 
### Chimerical Short Stories

### By Maynard Fuggent

### Published by Maynard Fuggent at Smashwords

### Copyright 2018 Maynard Fuggent

**********

### 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.

**********

### Table of Contents

The Parasite

### Angeled

### Ludwig Platz Reunion

### Bastian Witches

### Mysophobia Out

### Witches Seed

### The Hypnotist

### About the Author

### Connect with Author

### Upcoming Writing Projects

### THE PARASITE

Historical records ledger: circa 1347 thru 1750, pestilence ravaged and decimated the population of Europe by 60 million- reported transmitted by the nip of a flea which by chance nibbled an infected rodent carcass. Consequently, in the northern region of England, in 1747, the Old Warrens Province fell suffrage to the mutation, locally known as The Parasite.

_Dr. Wilhelm_ , registered in _Kriegsburg, Germany_ , presently traveled by cabriolet as replacement for a professional colleague, Dr. Somers, registered in Old Warrens Town, England- his mode of death unconfirmed.

Upon arrival in Old Warrens Town, _Dr. Wilhelm_ acquainted himself with Mrs. Collingsworth and Medical Assistant of the late Dr. Somers; as procedure, she educated the new doctor and confirmed the town's state of health and urgency. In welcoming him to the Warrens Town Doctors Office, she promised absolutely an Oath of Life which within him allowed cause for gravity.

As _Dr. Wilhelm_ rummaged through his upstairs room above the office, Mrs. Collingsworth (downstairs) chatted, emptied, and shelved the contents of his medical bag: various vial sizes, gauged needles, worn pliers, rubber hose, syringes, suction device, yet at the sight of the mini Bone Traverse Tool, she shuddered at its history of crude use.

Thirty days of burials signified the absence of an antidote and consistent medical attention; and respectfully as if Dr. Somers continued his rounds, _Dr. Wilhelm_ , at the directive of Assistant Collingsworth, honored the next appointment scheduled for the following day. Then accordingly and in preparation, _Dr. Wilhelm_ read aloud from the Ironwood family file, as she interpreted and associated the patient's information with regional temperament; as well, patients in good health visit the office and others too weak have been visited in their homes. Records by Dr. Somers state: [During these preliminary tests, the viral strain infects the brain which produces fits of rage and unpredictable behavior as the brain becomes incapable of processing reality.] Thus, clarifying the need for precaution on appointments.

By profession, _Dr. Wilhelm_ understood the importance of (1) recognizing the physical and mental symptoms, (2) rendering a decisive diagnosis, and (3) administering an antidote or vaccine, the latter and last of which Brandt emptied into the veins of Dr. Somers.

At the dewy dawn, the visiting patients 'busy' the team until the scheduled appointment- a walk of an hour into the low, hill-range of Warrens Town awaited the doctor.

As _Dr. Wilhelm_ descended the steps from his room, Mrs. Collingsworth smiled at his resemblance to Dr. Somers; medical bag, laboratory, frock mantle collected about him, booted feet, and derby hat. Understandably, Mrs. Collingsworth must mind the office in the absence of the doctor.

Knowing men, she reminded, "Forgive me, doctor, but I was once married," she giggled, "so remember, left onto the Warrens Mine path then up and past the Oaks, taking the right fork- that will lead you to the Ironwood cabin at the end of the path." As he tipped his hat in gratitude, she cautioned obscurely, "But go and return quickly, doctor. You don't want to stay for dinner." More she would not say, lest she burdened him with silly and paranoid ramblings from Dr. Somers. Yet, she felt betrayal and wondered thoughtfully, 'He stares so, but dares not show his confusion to a woman,' her gaze then lowered.

"Dinner? No, but surely these good people would shelter me for the cold night should it be required." Though he knew it circumstantial to abode in the 'lair of infection'. However, should the darkness hinder his return, he would see.

Past the Oaks and burned farms, _Dr. Wilhelm_ recognized unsettling foulness within the lingering smoke; __ the __ distinctness of decayed flesh that intensified with the altitude. Then at once, he heard animated voices coming from up the hillside, distractions from the 'still' of his thoughts. Squinting, he stared curiously at the spectacle, as groups of men and women skirmished and argued fiercely over something out of range of his sight.

Reminded of the appointment, he pressed on. Under the shadowy canopy, _Dr. Wilhelm_ practiced his speech and diagnostic steps until consciously, pervading within the life of an echo, had been heard that unmistakable grinding of bone; and he imagined the Bone Traverse Tool.

As he gained sight of the cabin, overcast in shadows, the outline of bushes intermingled with water barrels against the north and south walls, heaps of wood, and presumed farm equipment. The crackle of dried leaves underfoot alerted and drew his eyes to the north wall. In view, under the anonymity of a silhouette, an adolescent form stepped from behind the cabin.

"Be supper soon," he said then coughed and stepped back behind the cabin. In a breath, the grinding resumed.

Dismissing the encounter and remark, _Dr. Wilhelm_ approached the open cabin door. Inside, at the far wall, the fireplace flared then abruptly foreshadowed by Mr. Ironwood, dressed unseasonably in bearskin and his feet covered in moccasins. Once motioned inside, the doctor caught the stare of Mrs. Ironwood, shivering by the fireplace. (She too in similar attire) Her palms faced the large pot hung over the fire. Professionally, _Dr. Wilhelm_ detected, at first sight, their physical symptoms: chills, and pale, sweaty complexions.

"Be supper soon," Mrs. Ironwood said convincingly before walking across the room to the kitchen area that consisted of a table and three chairs huddled beneath the shuttered window. _Dr. Wilhelm_ recalled the 'dinner' remark from Mrs. Collingsworth. "We have an appointment, do we not, Mr. Ironwood?" Momentarily, he doubted Mrs. Collingsworth's directions and sought reassurance. Mr. Ironwood nodded mechanically then sat at the table. Outside, the sawing ceased, and only then did _Dr. Wilhelm_ notice.

"Dr. Somers," Mrs. Ironwood said proudly, "we're boiling the meat as you instructed." She then placed four wooden bowls on the table without utensils.

"No. I'm _Dr. Wilhelm-_ you addressed me as Dr. Som-" The noise of feet trampling the wood planked porch drew his attention; he then watched the adolescent step inside, followed by a fresh and sharp odor of rot. Keenly, _Dr. Wilhelm_ noted the frock mantle the boy wore, though disheveled, still recognizable as 'doctor's issue'; both sleeves crudely severed at the elbow, and along the frayed cut edges, the material appeared saturated and thickened by a dark purple substance. Curiosity kept the doctor mum and attentive to speculation and additionally stirred by the burlap sack the boy clutched to his breast- before the fireplace, the youth made an announcement.

"Mum. Papa. The others are coming." _Dr. Wilhelm_ asked 'who' while staring at the open door. Yet as a pendulum, his attention swung back to the gurgle of objects being seethed in boiling water. He finally shook himself from staring at the supposed charade then fervently questioned the family but found himself ignored.

_That_ in fact, allowed him most unexpectedly a degree of attention and observance; Mr. Ironwood sat and shivered, as his wife stared expectantly between her bowl and her son, Ike. The reek of the cabin, the doctor concluded was the aftermath of rank skin; and the cabin its origin? Though mindfully, he entertained thoughts of Dr. Somers and the coincidence of the boys clothing.

Irrationally, the hypothesis arose within the doctor and eroded both sensibility and moral code. It came as Ike turned from the fire, his hands coated blood red before submerging them into the wash bucket near the fireplace- it came to mind, the sound of sawing, the stench, then the Bone Traverse Tool (possibly owned by Dr. Somers) which Ike calmly withdrew from the side mantle pocket.

_Dr. Wilhelm_ unconsciously came to his feet. And should he believe the equations before him which rushed to unfortunate ends; Dr. Somers met his end- here? It came to his trained eye, as Ike stood and emptied the sack, the faintest sight- A hand!? No! Uncertain, the doctor could have imagined or been hoaxed by some similar cut of vermin. Glancing at the empty bowls and solace faces of Mr. and Mrs. Ironwood, _Dr. Wilhelm_ shuddered away the envisioned contents of the pot hung over the flames. He fancied himself respected among colleagues, and surely at the retelling, he'd feel the gullible fool! Still, he swallowed repeatedly as the statement, 'We're boiling the meat as you instructed, doctor' overtook his conscience.

Then it came as 'ration' to the doctor's self, the rushing sound of soled shoes shuffling across the porch steps, and three pale men holding torches and clubs clambering inside. Then three more. Bug-eyed, vulnerable, and panicked, the doctor recoiled, as the men accosted him. Yet before rudely removed from the cabin, he managed a hold of his bag.

Without word, three men obsessively clubbed Mr. Ironwood about his flailing arms, face, and skull until he slid unconscious from chair to floor and settled in a mat of expanding blood. Ike and his mother had run to the shuttered window at the rear of the cabin. In seeking escape through it, from outside, whaling clubs assaulted their heads and knuckles; semi-dazed, they slumped back inside. Before the front door shut, the men had set the furniture afire and flung torches inside while others set the roof ablaze. And be it known, no quiet, Christian soul heeded the horrific screams, pounding on the door and shutters nor thrashing about. Outside, the groups of men and women of Old Warrens Town gathered and waited patiently.

*****

On the kitchen table the following morn, two bowls of hot swine soup centered a cutting board and a dry bread loaf protruded a bread knife. At this table, _Dr. Wilhelm_ , doubtful in posture and countenance, sat childlike before Mrs. Collingsworth; he reflected on the proximity to death the previous night while his thoughts contradict his sense of youth and vigor. Mrs. Collingsworth had spoken, and in her expression, expected a reply.

"Leave? Nonsense!" he frowned insultingly while avoiding eye contact. "I am sworn to an oath, Mrs. Collingsworth." He then fell silent, grateful she didn't pursue the matter.

"Had I told you, would you not have gone, doctor?" Mrs. Collingsworth filled their cups. "You and I live because they recognize doctors. Dr. Somers found such strangeness a godly blessing," closing her eyes, she sipped. "But sadly, he discovered through his own madness that their minds, as his, I believe, function partially- they remember our prescriptions for cooking and boiling vermin thoroughly; however, they wildly misinterpret that for the preparation of human flesh. Well, you saw them scavenging in the hills- as long as they have food." She smiled meekly and shrugged. "Forgive me, but however morbid, the devilish burning and cannibalism have helped contain the parasites." Holding the teacup near her lips, she continued, "Dr. Somers, the poor soul, sadly and ironically wrote of his coming madness. So, I understand your fearful remark concerning leaving, doctor. I've felt the same, but this is my home. And I promised you an Oath to Life, and your next appointment is this evening. And who'll mind the office? Oh! Be back before supper," she sipped then grinned encouragingly.

"Most assuredly. But tell me, can you speak of the manner in which Dr. Somers passed?" He tried judging her participation, "Is their docu-" He began.

She understood the implication, "It's all there, in his own hand." Her head-nod alluded to the office. "You'll find his symptoms quite similar with the patients." Wisps of steam rose from the tea's surface before she sipped, again.

"If you'll permit me. Did he perish at an appointment, and were you with him?" He frowned thoughtfully and curiously. Privately, as it touched upon his fate, he sought and needed clarification that Ike wore 'doctor's issue' clothing.

"We operate now as we did then, and I was minding the office." He perceived the reply as protective, in fact, clever- expressing much and little.

"Very well, then," resolutely his body straightened, "we shall come to know the files be-" 'So the doctor was at an appointment.' He thoughtfully realized.

"Whatever for?" Wearing a frown and one hand atop the other in her lap, she placed the cup on the table as if freeing her hands for a kerfuffle then straightened her back.

"Being here in the office Mrs. Collingsworth, you have not witnessed-" He began naively.

"Not witnessed!?!" her steady eyes found his and didn't falter. "Children!" her chin rose slightly, "You've yet noticed. Have you seen many? laughing in the innocent throes of life!" she gazed towards and out the window. "I've buried and blessed too many; and such a silence, I wish not to have been party." She withholds reference to her husband.

"My apologies, I misjudged you. However," his hands rubbed together nervously, as he envisaged the young adolescent, "that boy, and I am quite sure, wore the mantle and trousers of a physician- the sleeves were cut off and...and the trousers were stained with something- blood, I suspect, something thick and...," he paused, encouraging her participation.

"There is nothing we can do now," her tone forlorn, "but find a cure."

"As I said, we must know the files. But what of his soul?" he confronted her faith.

"I will continue to pray for him and us, doctor."

In the effective reply, _Dr. Wilhelm_ shrank from further inquiry at her reluctance and acceptance of the truth of their reality.

At this hour of the morning, Mrs. Collingsworth visited the garden and gathered fresh potatoes, eggs, and carrots. Back in the kitchen, _Dr. Wilhelm_ thought his manly assistance would be appreciated. But first, from the kitchen door letting out into the garden, he watched her 'routine' amid a backing of fog. Lastly, at the small field of carrot tops, she kneeled and appeared in prayer- strange without a headstone or cross. Unwilling to disturb her, he waited.

"Women's work? Are you truly ill, doctor?" She smiled closed-mouth and broad while 'havin'-a-go' at him; and that her morning servant dress cleared the steps, she lifted it slightly. When passing him with a lowered chin, she giggled in her throat. "Very well then- bowls are in that cupboard," she pointed, stopped, and thrust the basket at the doctor. "Here. Truly be of use to me and rinse these in the bassoon and start the fire, if you please. And I'll boil the swine." Smiling, he envisioned his wife and home.

*****

Thereafter, for the next three weeks, _Dr. Wilhelm_ and Mrs. Collingsworth have followed their indoctrination of daily examinations and slow procurement of a vaccine. While comparing files, however, _Dr. Wilhelm_ found medical research infractions specifically by Mrs. Collingsworth. Though a Medical Assistant, he privately disputed, however trivial or inconsequential, the correctness and authorization of the entries. The laps worried him, for had Dr. Somers been influenced by a state of torpor, or infection, his medical judgment greatly impaired such entries, consequently affecting their present physical and mental health.

One morn in the patient's area of the front office, the doctor heard, "...and 'e was a good, saintly, Christian doctor and friend." The Irish accent distinguished Mrs. O'Broin; she sat hunched forward on the exam table; blouse lowered and collected at her waist and back exposed. With Assistant Collingsworth standing behind her, she flinched at the cold touch of the stethoscope. "...They should have- Oh! That's as cold as me tit! Hoo! But they should have kept the Oaks off limits."

'Off limits?' _Dr. Wilhelm_ thought. "Mrs. Collingsworth, a word, please, when you have finished." In the Warrens Town Doctor's Office, he spoke professional and restrained.

"Why did you send me if-?"

"I didn't send you, doctor. You have a duty."

"Do not patronize me, Mrs. Collingsworth. This is a matter of trust between colleagues."

"I trusted you had studied the situation before taking this assignment."

"That I did, but I rely on you for judgment in this environment...,"

"And you have it as did Dr. Somers."

"Then why didn't you warn me, simply?"

"Had I told you, would you not have gone, doctor?" He lowered his gaze, remembering her earlier statement. "My apologies, doctor, but we are beyond trusting each other- where is civility? Look around. How do we fully trust the patients and each other?" Behind her brown, moistening eyes, personal haunts raged and lucid tears suppressed. "Rest his soul, dear Dr. Somers is dead, and I, nor his family have his body to bless and send to our heavenly father."

"Your analogy is paranoid but reasonable. However," he rose to his feet, "'trust', Mrs. Coll- Brandt, you will find in me. We are bonded here in medical matrimony, and I simply have no other." Though implying loneliness, he envisioned his wife and symbol of his greatest source of trust.

Observing a man's rare show of emotion and vulnerability, Brandt replied hopefully and personally, "'Trust', my dear doctor has grieved me so- for I have lost my husband to this devil's work. You see, I feel as though I've sent both decent men into this hellish pestilence while I remained here safe and-" Her face expressed guilt, and behind her wanting, roving eyes, deeper wounds bled.

"Stop this nonsense!" She heeded his words. "I am deeply sorry for your husband and I cannot imagine your anguish. But," his head lowered slightly in response, "no godly creature is at fault for this...this cleansing!"

"Yes, doctor," her tone obedient. "More tea?" She rose from the chair. _Dr. Wilhelm_ didn't press the issue, as she left the office. Though the manner of her husband's absence obsessed him.

*****

At the head of the steps, at the halls end, the adjacent rooms of _Dr. Wilhelm_ and Brandt. He imagined, opposite his work desk, stood her bed. Inside the room, he had glimpsed but once, as she stepped out one early morning. Under the sun's illumination, he recalled the sheen upon the wood breakfront secretary desk set at the east wall, gold oil lamp on the desk, dresser nudged under the window, and a spare chair by the entrance. Thus, he concluded the bed positioned on the west wall.

In the second act of night, that sound rose subconsciously then consciously before the eyes of _Dr. Wilhelm_ opened in the dark; his ears heard, distinctively from Brandt's room, the chatter of support planks underneath bedding; as though a body convulsed horridly in a violent rhythm. On his feet, he lit the lamp, moved into the hall and swiftly stepped to her door and rapped upon it once; he listened momentarily then entered, feeling justified. Inside, he shone the lamps light above her face of which contorted in apparent agonizing grimaces, eyes half open, pupils hid under the eyelids and the mouth pulled agape by successive contractions; the gulping of air, via the throat, reflected at the height of the contractions, cutting off oxygen, releasing, cutting off. 'Tremors' as named by the Medical Institutions.

Stepping quickly to the chair next to the dresser under the window, he retrieved her wash towel folded over the back of the chair. Returning to her side, he placed the lamp on the nightstand, folded the towel into thirds then pulled Brandt onto her right side, facing the light and holding open her quivering mouth by the jaw, he shoved the cloth between her right cheek and tongue. Medically, the crude treatment sufficed as myth had grown: people swallow their tongues when seized by a tremor. As with home-patients, _Dr. Wilhelm_ remained attentive, and when she stirred in the early morning, he slipped unnoticed from the room as not to alarm her.

Concern for the patient kept his ear pressed against the wall of her room; he didn't approve of his unethical approach as normal procedure required open, honest, and direct dialog. But he hesitated purposely in recollection of the medical ledger of Dr. Somers that stated the aggravated and physical Stages of Parasitic Infection: (1) tremors (2) possible memory loss. The knock at the door startled him and cut the thought. Opening the door, he sensed immediately in her eyes, mouth, hair, and body a liberal openness; her brown pupils watched him without reserve, as she held the lamp before her.

"Your lamp." He took it from her. "You were in my room. Why?" Curious about a professional man's belongings, her eyes surveyed the room.

"I heard you having a dreadful nightmare- you screamed so I checked on you." He lied.

"My towel was wet." She spoke keenly though curious of books on his desk and the jacket draping the chair.

"As a doctor," he smiled, "I checked and found your temperature rather high." Her appreciation shone as a smile and direct eye contact before returning her attention to his dresser. Then as if fulfilled, she smiled quickly while leaving the room and descending the steps.

"Thank you. Breakfast will be soon," her voice sang.

"No tea, first?" As the morning routine changed, he thought, 'Is this the same woman?'

Stepping into the kitchen, Brandt pulled the apron from its hook inside the entrance, secured it around her waist and mumbled about chores. Hearing footsteps, she wielded about, seeing the doctor.

"The kitchen is a woman's place. Do you want to help?" she didn't wait for an answer, "You'll just be in the way. I'll meet you for examinations after I've started the meat, you know that." She then snatched the basket from the counter before opening and stepping out of the kitchen's back door. As if a mischievous child, the smiling doctor crept to the window and watched her from behind the curtain. And although normal, the doctor connected her behavior to the research ledgers. Medically, it appeared possible he witnessed early memory loss and torpor. Fascinating! And tragic!

_Dr. Wilhelm_ watched Brandt kneel before the rows of carrots and appearing in prayer, again. Thereafter, she stepped inside the chicken coop, creating 'cries of terror' as the human beast thieved their eggs; at the swine pen, she placed the basket before the entrance, pulled up the folds of her dress and secured them with the apron strap. Inside the pen, she wiggled loose the ax from the tree stub. From the kitchen, _Dr. Wilhelm_ mused, as she stood thoughtful and motionless amid swine droppings, mud, and water then abruptly drove the ax back into the stub before leaving the pen. As she headed his way, the good doctor exited the kitchen.

A short time later, Brandt, from the outer 'patients' room, beckoned _Dr. Wilhelm_ ; her tone caught him as 'impatient' of which reminded him of his wife- that 'I have many chores to do' tone. Stepping into the room, he blushed unexpectedly at her preparation; bosom covered by her left arm and the right hand gripped the folds of the upper dress collected at her waist, leaving the shoulders and back bare. Seeing her raised chin in anticipation of a tonsil examination made him grin. Standing before her, his fingers and thumbs gently and expertly sought normality; and while at her backside, with stethoscope in his hand, Brandt noted.

"You're in a particular mood this morning."

"How so?" His mind wavered between her bodies resemblance to his wife and procedure.

"You're worried about me, but I'm well."

"This is true, we must be careful."

"But I'm half naked, and you've scarcely remarked."

"May I remind you, Mrs. Collingsworth, of our code of ethics- remarks such as those are highly unprofessional and-" Brandt startled him by bursting into genuine laughter as if attending Burlesque; she leaned forward and slapped the table repeatedly with her right hand. Turning and addressing him, her cheeks faired rosy and mouth jovial and broad, revealing the top teeth. By the nature of simulation, he smiled yet inquiringly.

"Havin'-a-go at me, are ye?" she turned away from him. "Very well, then," she spoke as a mocking but proper Victorian woman, "please, remove your hand from my royal buttocks, Dr. Somers, my husband will return soon," she laughed again.

'Somers?' thought the doctor- surely 'a slip of the tongue' as they say, or a sign he could not ignore. Still laughing, Brandt heard, 'Get dressed' then turned and watched the doctor stepping inside his office and closing the door. At the desk, he reread the research ledger by Dr. Somers, himself, before his illness, yet found nothing of use.

Morning had yet been met with breakfast; at the rapping on the door, _Dr. Wilhelm_ had finished reading and sufficed that experimentation warranted verification.

In the kitchen. "I didn't get a chance to examine you; I thought you had 'lost the pot'- scurrying off so quickly. What was it?" Brandt said while ladling hot swine soup into his bowl.

"...I remembered Mrs. O'Broin is coming," he lied, "and I had not finished with her diagnosis. However, time permitting, I will submit to an examination," he smiled meekly then continued, "I am considering," he paused, "the addition of... _Dr. Wilhelm_ to our staff...," he trailed off purposely, his ears keen.

"That bloke from _Germany?_ " She chewed and swallowed calmly while watching his face stiffen, pale, and suppress an unknown profoundness. "What is it, Dr. Somers?" a fright rose in her voice. "Are you choking?!" While rising to her feet, her spoon splashed the soup.

*****

Under oath and paramount in purpose, _Dr. Wilhelm_ considered the patient's physical and mental stability, thus, he reframed, fearing further dementia, from revealing traumatic health news. To her query, he utilized his examination diagnosis as a ruse that justified his expression.

Later, in the confines of his bed and darkness, these thoughts of deception undermined his moral code. Still, 'Should she believe,' he calculated the illusion, 'that I am Dr. Somers then what manner of relationship did they carry on? Adulterers? No, she's no killer. But surely this occurred _after_ her husband's death...but she flirted, the wench, but under what influence? Were her remarks rubbish? -havin'-a-go at me _because_ of my remark? Dodgy! Which is her true self?'

At the timid rapping upon his room door, he answered, sat up, and quickly reached for the oil lamp. Hearing the creaky door, he halted his efforts and expected her entry, yet remaining in the doorway, she held forth the lamp like a shield of illumination.

"You're alright, then?" She assured his well-being. "Then will you come to me, tonight?" Her delivery held no direct invitation rather the tone of uncertainty, doubtfulness. With indifference to her intentions, he promised himself and his wife to abstain then agreed.

Moments later in her room, Brandt fumed and accused him of, 'Knowing good and proper of her intentions.' Why the rage? Well, it appeared that faithful _Dr. Wilhelm_ asked about how her husband became ill and how he perished.' And not a word of romance. He rationed that her present personality could reveal medical information that the 'other' personality withheld or could not. Fascinating!

Childishly, Brandt sat and clutched a pillow against her body as a relief of sorts. Her desires unfulfilled. With her chin dug into the top of the pillow, her staring eyes avoided the gaze of the 'wanker'; she then flashed an askance eye at him.

"Why did you-? Hmmpf!" her lips pressed tightly shut. "Bloody hell! You prefer to see me gutted then naked!"

His past statement awakened, 'Trust...you have in me,' by which he allowed her medical privileges in analyzing his blood and formulas, as well, recording ledgers that created stronger vaccines. It came to him with a shudder, trusting her for weeks with harmless injections into his willing body- it came to him, the frightening truth of an overdose created by a mind infected by pestilence; consequently, rotting their internal organs; it crept within him, quivers molesting his mind and flowing through his skin as rash-like bumps descending from neck throughout his torso. Fear, like regrets, held the future hostage. 'But wait! Don't be foolish! That was the mind of the 'real' Brandt,' he sighed, somewhat in relief. But henceforth, he must be vigilant.

"You've come to help, but I've sworn never to speak of it. It grieves me so. However, I'm not a cold-blooded prude." She glanced at him, "Speak with Mrs. O'Broin. Good night."

