body. A brilliantly white face and gigantically black beak gave the massive bird the appearance of an eagle. An eagle with a golden crown. Blood red wings spread across the horizon. "Garuda," I said to myself.

When I awoke from my dream I stood safely on the U Dub's, University of Washington's, Red Square. My girlfriend Jean stood at my side. Well, we didn't stand directly on the red brick that gave Red Square its name. We stood on the outstretched blood red wing of the King of the Birds, Garuda. The blood red wing stretched down to the pavement from the bird's massive glowing golden body that filled the sky above us, turning night to day.

I took Jean's hand and we jumped off the wing onto the brick pavement. I could barely contain my joy at seeing Jean alive and standing next to me. I could barely contain my joy at finding myself, and Jean, alive and well. As well as could be expected after our tussle with Hamatsa one hundred and forty feet in the air on top of the red brick monoliths in the middle of Red Square. Jean looked to me to be a statue of a Greek goddess. Her long flowing brunette hair, her ruby red lips, even her pale Seattle skin, shined brilliantly bathed in Garuda's golden glow. I pulled Jean to me and kissed her.

### ###

### Not The End

### More From Princess Tara and Me

Follow Princess Tara's continuing adventures in Book Two of the epic saga of the Princess Tara Chronicles, Part Two of the Blue Tara Trilogy, The Princess Witch; Or, It Isn't As Easy To Go Crazy As You Might Think.

The Blue Tara Trilogy culminates with Book Three of the Princess Tara Chronicles, Part Three of the Blue Tara Trilogy, Parrots and Witches; Or, Love. Desire. Ambition. Faith. Without Them, Life Is So Simple, Believe Me.

You can never keep a good witch down. Stay tuned for future episodes of the continuing saga of the Princess Tara Chronicles. More witches. More monsters. More daemons. More pterodactyls. More parrots. And more coffee. We promise to make it worth your while. Follow Princess Tara and her friends and villains in the Kālarātri, or Black Night Trilogy. Part One of the Kālarātri Trilogy, Book Four of the Princess Tara Chronicles, She Was Not Quite What You Would Call Refined, available from Smashwords.

Part Two of the Kālarātri Trilogy, Book Five of the Princess Tara Chronicles, She Was Not Quite What You Would Call Unrefined, available from Smashwords.

How do you defeat a goddess who controls death and time? Can you? Find the answer in the third and last installment of the Kālarātri, or Black Night Trilogy, Book Six of the Princess Tara Chronicles, _She Was the Kind of Person That Keeps a Parrot_ , coming 2020.

Princess Tara thanks you for your support!

Michael Ostrogorsky is a parrot, word, and coffee bean wrangler living in Seattle, with his two parrots, the Hyacinth Macaw Princess Tara, who really is a princess, as well as a witch (but in a good way), and the Blue and Gold Macaw Aboo. Like the protagonist in this story, Michael boasts two Ph.D.s, in History and Archaeology, is retired from an academic career, and currently roasts coffee.

### Connect With Princess Tara and Me Online

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