The next morn, _Dr. Wilhelm_ trekked through the garden, the shallow field of trees, up the back and forth footpaths and to the fenced garden of Mrs. Pricilla O'Broin. Hearing his footsteps, she wielded about; and he beheld the bloody ax in her right hand and the twitching, headless body of an unfortunate hen in the left. Her expression caused and required explanation; thus, the visit 'social' and not solely in delivering horrid health news. Her mind and body then relaxed.

From a provincial health and personal view, _Dr. Wilhelm_ justified his inquiries concerning the deaths of Jameson Collingsworth and Dr. Somers.

"Sent ye to me, did she?" her Irish accent apparent on select words. "Poor lass." He returned a nod. "Only one reason for that- Jameson. Bless 'im." He sensed she enjoyed chatting and carried a grandmotherly air. He then informed her about Brandt's state of Amnesia. His first case experience which fascinated him- how does the mind lose identity of itself yet create and maintain a sustained alter-ego? This phenomenon intrigued him most inopportunely.

Thus, Mrs. O'Broin nudged his shoulder, as if reacting to her husband; a man famous for claiming to be 'Thinking on things of importance' when ignoring her.' "Are ye listenin'? I said, I'll help ye with her." 'Bloody men!' she thought.

"Splendid! You'll be our assistant, and I'll explain later."

"Then let's get at it- I've me chores." Between severing the heads from hens, she introduced the origin of the young couple's journey from Nord Hill Province to Old Warrens Town; invited by Dr. Somers after the outbreak. Jameson showed promise with his strong-willed, Medical Assistant wife, yet because of genteel pride, she misjudged the severity of the pestilence.

"See there?" Mrs. O'Broin pointed from the garden's vantage-point over the trees to the top window of his office, at Brandt's room. "When she wants to chat, she hangs white knickers in that window. Hoo! Hoo! She's the daughter I never 'ad." While she drained blood from the headless bodies, _Dr. Wilhelm_ anxiously ventured a query.

"Did they suffer from tremors?" He explained their physical nature.

"I've 'eard of it but don't rightly know. But I'll tell ye what I remember 'cause I believe ye can help her guilty mind, or she'll not be long for this world." _Dr. Wilhelm_ understood the perils and withheld a reply. Picking up the metal pale stocked with headless hens, she began. "A good wife, doctor, some men don't appreciate- from wee lasses we're taught by the grace of God, proper Christians, and a scoldin' or two, to take care of a man and the family." She glanced at him for reaction. "But me theory is that she bloody felt too safe and protected by being married to a doctor and 'erself in the business. That, I believe, caused 'er careless cookin'."

"Meat?" the doctor uttered out-loud and surprised himself, as his daily consumption came to mind.

She agreed. "But if ye ask me, it was when Jameson became infected." Approaching the hen house entrance, she lowered the pale to the ground before continuing inside.

_Dr. Wilhelm_ envisaged Brandt kneeling before the carrot path which likely symbolized those lives dearest and far from her. "I tell ye this," she reached under a distraught hen, "that man changed like night into day- nice Christian man one minute and the next an uncivil brute." She looked at him still standing at the entrance. "Well, ye know how the infected behave. Unpredictable. Eating each other. Bleh! We don't know who'll be next."

"I 'eard from Dr. Somers, 'imself, how Jameson 'ad attacked 'er one night, knocked 'er down. The poor lass. If 'e'd done that to me, 'e'd close his bloody eyes for the last time before speakin' with the Devil, 'imself." _Dr. Wilhelm_ grinned, while she checked the shape and color of the eggs then walked towards him. "Dr. Somers called it a tremor, too." She paused and gathered her thoughts. "Being the assistant wife of a doctor is not as important as ye'r own life- not ye'r husbands, friends, nothing. Ye understand, ye doctors understand life." He returned a solemn nod.

"Mind ye, the doctor was dumb-founded and 'ad no idea Jameson was infected. But the worst of it? 'E didn't remember a bloody thing. Nothin'." She paused and stared out into the garden. "So, the poor lass put up with attacks before the Devil possessed 'er soul. That's what it was."

"That would be a fright, harming my wife and-" he found no rationale other than madness for Brandt assaulting him without remembering!

"Aye! Broke 'er heart and soul, it did, but she could bare it no longer. So, on the next vaccine day, in the office, she injected 'im with a lethal dose of something Dr. Somers 'ad forbade. In normal times, she'd be hung 'cause who'd believe 'er? But by killing 'er beloved husband in defense, she saved herself and ended his suffering. And that's a blessing- to end suffrage. So that in all honesty, my dear doctor, is what grieves and shames 'er so," she continued working.

_Dr. Wilhelm_ felt intrusive in the silence, as she worked in a productive rhythm. He believed that disturbing and unresolved memories occupied her mind. Quietly, she thought of Old Warrens Town before the pestilence: peaceful, friendly, Protestant, and home to Dr. Somers, family, and friends. Then she spoke...

Seems I was always late. I 'eard Dr. Somers bellowing for me and imagined 'es tellin' 'em, 'What's keeping that Irish lass?' 'E and I 'ad an appointment in the Oak Hills at the Ironwood place while Jameson and Brandt minded the office.

On our way, we chatted.

"If I were a stronger man, I'd have left you behind," his tone jovial.

"And I would've married ye...but!" shrugging her shoulders, her cheeks rose favorably while snickering.

"O'! You have a gumptious wit, Mrs. O'Broin. Quite wicked! Ha! Ha! Ha!" He pointed to the sky theatrically, while her smile turned to a frown.

"Do ye smell that?"

When we reached the top of the Oak Hills main path, we saw the Ginny place just a burnin' away. Stupidest thing though- some folk were 'elpin' put it out and others were settin' it ablaze. And it smelled a mite like burnin' skin, but it could've been a carcass.

When we arrived, the family was a sight- sick with fever. So 'e set to work with 'is usual examinations while making sure they were boilin' their cookin' utensils.

We had prescribed cookin' methods for all vermin and told 'em how important it was to keep the pestilence from spreadin'. Then before long, it was gettin' dark, and I was on me way home. The doctor stayed, as he often did with the first-patient visits.

"Mind ye, the poor things didn't know 'ow sick Ike was."

After me mornin' chores, I made me way back to the cabin; the Ironwoods met me outside and recognized me fine. But when I asked for Dr. Somers, they honestly didn't have a care of who I meant. I thought they were 'havin'-a-go' at me, so I laughed. But they just stared at me with no emotion, just starin'. I didn't know what to make of it. Then they asked me inside as though I was there for our appointment. "Bollocks!" I said, "Have ye all gone-to-pot?" I grew a mite feisty.

Inside, however, it hit me- seeing the medical bag of Dr. Somers emptied onto the floor as if they were lookin' for something. Naturally, I asked again where 'e was. Then Mrs. Ironwood looked past me and out the door at two men carrying clubs and walking towards the cabin. She yelled, telling 'em to go 'round back. And while the Mr. and Mrs. blathered on about appointments and gibberish, I gathered the doctor's things, but the Bone Traverse Tool was missin'. When I couldn't get an answer, I searched the cabin. At the back wall where that shuttered window is, I heard Ike talkin' to the two men. How could I have imagined such a thing?

Ike said, "Hold that leg, that's yours, Mr. Ginny. The others yours, Mr. Henry." Then the sawin' started...like cutin' swine ribs or chicken. Mr. Ironwood said that was the infected intruder they caught last night. Dr. Somers? What does that mean? I stared as if witnessin' the resurrection of Jesus. I don't remember picking up the medical bag, but I do remember Mr. Ironwood tellin' about 'ow 'e clubbed the intruder. 'What intruder?' I thought. Then 'e pulled back the rug and showed me the blood stains. That bloody did it! I screamed like the Devil! "Where the hell is he!?! Where!?!" I was in hysterics and trembled all over.

Then the sawin' 'ad stopped, and I ran from that cursed cabin. Out front, Ike had walked 'round the corner, and bloody hell, I screamed! 'E wore the doctor's mantle. I knew 'cause I 'ad sown 'is name across the left breast me-self; but the sleeves 'ad been cut off at the elbows and the bloody fabric 'ad streaked his forearms from wrists to elbows. As Ike walked towards me, I ran and fell flat on me face- next thing I felt, was a cold hand on me arm. I'll never forget it.

I screamed "Leave me alone!" and scurried to me feet and ran like a frightened child. I then caught up with Mr. Ginny and Mr. Henry and chundered. Couldn't believe the Lord let me see such a sight; each of 'em carried a leg of Dr. Somers; I recognized the medical shoes still tied to the feet. (Vomited)

_Dr. Wilhelm_ empathized and noted that Mrs. O'Broin did not conceal her pained voice or thickening tears rushing over her cheeks of which soaked onto the fabric of her dress.

And as though from her loins, blessed unto him the utterances of godly protection on his journey before requesting solitude.

After _Dr. Wilhelm_ had informed Mrs. O'Broin of the responsibilities of an assistant (injecting vaccine and antidote), he descended the hill. He rationed thoughtfully, '...and what of Brandt and her alter-ego? I shan't be careless! For, her behavior can be repeated.'

Stepping inside the kitchen, _Dr. Wilhelm_ witnessed Brandt ladling broth over boiled meat, carrots, onions, and potatoes in his bowl. He stared critically and uneasily then declined eating meat. Adding to his concern, she did not.

"Quit your staring- it's boiled long enough since you've been visiting. Now sit." As with any acquaintance, nurtured communication carried assumptions, as he felt she spoke to Dr. Somers, not

himself. "So now you know my sin and shame." She spoke rhetorically while pulling the chair under her legs then sitting and waiting for him before blessing the meal.

Though distracted, he spoke confidently, "Mrs. O'Broin will assist with injections, and I will send for a Psychiatrist." She swallowed then acknowledged Mrs. O'Broin by nodding and awaited his reasoning. "We need to recognize the earlier stages of the infection in our behavior." Her head and eyes lowered as if ashamed of appearing sickly; then suddenly she forced a smile, inhaled deeply, and sighed.

"If I'm truly ill, you'd tell me, wouldn't you? You'd-" Immediately, she regretted the words, as the anxiety in her being could not be contained. The mist of mistrust hung in the air and lowered her shameful gaze. "Forgive me, doctor."

"Your implication is improper and insulting for a professional." He frowned then remembered her earlier remark, and though respectful of her unstable state, said leniently. "'I understand your fearful remark'; however, this is but a precautionary measure for all." As she gazed affectionately at him, he showed forgiveness and added, "But pip! Pip! We need each other and somewhere in that brain of yours are the ingredients that Dr.-" he caught himself, "that is, that I forbade. The cure, I believe, is at hand."

Counsel

Weeks later, Dr.Phy. H. B. Murray arrived by cabriolet from North Province, Sheffield, the first female Psychiatrist _Dr. Wilhelm_ and Brandt had seen or heard of. "It's the 'H', you see." Seeing their reaction, she happily clarified the riddle. "Clients naturally expect Harry or Henry, not Henrietta." Though _Dr. Wilhelm_ thought himself rational and fair, could a professional woman be his equal? Henrietta stood tall as he at six feet, appearing about twenty-five years of age, no more, white as any Englander and thinner of build; her manly oversized garb, in dark brown shades, showcased an eight-button double-breasted fully cleaved jacket of which concealed her curved torso and hips. From underneath the jacket (anterior), fell large folds of the skirt which hid low-heeled, pointed boots; superior material draped flatly. As a dapper token, a brown derby hat (the right-side of the brim worn to a dim shine by a right-hander).

To the experienced mind, behind the brown, wary eyes, hovered an awareness, as if expectant of traditional and cultural rebuff, compromise, or belittlement from opposing males and females. Did she ask for it? Perhaps in their view of her changing a 'man's world' and forfeiting the society of her sex. And if squabbling, she argued pointedly within the mysterious confines of professional psychiatry, immerging feminist views, economic plight, and character.

As to behold, Brandt exuded admirable curiosity over _Dr. Wilhelm's_ feelings of equality and empowerment.

In an effort that established character development and hidden beliefs, truths, and fears, Dr. Murray firstly initiated group then private sessions for comparative analysis; as theories have established that individual thought seldom represents group dynamics. Thus, throughout the countryside, doctors in this crisis have been conducting simple 'question and answer' evaluation sessions that have created regional profiles of which assessed the general state-psychology for present and future reference.

Separately, Brandt initially answered 'Handsome' when asked about her thoughts of Dr. Somers; when asked about 'expectations' of 'marriage', she argued miserably that one cannot be without the other, and then chose 'Truth' over loyalty and justified the belief by citing the doomed relationship of Jesus and Peter (Simon); when asked about her fears, 'Being alone' over dying and 'Yes' to loving and believing in Christianity and God.

Among the rows of carrots and potatoes, _Dr. Wilhelm_ and Dr. Murray strolled and evaluated the state of Brandt. Dr. Murray concluded, "She certainly appears healthy and stable as an ox, but her subconscious is desirous of you- excuse me, I mean the handsome Dr. Somers- from what I've gathered, she fancied Dr. Somers from afar: tall, handsome, you know, all that romantic rubbish." She smiled high-cheeked on the left side only, and the first womanly expression since arriving, noted the doctor. "One cannot blame a woman for that. It is natural you know. More, I cannot analyze of her- not having known her character before your alleged diagnosis."

"Yes, yes! But what does that mean?"

"She fancies you and-"

"Balderdash! I'm happily married."

"Not in her mind. Quite the opposite, I'm afraid." She smiled openly, awaiting his response.

"Are you suggesting not only does she believe me to be Dr. Somers...," he looked about, "but sees me as a...suitor??"

"Has she tried to bed you?"

"Well, in defining that-"

"Has she, Doctor?"

As his beautiful wife absorbed his thoughts, he nodded as if found guilty of adultery then recalled their sacred vows of matrimony of which he would never disavow.

"Think carefully and tell me, if you so wish, what does she say when you mention the cure or vaccine?"

"She says, 'It's there, but hard to remember.'" He stood unrealized of the joke, while Dr. Murray laughed at some intrinsic women-irony detected by their own kind.

"Sorry, but you married men are from the same pot of soup." She teased and quoted her mum. "Of course, she remembers, my dear doctor, but her subconscious alter-ego desires something in return. Make no mistake, she isn't the Brandt you know, rather her exposed subconscious. I would wager that when- let us say, certain desires are met she will miraculously remember your formula. But I see you need persuading. Let me summarize; suppose you two had a dandy romantic moment. And rightly, you would feel in violation of your vows, however, your secret would remain with she and thee," she paused, "and forgotten by the 'real' Brandt once she becomes conscious, again. Terribly simple, really." Spoken as resplendent as a peacock.

"Do you take me for a blithering fool!" She held back a smile. "Forgive me, doctor, but I have many colleagues in your profession, and frankly what you are proposing has yet been proven- that the mind forgets. And under whom did you study?" Taking advantage of her age and appearance, he spoke _ad feminam. (Attacking a woman's character)_

"I do not joust with patients, doctor, merely advise them." She studied his gaze that resembled her fathers before continuing, "Forgive me, doctor, but this is no time for theatrical debate, people here and everywhere- countrymen and women are suffering and dying, horribly. If you, indeed, are on the cusp of finding a cure, I suggest you do what is necessary to get it and get on with it. You might be the sign from God we are praying for." The words penetrated him of which ceased argument for she had touched upon his private fantasy. Only his wife knew of his desire for heroics in medicine. Nothing would please his soul more than becoming a National Figure of Medicine (later called the Nobel Prize of Medicine).

"Play the game, and you need not bed her, merely intrude on her emotions, ever slightly. But do it quickly. She finds you fetching, doctor- use your manly charms." Unblinking, her steady eyes dared his of which irritated and oppressed his defensive commentary. She appeared no more than a student, he mused, but peckish of mind and spirit.

"My, you are as persuasive as any man."

"A man would accept such praise. But I'm a lady, sir. Me mum told me." Unintently, her smile gave a sinister impression of the bearer of which appeared caused by paralysis of the skin on the right corner of the mouth. No doubt initiated by a taunt of sorts.

"Most certainly."

"Well, I must be off- others are waiting, you know." Habitually, the mid-finger of the left hand thumped the derby's brim as 'au revoir' before departing company (satchel hung over the left shoulder). "A romping pleasure, doctor."

Naturally, after Dr. Murray departed, Brandt, in her mind, received full diagnosis from her 'thoughtful' doctor, enforcing mindful suggestions by Dr. Murray. Thus, her prognosis mirrored his own which relieved her of the sense of isolation and affliction.

_Dr. Wilhelm_ , briefly and hesitantly motivated, encouraged Brandt's desires though he possessed little in the art of flirtation, if you will. Marriage had long silenced urges of womanly quests. Yet Brandt, in contrast, found his sudden charm indifferent and confusing; her mind argued and weakened her appeal as it bloomed anew in the tall shadow of Dr. Henrietta Murray. Indeed, she and the doctor had been together in the garden, talking quietly. Thus, Brandt's attitude, poisoned by jealousy, would bleed into their procedures.

During the weeks thereafter, Mrs. O'Broin has been appeasing Brandt's condition. As well and busied by research, _Dr. Wilhelm_ and Brandt have delved into past theories of Dr. Somers. Thus, _Dr. Wilhelm_ has been playing medical roulette in his mind- calculating risk, heating and cooling alcohol intoxication agents, fermenting, distilling agents and organic compounds, combining hydroxyl derivatives and hydrocarbons with simple earthly herbs. And from meager successes, the physician must produce a fitting antidote as well.

"How does a man fancy a woman like that?" After deliberation and calculation, Brandt spoke and observed the tone and manner in which he replied. She sat at the end of the work desk, as he poured brown alcohol-based content from vial to vial and then scribbled notes.

"Mrs. Perkins? Why she's-" He assumed she meant the last patient that morning.

"No, no!" Frustration burst within her then settled quickly. "I was referring to Dr. Murray."

"Have you forgotten?" Glancing slightly in her direction then back at the vials. "You have asked that before. Jealous?" He teased and smiled- having-a-go at her.

"Of course not, don't be silly. I merely felt- well, she was a bit odd as men can be." Pulsing much as youthful girls do, her veins flooded with hormonal discharge, creating a flustering effect. And had she continued, those thoughts would have implied and revealed more than intended.

Her attitude, he agonized, had been of his own meddling, and no thanks to the 'counsel' of Dr. Murray. Thus, in healing his guilt, he treated her as a patient, as he should.

Yet oblivious to him, Brandt viewed his apparent attraction to Dr. Murray as a threat. Thus, her desirous heart and alter-ego have now internalized his winsome flirtations as rejection.

Reluctantly and privately, _Dr. Wilhelm_ admitted to self-imposed entrapment, and if confessing to coercion, Brandt would feel foolish, the brunt of a cruel, emotional joke of which Dr. Murray contributed. Further, she would have justification of the aforementioned coercion; yet in silence, Brandt continued suffering self-delusions of a relationship that he, in full recognition of her unbalanced state, created, enticed, and abandoned. With deliberation and forgiveness from God, he reckoned his sin.

*****

Though medically sound and justified, the testing of potential vaccines ignited moral debate on the patients' behalf, thus, dividing the two comrades until Mrs. O'Broin, while under examination, suggested off-handedly, "Stick one of me fatty pigs- won't feel a thing." The brilliant suggestion ended arguments and before talks had ended, one chicken had been added.

After isolation in a pen, the creatures have been fed formulas of varying strengths in their slop and seed. Results other than suffrage, convulsions, and death held promise and encouragement.

After days of trials, initial results found the pigs have been tolerant and the chicken lethargic to the point of stumbling about cluckless. Circumstantially, increased potency materialized reactions in the hefty pigs, thereby, calculations of weight, blood type, and size produced human dosage.

The first patients. Understandably, as sole 'saviors of medicine' in the small country region, _Dr. Wilhelm_ and Brandt could not risk themselves, and though she required treatment, he would wait. Thus, under the dire emergency, countrymen would suffice of whom startled the virgin team with willingness at the beckon of experimental vaccines. Those patients seriously infected and requiring an antidote would be discretely contacted as vaccine was in low supply; thus, quelling additional regional panic amid expectation. It appeared the spirit wills humanity past the hindrance of morality, cultural expectation, and faith in scripture.

In the following days, _Dr. Wilhelm_ has been blessed as a God-send and anointed with faithful gratitude. A bestowal not taken unconsciously as his actions carried consequences, in that of mental and physical damage and loss of faith in him, should he misdiagnose his docile patients. At the early stage, the doctor understood 'curing' as unrealistic though the patients have improved with lowered body temperatures, perhaps the result of opium plant; one of a few missing compounds recalled by Brandt.

Mrs. O'Broin stood at the tables side as the hour approached for injection by syringe. Brandt, surprisingly of the doctor's expectations of her reluctance, embraced the moment. She sat at the end of the examination table with eyes closed, enraptured in thought; palms together between her breasts in prayer, her nose and top lip resting lightly upon the tips of her fingers. In the doctor's view, her willingness has been motivated by guilt and shame, a way of healing or penance.

"Again, ladies, I've prepared two syringes and appropriate amounts of antidote. We should not need it." As a man of medicine, he projected confidently and pined for results from their hours of toil.

Taking his seat next to Brandt, at his nod, Mrs. O'Broin emptied the syringe contents into their open mouths. Upon swallowing, their heads jostled and bodies reacted quickly to the foul taste of herbs and toxins, evident by tightly closed eyes and flickering tongues. The doctor then went to his desk and notated their experience: Firstly, within minutes, I felt alert then followed by a sense of euphoria which suggested the solution had entered my blood-stream, as my body defended the intrusion and regulated, I was overcome with a light head then tiredness; and at this early hour, there are no hallucinations. I cannot record my assistant's experience, for she will not speak to me, but of her actions, I will note:

My assistant, Mrs. Collingsworth, perhaps under the same euphoria, leapt from her chair and sat upon the table, swinging her legs like a child. (He stopped writing) From there she spoke openly about hating and mistrusting Dr. Murray. "That foul woman!" she cried. _Dr. Wilhelm_ cringed at her unflattering view of his advances and sudden rejection regarding their fleeting romance. Mrs. O'Broin tightened her jaw and suppressed a snicker or two and noted how Brandt appeared tired, as well, stripped of decent and proper female behavior.

( _Dr. Wilhelm_ resumed writing) After appearing intoxicated, my assistant laid down on the table and quickly fell asleep; and nor can I categorize her behavior or attack upon my person and Dr. Murray as hallucinations rather self-delusions. (He stopped writing) After an hour, he retired to his room, feeling the vaccine had little effect on him other than tiredness. And Mrs. O'Broin went home.

Under the influence of toxins, Brandt slept until darkness consumed the sky and office; when stirred awake, she sought Dr. Somers.

Before the fog lifted and the sun dazzled through the trees, _Dr. Wilhelm_ shifted underneath his wool blanket enough that his eyes opened and closed slightly then startled open in fact. He had last been in the office with Brandt; the thought entered his mind. But his eyes focused on the shadowy form hovering before the chair by the door; the longer he stared, the clearer the image resembled a womanly shape with the head lowered. Is she sleeping? He recognized her before finding his voice.

"M-Mrs. Collingsworth?? What hap-?" Surely, under unclear motives, he dreamt her into his bedroom.

"Doctor Somers! Doctor Somers!" Brandt startled in the chair then fumbled and ignited the match by striking the back of the chair and lighting the lamp. Before speaking, she retrieved and slid the chair bedside.

"Doctor...," her tone, he noted, resounded as one of hesitance and consequence, "I'm sorry to say, but you suffered a terrible tremor, I'm afraid," she stared and awaited his instructions.

At the news, he quickly shuffled into a sitting position and assaulted her with professional questions designed for identifying distinct behavior and symptoms. She replied alarmingly in recognition and agreement of the queries that detailed her care of him (wiping saliva from his outer jaw and placing a towel between his inner cheek and tongue that he not swallow it). Yet, the doctor's eyes withdrew from her physical and visual presence; and at the extremity of his consciousness, her voice faded completely, replaced by visions of his wife living alone, saddened, and husbandless with the children they desired.

Vastly, there lived within his person a stain of doubt, an abeyance of an incipient entity born by the probable lurking of human error, whether Brandt misdiagnosed or not. No matter, as the pestilence, cannibalism, suffering, and uncertainty, exorcised from him her infallibilities and exposed a reluctant truth on which they must act. The antidote!

*****

At the Perkins Farm the next morn, the Doctor, and Assistant have found the appointments convenient for vaccinations and antidote trials. Widowed, though not by death, Mrs. Perkins and two others as herself, Mrs. Henry and Mrs. Ginny, shared life on the farm. A godly and proper commune ordained by the local dominions.

Throughout the morning, _Dr. Wilhelm_ privately inquired of the contented air about Brandt, and she his pensive mood.

Before breakfast, Brandt and _Dr. Wilhelm_ initially administered Mrs. Perkins and Anna, her infant daughter. Little Anna had endured having both nostrils pinched closed by giant fingers and the lower jaw held shut by her mother, lest she spit out the concoction. Meanwhile, her mother spoke of how the babe shook violently the previous night, enough that her breathing faltered briefly.

Shortly after the application of antidote, breakfast would have been served and tea consumed at a fairly leisurely pace; then the noisy cadence of booted feet crushing leaves and gravel rushed upon them. Scant warning to the following brutality of which executed incessantly of pace and fury.

Against the counter, the door swung and slammed! And in no particular order, three armed men carrying clubs intended on entering. To the shocked group, the first man, Mr. Perkins, void of emotion, drew high his club (Two in our group reacted defensively). _Dr. Wilhelm_ threw himself under the descending projectile, while the right arm of Mrs. Perkins raised and prepared for contact. A shriek flew from her mouth! (Anna in her left arm and lap). _Dr. Wilhelm_ received half the full blow by thrusting his left hand into the torso of the attacker, pushing him back slightly. Still, the club prevailed and bludgeoned the doctor unconscious. He then slumped to the floor.

Mr. Ginny stepped past and left of Mr. Perkins; in response and startled by the harsh reality, Mrs. Henry rose and thrust her right hand directly into the path of the club aimed at the back of Mrs. Perkins' head. (Brandt lunged for the hot teapot positioned at the center of the table) The wood club contacted the bony wrist and a portion of the forearm of Mrs. Henry; and did in fact slow the club speed. However, Mrs. Perkins' head fell quickly forward from the force than back, finally tilting left as if the neck had broken. Thus, her left arm fell limply down and away from Anna's head. Mrs. Ginny screamed! And at the advance of Mr. Ginny, pulled the bread knife from the bread loaf.

A shriek roared from the throat of Mr. Perkins, as Brandt had layered his face with hot water from the pot. He staggered back, bumping Mr. Henry; the noise paused Mr. Ginny's advance which allowed rescue of Anne by Mrs. Henry. As Mr. Perkins fell upon his back, Brandt retrieved his club and powered it at the inattentive Mr. Henry advancing on Mrs. Perkins. Mr. Ginny's warning merely turned the head of Mr. Henry in a favorable position- the blow cuffed the frontal lobe fully. (His club loosed from his grip) The second strike, while he stumbled back, drove him to the floor. Meanwhile, Mrs. Ginny had 'position' between Mrs. Perkins and Mr. Ginny; the knife pointing threateningly. Feeling outnumbered, Mr. Ginny ran left into the hallway through the living room and out the front door. Running behind him, Brandt yelled wildly and threateningly.

After returning to the kitchen, Brandt explained to the stunned ladies that Mrs. Perkins and Anna had been potential food sources. Thereafter, Mr. Perkins had been bound and his tender, loose skin administered with palm oil, and Mr. Henry merely bound.

Quickly, the hours had passed before _Dr. Wilhelm_ regained partial consciousness. He had been dragged by the shoulders onto the living-room rug, and Mrs. Perkins had been guided between the arms of Mrs. Ginny and Mrs. Henry. Without speaking as such, Brandt, in an instant had inherited _Dr. Wilhelm's_ position and though abstaining from pomp and embellishment, injected vaccine into his veins, as a precaution.

Disturbing behavior, indeed; and had Dr. Henrietta Murray analyzed Brandt, she would have been concerned about treatment used in the care of _Dr. Wilhelm_. Chillingly and consequently, Dr. Murray would have noted the patient's disadvantage, as guilts and torments of an alter-ego guided a series of unnecessary doses; to the point that _Dr. Wilhelm_ , though again, partially conscious, verbally protested through garbled and slurred speech before falling silent. Dr. Murray would have heard confessions of addictive behavior as Brandt, herself, consumed vaccine in silencing voices that incessantly whispered, "I killed my beloved, Jameson...I beg of you my lord...do not forsake me, and in your mercy, unburden this guilt and shame. I pray to thee, hear my words and have mercy upon my blackened soul...I killed my beloved...,"

*****

In the days and weeks that followed, Mrs. Perkins and little Anna had regressed and required less and less antidote. Consequently, Brandt, the benefactor of the said antidote, recovered to her true self. At the miracle, acknowledge by Mrs. O'Broin and others, respected and distinguished men of science, church, and medicine had been summoned and conducted further research directly from Old Warrens Town. Studies performed in the actual office where Dr. Somers, his assistant, Mrs. Collingsworth, and later, _Dr. Wilhelm_ had toiled under the Physicians Oath of Medicine. Finally, interviews had been conducted, stories and experiences printed and exposed to the region and European nation.

At the kitchen table, tea seeped, wood crackled and popped inside the iron stove, and steam rose from the pot of soup hung in the fireplace. All preparations and ambiance for a breakfast of vegetable soup and bread; the mandatory diet of Europe.

And again, Brandt would ask, and Mrs. O'Broin would avoid divulging the occurrence and circumstances surrounding the death of _Dr. Wilhelm_.

"Pricilla, forgive me, I don't understand what you and the others have been saying- _Dr. Wilhelm_ and I formulated a vaccine? A woman psychiatrist- Dr. Murray? There is no such thing! Nor do I recall writing her name in the ledger. And I know every soul in town. So, you'll forgive me- but I feel you're not telling me something. Aye!? Because how the bloody hell can a man die and I have no memory of it!?! I suffered a tremor. Is that it!?! My god, th-that's the first sign of infection! We knew that. So where are those records? Where!?!" Rhetorically and complete of being, Brandt anguished as though socially forlorn.

Mrs. O'Broin embodied the rising contradiction, 'I'll help ye with her.' At the bitter efficacy of shame, she recalled the promise to _Dr. Wilhelm_. And truth hung on her lips, as Brandt's eyes stared briefly into hers then passed the shoulder of Mrs. O'Broin. The skin between the brow of Brandt tightened and her eyes twitched searchingly to and fro.

"I can't help ye with that lass. So calm ye-self. I've told ye time and again, 'is misses took 'im home. The Lord sent 'im to us, and like Angels of Mercy, Dr. Somers, ye, and 'im saved us. But the pestilence took 'im and 'es home with the Lord, and that's all, lass. And we'll be fine." Her denial of full disclosure carried its spiritual punishment and burden, yet morally important, she realized the truthful alternative that Brandt's unfaithful, guilty, and shameful subconscious-state and soul would torture and slowly condemn her to an asylum.

Brandt wasn't listening, "and I said, "'Trust', my dear doctor, has grieved me so...for I have lost my...my husband to this devil's work.' Yes! That's what I said." Deeply, a frown shaped by confusion penetrated her face. "And, And, 'Be back before supper, Doctor.' But he came back, right? But, but...why can't I bloody remember anything after that? Why?!" The teacup and saucer, once close to her lips, lowered slowly and rattled. 'If I'm truly ill...you'd tell me, wouldn't you?' the thought rose subconsciously.

Perhaps under psychiatric inducement, or better not, the subconscious alter-ego of Brandt would 'open' to suggestions and become conscious of seducing the trust of _Dr. Wilhelm._ Thereby, he accepted unequivocally and believed he had suffered a tremor when he had not. Egregiously, unbeknownst to _Mrs. Wilhelm_ , her curses of loneliness, tears, and prayers for justice have been avenged by the storied acts of the Devil; those of sinfulness, cruelness, guilt, shame, and mental illness that haunt Brandt's days endlessly.

On one of those days, _Mrs. Wilhelm_ had arrived, her face covered by a black veil, feet by black boots, hands by black gloves, and a darkened future. Upon meeting the assistant mentioned in the letter, Brandt Collingsworth, (and Mrs. Pricilla O'Broin) she thanked them for caring and blessing her husband before leaving with the body of _Dr. Peter Wilhelm_ , the National Figure of Medicine and postmortem recipient. As vague comfort, she cherished his last words, "Don't be so glum, my darling. I'll not be long. You've married a great man of medicine, a scholar. Ha! Ha! And when I return, the world will know of me...the National Figure of Medicine, who helped theorize, document and refine the formula that would eliminate the Parasite from Old Warrens Town, Great Britannia and throughout Europe!" _Mrs. Wilhelm_ chuffed from the eerie premonition.

Mrs. O'Broin recalled a prediction by good friend Dr. Somers, "Effects of the Parasite will remain dormant for years and express themselves in various unknown physical and mental behaviors." As well she recalled the doctors and scientist's public declarations: ["By the hard work, dedication, and sacrifice of Dr. David Somers and _Dr. Peter Wilhelm_ , the future is no longer black though we are uncertain when full eradication is at hand."]

###

Back to top

ANGELED

Preachers and Nuns of Dominion had originally founded the orphanages of Orthodox England, safe-havens of which rescued discarded and wayward children from homelessness and starvation. Their fate and sanity in the world, after WWII, blessed by scripture and the belief in the Almighty.

Egotistically, for a man of my profession, accomplishing that which my colleagues could not had 'spirited' my steps. Autumn had come early and beneath the shadows of the centennial oaks of Somerset Forest, I had walked generously along the footpath to my destination, single suitcase in-tow.

Initially and suspect to rumor, the four-winged dormitory appeared architecturally mesmerizing and unusually constructed for its time; the two rounded, black-stone chimneys protruding from the roof assured me of the might of cold nights; hundreds of blackened windows outnumbered the clear, dangling side panels revealed a dark inner skeleton, and from between the ceiling of the cellar and main-floor foundation, local water vines sprouted.

Vacant of tranquility had colleagues so named the House of Orphans, where I had sojourned as directed and forthwith acquainted myself with Headmistress Billingsworth, the patient. At the entrance, candle in hand, she whispered, "All God's children are welcome in His house for their protection and nourishment of their souls. Amen," and while inviting me inside, I introduced myself as the Building Inspector.

Under candlelight, in the vestibule, she faintly resembled Queen Victoria: pale by shunning sunlight, red-brown hair (baroque style) poking from under the whimple below the ears, pinkish hue about the nose and cheeks, eyes wide apart, high, scarce brows, and mini, child lips. And her figure, judged by her lack of winter fat about the neck, perhaps frail and hidden under a black, vested robe.

Walking through the vestibule, as if characteristic of tombs, the air- a natural living entity- had been scented by the sperm of aged wood. Entering the main-hall, I shrank in its vastness and stared curiously about. Noticeably, on the westside of the wooden cathedral, oil lamps sheened and appeared positioned at safety junctures along the railing support-posts from the base-floor to the third tier, the eastside remained shadowed. Beside me, she placed the snuffed-out candle upon a stand positioned inside the vestibule doorway. Both hands then disappeared inside her sleeves; and with hardly a ruffle of the robe, she moved ghostly ahead. "The kitchen is there...," After turning and facing me, her single-nod alluded to the hallway leading to the kitchen and cellar, "At dawn, the children have chores- everyone works for their room and boarding, Inspector." She did not mention the cellar, and I noted the 'children' remark. We then maneuvered through the medieval tables and benches arranged in the main-hall. Reaching and stepping atop the first stair of the case, she turned and faced me, again.

"King Henry _VIII...,_ " she bowed in acknowledgement of the portrait of the King hung above the vestibule, flanked top and bottom by fading Somerset regional banners embroidered in gold and scarlet trim, "if history serves me well, after declaring himself Head of the Christian Protestant Church, around 1529, he founded this great house." Without mentioning the wood rendition of Jesus pinned to the cross above the vestibule archway, she tapped her forehead, brought the fingers down to the heart, then to the right and left shoulder, and palms pressed together, lowered her chin and whispered.

Hoisting a lamp from its post near the staircase, we ascended the sagging steps to the planked flooring of the second tier; as if summoned by childhood memories and humming, her hand slid along the railing. Parading the walls, in stages of decay, oil portraits of venerable King Henry, his queens, and saints, she blessed while pointing out. On the third tier, however, I inquired stupidly about the usage of rope threaded through guide-pins fastened to the beam-truss which supported the chandelier and its multitude of candles. "Ha! Ha! You have lived a privileged life? How is one to clean and light it?" in her tone, rose a pith of suspicion of the matter. She then pointed below to the east wall, whereupon a metal box had been affixed from which protruded double crank arms. Thus, I felt exposed in realizing the redundancy of an Inspector asking rudiment inquiries. Though I tried levity, her gaze questioned me before acknowledging our adjoining rooms down the hall.

*****

As a rule, professionals avoided the inklings of friendship of which compromised judgment and treatment. With that said, dear reader, I hold license in Psychiatry that adhere duties requiring observation, analysis of the mental state, and administering therapy. Regrettably, under the terms of legality and orders from the property owner, Mr. Bromley, my profession has been kept from Headmistress Billingsworth.

Thus, that first night, I reviewed her Psycho-analysis report: [The patient's dreams had 'transformed the conscious state negatively', claims of 'foreseeing' or the act of becoming an external participant (the physician) of the dreams of Mistress Billingsworth. Or simply, fulfilling (like destiny) the dreamer's subconscious dream reality]. Quite understandably, my colleagues have not approved the theories existence in the natural or spiritual world, and rightly such supernatural events have been unprovable in this reality of which could only occur (theoretically) in the most delusional mind through hallucinations.

Before long, I slumbered at the desk and awakened in the dark, as the candle had drowned out. Initially, methought the Mistress had coughed but quickly recognized the sickly lurches of retching from throaty, heaving expulsions of air snapping and releasing via her throat. Pressing my ear against the wall, I shamefully listened. In doing so, my imagination turned as gruesome and repulsed; I then fought my own quivering constitution while rushing to the wash-pan on my desk but did not commit. I feared, the Mistress sought purification and expelled symbolically that which haunted her troubled soul. Unfortunately, the act of retching had not been previously recorded, meaning the sacrament has but recently begun. In her mind, cleansing impurities, or acts of penance, constituted servitude and a good, Catholic deed. But to whom did she confess thereafter? Two voices I heard. Indeed, at this hour, what could a lowly Inspector do and say? In light of her suspicion of me, I remained neutral.

By her morning activities chorusing through the walls, I awakened and mulled the patient's actions from the previous night which perhaps partially explained her frail and veiny physicality. At the wrapping upon my room door, she called me to order, "Inspector? We'll have a fire in the kitchen furnace, and do hurry, there's an awful chill. And don't bother, I'll wake the children." Customs of the day required the male, without cause, gather kindling for the house-fires (kitchen and main-hall).

Wrapped in sweater and scarf, I ousted from memory the sickening sounds of the previous night. Stepping from the hallway to the railing, the eastside lamps had already been set aglow. However, entering the kitchen renewed my disturbance, as the air hinted of- and the Mistress feverishly washed towels and a wash-pan in the basin, customarily a Sunday chore. Was she eliminating evidence? It appeared not, as she didn't startle at my presence and merely continued customarily. But make no mistake, any towels tainted pinkish or yellowish (in any state of drying), I shunned and left in the Devil's charge.

Oil lamps and candles glowed about the kitchen; one each burned on the cabinet-tops along the north and east walls; another aglow on a small metal table next to the iron stove (in the southeast corner), and one placed on the basin table, to its left. Lastly, in front of the open-style pantry, and right of the basin, a worn, primitive table guarded by four thickly wooded chairs.

"You need not fetch wood from the barn- plenty here, and kindling as well," she spoke without facing me and while hunched over the basin, her spinal column impressed upon the nightgown its knotted likeness; in guessing, she weighed a paltry sixty kilos; and her hair had been safely tucked underneath a bonnet. I perceived this to be her morning servant attire.

"Splendid. And the children?" said I while striding and then squatting in front of the stove.

"As I've said, busy with chores. Is there reason to doubt that here? Children must earn their keep in the world before bread is broken. In pleasing God, Mistress Dougherty had a stern voice of scripture and proper ethics. Please, the fire!" she cried while twisting the towels free of water and draping them over the basin's edge.

In the glow of the stove, we warmed and feasted on grainy porridge and single slice of bread, the ration until dinner. Thereafter, on the third-tier (girls wing), she inspected each room; first drawing open curtains and dragging fingers across window seals and floors; closets opened and viewed. I tepidly followed, exuding enough interest and professionalism in sustaining my ruse. By the second hour, we had descended to the kitchen hallway. There, my interest had risen, having heard that at the end of the east-wing, in the darkest, lowest, and cursed corner of the structure, nearest the Devil, the cool shadowy corridor led down to the pit of the stairs and entrance to the cellar.

As she neglected the cellar, I analyzed the strength of her denial. "O'! the cellar. Is there a key?"

"Of course, here on the ring," while standing in the kitchen doorway, she affirmed its hung location on the entrance-wall.

"You're not coming then?" while staring off behind me, she handed me the ring of keys. "Mistress Billingsworth? Is there something wrong?" I turned about and followed her gaze.

"No! No! Go! Go about your inspectorial business, sir. I must tend to the children and tidy up the kitchen." Though we had tidied the kitchen, I said nothing.

After visiting the cellar, I ventured outside alone, and while enduring the cool breeze which scattered leaves south to north, I took mental notes and anticipated the next step towards the patient's wellbeing- her acceptance.

On the thirtieth day of my arrival, I had been blessed into the privacy of her chamber, or better said, the altar. Such had been the arrangement. At the bed's foot, a kneeler represented steps, next to the head of the bed, atop a table shrouded in an embroidered Autom altar cloth, four golden candle holders centered Jesus on the cross; before the said cross, pine twigs and root filled a garden pot; and finally, a singular white parament, save a hand-stitched golden cross, covered and protected the bed.

Surrounded by comforts, the Mistress appeared at ease; lengthy, undone, wavy hair swung down her back, whimple and robe draped the body mannequin positioned underneath the window, although protectively, a silver crucifix remained baptized about her pale neck. At the sight, I roved my eyes discretely over her exposed skin, seeking markings that proved my assumptions of self-mutilation but found nothing.

"Inspector? Is it?" her tone addressed me as doubtful. "Mr. Bromley is a heartless businessman, who will not face me directly. But you are in my home, and I must trust you. So, please, open your heart and tell me, are you here as the others have been? To oust me and the children from our home?" Why had my colleagues not acted upon the obvious need of trust?

"Oust you? Hardly. But I desire to trust you as well. True, Mr. Bromley sent me with legal rights (At that moment, I disregarded professional protocol and planned tactics), but I've come with intentions of first helping secure a place of residency for you (I hesitated enforcing her delusions) and the children."

"Do not mock me, Inspector! I've heard all the rhetoric! By right, this is our home! And only God can remove us."

"Dear Mistress, I have no personal gain in- well, we understand the legalities. But I've sought you out...," Hence applied, I bestowed upon the Mistress a sense of responsibility for another. Immediately, she would inquire as to what purpose.

"Sought me out? Whatever for? I owe you no favor." Cautiously, yet curiously, she replied.

"I've had horrid dreams of late, and it's been written you've some experience with nightmarish dreams...regarding Olivia." Her eyes flashed, and behind them, historical struggles and woe. "I don't wish knowing your personal affairs, but trustingly, we can help each other, as neighbors."

"I am not a specimen to be poked about as you wish, Inspector. But you see, look! (she pointed to the bed, candles, and Jesus) I've grown unaccustomed to charity for want of nothing; however, I believe God works in mysterious ways by sending angels as He sees fit- so I will be obedient unto His messenger. And I trust you'll prove yourself, or the Devil will take you." From then on, we shared morning-prayer at the foot of her bed and daily activities.

Finally, in viewing her full environment and living conditions, though sustainable, it occurred most urgently that communing brotherly with this particular patient (not remote and analytical) would be beneficial to all.

Henceforth, over tea that morning, we confided our dreams (out of irrelevance, mine shall remain private); she recounted that recently a presence (she didn't say Olivia) lurked in her peripheral and offered that which had been condemned and denied. God had sent her a 'sign', I suggested. Though predictably of patients, she unequivocally rejected the possibility which implied failure in recognizing God's presence.

Naturally, she questioned my authority concerning 'signs' from God. Thereof, broadened into one's beliefs and past circumstances of which become personal; therefore, a neutral reply would suffice. "As you know, based on one's past and present sins, God knows what to materialize before those in need of penance- to a fool, a teacher, to the thief, respect." But to the matter of her past behavior, I judged her not and said nothing of previous analysis written to the contrary; though I stated purposely, "The mistreatment of others was unholy and contradictory to scripture- such willfulness signified venial sin, separation of mind and church, selfish indulgence and consequently required repentance through penance." Fervently, and well versed, she spun scripture like a seamstress, exposing and condemning virtues and false morality, debating and contradicting my facts in the form of scripture and citing the proverbial-necessity of discipline before obedience.

Thus, I've learned when to be the student and listen; and patiently, one finds that progress arises. Hence after four o'clock tea in the garden, and without provocation, she mentioned Allison. Interesting! For there had been no prior mention of that name in my notes. In the same breath, she scorned Olivia (Finally! the one with 'strange markings' on her upper back). Though risking her withdrawal at the query, I asked for the whereabouts of Olivia. Abruptly, the Mistress stood and picked up the tray of wares, and while gazing down at me, spoke quite calmly, "Strange, that since your arrival, perhaps indeed a gift, I've been at peace- your company has pleased me, but I must beseech of you to have faith and be forewarned that I am not myself in her presence."

After potato soup and bread, we departed the tidy kitchen and snuffed out the east and westside lamps before retiring to our rooms. Night had fully committed, frosting the windows and creeping coolness through the flooring and walls. Updating my notes became secondary to anticipation. My pacing had ceased, and from atop the bed, I listened to the silence in the chamber of the Mistress before dozing off.

In being awakened by something, I contemplated- had that noise been the- the Mistress! The Cellar! Am I too late?! Leaving the bed, I lit the lamp and fled the room, hoping the experience had not passed. Nearing and guided by her voice, as not to disturb or awaken her, I slid my socked feet and halted in the kitchen hallway entrance. Is it so!? A true but rare psycho-dream hallucination executed before me!? There! At the head of the steps, stood the Mistress, silhouetted by sheening candlelight (candle at her feet). I then snuffed-out my lamp and lurked.

Heatedly, she cried, "Well!?! Speak!" Then absurdly, her womanly voice regressed to that of a mocking child, "Ha! Ha! Ye of little faith, Patience (her given name). Do you not see? your god has abandoned your soul? Your requital unto me! But fear not and weep no more- cometh unto me and be freed of your toil," she held out an 'offering' hand, as her eyes bored down at the door like a King presiding over peasants. "No? Then disobey if you will, girl, but listen well!" eyelids fully agape, her mature voice returned, "This godly house requires our obedience, and I shall have it! Now give me your hand!" Quickly, I assessed that the Mistress subconsciously struggling, but from what anxiety would be later ascertained. She then commanded in full voice, "You will abide by me and the House Rules!!" the Mistress stiffened (imaginary ruler in her right hand) and swung downward twice through the air. Based on records, as a child first brought to the orphanage, the Mistress would have been under the rigid rule of Headmistress Dougherty and suffered thusly.

Turning in my direction, the Mistress startled but could not have seen me, however, her retreat (a few paces) snuffed out the candle's wick, setting her in darkness. "O'! Headmistress Dougherty! I'm sorry to be out of my room and bed! Please, Mistress Dougherty! Have pity! I'm lost and must get back home! Please, don't punish me." She proclaimed, as I mentally noted the 'home' reference. Admittedly and unexpectedly, her shaking, withering voice, hinting of hysterics, struck me frightfully. Then whispering, she spoke of collecting the matches from her robe pocket.

Led by renewed candlelight, she walked slowly and mumbled of things that escaped me- my mind concerned with being discovered. As I stepped back, the Mistress stopped in the hallway entrance where I had stood. From there, she waved the candle left then right, and the glow clearly exposed me. I had prepared and almost spoke, but her hypnotic gaze, professionally familiar, passed through me. She then moved on, and I sighed and recalled records that implied the 'Mistress often fled an unknown nemesis' which could have been Mistress Dougherty? Perhaps in startling, she indicated this fact, and a coming and expanding experience.

Smashing! Brilliant! These words still didn't capture my excitement, and as consequence, I filled several pages of notes before retiring due to candle conservation.

*****

At her word, I entered the next morning. Sleepily in her chamber, the Mistress sat, legs hung over the edge of the bed; and while appearing uneasy, lowered and tucked her feet into slippers. All the while, I stared and hoped she would acknowledge the previous night's activity, but she did not. Instead, she invited me for prayer as usual.

Thereafter, our morning routines had been satisfied: checking rooms, opening windows, and lighting lamps. Then naturally, we settled in the kitchen and warmed ourselves by the stove's fury and sipped tea before breakfast. At the table, after her first sip, she recounted dreams, "By His grace, I am blessed and have risen again, and thus the opportunity to share this moment. Now, friend, let me tell you...," I listened carefully and debated if telling her of my experience would alter future results; and admittedly, I had grown unsure of the proceedings.

But the dream sounded familiar, "on the cellar floor, I laid in solitude and felt observed by an unrealized presence of which offered 'truth' from vague fringes of my imagination. Typical of dreams, I had moved- no! was carried! Yes, I was carried to my chamber, where within, my arms had been bound to my sides while the voice of an angel whispered, and evil craved and devoured my soul." To this, I posed the question as counsel.

"And why does it desire your soul?" I measured the sensitivity and progress of the matter.

"That is between myself and God."

Ordinarily, the day waned into dusk, and it appeared intentional that the Mistress shunned Olivia. Thus, while standing in her doorway before my bath (forgive me, dear reader, you've yet heard, the bathroom resides opposite the kitchen); at the mention of the observation, the Mistress stopped brushing her hair and turned to me.

"Tell me, did she appear last night? It is most important to me- the children are not worldly enough to help, and the impure ones who've come, were untrustworthy, but I believe in you."

"And I you, Patience...," I said as proof.

"O'! Indeed! she has! Of all things holy- no one alive knows of that name. Patience was the given name of my grandmother. O' do go on."

"You dreamt and were afoot and had quite a dialog with Olivia at the head of the cellar steps. If I may, who is she?"

"When I was a child here, she came into being after my uncle relieved the family of me and left me in the care of Mistress Dougherty. Here in the orphanage, where God was to protect me and save my soul...," her tone grew dark and foreboding, and I disregarded the 'into being' remark. Yet, she alarmed me- queries regarding Olivia had never been freely communicated and recorded. 'Trust' indeed had been established, and a breakthrough. I quickly continued.

"Where is she now?" I inquired, then she grew contemplative.

"It's late, Inspector. Go and have your bath and sleep well," passively, the brush renewed grooming again.

"Good night, then." As I walked, it occurred that the Mistress behaved quite normal during the day and melancholy, shall we say, at nightfall. It stands reasonable, while disposed of chores and study by day, many orphans, in the spring of youth, worried and cultivated fears without worldly exposure to guidance or simple contradiction.

For a brief moment, therapy abated at the anticipation of a hot bath; and soon my toes would breach the watery surface. From the entrance, a metal tub lined of porcelain positioned at the right wall (I recalled seeing pipes outside that disappeared under the building-foundation and then understood the plumbing architecture and why the kitchen and bath shared a mutual wall. What peculiar thoughts we have throughout the day). The furnishings had once been of noble quality: two steaming steel buckets atop an iron wood-fed furnace in the corner; in front of a vanity basin, a single dark stool in round-seat design; on top of the basin sat leather gloves for withstanding the hot bucket handles; across the room from the tub and mounted, a hand-carved wood towel-rack further impaled (equally apart) by four metal hooks whereupon my towel and nightgown hung.

Submerged to mid-chest, I soaked until necessity required another bucket of hot water of which steamed anew and held the chill at bay. I had just placed the glove atop the basin and gingerly submerged my buttocks, when the sound of the door- I splashed forward and covered my privates! as the Mistress nervously stepped several paces into the room then returned to the door.

"Mistress, please! I'm not descent." Her attention had been elsewhere.

"Did you hear it? She calls to me, forever calling," she stared between me and the cellar. "She mustn't get out! Come quickly, Inspector! We can stop her at the steps!" Her roving eyes and stern, quipping voice vanquished any doubt of the seriousness and validity of the statement. She then vanished from view.

"Mistress Billingsworth! Wait! I mean no! I'll meet you there." Quickly, I stood, hoping she didn't return before gently maneuvering across the cold bricks and gowning myself; then slippering my feet before abandoning the room. Soon abreast of the patient, I reassured her of the progress made (in reference to the cellar's symbolism); but overcome by hallucinations, she heard me not.

At the head of the steps, stood the Mistress, "You see, Olivia is possessed! No one hears it, but she mocks me relentlessly- wanting that I commit acts of mutilation! No! It is not God's way- to scar His flesh. But for so long, she hath dogged me, and when I could bare it no longer, I cast her out and locked her away! I should not have; I know that now. Have you heard her? Always whispering the same cant, "Come unto my covenant, walk beside me and embrace yourself and forsake me not, Allison." Why did she not say Patience? She continued coldly, "Who was she in reckoning unto me 'deliverance?'" she mocked the self-projected suggestion. "My soul is a servitude of truth," her chin rose proudly, "and that truth is His word. I need no deliverance girl! Nor penance!"

In my need for progress, I had said, "Mis-! Allison, please follow me." At that moment, Allison had still been a mystery, however, the name did affect the Mistress.

"I'm not an angel, mother is." To this whispered statement, I withhold theory.

"Then have faith in me and come see for yourself. We shall face and defeat Olivia together." In her delusional state, it is quite possible that I perhaps represented Allison. I then dared and clasped her hand; we descended by dim candlelight to the bottom of the steps, and without pause, I reached for the handle.

"No! No! Don't open it! Mistress Dougherty will hear us. No! No! No!" she coward back and looked to the head of the steps but did not retreat.

"It is not the door we are concerned with, and Mistress Dougherty is but a memory, right? Our faith is strong. Look there, no key in the lock. That means nothing need be kept locked away or feared."

"Careful! my angel, for she is devious and cunning to mortals. Careful."

I submit the following accounts, Mr. Bromley, to your intellectual prowess and investigation.

With the lamp held forth, I confidently entered, while the Mistress squatted childlike in the entrance and whispered prayer. In keeping the Mistress calm, I strode to the far wall, turned 'round and stood under the two cellar windows, tinted bluish by moonlight. At the extremity of lamplight, the cellar appeared empty, save the outline of water barrels to my left, aged wood stock, linen closet, old toy chest (I guessed), and impenetrable darkness.

"You see? Nothing! Nothing but darkness, dust, and memories no doubt. Can you tell me-"

"It is the room for the disobedient- should I displease Mistress Dougherty, it would please me to be forgiven- suffer! Yes, I deserved punishment, for Jesus hath suffered for all our sins and sacrificed himself for us! It's alright, don't cry, don't cry Patience. It's not too cold this night."

In my impatience, I then acted in grave error and judgment. Stepping quickly a few paces, I set down the lamp and advanced on the Mistress, pulling her erect before clasping my arm about her shoulders and coaxing her rather sternly inside and closing the door quickly.

She cried, "No! No! Let me out! You fool! She'll be upon us!" she struggled in my arms, eyes wide and flashing about; she then stiffened and listened, looking over my shoulder. "She knows I'm here!"

"Mistress! There is no one in here, but us! Now, calm yourself. And listen to-" Then distantly, an unfamiliar noise approached, while the Mistress breathed rapidly and pleaded for release before fainting. I lowered her to the floor and squinted about. Feeling guilty for excessive therapy, I surmised that leaving the lamp where it laid had little effect in the immediate before carrying the Mistress from the cellar.

As we ascended and reached the top step, the lamp positioned there had drowned out. But God as my witness, behind me, the unimaginable lived- something of considerable size and leather-skinned stirred rhythmically over the stone floor. However, I rationed, "This is but the mind's illusions! trickery! Nothing more." Consequently, logic warned of a possible intruder.

Urged by her growing weight, I intensified my pace, while behind me, rose sounds of hissing, eroding hinges, and clawing against wood that indicated something bulky ascended the steps clumsily as if hampered by unfamiliar footing and its girth in the narrow stairwell.

In the sheen of the westside lamps, I passed between the tables and listened. At the initial pulse of wind upon my backside, I sensed an immensity growing behind and above us. At the base-floor steps, I turned and viewed a hollowed black and shapeless bulk dispersing air of which extinguished the lamps in great atmospheric waves of motion- a flapping.

Admittedly, unsure of my footing, I fumbled up the first-floor stairs. Reaching the second tier, the 'flapping' hovered in the open arena of the main-hall. On the third tier, my energy had been spent.

Finally, in the chamber, I laid her in bed then curiously stepped back out into the hallway. Standing at the railing, the rhythmic wind pulsed upon my person, smoothly and gently; then from the room, droned the repentant voice of the Mistress, "My Lord...give me strength...do not lead me into temptation, but deliver me from this evil...set loose your angel of mercy," Her prayer inspired, but I was fascinated- what manner of manifestation laid before me? Darkness born of blackness! What Godly-? then the door slammed shut, and I naturally startled and spun about.

I expected the door to be locked, but it yielded easily. Stepping back inside the dark chamber, and thinking myself safe, the Mistress had mistaken me for her nemesis and racked the back of my head fully with a solid object- I remember hearing the door close. In escaping, I lurched forward in stinging pain and slumped to the floor, fighting unconsciousness. Yet avoided her attempts at striking me, evident by the object whistling through the air and thudding twice near my person. Above me, she cried, "No! Nooo! I cast you out! By the divine power in me! you shan't inherit my soul! For my Angel of Mercy cometh in battle!" Semi-conscious, I opened my mouth and struggled with identifying myself.

Then abruptly and brutishly, the door swung on its hinges, thumping loudly against the wall and unleashing another series of flapping and wind; instantly, the banter-cry of the Mistress silenced mid-throat. Thereafter, her weapon hit the floor near me, followed by the dead weight of her body.

In applying effective therapy, which allowed experience of the patient's trauma, we remained in darkness.

Though physically silenced of voice, her inner workings of horror and suffrage exorcised as full- bodied convulsions that jerked the feet and trembled the flooring; I then crawled and laid parallel to her body, and as calming therapy, reached across her torso, clasped her bicep, and pressed her to me protectively. As she laid motionless, I whispered and calmed her. In that dreadful silence, winds ceased, followed by the light 'landing of feet' on wood. I strained unsuccessfully but could not identify that which scratched upon the floor. Redundantly, my eyes flashed wildly, as I sensed a lurking presence and pending attack. Timely, I drew a fright as something cold clasped my hand. I gasped and quickly pulled it free and felt foolish in realizing the hand of the Mistress. At least, I hoped this to be true.

Only the Lord felt my trembling and wanting of light, but I threw that from my mind and calmed myself 'Nothing is there. Nothing, lad.' Bloody hell! But still, the silence escalated the patter of feet to the left and right of me. Then resolutely, the Mistress spoke calmly as Olivia, "From your denial, thine selfishness, weakness, willfulness...and thine disobedience to Him, who disposes what man proposes...I have been 'delivered' unto thine soul...now lay low for I am reborn in thine true image...." Lastly, the patter of feet exiting the room and renewed flapping did not affirm my sanity.

After flaring and lowering a candle, I searched and returned, after wiping it clear of blood, the candle holder back abreast of the others. Tending the wound in my room, I had left the moaning and sobbing Mistress while questioning and doubting my methods; did I fail her? To improve as a professional, one judges oneself honestly, but the outcome has yet revealed itself.

The next morning, under candlelight, I struck out early and alone- what trickery? No markings on the floor or walls of the hallways leading to the cellar. Thereafter, the Mistress and I sipped our last spot-of-tea together and within the hour, I'd be off. But soon I sent for her.

Observantly and rationally, my true experience at the House of Orphans indeed would help the Mistress again embrace faith in her god. After preliminary analysis, the patient revealed a denial of God's existence. As to why, she shared while speaking in the third-person, a common denial mechanism, "Olivia came into being after the dreadful war. A man called, Uncle, kissed them on the head and uttered 'Goodbye and may God bless you, child. And may God have mercy on my soul.' Mistress Dougherty condemned the Devil's killing of their parents, thus, inherited the duty of saving their souls in Christ, but in that house, they underwent dissensions of faith. In the absence of their god, the Devil had become disguised and afflicted their bodies with tuberculosis in the air, hunger by rations, and random death. What chance had they but be consumed by his black-winged embrace? No matter from whom, an embrace is an embrace for lonely children. They prayed for Allison and God's protection and guidance! But He heard them not! Thus, if cruelty be their lives, God exists not! I shan't call it fate simply because their parents suffered miserably and died of typhoid. No! And loving relatives fearing similar fates had found institutions fair, moral, and advantageous in quelling guilt. Later, during their tenure, after many children fled the strict discipline and loneliness for industrious lives, abandonment lingered in the souls left behind, created by loved-ones claiming faith in God."

Since childhood, Mistress Billingsworth had denied the reflective truth and image of herself as Olivia, nurtured and created after family had praised and fostered faith in Him. Yet in her youthful ignorance, these beliefs stoked fear and doubt into her willing mind. Within the adult body of the Mistress, Olivia, a suppressive manifestation or hallucination, discombobulated reality and granted the illusion of control. Though by the nature of the mind's suppression, Olivia lurked and rose nightly (into being) from the cellar- a physical and symbolical location that kept (locked) her away, as we've heard. O' yes, and Allison- what child doesn't dote for a mother's love and comfort? Thus, Allison clearly reflected a desirous, proper, and godly image of herself.

Please, dear reader, it is our secret- my colleagues know nothing of my hallucinations- tis what my memoirs are for. However, do I not harbor denial if hallucinating myself? Am I better than the patient merely because of analysis? Theory? Knowledge? It is but a mind. Though lest I appear delusional, 'He that walks without faith, inherits a destiny not of his choosing.' As mentioned, many believe that God has reasoned us purposeful beyond suffering, thus, in putting us together, He awakened us to the necessity of salvation.

During and after my experience with Mistress Billingsworth, I benefited, both professionally and personally by affirming the necessity of truth in all matters of human interaction. Interestingly, had my colleagues not failed, the opportunity would have eluded me. Some call it 'destiny'. However, after some study among colleagues, we theorized at length and documented as methodology; in short, [Acquiring affliction becomes possible when the process is unknown. We asked, simply, who willfully allows the Devil and conflict into their lives and souls? Thus, in observing the process of acquiring, one avoids the evil of the Devil and conflict, yet in that observance of process, one keeps the purity of the soul thereby...]

Oh! Yes! The matter of foreseeing, or the filling of destiny. Before visiting the Mistress, I had dismissed the theory entirely, however, while conversing, she assured me of its fulfillment, and by my very actions? Balderdash! I don't believe in such things! Hence, she noted, that after I had exposed my deception as an Inspector, it was I, who lurked in her peripheral that offered a 'sign' from God which referenced truth (her denial), and into her room, it was I, who carried her and then protectively pressed her to me (as a good angel) while on the floor of her chamber. But here, I plead ignorance of the charges, for I do not recall, thus, whispering into her ear, "From the darkness to the light, you shall rise, for God hath destined me unto thy service- an Angel of Mercy that whilst smite the Devil from your troubled soul for our salvation...," True, these very dreams she recounted over tea, and I could not help but be impressed and a bit unsettled. But before you ask! I agree! How did she know of my coming actions without the ability to foresee? From a delusional mind no less. Then I must ask, who then was the patient and who the healer? It appears that wisdom is both teacher and student.

In closing, to Mr. Bromley, and proprietor of the House of Orphans, I profess the final tenant, Headmistress Billingsworth, has been reaffirmed new residency for her soul.

###

### LUDWIG PLATZ REUNION

West of _Steinberg 32K_ , tourists enjoyed the tranquility of _Ludwig_ _Stadt_ _Platz_ , a little-known town and discovered destination. Welcome! Make memories here! _Und Aufwiedersehen!_

Post Trauma

From the trolley, Malcolm and wife, _Dagmar_ , strolled and hid underneath their umbrella from the accompanying rain before stepping inside the dry office of _Dr._ _Trina Kuntz_ , Malcolm's Psychiatric Therapist. Her 'practice' treats and educates patients and caregivers about war veterans suffering from Post-Traumatic Disorders. From 1912 thru 1945, the condition had been termed Casual Will Therapy, whereby, the health of the soldier, stimulated by psychological exercises and painful treatment, left many young men preferring front-line duty, and, consequently, they had been considered cured.

While the psychiatric community grappled with crude and ineffective definitions, Field Commanders had recast individual soldiers as failures lacking willpower, and, thereby, had been falsely and unfairly viewed as cowardice and unpatriotic.

Today in 1960, men like Malcolm undergo years of unbiased psychiatric therapy that normalized living, and more importantly, in public where circumstance allowed little advantage of control, unlike the home environment. The final phase for Malcolm: controlling episodes characterized by combat memories which associate with the psychological victimization of war. As encouragement, he and _Dagmar_ conquered the initial and stressful Trauma Phase.

June 2nd

As the day approaches, Malcolm has slept less, the by-product of a busy mind occupied by 'what ifs' and 'maybes' which sparingly annoyed _Dagmar_ ; and perhaps why she slept soundly, as an escape. Though in feeling his excitement and apprehension, she has cautiously kept him grounded with a wife's poise:

"Don't open your heart too high of expectation, baby. I don't want to see you scared.' She had a point, of course, and understood him and his condition, which of late has been positive. "This may be your first and last chance, and there's no harm in spending an extra day sightseeing in _Ludwig_ _Stadt_ ," she said rationally.

Enthusiastically, Malcolm has hoped the unknown soldiers have thought likewise of the Reunion, as he's endeared himself with socially impacting their lives. Though _Dagmar_ has cautioned:

"Baby, remember, they might still carry a prejudice against the allies or simply have forgotten you." She spoke truthfully and wisely which slowed his enthusiasm, a bit.

Thus, periodically, Malcolm has thought she would rather he didn't leave, not in terms of separation, but as a wife's keen awareness of pain, disappointment, and a haunting fear of an episode occurring without her.

However, she spoke the truth; dead or living, the unknown soldiers have lived or live blessed and grateful lives. Thanks to him. But had there been three or four? And nor could he recall the date of the Reunion: June 4th, 5th, or 6th? Understandably, fifteen years had passed, and as compensation, he'll depart alone a day early.

June 3rd

Single-file, we encroached the doorways and windows were shunned; we moved with the 'eagerness of doubt' into quieted dwellings, bakeries, apartments, and the boutiques of Ludwig, we crept with omnipresence over tokens, memories, literature–Tat! Tat! Tat! That cat died quickly and ugly; but by God, we're still alive consumed by death's stench and its stained aftermath– "all clear."

'How long was I flashing back? I hope coming alone was a good idea.' Malcolm desired _Dagmar's_ company although 'therapy' justified the separation.

11:03 am. Birds flap and flutter from perch to perch and limb to limb. On the _platz_ floor, townsmen crisscross with shopping baskets topped with bread, Swiss cheese balls, and egg cartons; others guide carriages and chat, while noisy children frolic around the brick water fountain centered in the _platz_.

Covered in shade, Malcolm, the black man sitting on a bench, is accompanied by curious stares from apartment windows and shop doorways. Children point and ask questions the adults find intrusive. Yet, curiously, what appears as a cardboard sign, leans against the bench though unreadable from across the _platz_. As trained in easing anxiety from horrid flashback visions, Malcolm mindfully performed self-talk: the act of referring to oneself in the second-person which redirects visions and harsh association away from the ego and self. Thereafter, he stood and visually searches the cobblestone court of the _platz_.

Wrong _Platz_!

1:01 pm. At the center of the _platz_ , a traditional red-stone fountain set in a 'flooring of brick' expanded to the fringe of the _platz_.

The Clan, as they call themselves, arrived in _Ludwig_ _Stadt_ the day after Malcolm and later that afternoon at the _Ludwig_ _Bernt_ _Platz_. Preparations and travel had been long: two hours assembling everyone, the thirty-minute drive to the inner city _Parkhaus_ , fifteen minutes by trolley, four hours by train, and seven years of planning. Though after the war and the years passed, the couples married and bore children before the women seriously pestered their men about the reality of the Reunion. As advised by their therapists, 'associated trauma contact', however trivial, helps the men's condition. Though doubtfully, the men would surmise, He was an American living in the United States and has forgotten about them and his act was born of 'American arrogance.' Naturally, hearing 'male' nonsense, the women have persisted by acknowledging the therapeutic benefits, and the need, as a family, of understanding their history and legacy. As these truths have resonated, subtle changes had emerged among the men, the nucleus of their families. Simply, as their wives reminded, the Reunion stands unique as the last chance for the men to 'thank' the mysterious man.

After the lengthy travel, the hotel staff relieves the Clan of baggage at check-in. Shortly after, in the _Biergarten_ , tables have been arranged to accommodate their numbers; eleven family and friends.

Sitting at the table and present, male twins and their wives; _Helmut_ and _Birgette_ have two adolescent boys, and his brother, _Wilhelm_ and _Pauline_ have two adolescent boys. _Karl_ _Obermeyer_ , the oldest by three years, married _Ilka_ and have an adolescent daughter.

Worrisome for the wives, their veteran husbands suffer from episodes; symptoms once assumed as lacking discipline or cowardice. Contrarily, these honorable men exhibit psycho-traumatic triggers or episodes associated with wartime victimization. Understandably, the symptoms enhance when the men assemble, and, therein, when provoked, they fiercely protect family and victims with sacrificial ferocity.

Orders have been placed and the food arrives timely. To their enjoyment, the men feast on paprika schnitzel, and their wives sip _Apfelschole_ ; a _spritz_ of apple juice and wine complementing the white asparagus sauerkraut with hollandaise and toasted pumpernickel breadcrumbs.

After the Clan belched free of dinner and paid the check, the pace quickens with the anticipation of searching for someone. As agreed, they have formed two groups; the men and women will 'keep watch' over the main _platz_ , while the teens scour the park's wide perimeter. As youthful men before the war, searching for foreigners tempted violence, as propaganda disturbed their social consciousness and isolated worldview. Unaware of that past, the teens ask, 'How will we recognize the black man from others and he us?' The women will manage that later.

Under the tempered sun and eased tension, the females perch on the benches like a gaggle of geese. Sitting coupled, _Birgette_ listens as _Pauline_ reads aloud from the _Bernt_ Visitor Guide.

"Shit!" _Pauline_ spat playfully while reading the town guide.

"What?" _Birgette_ asked while rising to her feet.

"Right _platz_ , but the wrong name. Listen." She tapped the page with her finger then read aloud how 'city planning' had relocated the original _Ludwig_ _Platz_ and renamed it the _Ludwig_ _Bernt_ _Platz_ in 1950. This one! The relocated _Ludwig_ _Platz_ is an hour away by train. Though the 'relocation' had been known, the men, for 'association' reasons, visited the original _platz_ where the events transpired. They assume the same occurred to the stranger, who likely has traveled to the new location.

As the women's chatter ends, _Ilka_ utters, "What must they be thinking." _Pauline_ and _Birgette_ remained silent and watchful, as the inevitable moment consecrated the caution of a therapist's wisdom, yet triumphs in no particular order.

Standing at the rim of the fountain with their backs to the women, the men appeared pensive, gazing about thoughtfully, soaring and searching the emerging images- horrid and liberating- traversing their minds. _Karl_ points west to the apartments where nothing stood previous, then south to the bushes, believing where they ran from their captive to safety. _Dietrich_ jumps to his feet upon the rim of the fountain then faces east as if stirred by a recollection; twisting his neck left and right as if his sight penetrated the buildings. The twins stood, followed by _Karl_ , and walked forward several paced, turned and faced the fountain and walked backward as if gauging the mystery of time and place. Finally. " _Hier!_ " _Wilhelm_ said, pointing to the brick flooring, "Hier wurden wir vom Neger befreit." From the benches, the women wondered and watched their husbands staring at the ground then hugging. _Karl_ wiped tears, _Dietrich_ smiled nervously and leapt from the fountain and joined them, the twins placed their arms about the other's shoulders. (Here is where we were freed by the Negro)

Long ago, they had selfishly arranged a meeting here at the fountain, consequently, just in case, the remaining daylight had been spent searching before dinner, and a night's rest at the _Ludwig_ Hotel.

June 4th

For the adolescents – _Karline_ , _Jochen_ , _Udo_ , _Brent_ , and _Jörg_ – breakfast in the _Ludwig_ Hotel exudes excitement differently while out of the house, on the road, and searching for someone. A great vacation. Their detached and disconcerting chatter dramatizes the minor desperation: We've lost his trail. Cancel the Reunion! The town has run out of black men. Ha! Ha! Though _Karl_ fakes 'seriousness' as a ruse, he informs them of the 'importance of allegiance with people, even strangers.' His buddies grin, while the teens moan and openly roll their eyes in protest of 'spoiling their fun.' But _Karl_ , as a modest principle, denies joking when lessons can be learned. And always aware, _Ilka_ has noted the positive change in his sentiment over the years.

Midday, the Clan arrived at the _Ludwig_ _Bahnhof_ , and, thereafter, the _Ludwig_ _Gasthaus_ Hotel, located blocks from the _Ludwig_ _Platz_. Inside the lobby, the air had been flavored by toasted bread, real butter, and local coffee. At the reception desk, the group queue behind an elderly couple waiting for their receipt.

"...I don't know, I heard the ambulance came, but...," said the wife.

"If you're talking about the black man, he was taken away," replied the receptionist, as he returned from the office, appearing helpful to guests.

"Oh," she replied then turned to her husband. "He was crying before that," she said, rhetorically as if the memory has been bothersome.

Meanwhile, the conversation had been informative until the couple departed, and the Clan's attention turned to the receptionist for more information.

"Good afternoon. Did you say someone was taken away from here? We're looking for someone – a black man. I know it sounds strange." With _Wilhelm_ and _Helmut_ by his side, _Karl_ felt culturally obligated in justifying himself at the unusual request, as socially and traditionally, the inquiry of a black man in a Caucasian culture has been seldom and circumstantial.

As part of the hotel staff, the receptionist showed commitment in helping customers, 'But they don't even know his name,' he thought. Thus, hoping to avoid quoting hotel privacy policy, he said briefly and persistently, "He was taken to the hospital, and that's all I will say about this guest. Checking-in?" he smiled politely.

"But why?" _Karl_ then thought, 'So he is a guest.' His concern has surprised the others, as he was unenthused during early talks of the Reunion.

"We don't know for sure it's him," _Ilka_ said to him. "Let's check-in." Her therapeutic tone caused him to interpret, 'Things will work out and worrying prematurely won't help.' As she often said. He then drops the subject, verbally. Though before the receptionist continues, _Wilhelm_ and _Helmut_ _Zwillinge_ query about the physical condition of the man and location of the hospital. Politely, the receptionist, under force, recites 'privacy policies' regarding the guests which silenced the men.

Luggage has been tucked away in their rooms and lunch welcomed in the _Ludwig_ Hotel Restaurant. In the dining area, the 'den of chatter' still revolved around the incident. _Pauline_ , _Birgette_ , and _Ilka_ have been alerted by the frequent use of the word 'fight' and its potency of transforming the men into action. Therefore, as the waitress awaits their orders, _Pauline_ , the outspoken one, asks about an incident involving a black man, yesterday. Politely the waitress cites hotel policy. Then _Birgette_ , shy in nature, pushes _Pauline_ in asking the couple at the next table. Thereafter, they are informed that a black man fought with – they think – two young white guys at the _Ludwig_ _Platz_. To the couple, _Karl_ mentions they're looking for a comrade. In seeing his concern, the couple adds, based on the ambulance name, he has been taken to the _Ludwig_ _Stadt_ Hospital.

Purposely, _Pauline_ springs to her feet, spitting profanity and making the adolescents laugh. She suggests, if he'd been hospitalized yesterday, he'll return for check-out, but his condition determines when. Thus, she, _Wilhelm_ , and _Helmut_ march to the reception desk, while _Ilka_ has noted the 'concern' transforming the group. At the reception desk, hotel policy has been discretely amended, an appeasement for newly registered guests; thus, confirming questions concerning the man's return, and a trip to the hospital averted. But decisions must be made and visiting the hospital is not irrational. Yet separating has been declined amid the unique and exclusive trip together.

After lunch, the Clan saunters along the path which circled the park grounds and has guided them under the forest canopy; the path widened and trees receded allowing viewing of the man-made pond. Around its muddy shore, benches have been discretely distanced and positioned a footpath's width from the water's edge. At the pond's narrowest configuration (a peanut shape), a cute Japanese Garden Bridge stretched and connected the north and south banks.

Noisily, the teens eagerly approach the bridge, while their parents watch contently from the east-end benches. On the south side of the bank, seeing the _Koi_ food dispenser surprises the teens. Japanese fish! Excitedly, cups have been filled and carried to the center of the bridge in response to the decorative _Koi's_ feeding habits.

Then as if pursuing prey, three youths ascend the north end of the bridge; older, angrier, and mischievous; alerting the parents distinctly. The women appear calm, while _Karl_ leans 'forward and poised', his elbows resting on top of his knees. He squints in seeking enhancement of the inaudible voices. Observantly, _Ilka_ senses the boys have been the troublemakers, but knowing the men's volatility, she keeps quiet, and yet concerned, as the twins have ceased 'pebble tossing' into the pond and rise from the bench. The wives become aware the men are silently and tactfully communicating, therefore, distracting their attention has become routine. Yet for their efforts, the men appear distant and respond with inattentive nods and appeasing grunts.

Thinking quickly, _Pauline_ yells, "How's the fish?" In casting her voice across the pond, the youth's attention drew towards the east bank. _Karl's_ daughter, _Karline_ , waves back before they leave the bridge for the south bank. Without reaction, the three strangers stare inquisitively at the teens and their parents. And predictably for the teens, their fathers interrogate them disproportionately; What did they want? Were they drunk? Did they offer drugs? But patiently, the wives intervene with a therapist's understanding, while the boys terrorize the _Koi_ dispenser.

_Ludwig_ Hospital

Calling _Dagmar_ , Malcolm declined and, thus, felt deceitful; hearing the concern in her voice over some scrapes, he couldn't bear. And he'd never mention being unconscious. Though he's rightly skeptical of the _platz_ and Reunion. Pensively, he momentarily thought of leaving, but the face and words of _Dagmar_ resigned that thought although he wished, egotistically, he had faced only one assailant, not three.

Because of community involvement (suggested by his therapist), Malcolm and _Dagmar_ have helped the youth with alcohol and drug addictions and understanding family socialization. Therefore, Malcolm understood the attack from today's idealized and self-biased youth who had been socially fascist prone before _WWII_. Lying in bed, his thoughts pervade with the vulnerabilities of war, feeling expendable, disillusioned morally, culturally, and aghast at the mutilation and rankness of human flesh.

Suddenly, while looking around the room, he realizes the missing sign, yet still has possession of his wallet and keys. Then wisely, thoughtful of _Dagmar_ , he makes a decision.

Cessation of Episodes

Last night and before breakfast, the Clan have missed finding and contacting Malcolm. Though unknowingly, he has checked-out for safety concerns and has relocated to the Hotel _Gasthof_ , courtesy of the _Ludwig_ Hotel. In response to the distance, the teens and adults have decidedly formed two groups; however, the teens must refrain from making contact, merely observe and hope the man returns to the _Ludwig_ _Platz_.

In the trolley, the teens wonder: how many black men can there be at the hotel? How will we recognize him? He should be as old as our fathers. But how do black people age? What if we follow the wrong one? We've never even spoken with a black person.

Inside the Hotel _Gasthof_ , its early in the 'breakfast hour' when the teens stroll boldly into the lobby. Greeted by the receptionist and queried, they are surprised that non-guests have been prohibited from searching for a stranger. It appears, the teens snort, that 'guests' inspire respect. Unoffended, they giggle at being removal from the premises, then spitefully, at the hotel bus-stop, count ethnicity's– one white person, two, one Indian couple, three white...Oh! A black man. _Jochen_ remarks about the white bandage pasted over the man's cheekbone, maybe caused by the rumored fight? As he approaches and greets them, the youths, feeling culturally awkward, respond timorously while staring and suppressing laughter, as Malcolm views the bus schedule. When done, Malcolm sits on the end of the bench, then moments later, he stands quickly and starts walking down the sidewalk. Mindful of thuggish behavior, the teens allow some distance before following. Though halfway down the block, Malcolm becomes aware, 'Am I being followed?' he thought rightly of his safety.

Inside, at the kiosk, with a distracted eye on the entrance, Malcolm purchases a trolley ticket. Later, from his window-seat, while observing the shutting doors, the teens loudly rush in, seating themselves across the aisle and behind his peripheral vision. Still alarmed by the altercation, the impulses of 'confrontation' rise within Malcolm, as he stared boldly as they pass; and though their reflection in the window appears curious over threatening, he remains alert.

At the next stop, when the doors open, the teens quickly stomp out onto the _Ludwig_ platform, hurrying to somewhere. Malcolm smiles and shakes his head at himself and the awkwardness of adolescence.

For the moment, Malcolm feels unenthused about the _Ludwig_ _Platz_ and instead affords walking around the extended park grounds.

Had the Clan awakened earlier, stepped outside and strolled between the cavern of buildings scarred by history and fresh nightly dew, the echo, and reverberation of footsteps would have been a 'travel experience' inclusion and fondly retold. But after breakfast, amongst tourists and townsmen, their busyness muffles the attraction. Conversation meanders topically on the familiarity of travel, time-off from work, and unimportant personal matters. As for shopping, the women have helped the trend and conserving money have animated the men.

The adults have been told the _Alles Mögliche_ Souvenir Shop is a guest favorite; one can find _Bier Steins, Swiss Cuckoo Clocks, Bavarian Wanderstock_ _Canes_ , and more. However, before entering, the wives observe an assumed mother and daughter entering the bakery across the street; the girl carries a sizable piece of cardboard which reminds the wives of procuring one. After the fifth shop, the bored men remain outside, while the women masquerade as buyers – touching this, that, and ignoring prices.

Unforeseen, the joyous mood subsided. What did _Karline's_ youthful ears hear? The echo of a scream sends _Ilka_ and the others fleeing from the shop. As with mental disorders, the scream triggered, within their men, a psycho-traumatic episode which associated with victimization. Thus, along the sidewalk, the men rush heroically into unknown danger and the women into a fearful reality. Behind the boys, the women follow hurriedly, and behind them, the mother and daughter from the bakery.

At the fringe of the _Ludwig_ _Platz_ , the men have been obstructed by the boys, having been taught and now apply Patient Hypnosis Therapy; the practice induces the eradication of subconscious illusions and transcends that trauma into calmness.

From behind the group, the women witness the commotion across the court, but no direct harm to an innocent victim. Apparently, bystanders screamed after witnessing the new conflict; a white man faces two assailants while a third laid motionless on the ground. Then came another scream as two more assailants, dressed in black, join their buddies- four in total. As an equalizer, up the slope behind the white man, Malcolm strides- the wives recognize his familiar, traumatic behavior, as he aids a veteran comrade, as their husbands would.

Therefore, _Pauline_ , fiery-eyed, orders the boys aside while _Ilka_ and _Birgette_ show concerned in the absence of police. Nevertheless, heedless, _Pauline_ speaks earnestly and convincingly into the ears of eager and willing ex-soldiers, " _That_ is the comrade we're looking for! He needs your aid and protection!" she stimulated and ordered the men with a twinge of guilt, but a necessity.

_Ludwig_ _Platz_ , 1945; customs had been Fairy Tales, guardians of incipient, innocent souls who milled bread, rustled livestock, cradled infants, dined on truth, consumed of desire, and reckless with culture; and then heaped the world which distressed the soul and decayed the infancy of industry; the mills faltered and ceased, 'desire' a casualty, and culture run afoul. Epoch 1960, "The Battle of Episodes" ebbs with reunited guardians and souls brightly aflame by the dispatching of nightmares. And with an angel's outstretched 'wings of protection', brotherhood stands united over the fallen this day in the _Ludwig_ _Platz_.

In the receding aftermath, the police, by levying warnings, reestablish order in the _Ludwig_ _Platz_. Consequently, the groups have separated; three assailants require medical attention, while Malcolm, the lone white man, and the Clan men check themselves for abrasions.

_Dietrich_ _Meyer_ , the lone white man, appears similar in age as Malcolm, _Karl_ , _Wilhelm_ , and _Helmut_. Though characteristically, _Dietrich_ , enticed by the anxiety of battle, laughs while his concerned wife, _Karin_ , and daughter, _Silka_ , visually examine him. (The wives recognize them from the bakery.) Ignoring their questions, _Dietrich_ studies Malcolm and imagines his age progression before his attention turns to the three staring strangers. _Karl_ and the twins become aware- _Dietrich_ seems familiar before _Karl_ shouts exuberantly, " _Dietrich_ _Meyer_!?! Isn't it? From the _31st Leichte Infanterie?_ " Reflectively, _Dietrich_ laughs while staring intently at _Karl_ and the twins for recognition, as they had met briefly on June 5th and 6th,1945.

While they embrace, Malcolm recognizes and asks about the sign _Silka_ carries; such preparation would be rational and similarly he thought. At the inquiry, _Dietrich_ grins convinced that before them stands the man sought. He then asks _Silka_ for his sign, the one he had forgotten in their hotel room. Seeing the unfamiliar writing on the sign, yet recognizing the message, Malcolm's skin tingled and flushed. 'This is one of them!' he thought astounded. The sign read Treffen wir uns hier am 06-06-1960 _._ _Silka_ then steps toward Malcolm, offering him the sign she found yesterday. Earlier, she'd carried two signs into the bakery. In accepting the sign, Malcolm affirmed himself to everyone. The long moments of fifteen years are finally real. (We'll meet here on 6-6-1960)

Touched and emotionally overburdened by the social revelation, Malcolm bows his head and covers his eyes, and by drawing his fingers to the bridge of his nose, collects his streaming tears. On his shoulder, he feels a palm come to rest; clearing his vision, he shakes hands with _Karl_ then gratefully, so gratefully they embrace. The twins express themselves differently by patting Malcolm firmly, silently, and honorably on his back as a soldier and friend. _Dietrich_ , after shaking hands, unabashedly, positions his hands on the sides of Malcolm's head then kisses him on the forehead- of his manner, _Karin_ and _Silka_ seem accustomed, the teens are unsure. Then without speaking and grinning childishly, _Dietrich_ points out _Karin_ and _Silka_ ; his family and symbols of his life. Again, the staring teens misinterpret, Malcolm does not.

In the _Biergarten_ , Malcolm and his newly banded brothers cringe from retelling the events of _Ludwig_ _Platz_ : detestable, violent, depressing, horrifying, unholy, and psychologically oppressing. Despairingly, the men have dreaded the reiteration and aspire the dissipation of those memories in favor of laughing, eating, questioning, and discovering each other as men and fathers. However...

Days before September 2, 1945, the last day of _WWII_ , The Geneva Convention Rules of War appeared hypothetical, as the end of the war remained illusory. Evident by rumors: the Americans and allies have been killing 'surrendered' _German_ soldiers that believed they escaped curtain death by surrendering. While other comrades continued fighting passionately as suicide and proudly defended ground dignifiedly.

Bordered with _Ludwig_ _Stadt_ , _Steinberg_ had been overtaken by the Americans who crept west twenty kilometers into the _Ludwig_ _Stadt_ town _platz_ of which had receded of life, as nothing roused but the 'occupation of suffering'.

Across the lifeless _platz_ , young Malcolm walked skittish as a grounded bird with his M3 Submachine 'Grease gun' pointed threateningly at the backsides of four, captive _German_ soldiers. A deadened silence pervaded, save for the rhythm of boots on cobblestone and distant small-arms artillery. Unbeknownst to the four _German_ soldiers, Malcolm had excelled in speaking _German_ ; taught in high school and kept concealed, should they plot against him. Thus, he waited. But _Dagmar_ came to mind, again, the _German_ exchange student he wanted in marriage. He pondered, 'I could be killing one of her relatives and these are free men' as defined by Geneva Convention. Mindfully, Malcolm had grown empathetic, thinking innocently of returning to his life, mother, father, and _Dagmar_ living alone with their future children.

From behind, the _German_ soldiers heard, _"Halt!"_ and " _Umtrehen!"_ They stopped and turned about. Momentarily, the enemies stared rudely at the other while the silence resounded. Malcolm stood speechless, as the notion rose and he spoke, "Listen, 'What am I doing?'" he thought. "Go home!" As a form of release, Malcolm spoke English, while the wary soldiers stared confusingly and helpless to the vile assassination rumors. "Go!" Malcolm shouted while forgetting to speak _German_. "Get out of here! Now!" he waved his hand as if bothered by a fly then grew frustrated. _"Verschwinder!!"_ He shouted and hoped they ran soon, as insubordination struggled within him. Then quickly, he said doubtfully and yet desirably while pointing to the ground, "Wir treffen uns hier in funfzehn jahre als männer _! Verschwinder!" (We will meet here in fifteen years as men)_

Understandably, the _German_ soldiers despised the arrogance of the enemy playing with his power, thus, warily they watched the American, as he lowered the business-end of the M3 as a gesture. _Dietrich_ , from a different unit, risked taking a step back. Malcolm then mimicked him, as did the others who joined _Dietrich_ before reaching the _platz_ fringe. As Malcolm watched, the freed _German_ s turned and sprinted into the forest brush.

Through Malcolm, the wives and adolescents realize their fathers and husbands returned home to parents and dated, mated, married, and had children who grew and watched mother and father, love, fight, resolve, suffer, and heal through episodes. For the wives, fifteen years of ambiguous and dismissive behavior, demonstrated by their husbands, required no further explanation, and the adolescents, respectfully, have become reverent of the vile circumstances before their birth.

Though ponderously, how did the enemy, who plotted, attacked, killed, or captured, transform under the war's 'landscape of cruelty?' The whispers speak of 'godliness or transcendence.' At the query, Malcolm spoke honestly and openly of a soldier's reality: killing was dutiful and honorable, and war the weapon of the unconscious.

Yet, an intrinsic mindfulness spoke within Malcolm; beyond faith, scripture, or teachings; that which transcended as the universal connection with living things, nature, his wife, kids, and the four strangers.

The answers to man's conflicts and division, cannot, Malcolm discovered, be answered within the tomb of politics, hate, faith, fear, and prejudice. Though in the observance of that paradox of his conditioned state, Malcolm became aware of the process of the aforementioned condition, and, thereby, dissipated that conscious and subconscious conflict dividing men. In the space created, lived the light of intelligence and the love of Life he honored in _Ludwig_ _Stadt_ _Platz_.

###

Back to top

### BASTIAN WITCHES

England, er the Witchcraft Act of 1735, the Christian Dominion condemned the Pagan as vile soulless heretics of which conjured witchcraft against them! Of fables, however, they spoke little of such triviality.

Bastian Castle

Privileged suitors rode Arabian horses, while peasants trudged by callused feet, and the aristocrat rode within the confines and luxury of his labor; a carriage. However, equally, the journey from the export shores of Ghaston to the Bohrian Valley agitated the most toughened feet or bottom.

Founded by war, the land laid flatly and lushly cursed; underfoot, the sun nourished forest-scape sprouted green clovers and red-capped 'shrooms. Distantly, flushed as the horizon, a miniature of its noble stature, the Bastian Castle, greeting all manner of men and women of aristocracy.

Deeply crevassed, the Bohrian Valley, walled by heaves of black stone, earth, and firm root which strengthened and formed the mountains protecting the Bastian Castle, shyly exposed through the misty transparency of clouds. Historically, the Bastian Castle has endured four centuries of monarchy, intolerable war, family intrigue, and regional strife, yet she stands: windows scarred by mold and time, the masoned exterior over-skinned by ravaging vines and, thus, championed atop the roof, two towering chimneys reaching for the heavens.

In the solitude of the Great Hall of the Bastian Castle, Viscount Thorus represented the Common House of Law, Lord Bastian, his wife, Lady Loren, and trusted colleagues. At grave consideration, war and regional relationships; who were trusted, Christian, Pagan, and superstitious. Judiciously, Viscount Thorus notified the Bastians that should abandonment of the Bastian Castle transpire, the Common House of Law acquired ownership.

For centuries, the Bastian Castle, one of eight provincial, Christian families in control of the region, opposed war infused by myth and superstition. And hitherto, strife overtook peace as allied reformations plotted and forged united with plans which overruled the Bastian Castle and regional support. With the Bastians marginalized, the provincial families enslaved with superstition have been resolutely in favor of war. Consequently, out of options, the Bastian family reluctantly prepared.

Unceremoniously, the regional allies have been dismissed for the night, and Viscount Thorus, Lord Bastian, and Lady Loren held council. Viscount Thorus announced, as requested by Lord Bastian, the news of Madame Judiva, believed a Pagan Witch. Though against their Christian beliefs, the search for her began earnestly on the morn of March 1st, 1692.

Dreh Realität

On March 4th, 1692, the adolescent Bastian twin sisters hastened through the shadowed basement corridor, (the underbelly of the kitchen floor); the air stank of soil and foul water; overhead, the ceiling matted by cobwebs, dusty clothing draped hooks, and farm tools leaned against the stone walls. The main corridor divided into storage chambers; one in particular housed the sister's art supplies. (Rotating reality)

Through the hole in the stone wall, hidden behind an aged cabinet, the twins stepped from the brick foundation into the black tunnel – an escape route, father said. Musky the air and cool the temperature, as their lanterns illuminated the rubber tree roots which poked and hung like daggers from the earth walls, as well, animal bones and stone.

"Stop!" said Anya. "Tell me, won't you?" her tone entreated while reaching for the sleeved arm of Vyola then decidedly pinched it impatiently.

"Will there be anything else, my lady?" Vyola giggled and mimicked Jobe, the House Butler, and his patience with requests and chores.

"Curse you, Vy'," Anya laughed and followed curiously, as she knew her sister to be superbly adventurous.

Anya guessed that her sister's secrecy, in part, reflected the turmoil that surrounded the family, but she noted Vyola's positive mood, and, perhaps, as she had mentioned on February 28th, due to the Daks Fables.

_Dreh Realität_ : Scout Dak

Often, when the twins became of age and understood the aristocratic significance, their parents forewarned, 'Be warned children that magic be not of the Cristian faith but unchristian, that which angers God- lest you be a Pagan Witch, keep such wickedness from your soul.' Yet those warnings stimulated curiosity, thereby, the two coddled adolescents, while at the carnival, stole away from their protective escort. Inside the Magic Tent, they experienced scented air, foreign objects never before seen, and a dreamy atmosphere, and in its majesty, sat Madame Judiva. Her face and features they remembered: the drooped eyelids, lips painted black, circular, golden earrings, lurid eyes, and skin which appeared native to the Mediterranean region.

Where roots hung lowest, the sisters hunched uncomfortably for some paces. But that noise! They halted and listened intently, having never heard such a sound - the high-toned shrill combined the screech of an eagle and something.

As the sisters entered the wider, taller chamber, Anya spoke.

"What is that yonder?" she sensed that Vyola knew.

"Methinks a Dak," Vyola whispered wonderstruck while staring at the twitching cloth hung and suspended below the rubber tree roots, yet at sufficient height as to avoid molestation from rodents.

"The Krallte Tuch spell worked," she turned to Anya, who stood surprised at her sister's ability. (Clawed cloth)

Then Vyola, feeling ashamed, confessed that she had cast the Fausses Pensées spell on Viscount Thorus, unknowing of his true intentions in supporting the Bastian House which assured regional control over war. Yet the spell altered his decision and caused the collapse of support. And so, it was whispered, how Viscount Thorus had taken to fits, ointments, and prated nonsense. (False thoughts)

Anya stood dismayed, filled with tears and fear of her sister, not the person, rather the potential evil of witches as father and mother had warned. Secretly, they had practiced the art of magic, though Anya had kept it spirited and jovial.

With lantern in hand, Vyola explained the necessity of dire cooperation, and with that, she stepped to the wall where the cauldron awaited fire. Anya followed but withheld many questions.

Working quickly, Vyola stooped to her knees and placed the lantern near the cauldron then rummaged the leather sack lying by its side. When finished, she pulled Anya, by the hand, down next to her then requested strands of hair and blood droplets. On the prepared handkerchief, next to the cauldron, Vyola laid four vials; ones filled as Anya had supplied.

Sitting coupled, (their knees dug into the soft earth and legs tucked underneath them), the twins, arms outstretched and palms aimed at the splintered wood, closed their eyes and mindfully allowed the Feuer und Funken incantation to sync telepathically. Then as one body, they inhaled deeply, paused, and in thrusting, spat forth- out from underneath the cauldron, flicked orange flames from between the wood. Vyola then handled a vial of powdered clay which symbolized earth; she then uncorked it and tapped granules into the water; Anya tapped in dried mushroom root then shook blood violently from the vials, and, finally, strands of hair sprinkled in. (Fire and sparks)

Vyola then grabbed the lantern, stood, turned, and approached the fidgeting, hovering cloth before placing the lantern at her feet (Anya watched from her position). Once more, with palms out, Vyola orbited her hands about the cloth which lifted the spell. As the cloth fell to the soft earth and unfolded, the Dak had been freed; in its grasp a paintbrush brush. The sister's recoiled, as Fables had turned into reality. Instinctively, the Dak ran, yet unable to flee beyond the perimeter of the cloth, and, thus, it screeched at the entrapment.

Meanwhile, Anya had positioned herself behind the right shoulder of Vyola; they noted its long flat snout and dragon-shaped head, yet, uncharacteristically, below the chin, hung two lengthy whiskers, akin to scavenger fish. Thoughtfully, young Vyola hoped the combination of 'dragon intelligence' and the ability to venture underwater, benefited her plans.

"Look at it, Anya!" Vyola's eyes drew in the creature. "It's not how I imagined," she turned towards Anya.

"You summoned it?" she was reminded of the fabled power of the Daks.

Vyola acknowledged that truth and explained that the Dak, as the spell required, needed to be lured and captured in this reality, a notion she doubted existed.

As fabled, the Daks lived in the Magical Realm, unknowingly created by superstitious humans, who utilized magic on the Daks for centuries – the more humans used magic, the more the Dak's existence faded in the real world and manifested in the fabled one. Through its persistent use on them, the Daks learned about 'human magic' for survival. Therefore, it is believed the Daks collected human artifacts, and, thus, this superstition drove Christians to fear magic, Pagans, and the return of the Daks to the real world.

Anya agreed while studying the abdominal region of the creature: a pouch bulged of curious content, the creature stood at 1 pes in height, and intrinsic to birds, moved crisply and precisely. Ironically, that which it collected and lured its capture (the paintbrush) had been utilized in poking the invisible barrier.

"Those won't do," Vyola scrutinized its birdlike hind legs, short upper arms, three clawed fingers, and its body covered in shallow dark fur, "you'll need a tail- one for swimming- and wings. Yes! Wings so that you might swim through the Gedanken potion," she squatted near the creature, her sense of fear negated. (Thoughts)

"As mother would scold, 'How shall I tame thee...and gain your obedience?'" the eyes of Vyola narrowed while mindfully searching for the appropriate spell. However, as one was chosen, she was emboldened by the successful capture, and, thereby, heedless of the consequences of controlling the Dak.

At last, in her arrogance, she reached for the Dak which provoked it defensively – the creature attacked and stabbed the 'five-fingered thing' with the pointed end of the paintbrush; her hand retreated quickly.

"Ouch! You little beast!" Anya startled, as Vyola frowned and examined her pained fingers.

"Very well, then," she then sat cross-legged, "you leave me no choice," and smirked vengefully while aiming a finger at the victim and uttered:

"From your realm, cometh to me...strong in spirit I can see...but in pleading, we need you most...so lay down your body before your host."

The Dak slumped, then Vyola folded it into the cloth, picked it up; and as she gathered her will, she turned to Anya – something imperceptible passed between them. Thus, seemingly without cause, Anya then laid herself on the blanket near the wall. 'Forgive me sister', Vyola thought, 'you must sleep, first, for this to work.' She then placed her mouth near the Dak's ear and spoke:

"Grant me thy favor so that I might see...my foolish ways done unto me...seek the one who mirrors me (she thought of Anya) and drink from us that 'thought' you see...though your form was born to thee...do my bidding I command of thee. Now, awake!" And the Dak's eyes did, indeed, reopen.

Vyola then dropped the Dak into the cauldron and watched its metamorphosis: to endure the high temperature, protective scales formed, the finned, curly tail kept it afloat, and the bat wings slowly unfolded. Its head stayed level with the surface, like an alligator, while the tips of the wings rose like peaks from the water. Vyola watched transfixed, as it stared obediently up at her. "Go! In haste!" her arm waved in accompaniment with the command. And the Dak splashed quickly from sight and paddled into the fathomless cauldron, while Vyola turned to Anya.

As if airborne, the Dak moved alternately its tail and wings, as it descended in search of the thought which incurred the dark and bewitched 'art of magic' upon the twins.

Contemplating her actions, Vyola understood that tampering with the memory altered past history and the present. However, the objective appeared simple; remove the ability and thoughts of magic, which she understood to be foreign to their personalities and separate from who they were. Thereby, there existed no 'residue of effect' to the future, as their magic, as yet, had not created a past-to-present change, rather a manageable present-to-future one.

Thus, the support of Viscount Thorus returned power back to the Bastian Castle and its allies. Simple.

As Anya moaned, Vyola herself sensed the Dak neared its destination, therefore, she induced self-sleep, in that their introduction to magic occurred simultaneously at the carnival; thereby, sleeping in union created a necessity for the memories complete dissipation of their abilities.

As the Dak neared, it sensed the vibrations of thought; interpreted as warnings from the twins' parents and spells taught by Madame Judiva...

Intelligently, the Scout Dak sensed the danger of color, yet inhaled the red thought in a breath. Resigned of humans, the Dak descended defiantly of the spell cast by Vyola and surfaced in its home cauldron. After being plucked out by pack members, its original form returned. Thereafter, the Daks viewed inside the watery cauldron which reflection the Great Hall, Lord Bastian, and Lady Loren speaking unusually respectful to a peasant citizen; Madame Judiva spoke of 'the first sign' of the Daks return, marked by the disappearance of Pagan Witches, or those with powers to detect them[...]the royals threw themselves into fits of horror and shame of their daughters naive, unchristian deception created by the illusions of magic...

Thereafter, the Daks observed the effects of the _Dreh Realität_ spell which suspended the twin witches in a recurring reality in the basement...

'Stop! Tell me, won't you?'

'Will there be anything else, my lady?'...

Lastly, from the pouch of the Scout Dak, the paintbrush and cloth were removed and submitted for strategic means on February 28th; and the magic-laden thought rewritten as an incantation and entered into the volumes of Human War Chronicles.

Madame Judiva

In the emptied hall, Lord Bastian and Lady Loren, with heavy hearts, had shamefully forsaken Christianity with their entrustment of Madame Judiva, a Pagan Witch by perception. After diplomacy and undisclosed conditions, Madame Judiva offered services to the royal couple that would locate Vyola and Anya. Viscount Thorus the trusted family confidant and lone witness.

In brief, Madame Judiva had been informed of the twin's disappearance at dusk on February 28th. Last word, the gardener overheard them chatting about art supplies stored in the basement. Yet assuredly, those rooms, hallways, and chambers have been thoroughly searched by Lord Bastian, Lady Loren, and servants. To the parents' surprise and unspoken disgust, Madame Judiva offered the possibility the twins existed there indeed, but invisible to the eyes of this reality. In the presence of Viscount Thorus, the parents naturally scoffed, yet inwardly, half believed her local legend; let her prove herself worthy. After her suggestion, Viscount Thorus denounced, egregiously, her Pagan faith as blasphemy and unholy. Though as he spoke, the odor of mushroom root swept from his mouth and reached her nose; and instantly she knew of his condition which managed an ironic smile across her lips. Without retort, she then bowed respectfully and asked that they follow her, or not, to the basement.

At the bottom of the basement steps, Lord Bastian keyed the lock and swung the door open; he cursed the breach, as Madame Judiva entered. Stunned himself, Viscount Thorus, despite indifference, stood curiously at the top of the stairs, poised for her failure, and, thereby, obliged to ridicule. Lady Loren and husband stood coupled, curious, and stared, as Madame Judiva paced to and fro, as if sensing something in the air through her skin before sitting cross-legged on the hard, cool flooring. From the leather pouch belted about her waist, she pinched out two vials of equal size and another double in size; the smaller vials, respectfully, contained mixed root extracts and water. After the cork removal, the large vial had been placed on the ground before her feet, then the root mixture and sufficient water droplets added and mixed.

Finally disgusted, Viscount Thorus objected sharply then disappeared from the top of the steps, while Lord Bastian and Lady Loren observed the spectacle. Without notice of him and clearly practiced, Madame Judiva lifted the concoction to her mouth then rested the rim of the vial against her lower lip, closed her eyes, opened her mouth and slowly filled the back of her throat. Lord Bastian and Lady Loren witnessed as her mouth closed, posture straightened, and ever slightly, her chin flexed out and up which suggested the liquid had been swallowed. Thereafter, she sat eerily motionless before her eyelids raised, and without looking at the royal couple, repacked the vials in her pouch. Lord Bastian and Lady Loren withheld their peaked curiosity and stared, as Madame Judiva turned to face them and intoned:

"Your Christian eyes and obedient minds are devoid of understanding what I do and what has been done. Then listen well - the essence of thine daughters cometh, and I must follow them to unmask who bewitched who (her eyes searched between them). Before that, I know not what shall manifest." Before the royals defended the assertions, she continued, "Viscount Thorus was hexed, believe me, or not, and neither he nor ye shall give chase. Lest the future be forlorn."

Without further word, Madame Judiva uttered the most unchristian, unholy, and devilish gibberish. Repulsed then curiously aroused, Lord Bastian and Lady Loren turned to each other in recognition of the incantation. Is it true!?! Vyola and Anya had prated familiarly days before! As parents in this revealing spectacle, they were stern, reluctant believers.

Madame Judiva began, _"Rrrrack shum...allah...Rrrrack shum...doocree...,"_ she then fell silent and continued deeply in her throat; her eyelids closed and her arms bent at the elbows; her palms faced down the corridor as her arms circled outwardly, respectfully, of the other. Lord Bastian and Lady Loren gazed silently at the other before Lady Loren reassured herself by observing the unobstructed path to the top of the stairs.

From the depth of the shadows, a rare wind whispered, swelled, and swept the fine dust and waved the cobwebs. Madame Judiva then clapped her palms rapidly until they reddened; sweat raced down her temples, and her muscles quivered at the impact. As if afire, her eyes opened alarmingly while angling her head so that the right ear caught the faintest of something. Lord Bastian and Lady Loren, as if tranced, observed and followed her gesture...

At the commotion behind them, Lady Loren wheeled about and cheered joyfully which instantly resounded in a 'shriek'; Lord Bastian, in effect, leapt back and slammed his back against the wall before he followed the gaze of Lady Loren. He then stepped quickly into the corridor and pulled Lady Loren with him. In disbelief, Lord Bastian clutched Lady Loren about the shoulders, as Vyola and Anya, in transparent form, ran down the steps as done on February 28th. Each held a lantern and smiled excitedly. Yet their parents, consecrated in fear, watched the eerie, living nightmare, while the twins discussed and decided to enter the art supply room before venturing further. Madame Judiva rose calmly to her feet, as Lord Bastian and Lady Loren, conjoined in horror, stepped back at the devilish figments of their children, who moved as if raised from hell.

As Vyola and Anya moved off, Madame Judiva followed closely, while Lord Bastian and Lady Loren quickly ascended the steps in search of Viscount Thorus - they had no intention of disobeying the orders of Madame Judiva.

While the girls roamed the art supply room, Madame Judiva, from an opened crate, plucked out a pair of goggles and dropped them around her neck as a token of the host's appreciation. She smiled at the theft then watched Vyola showing Anya where the paintbrush had been stored and that lured the Dak.

Out in the corridor, Madame Judiva became intrigued when Anya pleaded.

"Stop! Won't you tell me?" Anya spoke while Madame Judiva sought clarity. Shortly, thereafter, Madame Judiva heard:

"What is that yonder?" said Anya.

"Methinks a Dak," Vyola spoke. To herself, Madame Judiva mumbled, "The _Krallte Tuch_ ", in a low breath. "How mischievous. I didn't expect that from her."

Then Vyola confessed; she used the _Fausses Pensées_ spell on Viscount Thorus, which didn't surprise Madame Judiva, as she suspected its use earlier. In addition, for a fortnight, there was talk in the villages of war between factions, and she knew Viscount Thorus was an important ally to the Bastian family. She mused, 'Hah! By Allah! The royal blooded twins, within their fantasy to be witches, had foolishly misinterpreted petty politics! The coddled wenches!' Though unsure of her assumptions, Madame Judiva recalled fondly her behavior at their age - curious and dangerous.

At the cauldron, while Vyola stooped and spoke the familiar incantation, Madame Judiva listened patiently.

"Grant me thy favor so that I might see...my foolish ways done unto me...seek the one who mirrors me and drink from us the 'thought' you see...," Vyola spoke.

"Drink from us the thought you see?" At these words, Madame Judiva reflected on the origin and motivation of incantations which were interpretations of instructions that fulfilled desires, wishes, and vanquished fears. Keenly, it appeared, Vyola (Anya the bystander) was intent on reversing the spell cast upon Viscount Thorus, thus, she instructed the Dak to remove it from the twins' collective consciousness. However, Madame Judiva had experienced; there be but one reason to dabble with the past, regret tied to memories! She believed that the sole mission commanded upon the Dak. But the twins underestimated the fabled creature and now suffered the consequences.

As an indigenous girl from the eastern regions of the world, Madame Judiva had heard of European fables from merchants traveling with the Bazaars; she heard there was a Magical Realm, thus, she ventured forth, haling in spirit.

Lying down on the available blanket, Madame Judiva, for fun, wore the newly acquired goggles before she cast Vyola's spell upon herself and induced self-sleep. Thus, mindlessly absent of 'thought', 'time', place and physical form appeared omnipresent \- a liquid space - down descended the essence of herself within the cauldron. With her presence felt, the Daks acted accordingly and defensively, thus! The Dreh Realität spell had been cast, but the experienced and power of Madame Judiva withstood the attack and entrapment; though their actions confirmed they cast the spell upon the twins.

As she neared the Dak cauldron, the fabled Realm of Magic grew illusory, formless, and silent amid an opaque of discernible coloration; a realm void of linguistic reference. Peering inside the cauldron, the essence of a witches' form remained undetectable by the Daks. By trade, Madame Judiva recognized, however, too late, their counter-spell, perhaps a variation of many, and, therefore, found herself helpless amid the vibrations of garbled and unstructured thought.

In the history of fables, no realm or place, save the Daks War Chronicles, held such abundance of spells and incantations. If true, the chronicles concealed the twin's ability or thought taken by the Scout Dak. However, as Madame Judiva searched the chronicles, she risked alerting the Daks to her presence, and if apprehended, mercy in the fabled Realm of Magic held no guarantees.

Viscount Thorus

At the head of the basement steps, before speaking, Lord Bastian and Lady Loren looked about, assessing their privacy. Facing each other, no words as yet, captured the moral and Christian contradictions in their actions and beliefs. Thus, in the basement, a Pagan Witch! an abomination of the Bastian Castle and family lineage. But such risk dared not overshadow the twins, the first- born and missing for the 4th day. Though upon their return, the royal couple feared that Madame Judiva would divulge to others her services and demand riches for her silence. Even though Madame Judiva had proved the impossible, possible, killing her remained morally challenging, whether she failed or not. Then be it so that Viscount Thorus had been hexed, not by Madame Judiva, rather by one of their twins, they feared.

As Lord Bastian and Lady Loren returned to the Great Hall where Viscount Thorus waited, he condemned, egregiously, the witch and the evil in the respected Bastian Castle. Then quite endearingly, he spoke as a grandfather and professed his love and concern for their twins. Graciously, the royal parents thanked Viscount Thorus for his silence and loyal discretion, as he's entrusted with their deceit. Yet discretely, quite so, Lord Bastian and Lady Loren observed Viscount Thorus as if he bore the plague.

After renewed talk, which concerned the support of Viscount Thorus, Maiden Ann noticed the tremor of his left hand and perspiration which sheened his forehead; she then uncorked the smelling-salts in preparation. She could manage no more, for he felt foolish when she forewarned him in the company of others. Moments later he fainted, and after being carried to the couch, Maiden Ann, laced cloth in hand, suspended it under his nose until his face flinched in retreat. She then stepped quickly back, as he historically swung his arm out defensively. When Viscount Thorus became aware and upright, Maiden Ann offered ointment, but this time, he stared forebodingly at her intent.

"Ointment!?!" his brow tensed, "I've never touched the vile concoction." He glared as if insulted, while Maiden Ann lowered her gaze to the floor.

"But...," she started then verbally retreated, as his actions reminded her of the ointments necessity for prescription.

"What's the meaning of this?" Viscount Thorus said befuddled.

"Don't be harsh, Thorus," said Lady Loren, "she's only doing as thou instructed."

"Which was?" he glared at the maiden, "poison me?"

"Such theatrics." Lord Bastian whetted with a smile. "Art thou able to continue?"

"With what exactly?" he wiped his forehead with the handkerchief pulled from the inside pocket of his mantle.

"Thou jest, but I must say, Sir, not appropriate."

"Spitefully. Nay. Not at all," Lady Loren concurred, "considering the matter."

"And what matter was that?" he rose from the couch.

"Why your support and- what game is this?" of the discursive manner of the conversation, Lord Bastian replied.

"I assure that - support?" he glared at the royal couple. "Thou question our-"

"Alas! Sir," Lord Bastian indirectly championed the provincial stance, "until this," his hand patted the scroll as confirmation.

Thorus handled the scroll and knew where to look, first.

"Dost thou take us for fools, Thorus?" Lady Loren frowned.

Quite bemused, Viscount Thorus witnessed his signature, which declared allegiance that supported the war against the Bastian Castle and allies. At that, he eased into a seat at the table and studied the scroll; his brow dipped, and though he might, memory failed; and he could not recall writing the signature before him. Lord Bastian and Lady Loren observed, as did Maiden Ann, the distant, pensive, and shameful emotion transforming the face of Viscount Thorus. Then he looked about as if in the company of strangers: his acute eyes, unjustly, condemned Maiden Ann which touched her with concern. Again, turning his eyes from Maiden Ann, he reviewed the scroll, and, finally, speaking meekly, he uttered, "My most gracious apologies Lord Bastian," his mind wondered, as he stood and walked to Lady Loren and bowed, "Lady Loren...this will not stand...we have always been in your league...."

After dismissing Viscount Thorus and Maiden, in the Great Hall, Lord Bastian and Lady Loren chatted informally about the state of Viscount Thorus. Strategically, any suggestion that he'd been hexed surely doomed his regional support, and thus, remained private.

"Catty (Catherine)," Lord Bastian began, "what madness cometh to my father's house?" she knew his rhetorical tone and waited for him to continue, "Our daughters," he shuddered, "are ghosts and witches," he recalled the words of Madama Judiva, "and Thorus was hexed?"

"This is but a dream, Louis," she said calmly, "they will return to us."

"Surely, they must," he concurred, "but...can we trust Thorus?"

"He does appear himself, again, and hexed or not, his support is ours," she nodded and withheld further comment on witchery.

"By the devil - he didn't recall signing his own signature," he said justifiably of his premonitions.

"I fear, Madame Judiva was displeased with his insults," she hinted at the Madame's ability.

"So, thou think it possible...that she...?" He wished not to speak it, again, yet his meaning was two-fold: Madame Judiva perhaps hexed Thorus which then promised the return of their daughters under her power.

"Louis," her voice softened, "if the Lord wills it, then, yes, I think it possible." Aligned with her husband's beliefs, she absolved to advocate witchcraft over their Christian faith.

"My dearest Catty, thou must think me the coward- let us venture into the basement." Her firm-lipped smile met him, further arousing his courage.

"Dost thou think it wise?"

"Nay! But alas! a father's love forsakes all for his family, and the Lord wills it."

Underneath the earth, near the tunnel's dark end, Lord Bastian and Lady Loren, lanterns held forth, observed the cauldron, dried twigs, empty vials, and the blanket utilized by their daughters.

Alarmingly, however, the body of Madame Judiva had not been discovered; perhaps she ventured further into the tunnel.

As loving Christian parents, their daughters' deceitfulness struck them as a denial of tradition, morality, and ethical values. While they conversed, Jobe, the House Butler, stood respectively at a distance and peered about unnerved. Intrusively, he cleared his throat and hoped it stirred, within the royal couple, a hasty retreat from the cursed tunnel.

At dawn, Jobe responded to the Gladston door knocker, standing before the great doors, he opened the security port and identified the company then slid the guard plank to its unbolted position. Shortly, five regional representatives strode boldly into the guest chamber, followed by four unrecognizable men, baring the rank of servicemen. Jobe held no protest at the respect shown on royal grounds. He then set off in search of Lord Bastian and Lady Loren; he recognized formal business, as the men hoped to search the castle for Vyola and Anya. If missing, it would prove and identify the legendary Bastian family as Pagan or sympathizers. By the strange and abrupt reversal of support executed by Viscount Thorus, the Bastians quickly and unanimously fell under the council's suspicion.

Vexed by the accusations, Lord Bastian, Lady Loren by his side, demanded that they, in fact, prove and justify their beliefs in Fables and its superstitions (the precipitous for war) by way of supportive 'scrolls of authenticity' which required his signature. At the bluff's failure, and in fortitude to service, the representatives announced the subjection to a 'vote of confidence' levied on Viscount Thorus; meaning that if ruled 'nay' (of confidence) his dismissal allowed a majority decision favoring war. With Viscount Thorus marginalized, the representatives promised to return and search the castle and region for Pagan Witches and sympathizers.

Word spread swiftly of Viscount Thorus' suspension from the Common House of Law Council 'More out of fear than negligence to duty,' mused Lord Bastian. At the news, and under the circumstances, Lord Bastian had been assured of a pending castle search, which in the absence of his daughters, threatened his family legacy and future. Thus, to his trusted allies, Lord Bastian reached out for stratagem on their mutual positions: face persecution or exile from the region. In so doing, Lord Bastian defiantly vowed (in his heart) that his father's castle shan't be abandoned or confiscated without his bloodshed and not without, first, securing his family.

Reactions continued throughout the region: Christians, Pagans, and Believers of Magic, the latter, who feared persecution, or worse, cleansed from the region. From poor villagers to the highest of royalty, as proof of faith, families with females, under force, must recite Christian scripture and reveal the whereabouts of the females, as disappearances have continued as myths had foretold. Hence within the resigned routines of the day, Lord Bastian and Lady Loren brooded over the return of their daughters. Then magic a true reality and illusion? if indeed, they believed Thorus had been hexed, based on his before and after-illness persona, performed by Madame Judiva.

Forthwith, word had traveled by carrier; Viscount Thorus seized! along with his only daughter, a defiant Pagan. Grimly, Lord Bastian and Lady Loren read the scroll and understood their similar fate, and, thus, continued secret preparations which amounted to three days of negotiations, and, thereafter, the unknown.

However, on the following dawn, the couple awakened rudely to sounds of chain against metal, thunderous voices, and above the clamor, roared the voice of Jobe to the third tier. Seeing and understanding the madness on the ground floor, Lord Bastian and Lady Loren descended the staircase recklessly. On the second tier, Lord and Lady separated; he remained on course, while she checked their daughter's room. On the ground-floor, Jobe silenced at the word of his Lord, who quickly followed the butler's directions and rushed urgently for the basement. Mid-stride, Lord Bastian remembered his wife and turned about; she followed closely, and in their eyes, beheld the family's solidarity, thus, no words spoken.

About the Lady's waist, the Lord secured his arm then unleashed his authority, thereby, the four servicemen halted before they descended the basement stairs. As the royal couple approached, the men parted when Lord Bastian professed possession of the key - they had nothing to hide, although they did. In appearing as honest Christians, Lord Bastian and Lady Loren hoped mercy would be considered upon their judgment. As Lord Bastian descended, the servicemen followed, while Lady Loren remained atop the steps and toiled with stratagem, lies, truth- then a voice.

"Jobe?" the voice knew and should expect Jobe in the basement; then several knocks on the door followed. Behind him, Lord Bastian heard the unique, jovial tone of his wife, followed by her commands for the servicemen to step aside, and, lastly, the clamor of metal and chain. With a hurried twist of the key, Lord Bastian swung the creaky door open, and there, curious of the people amassed in the stairwell, stood Vyola and Anya.

"Why was the door closed and-" Vyola said as her father clutched tightly about her, enough that she complained. As well, Anya was lovingly at the mercy of her mother's firm embrace.

Lord Bastian accompanied Jobe in expelling the servicemen from the castle. While Jobe closed and secured the great doors, Lord Bastian strode back to the Great Hall where Lady Loren and his daughters waited. He was pensive and realized that the past ten days had offered no clear theological understanding or resolution. Yet, as he stepped into the Great Hall, his family's murmur awakened within him the obvious, though he risked appearing mad to his girls.

"My dears, what is the date of this day?" Lady Loren suppressed a quick glance in his direction, while the twins laughed at his attempted joviality. Yet, the parents observed them closely, for in their response, the vindication of witchery!

"Do you play a game, father?" ('You' being an informal address) Vyola said while smiling broadly which faded in recognition of his familiar sternness, thereby, repelling the sisters. Routinely, the twins sought support from their mother, though she merely reprised his sentiment.

"I- we don't know what you suggest, father." The sisters sat coupled on the edge of the couch with their hands obediently in their laps, heads slightly lowered, and their bodies without a hint of gaiety. Naturally, as adolescents, their mischief inside the Magic Tent, they believed, had been insignificant and irrelevant.

Their father repeated the request.

"Why it's the 28th day of February, father. Why-" To satisfy her parents, Anya responded as expected, but in reaction, her mother leaned back as if struck by the hand of the devil, gasped and drew air, heavily, into her lungs while her hand absently covered her mouth- her thoughts went to Madame Judiva. Unnerved, the twins drew back as if in the company of peasants and stared searchingly between their parents. Lord Bastian checked himself outwardly, yet inwardly, near his heart, his soul toiled with Christianity, belief, and the sanity of this reality. The twins pleaded for understanding, as their mother grew impatient.

"Silence! Thine hast shamed our family! with your treachery into Pagan witchcraft!" she felt the tears collect in the corners of her eyes. "The date, my dears," spoken sarcastically, "is March 10th." Silence, then drained the hall of chatter.

While admonished, the two adolescents admitted having visited the Magic Tent, but repeatedly denied the casting ability of spells- they sat befuddled by the accusations and why. Observantly, Lady Loren wisely understood her girls' temperaments, and though ashamed of speaking about magic, she must.

"This!" her tone indignant, "Madame Judiva...she bestowed upon you the teachings of magic!?! Speak the truth! So-help-you." The twins understood the seriousness of a matter when their mother's chin rose, emotionless eyes held them, and the corners of her mouth turned slightly downward.

"Nay! Mother," the twins replied as one, "it is forbidden and unchristian," they moaned, "and why must we be-"

"You didn't...," Lord Bastian interrupted, paused, then gathered his words, "you didn't hex-" he regretted acknowledging and admitting, even partially, of the possibilities.

"Hex!?!" Anya's face was perplexed. "Do you and mother think us...witches?"

"Nay! Nay! But hear me," from within, the voice of his father spoke forth, "Madame Judiva was in my father's castle – never speak of it," he glared furiously at them, "She ventured to say, one of you hexed Viscount Thorus," he paused, "and how would she know that?" He purposely modified the words of Madame Judiva, which he hoped encouraged the girl's truthfulness. But he declined and mentioned not the possibility that Madame Judiva hexed them.

At length, the twins asserted Madame Judiva to be untruthful and wicked, they knew no more. Further, the sisters appeared befuddled by deceit: ten days had passed, they were taught spells which hexed Viscount Thorus and had no memory of the events. To the observer, it appeared the girls had lost their memory or concealed something. And rightly, under the pressure, the girls grew silent and further sorrowful before weeping.

"Enough!" Lady Loren stood quickly and pointed towards the door. The girls understood the gesture and rose despairingly from the couch; their innocent, moistened eyes tore into the hearts of their parent's. But Lord Bastian remained undeterred.

"Then, pray tell, what were you doing in the basement?" he said rhetorically and desperately.

In their minds and body language, the parents believed their daughters, yet wisely understood that Madame Judiva, clearly influenced by agenda, fooled or even hexed them.

The Daks Queen

Vyola, ever more adventurous than Anya, suggested deception, thereby, they slipped from the sight of their escorts and into the Magic Tent at the carnival. By chance that day, Ann Thorus visited Madame Judiva, and at the sight of the vulnerable twins, contrived to Madame Judiva of her ambitions, ambitions in response to regional suppression of Pagans and the avoidance of war based on superstition. Thus, the ladies settled on the Thy Bidding spell; a powerful illusory incantation which impressed upon the victim the 'eyes of false image'; in that, Viscount Thorus viewed his own daughter, Ann, as Maiden Ann, an additional house servant. Thus, he glared at her often, as the subconscious image of Ann rose within him, yet the image sufficed such that he ne'er questioned her whereabouts.

In order that Ann and Madame Judiva remained distant from the deceit, Madame Judiva happily taught the twins several spells and took liberties, whereby, she cast a modified Thy Bidding spell which coerced the juvenile witches into repeating the incantation in song form, thereby, they recast the spell upon their parents, discretely.

Later, as contrived, Lord Bastian commanded that Madame Judiva be seized and brought to the castle to aid in his needs (the deceit now flowed naturally with events). Meanwhile, Ann (Maiden Ann), at the behest of her father (which he never avowed) attended to his health with harmless ointments. Additionally, at his authority, she accompanied him on regional meetings, as well, at the Bastian Castle which kept her informed of the political temperament and support which affected her and her father's fate.

In fulfilling, as promised, Lord Bastian's needs, the Daks Queen (newly empowered), lifted the _Dreh Realität_ spell from the Bastian twins. In the cauldrons watery reflection, Vyola and Anya, now struggled mightily in answering questions of witchery and hexes while absent of the ability and memory of such history. As further spells lifted, Pagans throughout the region became freed from religious bondage and persecution; tension of war subsided, regional factions united, and the Fabled Daks gradually returned to their fabled state.

Progressively, positive, social, and political changes had occurred. Perhaps, Viscount Thorus had been influenced by Lord Bastian and Lady Loren's encounter with Madame Judiva and their rumored ghostly daughters. Perhaps the shame of hiding the abilities of Ann, as within him lived the social, aristocratic fear of isolation and shame. Thus, by his hand, Ann became the first Pagan woman accepted as an assembly representative. Her position helped indoctrinate the first lawful scrolls which protected the Pagan faith as stated in the future Witchcraft Act of 1735.

Madame Judiva, the Daks Queen, was never seen again by human eyes.

Fables at Dusk

In a dozen years, grandparents, Lord Bastian and Lady Loren have ceased regional politics, and have dubbed their daughters, and their husbands, loyal representatives.

Vyola and Anya each bore two boys and girls. And similar of the age, the children charmed for Fables.

From memory, Anya recited from the Daks Queen Fable scroll: You know the story: The Daks captured Madame Judiva while she searched and found the twins thought in the Daks Chronicles. Yet because she had great power, she was spared, the Daks realized, and wisely concluded, that a human witch could help them return to the real world! Excitedly and consequently! they crowned her the Daks Queen.

With the Daks Chronicles in her possession, the Daks Queen had access to the centuries of spells cast upon the Daks, but most importantly; she found the Thy Bidding spell cast upon Viscount Thorus. (The memory of the late Viscount stirred fondly within the sisters.)

"The Daks Queen was merciful to the sisters because she was human and knew what superstitious people do to witches." Vyola's eldest daughter concluded.

"In what way was she merciful, dear?" her mother said.

"Because, mummy," her eyes bulged excitedly, "she took away their memory so they wouldn't remember to be witches, and-"

"And she was Pagan," interjected the eldest boy of Anya.

"...that's why they were spared persecution," she concluded.

"What does that teach us?" Vyola said.

"That Pagans are not Christians," she paused," but are faithful like Christians...and it is good to be faithful," replied the eldest of Vyola.

"Do Pagans know magic?" Anya said while restraining a smile at Vyola.

"Grandmother said that, 'Magic was only in Fables,'" her eldest boy replied.

"Good, and right she was," replied Anya. "Alright then," the sisters rose from the end of the bed, "under the covers with you," Anya said which implied the end of Fables.

"Ah! I've spoken with Jobe," Vyola addressed the two eldest, which implied a familiar home protocol, "which of you moved the cabinet?" her voice tempered the scolding, "because it didn't very well move on its own." Her manner allowed for the explanation of the truth. But the children merely shrugged their shoulders negatively.

Anya, ever aware, observed the children's innocent, calm expressions- no nervous fidgeting of retaining a lie. "That tunnel has become dangerous and unstable; it's time we have it sealed," she looked at Vyola.

"We'll ask father," Vyola's attention turned back to the children. "Yes! Stay out of it, all of you. It's become too dangerous for play," she warned while lowering a stern finger.

"Mummy, when you and Aunt Vyola were little, did you believe in witches like the sisters?" said the elder female child of Anya.

"Yes," Anya replied, "but we don't remember." The sisters laughed ironically. However, without disclosure, Ann Thorus offered an act of equality and civility towards Christians and confessed to the deceit she and Madame Judiva conceived. She honored the twins with the truth, thereby, they supported her female ambitions. And, thus, Fables at Dusk read truer than the innocent youth realized.

When the time cometh, the Bohrian Valley adolescents will learn the truth of the region. How Christians – non-believers of magic – hunted Pagan Witches, not for persecution as once assumed, rather for their abilities which were used against the fabled Daks. They will learn and understand their belief in the history of the Daks Chronicles. Though, should the adolescents inquire, disappointingly, no theological records explained the transcriptions in the Bohrian Valley History Volumes. And no faithful Christian dared utter the possibility and justification that magic was the method for its entry, except, perhaps, the Pagan, Ann Thorus.

###

### MYSOPHOBIA OUT

**I**

"You mentioned in our last session _zhat_ your parents _vere_ Baby Boomers and _zhat_ had a negative and profound impact on you. The economic boom in America _vas_ an industrious time, not so much for Europeans. But elaborate on _zhat_ time in your life and how you felt, please." Samuel's therapist, _Dr. Wolfgang,_ suggested.

Samuel recalls the pivotal point his condition began, starting in grade school. His father worked as a Retail Manager and his mother was a housewife.

"There's a lot of good and bad, unfortunately. My parents, especially my mother, didn't have any idea she was doing more harm than good. They believed in the American Dream after the war. It's just what you did. God willin'. Pop didn't make much- well, that's what they told me. That meant we couldn't afford a babysitter, so my mother took me everywhere before I started public school. We'd visit the other neighborhood housewives at Mrs. Jenkins' house. She was the oldest in the neighborhood and the first woman I ever seen that smoked. They'd cluck like hens. Ha! Ha! That's what it sounded like to me- I didn't know what they we talkin' about. But they'd gossip, watch soap operas, and commercials about Bleach Whitener, Tide, Ajax and a million other cleaning products. It's what you did. And since Mrs. Jenkins was the elder and wiser housewife, if she recommended it, mother had it in our house the next day. But before that, I didn't have any symptoms. I was about ten, eleven."

"Then came the 'Endless doctor appointments' Pops would say." _Dr. Wolfgang_ noted subtle posture and tone changes in the patient's character as possible subconscious memories stirred his conscience. "When I kept asking, they'd put on their 'happy faces' and reassured me that the doctors believed it was only harmless rashes from some allergic reaction. And not the 'safe' chemicals- that's if we followed the instructions and warnings correctly. Then sure, why not? We believed whatever a doctor said back then, without question. I was susceptible to allergies. Accept it."

"Now that I look back, I can see how my mother believed she was at fault for my condition, which made her feel like a failure as a mother in Pops and God's eyes. But the influence of Mrs. Jenkins didn't help either. That was about the time I had to start washing my hands three and four times a day, like she did, even though she wore those green martian gloves for protection. And weren't no house cleaner than ours; she scrubbed everything- that house was cleaner than the Vatican Church."

"And I didn't know until years later that my parents tried protecting me from gossip. Not easy in a small mid-western town. We're a church going community and my mother was and is still tight-lipped about others affairs. According to her, Mrs. Jenkins and the others weren't so blessed. Word was, that's how the other kids heard of my 'condition'. And we know how cruel kids can be. It wasn't too bad at first, but then my buddies started teasing me about my mother's inability to keep me clean. So, I fought; and having reddish-pink hands and elbows didn't help none either. And who wants to play with 'that' kid. So, I withdrew. I was even afraid of telling my mother when I was sick because it led to more toxins and scrubbin'. She'd worry and- I hated it- being basically friendless, stared at, and feared by the girls. It all changed so quickly.

My mother loves and believes in God; she doesn't say anything about it nowadays, but I know my compulsions are a constant reminder and regret from her, so-called, sinful act. Maybe. But my wish is to be free of it for the sake of her soul."

" _Zhat's_ enough for today." _Dr. Wolfgang_ suggested.

II

In the world, few citizens sought an understanding of individuals concocting antibacterial solution, ingredients combining vinegar and warm water which escaped apartment 5N, daily, out into the hallway.

Resident of the _Santa Maria Apts_., Samuel Patrick spends mornings hunched over the bathroom sink, washing his hands repeatedly and precisely; firstly, antibacterial soap covered both hands and then maneuvered between fingers, over knuckles and from wrists to elbows; the process then repeated using a fine-haired brush and then under the fingernails scraped clean with a file. In avoidance of touching the faucets intermittently, water remains flowing. After rinsing his hands and instruments, as finality to ritual, he applies antibacterial lotion to aforementioned areas, and while detesting the touch of lids, he disposes of tissues in a flip-top trash can.

Presently, Samuel works from home as a software programmer. Before seeking therapy, 'compulsions' required fumigating the apartment with dangerous aerosols and homemade solutions of vinegar and warm water, whether he had touched something or not. Though with psychiatric successes, he's aware of health hazards associated with inhalation of fumes in closed environments. Consequently, toweled applications have sufficed though compulsions continue redundantly and cultivate his feelings of contamination.

His weeks have been regimented: Mondays to the bank and Therapist; Tuesdays: lunch with his mom, Thursdays and Fridays: Research and Development with corporate, and Wednesdays: grocery shopping. The ventures have been taken seriously- boxes of alcohol treated tissues and bottles of antibacterial spray stuff his backpack. Today is Wednesday.

III

What a day for Lucio, _Victoria's_ boyfriend, to be delayed at the airport. They had hoped to be together during the final trimester. And so, in 5H, she has decided, 'I need no one- only a quick trip to the doctor (increasing contractions).' Holding a cup and saucer, she stands in the doorway of the baby's room, envisioning plans, 'Light blue walls...maybe forest scenery...or red and white print curtains...crib there...no, there...so much to do.' Smiling, she turns and waddles down the hallway into the living room.

Placing cup and saucer on the breakfast counter, she intends on 'getting off her feet'; at the couch, while descending, she recalls the struggles of getting up then stops clumsily and utters, "Let us go, fat girl." At the kitchen table, she checks the maternity bag crammed with lotion, napkins, Rosehip oil, Boob tube, Belly Belt, box of tampons, and courage. Frequently, the bag has inspired daydreams, reminding her of nine months of cumulative moments; meeting Lucio, dating, procreation, anxiety, pregnancy, wedding-talk, raising a family, and her Designer career. Then distantly, recognition of a slamming door severs the stream of images. Before leaving the small apartment for the smaller elevator, she hung the bag on her right shoulder.

IV

Inside the elevator, Samuel's compulsive anxiety stirs possibilities of touching someone or something unfamiliar and unclean in the world. Hearing the Latin voice, heavily accented, he steps forward, thrusting his arm between the closing doors which triggers retraction processes. As _Victoria_ enters, she associates him with the stench of vinegar. Noting his height (about six-two), she's reminded, though without staring, of his thick, loose curls hiding the ears, hair parted atop the head by sheer weight, boyish round cheeks, hairless jaw, full eyes though not large and oversized jacket covering his mysterious midsection. He smiles routinely and nods after her courteous greeting; her voice, he imagines, originated from some ancestral region of South America or _Italy_. Bits of overheard conversation assured him that her speech, without utilizing contractions and standard terms, indicated that, as an adolescent, informal English had been introduced as a second language.

Glancing, he notes her familiar, basic attire of sandals and loose, sweat-suit accommodating her girth. Stepping back and leaning into the rear corner, he questions why a pregnant woman has ignored the 'temporary service' sign, as the elevator has malfunctioned, of late. Or perhaps because she's yet had the experience and trusts the contraption. Though five flights and pregnant appear to be reason enough for riding.

Standing opposite his right flank, her usual thoughts questioned the tissues and the nerd with no personality. Though for the past three months, she has become accustomed to his behavior as in sterilizing buttons before pushing then placing tainted tissues in his backpack hung over his left shoulder. He fidgets and isn't threatening, admittedly.

After the doors close and descent felt, unsettling noises emanating from behind old brick and plaster walling have made residents and guests question their judgment, the reliability of the emergency instructions, and wonder if the emergency phone 'really' works.

Moments later, the enclosure defies gravity, shuddering to a halt. (Floor indicator arm has suspended between third and second floor). _Victoria_ checks the time, as 'delays' usually last less than twenty seconds.

Samuel reacts passively, comfortable with the particulars of electricity and the temperament of networks shutting down, unexpectedly. But as time expired, _Victoria_ , seeking security, utilizes the moment.

"It takes longer, today?" Finally, what is he like? And while glimpsing, 'He looks to be a shy germaphobe with tissue papers,' she thought. Insecurely, he broke eye contact and withdrew while envisioning she's _Mexican_ or _Italian_ with bristling indigenous dense dark hair, prickly eyebrows and fine-haired stash and lashes; left hand (with wristwatch) atop her stomach, protectively, right hand nervously sliding up and down the maternity bag strap looped over the right shoulder, black maternity sweat-suit, and healthy, thick hair managed loosely into a ponytail.

"Nothing serious, I'm sure." Feeling comfortable, Samuel spoke easily of the relevant topic such that it altered his image (within her); transformed by professionalism, knowledge, and assertion; then he withdrew, again, as his lingering euphoria wanes and suppresses the question of 'why' she hadn't taken the stairs. For _Victoria_ , anxiety has subsided while interested in this 'other' person until, progressively, the onset of contractions. Samuel, with an attentive air, witnesses her upper torso flinch forward- her grimace produces wrinkles about the eyes while the corners of her mouth lift by tightened lips.

Expectantly, an announcement, 'To our respected residents and guests, we're sorry for the delay and inconvenience, we apologize and operations will resume shortly.' Reassuringly, _Victoria_ checks the phone's operation, consequently effecting Samuel, reacting as one might warn another of unseen danger by stepping forward and lifting his arm as if intending on snatching her to safety and then caught himself- she hadn't noticed. Compulsively, his mind had screamed, 'No! It's filthy! Now go wash your hands.' His mother's voice rose subconsciously.

Unpleasant scenarios persisted, consuming her rationale; and by the nature of survival, she must analyze, 'If the elevator is no working, no doctor can help me and my baby, and a doctor on the phone can do nothing, and I know nothing of this guy...But if it start then maybe all is too late.' In the best scenario, when rescued, she'd return to the apartment and call the doctor and Lucio. She then tried convincing herself, 'My baby will be born in hospital by doctors, no _here!_ '

Encouragingly, she remembers Pregnancy Training [instructions] 'In lowering a mother's blood pressure, breathe deep from the abdomen which increases oxygen and nutrients throughout the bodies of mother and child; remember to count and remain calm, and if alone, find help.'

Samuel, without disclosure and cleverly concealed by character, monitors her condition; he imagines, 'What if I have to do something? I've never- what if I hurt the...?' He called upon his god for help in overcoming the unthinkable image. Dishearteningly, his inexperience has exposed past regrets in declining community First Aid classes.

_Victoria's_ cry, he could not ignore.

"Ma'am?" he turns his head fully in her direction, hoping the elevator moves. "Are you...alright?" He knows she isn't and felt his cowardice.

"No," she winces, "No, I am n-" Contractions shorten her reply, as both arms have encircled the stomach, top and bottom; as her shoulders hunch, the bag slides off and snags at the elbow. In response, she lowers the arm and lets the bag hit the floor carelessly. Thinking she might fall, Samuel steps half the distance to her though concerned for himself. His watchful, self-image reacts, examining her view of him as unmanly and uncommitted- for men, an unsavory thought. Then directly to his crippling phobia, between contractions, pain, and breathing, she implores his assistance.

"Call...," spoken wearily, her head slowly lowers, "...please." She then reaches for him supportively, though reluctant and uncommitted, he sways forward then back. Thinking quickly, he offers his covered forearm that she grasps as an anchor. As contractions persist, _Victoria_ has weakened, leaning into the corner for support before descending awkwardly holding and pulling him slightly. To a degree, shame cast him like an ingot, feeling useless and ignorant of her physical plight. Crumpled in the corner, legs outstretched, _Victoria_ , slightly concerned, caught his nervousness and phobia (wiping buttons and dialing with a tissue). Likewise, he senses apprehension in her closing, resting eyes. Though while listening, as he requests a doctor's assistance, behind her eyes, images of Lucio and fact of needing this stranger for the growing life within her, over herself.

"I think...it comes, the baby," she states. "We must get...ready."

"Are you sure?" Immediately, his words felt redundant while hanging up the phone. "You'll be alright," speaking as though she had skinned her knee; his lack of support assaulted his conscience, 'Please, please hold on,' his eyes close involuntarily in prayer. 'I can't handle this,' he confesses to God.

'Will _you_ be alright?' She thought while nodding agreeably then handing him the maternity bag, and within the gesture, plans with Lucio, doctors, family, and close friends, transferred to a compulsive stranger dependent on anti-germ-whatever! Her mind wandered, unnecessarily.

"We must," she thought of Lucio, provocatively, "take these sweats off." She then scoots away from the corner, leaving space to lay flat and envisions images of her male gynecologist and talks with Lucio; he couldn't understand her homophobia against women gynecologists. Samuel stares childishly, his mind racing, as a 'virgin mind of circumstance' would, before lowering the bag and removing his backpack. By his actions, she felt encouraged; then instructs the removal of her sandals of which, he thought, involved only touching leather. As he swells with notions of vile contamination, his eyes fixate on her feet; and while untying the knot, she notices, "Hey?" Her face frowned then relaxed. "My feet no stink," smiling shallowly conceals her worry. Encouraged and smiling, he stoops and pulls the heel strap quickly then drops the sandal as if he had been burned. Aware he overacted, his hands countered by rubbing soothingly against the other, helping repress 'cleansing' urges; he's also reminded of his adolescence and first becoming aware of the term Obsessive Behavior. Mindful of his potential embarrassment, she pretended at fumbling with the knot.

As Samuel attends the remaining sandal, "Stop! Stop!" _Victoria's_ voice whimpered, as a single, rabid contraction signaled the urethra from which 'breaking' water gushes into the sweatpants. Too pained and 'pregnant minded' for embarrassment, _Victoria_ fell silent, while her legs contract and her body assumes a fetal position. "My water." The words faintly met Samuel's ears; and as expected before turning his eyes from her, stared at the seldom viewed spectacle and wished himself elsewhere. Yet he couldn't overcome instinct and fails at averting attention from her and then sought contribution.

"Ma'am? What can I do?" he spoke softly as if words injured. She didn't answer.

Inspired by motherhood and training, _Victoria_ rolls on her back and recalls, [instructions] 'Place one hand on the abdomen, the other the chest, inhale deeply for four counts, hold for seven, exhale at eight for relaxation, feel the body relax and sink to the floor, repeat.' When relaxed between contractions, she points to the bag; and through panting and wincing, explains its contents. And Samuel, feeling needed, responds by seeing the irony in his afflictions as helpful and proclaims, "I have 'alcohol' laced napkins-" her inattentiveness, while declining, cut his enthusiasm; though he begins cleansing his hands (to her delight) until she felt he needed to be stopped- like a child playing with matches.

Alerted practically and circumstantially, Samuel stood quickly, removing his jacket and shirt; the latter announced as a sanitation pad. Sensitively, _Victoria_ nods approvingly then unexpectantly suppresses her tears. With pelvis raised and balancing on her elbows, Samuel positions the shirt below her buttocks. Internally, he questions the amount of liquid 'pooling' below her, 'Is this normal?' Then naively, he felt sorry for her. Without pause, _Victoria_ and sweatpants wiggle free of the other past the buttocks, from there, Samuel pulls and turns his eyes respectfully away (Her motto for Gynecologists: 'underwear no required').

Circumstantially, a natural silence came between them, as each withdrew and prayed for the power and strength of the other.

Then out of relative calmness, the elevator scrapes then descends quickly before stopping and trembling, followed by moaning mechanics then silence. The captives commune visually and listen while 'messages of appeasement' play, again. Momentarily, Samuel forgot _Victoria_ , as rescue crossed his mind. The floor indicator hasn't changed, he notes then stares at the phone hopefully then back at her, their eyes meet- her sweaty, exhausted face expressed enough.

"Come, come," she felt the rising contraction and becomes silent and 'still' then exhaling deeply while both hands lay soothingly over the stomach; then progressively, she breathes in rapid exhalations, unaware her right foot is still clad in a sandal. Shamefully and curiously, Samuel peeks and fumbles undecidedly for a sanitary surface before placing the sweats on top of the maternity bag. Very aware she's naked from waist to feet, he offers his dry jacket.

"Do you want to cover...?" He lets the waving jacket assume his gesture, while purposely and obviously, projecting chivalry, turns his head and eyes to the wall.

She expresses a universal "No" with slight jostling of the head, then whispers, "Too late, and I will ruin it," before exhaling loudly between contractions. "My name is _Victoria_ , you?" her voice met him low and sweetly.

'She's fearless now,' he thought, 'layin' there half naked in front of a stranger- 'So vulnerable to the world.' His mother often said, proverbially. Though Samuel envied whoever possessed unflinching, social expression.

"Samuel Patrick, but my mother calls me Patty. I'm of _Irish_ descent." Speaking to the wall, he grins, awaiting 'teasing' that usually followed. Yet by divisions of culture and relationship, he enjoys not defending himself, for once.

"Nice to meet you," she giggles ironically about everything and glimpses his smiling profile.

Embodied by frequent and intensifying contractions, _Victoria_ quickly explains supportive 'breathing' partners- you! Viewing his worried, white face, she expresses trust in him. Lastly, "I will say bad, ungodly things, but no to you, personally." Lucio's disappointed expression pushed into her conscience as the realization and possible one-time experience surpasses him for another. And wherever he is (wondering why she doesn't answer the phone), he never imagined his child entering the world so unconventionally.

Inside the cocooning stomach, her stirring baby activates gases, gurgling liquids, and natural pulses. Though listening, Samuel has retrieved a brush from his backpack, scrubbing his hands, madly; his mind feared unknown physical and biological tragedies caused by his intrusiveness. Yet ironically, his cleanliness has calmed her as though being attended by doctors.

However, before speaking further, muscles lining her womb contract, helping dilate the cervix and initiate 'pushing' processes; thus, her chin sharply thrusts upward in expelling the lungs airy capacitance of which animates as stuttering bursts of quick, short, spitting gusts from between her teeth. Samuel, newly alarmed, drops upon his knees between hers, hands shaking, sweat flushing pores, questioning, and full cessation of distractions. Her face, while pushing, grimaces then relaxes enough that he notices via her body; looking into her face, he whispers something she won't remember though he nods, approvingly, as she stares and memorizes the moment; and while the body continually heaves light, rhythmic tremors, her eyes close tightly. Gingerly, he maneuvers closer, no longer counting and breathing (her voice ceased echoing throughout his conscience), transfixed, he transcends human know-how, fear, and inexperience as millennium of intelligence guides his being and hands to sprouting life...a hairy head.

Then as irony unfolds, the phone rings with the encouragement of doctors on-the-line, while the ancient elevator descends without concern nor care for human folly.

VI

On the fifth floor, the odor of vinegar, slight. For Samuel, the ancient building, creaking steps, cool hallways, and familiar residents, conjure mindful, encouraging events, daily.

After retelling his fantastic story, his therapist, _Dr. Wolfgang_ , quoted and encouraged, 'Now _zhat_ is a story I cannot prescribe. Nevertheless, remember, _vhen_ facing physical and mental compulsions, you must face _zhat_ fear directly and acknowledge it as fact, connect _viz_ it- in your case the elevator _vas_ a blessing and rare. But in _zhat_ circumstance, there _vas_ no avoidance which, as I have said, is _vere_ our compulsions thrive, in our avoidance. You washed your hands frequently to rid yourself of _ze_ impulsive thoughts- the elevator accomplished _zhat_ for you, it appears. And _ve_ generally find _zhat_ anxiety (Mysophobia) or Compulsive Disorders begin dissipation in _zhat_ observance and connection _vhen_ there is no escape...like finally facing a bully- realize _zhat_ _vhen_ _ve_ kill one (fear is connected), _ve_ kill _zhem_ all- Think I _vill_ use your story as therapy for others.'

VII

In respect of the baby, Samuel knocks lightly on 5H; he had promised a visit. On the other side of the door, Samuel hears, "It's your boyfriend," Lucio remarks then laughs while swinging the door open- there stands the man who replaced him. Their smile mutual, yet Lucio has harbored unmentionable envy though openly grateful.

"It's a boy!" Lucio exaggerates a 'surprised' expression, "Oh, you knew that." He then quips, dryly. While shaking hands they laugh before Samuel congratulates him. Lucio, as _Victoria_ had explained, contemplates Samuel's phobia; as he appears well kept, timid, too pale with soft, feminine hands. But Lucio isn't sure of the health categorization.

Hearing _Victoria's_ voice motivates Samuel inside; as she steps from the hallway into the living room and holding her child tucked nicely inside a taco shell-style blanket. Samuel laughs, as their smiling eyes meet, forever transcending and personal. He recalls a proverbial quote, 'Where once there was one, now there are two.' Additionally, he discovers that a mother's face shines as no other. They sit on the couch.

Excited and honored, _Victoria_ hands the taco shell to Samuel, against his doubts and nervous arms that tremble under the baby.

"What's the little man's name?" Clearly, in _Victoria's_ view, his first experience holding an infant. He stares into the baby's observant, curious eyes.

" _Andrea_... _Samuel_...," she kisses him on the cheek, " _Pérez_." With the right arm of Lucio laid across his shoulders, Samuel brushes away tears with the back of his hand, feeling unworthy. "I am- no, _we_ are proud of you. God bless you. And thank you for being very brave. It did no look easy for you, but now! you must like our filthy germs. Ha! Ha!" said the new mother.

"I have no compulsion to change," Samuel remarks and envisions his mother's face after revealing his therapists Regression Report on his condition.

For the first time in the life of Samuel Patrick, there has been an awakening within him, a dormancy that has infused a mindfulness, recess of anxiety, and clear thinking. Thus, his way forward has become limitless, observant, enthusiastic, and wiser though the journey incomplete. Consequently, his mother's soul has been saved, said she.

###

Back to top

### WITCHES SEED

On the subject of legendary and heroic lands, Lancashire, England brings to mind little ambitious talk or reverence to Orthodox Christians patronized elsewhere. Though one reframed from outright insult of its patrons and tradition, upon its banks, peasants of an ignorant sort thunderously believed words that rewarded their hollow souls righteously by snuffing from their ranks the evilest of Pagan witches.

Preached from the Catholic pulpits of _Rome_ to Britannia, local dominions encouraged patrons of the necessity of purification and riddance of Pagans. Quite the conundrum appeared afoot- was not Christianity an awakening required for renunciation of devilish and foul mental torpor or decease? Or cure for violence? Then for what purpose were souls called to Christianity?

Pendle Tavern hosted local fare, no outsiders; though in its shrine, the rank of milled gin, grunted farts, spilled grog, and the rumble of a tiff. Little kept Pendle Tavern from the spill of ale, serving dried _schwein_ and stale bread. And should a few pence _'Be the luck of ye'_ , a lass stroked ye fancy. Or in the den, a jester sang jovially of tales boasting lies and twisting truths.

Among the mingling, habitual grunge, and neutralized nobility, Juliana Krass escorted by a royal blue-blood. Such a man need only be willing of her favor and risk honor in her ignoble arms. A whore!?- Perhaps, yet worthy of two-pence. Foolishly, however, the boast of Paganism misjudged and overtook Juliana Krass. Soon hunted, captured, and readied for the 'ducking stool'. 'If she floated when submerged in a pond, guilty, if sunken, not guilty of Pagan witchery. Alas! A merry toast mocked the burning and charred figure of Juliana Krass.

From a wee lad to full man, our bartender, Nash Pendle, and respected whore, Loose Lora, endeared the tavern like home. Yet, traditions die of their own accord. Thus, the tavern doors would close forever on that life. Though crestfallen, they feared inhabited ghostly spirits justified closure. Our inheritor mused, "Oh, Lora, for the nights of merriment when we sinned over pints of ale, a tiff settled with a pat on the back, or love-confessed or jeered in yer bosom. I cursed the day the Maleficarum swept down like plague. Aye! Turning good Christians against countrymen."

Among those good Christians, and patron, Kitty, who listened while _Vicar Auguste_ , her widowed grandfather, spoke of the belief that hexes controlled and disillusioned men, the Malleus Maleficarum instructions, and the conviction that transformation lived!

"That is impossible, grandfather," frowning and contradicted, Kitty continued, "How can a 'mute' speak? It is unnatural."

"Ha!" thickly canvassed in a hooded robe, he grinned at her innocence. Across his lap laid a carved root-cane, and before him, a full pint of ale, said his breath. "Impossible, ye say?" he then pushed all reference and humor from his face. "My dear child, God alone cannot suffice with answers to man's folly- Alas! He sends to the world of men something called destiny- each soul lives, suffers, rejoices, and dies within its purpose."

"Aye! Our beliefs are God's reward for our obedience and-" then the 'click' of interruption at the door, and Kitty stared.

Through the door, _Adona_ entered then stopped and stared among the drunken horde. She appeared no more than thirteen years of age, like Kitty. Alone, _Adona_ stood as a youth shunned of light- striking paleness and ungainly, yet confidently dressed in an oversized smock frock, and aglow by oil lamps. Under her dark scrutiny, the loud promiscuous lot, while from behind the bar, our Bartender observed her air of maturity.

From his stool in the corner, left of the entrance, _Vicar,_ while observing her, immediately sensed familiarity. And as youth would have it, Kitty wished catching the stranger's eye.

_Adona_ moved down the length of the room, holding high the folds of the frock; her hands hidden and overrun by material; and her bare feet glimpsed here and there.

"Girl!" Commanded _Vicar_ , who waved 'away' Loose Lora's misjudged intentions. "Do ye seek thine father? Mum?" _Adona_ came and faced him while Kitty stared with trepidation. "Who are thine parents? Tell me." Himself knowing the tavern patrons personally.

"I seek Thomas Henry." At the name, she consumed the attention of the tavern horde.

"T-Thomas!?" _Vicar_ fumbled, meeting the eyes of Cornell Henry and _Francis_ Kingsman, both turning away from the bar. "A bastard child?" _Vicar_ accused and doubted yet understood the natural weakness of men. At once, Cornell Henry leapt upon the planked flooring and strode up behind _Adona_. _Francis_ Kingsman followed. Both men stood uniformly in leather trousers, half-cape drooped (Cornell not) over wool shirts, (tied at the chest), hilts of braided leather poked from underneath, and black mud-stained boots covered their feet.

"Ye seek Thomas? Why?" Cornell's eyes searched the girl. He had not long buried his brother and now cometh a child barring slight resemblance to him. But he withheld mention of Thomas' death in trade for information.

"Ye are not he. I remember," _Adona_ replied boldly, and Cornell frowned displeased at her informal tone.

Hearing snickers, Cornell interpreted himself ridiculed, "A day has not passed that I have not seen my brother, girl! I would know of a niece! She's mad! -Seeking a man that could not have fathered 'er!" He studied her critically before continuing, "Who sent ye for collections of inheritance at 'is-." He caught himself, (she appeared unaware of any implication). _Vicar_ then, to _Adona's_ surprise, grasped her wrist, pulled back the sleeve (on the left arm) and studied the pale, hairless, and unmarred skin. Letting loose, he fingered the hilt of his dagger in remembrance of the violent death of Thomas Henry...

Four months prior, _Vicar_ witnessed the meeting of Juliana Krass and Thomas Henry in the tavern. Thomas, a non-believer, recognized not the Devil disguised in heaving, cleaving breasts, pale virgin skin, and a willingness for lust and fancy of lonely men. Quickly, obsessed, he scarcely left her side and soon became missing from January to March. Thus, began whispers- Thomas hexed and lured to the mountain caves for anointments of conversion, incantations, and copulation with demons. His brother, Cornell, _Francis_ Kingsman, Philippe Oxmond, and others accompanied the search. Past the Canterbury Forest edge, paid rumors lead them to the mouth of a crevasse. With swords drawn, the outsiders silently stalked.

Entering a larger chamber, lit oil lamps revealed the caves earthy tomb, vials strewn about, twigs for kindling, herbs, and the cauldron fit for a man centered in the chamber, confusing them of its use. Alas! No doubt that in this dwelling lived a heretic! Yet, in the fever and lust for revenge, an oath which allowed Juliana and Thomas their lives. For only she possessed the craft of removing the spell- 'Wound and subdue them', they promised.

Thomas Henry, bred from the Academy of Swordsmen, would not be persuaded easily. Thus, outnumbered and backed against the cauldron, he struck first at Philippe, to his left, wounding him mortally; on Thomas' right flank, _Vicar_ quickly took advantage of uneven footing that God placed under Thomas' stumbling feet, and while fully extended, _Vicar_ dug his dagger across the upper right bicep of Thomas.

Cornell, as Thomas slumped to his left knee, pleaded to his brother while steadying the sword-point in the unprotected face of Thomas. As if unaffected, Thomas appealed to nothing while retrieving the sword in his left hand (a capable swordsman with either hand) and parried aside the blade of his brother. Naturally, fear struck one of two brothers in their party, and consequently, the younger one flung a dagger of which impaled the right thigh of Thomas; screaming and pulling it free, he unexpectantly returned it- the surprised owner then fell limply upon his back, the hilt protruding from his gut. Enraged, the older brother charged past Cornell while throwing fine sand in the eyes of Thomas. Cornell would be too late and helplessly witnessed his brother die in the fury.

And still madness reigned! For Juliana, while half submerged inside the cauldron, laughed mockingly. When dragged out and clothed in a frock, by the wrists, they dragged her from the chamber. Because the soulless know the Devil, she screamed not nor struggled for freedom but smiled and stared lovingly back into the dark tunnel.

... _Vicar_ returned from recollections and remembered that _Francis_ , while in the academy, once wounded the forearm of Thomas. In need of justifying transformation, he noted his error and corrected, "No! The right arm." He then reached for _Adona_ , but youthfully, she pulled the arm away and pressed it against her chest with the left hand while moving behind the left shoulder of Cornell.

"Help me, sir." Her voice would have softened the most hardened scoundrel into aiding her as his own. Galant as his brother, Cornell stepped forward while raising a symbolic hand gesture, meaning, 'Let us be reasonable' though aware that _Vicar_ would persuade and owned the crowd.

Observant of the impressionable eyes of Kitty upon him, _Vicar_ spoke, "Aye! Cornell...," _Adona_ rolled her eyes at Kitty, who lowered her gaze first, "act with faith, not thine bronze." He sighed, "I will not further molest 'er, but, please, allow this stranger in our abode to explain 'er presence. She seeks Thomas. Why?" Cornell and _Francis_ dipped once their chins agreeably.

"I am the sister of Juliana...," hearing murmurs, she paused before continuing. "In Canterbury, I had heard of 'er death and the gallant man, Thomas Henry, who tried protecting 'er. I wish to thank 'im and pray at 'er grave and be on my way." Hearing the name Juliana Krass encouraged shouts, "There's no fit grave for a heathen witch on God's earth!" "Devil worshiper!" by which _Francis_ observed _Vicar's_ crowd advantage. Purposely, thereafter, _Adona_ avoided repeating the name, Juliana Krass.

"Do ye believe 'er a witch!?" Cornell peered about, his presence and aristocratic air subdued the usual contentious fair, "There ye have it! Poor, lonely, and wishes to morn a sister and honor a hero. Like any of ye would." He turned to her. "Thomas, my brother! -died trying to save...," He angered anew at the thought of Thomas dying disgracefully for an ignoble and cursed woman in the eyes of family and countrymen. "Ye best say thine prayers and be gone." In opposing company, his words alluded to the best option for her safety.

In their youth, countrymen, as _Vicar_ , admired the Henry family, founders of the Academy of Swordsmen est. 1154. Thus, addressing noblemen and heirs by right, required certainly respect. Yet firm understanding of aristocratic pomp as not to infer condemnation or lose ones' head, literally.

"Faithful Protestant countrymen have joined the fight- we intend on cleansing the land of demons seeking to claim 'er. For that, the Malleus Maleficarum had been written- Lo! Three tests of faith for believers such as I- the first, my dearest, Kitty, recognizing the Devil's deception, be it in the flesh, materials or the tongue of men, noble or otherwise. Listen and learn 'is ways; the second, trusting and walking in faith. Trust God's written word! Thirdly, know thyself 'courageous' for demons have no mercy on the weak. And God hath commanded me- all of His faithful of Lancashire and King Henry the _III_...that-" His eyes held _Adona_ , then of-a-sudden, his body trembled throughout, eyelids and jaw flung open alarmingly, and the necessity of air occupied his mind; with eyes fixed in horror, his hand clamped about his neck, as Kitty, Cornell, and _Francis_ aided him.

Oh, but behind them, _Adona_ , alone and vulnerable, reacted protectively; hidden under her sleeve, the tiny right fist clenched rhythmically as if _Vicar's_ contractions universally conjoined. Reminiscent of a giant hooded mute posted on the guillotine scaffold, she gleefully observed _Vicar_ clutching and pulling at the cape of _Francis_ , to his left. Though concealed, _Adona_ narrowed and controlled the 'might' of expenditure while backing out of the Pendle Tavern. Moments later, _Vicar_ collapsed on the rank flooring and inhaled air greedily, as paleness about his face flushed ruby again. But what madness from the Gods?! _Vicar_! A man of wisdom and learning, now mute as a burned witch, seemingly without cause.

Touched by death and black magic, via pen and scroll, _Vicar Auguste_ blamed the attack on the insanity of Pagan witchcraft. Kitty then read instructions and disciplines from the Maleficarum [...be not fooled good Christians nor doubtful of transformation. Be aware, Pagans through the centuries thrive on rich royal blood as the 'seed of life'. Beware! Reincarnation...]. Inspired and obedient to her grandfather, Kitty, modest by nature, yet through belief, now served and nourished vengeance.

*****

Our bartender and Lora recalled, not long hence, like Thomas, Cornell disappeared from Lancashire with _Adona_ and ceased pub activity from April to June. Rumor reached the tavern that Cornell was spotted at the markets of Canterbury. Superstitiously, condemning whispers implied that a ghostly bride in the form of Juliana Krass returned and claimed the brother of Thomas Henry.

Kitty and _Francis_ Kingsman set out for Canterbury and met Jan Hush, and friend of Kitty. They perused the markets and gathered leads- Cornell was seen entering the rim of the Canterbury Forest. Witnesses noted the apparent obedience and silence of the laboring man, carrying sacks of herbs and root while trudging numbly in the shadow of a pale woman as tall as he, and clothed in a gray one-piece robe. Curiously, and with a vigilant eye, the woman appeared expectant of a child.

A childhood friend of Cornell, _Francis,_ a non-believer, also an alumnus of the Academy of Swordsmen, found no necessity in honoring the Maleficarum instructions which bade them [...seek out God's enemies: heretics, worshipers of the Pagan faith, and witches... punishable by hanging or burning at the stake...].

For a time, hidden amongst shadowy crevasses, Kitty, Jan, and _Francis_ listened and watched. _Francis_ , born into provincial faith, and reserved in demeanor, assumed the noble responsibility of the souls of the youth in his keep. Thus, he wisely offered comparisons motivated by his friend's temporary state of confusion or torpor. Directly, he believed not in magic and hexes then recalled _Auguste's_ words then spoke of the necessity of _'recognizing the Devil's deception.'_ "If the Devil be in Cornell, I accept that fight for 'is soul, however, that handbook deceived us, even the great _Auguste_ \- forgive me, Kitty. But it is not my truth, but that of God- it is deceptive! Shameful! And does not recognize Pagan Laws and faith. God looks upon us now and condemns us! Lo! Where art thine hearts? Blackened by what we have seen and will do. I dread the thought of possibly killing a friend and countrymen."

Crouched at his side, the girls, affected by his speech, contemplated silently. He went on. "Recognize 'im, for the Devil is here, but never embrace 'im!" at his core, the words repeated internally and exposed the suffrage of abandoning moral principles.

Finally, the pounding of hooves upon the hard dirt approached from the east before _Auguste_ , riding a broad steed, broke through the trees. Hurriedly, he and willing villagers dismounted and entered the cave, swords, daggers, and noose at-the-ready.

Quickly, Jan and Kitty broke cover and followed _Francis_. After several meters into the cave, a curious wind extinguished their torches. Clanging steel, yelling, and horrible screams of men dying, followed. Under the den of this terror, laughter mocked, teased and flirted with death as it were. In the dark, they moved right and met a dim light source ahead. _Francis_ led to the mouth of the widening cave structure. Before them, and backed against the cauldron, Cornell breathed heavily and appeared dazed and stared wildly; at his feet, two motionless bodies. _Vicar_ stood a blades length behind Cornell, as he swept the sword tip left then right in a 'dance of death'. _Francis_ then muttered about the girl's safety before springing forth. As swordplay persisted, our girls stared transfixed at the grimacing and panting woman, naked and half submerged in the cauldron.

Courageously, Cornell died, failing at protecting the woman, believed a witch. Shortly, thereafter, _Vicar_ insisted on viewing her right forearm- there! Under-growth below the skin surface, markings he believed justified transformation, that she carried the blood of Cornell. As taught in the Maleficarum; he believed it just, as the dominion sanctioned acts of retribution. Or hath belief justified vengeance in His name?

However, during the weeks, thereafter, Kitty dreamt nightmarishly about the secret alliance with Jan, _Francis,_ the woman, and Cornell, which she allowed before _Vicar's_ arrival to the cave. For the woman spoke madly of accelerated growth in response to Christian attacks! Was this too part of transformation? Francis resolved that repeating madness through retribution marked them no less heretics and under inquisition as Pagans.

In Pendle Tavern, at _Vicar's_ corner-table, sat Jan and Kitty, nattering in a low hush, "Ye saw the scare. Methinks the Maleficarum bares the truth- transformation is real." Kitty assured.

"Ye believe she'll grow quickly, don't ye?" her tone doubtful.

"I think it true, only witches transform- non-believers."

"Ye've seen it then?"

"No, but I believe in grandfather. His eyes are mine." Kitty peered about.

"I don't believe that. And we're fools to have believed 'er. She was mad! No one fetched the infant. We should 'ave taken it," Jan proclaimed sorrowfully.

"But we had to help the wounded. How were we to steal it away? And even a Pagan mother wouldn't be so cruel to 'er own infant. I believe that someone did take it."

"Blimey! But who and why?" the voice of Jan lowered, again.

"Don't know. But don't ye remember? She beseeched, 'I haven't much time. I seek protectors, would ye not aid a dying mother? Hear me, when my time comes for death, from my tormentor, wrap 'me' in that frock and hide me there...,' "And she was right, shortly, thereafter, grandfather arrived and they killed 'er. We should've killed 'er, but in 'er magic lair, we became hexed and protected 'er against our will."

"Ye nutter! Do ye hear ye-self? She was mad- 'wrap me' in a frock? Is that the mind of a sane mother? Bloody hell!"

"Aye! She was mad. That's why Grandfather believes that purification never ends. Regardless of Pagan law. It must be done."

"Ye don't mean it! And who are we to judge? Let the Dominion-" Jan advised.

"No. If she wasn't a Pagan witch, why did they 'ang 'er then? And I believe in the Maleficarum- transformation is as real as the Devil which means that baby is-"

"Rubbish! It isn't possible ye fool! Yer eyes saw nothing." Jan, undisclosed, grew concerned in the transformation of her friend.

At the familiar sound and tumbling of lock mechanisms, our bartender looked up. At the open door, stood a hooded figure clothed in an oversized familiar frock. Kitty and Jan paused and stared as if bewitched.

"Girl!" said Nash Pendle, "Back to bed with ye! Ha! Whom do ye seek at this hour? Ye'll not-" Turning her shoulders and facing him, in reaction, his eyes enlarged in a fixed state and mouth slacked open.

Before speaking, she pulled the hood fully back, "I seek my protectors," she studied the horde at the far end of the room and then patrons at the bar, and they her, "...As I remember, yes! They keep the company of a mute, though he is my tormentor." Hearing that, Catherine 'Kitty' _Auguste_ , fully petrified, stirred in her seat. As the girl drew near, recognizing them, Kitty openly gasped at the resemblance to Cornell and _Adona_. Jan stared in a deadening silence, examining the white face, black dangling hair, dirty oversized frock, and bare feet of the girl.

Muted and stunned, Kitty, quite instantly found 'killing' a difficult commitment in the name of the Maleficarum. For courage, she then clasped the dagger hilt inside her mantle vest. Gleaming at the suspect, Kitty recollected the horrid night her grandfather fell cursed and mute in the tavern. Within her, his voice rose and motivated, 'In our name, Kitty, wound and subdue then seek a scare on the right forearm.'

*****

Note, henceforth, dear reader, the format change from Short Story to Flash- A choice befitting the whims of creation and a writer's attitude.

In Pendle Tavern, enraged at the infliction upon her grandfather, Kitty unsheathed the dagger then purposefully leapt from the stool, shouting, "Die witch!! Back to hell with ye!!"

Stunned tavern patrons stared and shrieked, yet the girl stood fearless. In reaction, Jan reached and grasped the sleeve of Kitty's vest mantle, momentarily restricting Kitty before pulling free. Feeling under Jan's protection, the girl stared at the rush of Kitty. Jan did not heed and rushed up behind Kitty and forcibly pulled the mantle's hood. And Kitty, while in full thrust, sliced upward only through air. For her efforts, she slammed backside on the floor, the dagger fleeing her grip. Our bartender now held the dagger and stood between attacker and target.

"Kitty!? What spirit that ye attack a stranger in my abode!" Our bartender spoke on behalf of reputation and fairness.

"Hardly a stranger! She's the witch that cursed grandfather!" Kitty believed, while tavern patrons mumbled.

"I'm no such creature. I've lost my way and seek shelter," said the girl.

"If this be so, how does she know of ye?" our bartender keenly noted.

"I know not- perhaps she mistakes me for a thieving lover." Our youthful figure hinted at perversion. And quietly and hidden under the girl's sleeve, her closed fist on which slid the thumb to and fro over the middle section of the index finger.

"D-Don't be f-fooled...she...," slowly Kitty swayed before falling into Jan's arms which lowered Kitty to the floor. And as experienced by _Auguste_ , while Kitty laid attended, the girl fled the tavern.

*****

For her actions, Kitty's belief in the Maleficarum held condemnation for many of the tavern non-believers. However, believers, Ozzy Fields, Patrick O'Shea, and Lilith Gale, assistant to _Auguste_ , would pursue the girl and cause. As written in Maleficarum text, _Auguste_ believed that witches required specific sources for survival, only found among the ranks of noble men. Quickly, the next morning, Auguste sought and carried a warning to Lord Henry.

"Yer son, Cornell Henry, died defending a witch. And she will return," said Lilith Gale.

"We've heard the gossip, but speak not of blasphemy in this house!" warned Lord Henry.

"Yes, my lord," replied Gale. " _Auguste_ believes himself hexed, my lord. But most important, we mean to warn ye and yer son against further attack." She avoided using 'last' son.

"I have been warned. I have ears everywhere. But why again?" Lord Henry required clarity.

"My lord, the Dominion sanctioned the necessity for the Maleficarum- she will seek familiar royalty again," Gale offered.

"She'll taste cold steel, by God! We've been warned, now out!" he paced angrily then cautioned his eldest son and heir.

*****

Our bartender and Mistress Browning recalled horrors of the nights.

Mr. Woodhead, owner of Woodhead Christian Orphanage, Headmaster Jones, and I sat discussing the Royal Guards forced search of the premises. They sought Heath Oxton.

Three months earlier, Lord Henry and his Royal Guards found no sign of the young girl in the territory; however, the announcement, 'Countrymen! Heed the call! Nephew and heir to the throne of House Oxton, Heath Oxton is missing! Come forth with information and claim a reward of 50 pounds!' Quickly searched would be the Canterbury Forest near Woodhead Christian Orphanage. Indeed, Royal Guards found Heath Oxton, yet absent of memory.

Three months after in the tavern.

Lilith Gale read _Auguste's_ message to Kitty, "Fools! It's been months, she's no longer a girl!" Alas! Kitty, Ozzy Fields, Patrick O'Shea, Lilith Gale, and additional believers, set off for Canterbury Forest. At the forest edge, _Auguste_ unveiled a tactic of secrecy. Gale would approach the orphanage and inquire about residency but should not enter. Knowing witches, _Auguste_ worried of Gale's safety and detection; as he discovered, witches possessed supernatural instincts of survival, unlike mortal men.

At the entrance, Headmaster Jones and Mistress Browning spoke of two mothers near delivery, one 'out of wedlock' and nameless, the other unannounced- young, pale, and skinny. With the strange and unprovoked news, Gale departed.

Within weeks, the women delivered, and as mothers, they became confidants. While spying on the orphanage, Ozzy and Patrick heard babies crying and informed _Auguste_. He knew Lord Henry's diplomatic intent in swaying to public opinion. Locking the girl in the dungeon would not suffice. They must and would act independently.

At the entrance, argument and protests raged- Headmaster Jones claimed there must be a clergy present for the forced removal of an occupant. Yet, the horde would not be denied and pushed inside. While rumbling down the hallway, they pushed doors open. Then she appeared, a pale, skinny woman carrying a baby. "There she is! The witch!" Kitty shouted. While seized, _Adona_ showed no fear. Before the horde noosed and hung her, _Auguste_ searched the right arm of baby and mother, finding nothing. 'Yes, Oxton had no scare!' he mumbled.

Yet, unbeknownst to the horde, and before their arrival, the mothers fled out the rear exit and into the woods. In her mind, the nameless mother believed devil worshipers would attack the orphanage and sacrifice infants- a lie whispered to her. Yet alone, the pale skinny mother returned.

_Auguste_ questioned Headmaster Jones, 'Have ye accepted Pagans in this Christian orphanage?' Headmaster Jones fervently denied the charge. Yet, proof that _Adona_ tricked the staff, _Auguste_ believed. While they watched her body swaying from the fingers of a tree trunk, _Auguste_ questioned the legitimacy of the baby they seized.

*****

Our bartender recalled Auguste speaking of matters: Count Oxton, nephew to Lord Henry, found but remembered nothing and now occupied his uncle's dungeon.

Long a trait of Lord Henry, and ashamed of public scrutiny, he summoned Auguste for guidance. "'Look there! The fool in the House of Henry!'" That's what they'll heckle. And I shall not have it! Whatever shall we do on this account?" Lord Henry demanded.

"My lord, he writes, 'Set Heath free that we may follow 'im to the witch that has hexed 'im.'" Gale read.

"Set 'im lose!?! To wonder my city and recognized as a mad fool!? What am I to say to my subjects? Nay! There is too much at stake!" Lord Henry proclaimed.

"He says, 'Sneak 'im out under the seclusion of darkness and deposit 'im far into the forest near the orphanage, where he was found.'"

"And then?"

"He, himself, will lead us to the witch," Gale assured.

"Witch or not, what if he's recognized? And if yer spies are wrong, and she's not found?"

"We are guided by the Maleficarum and our dominions- these are anointed instructions. Blue-blooded noblemen are bound to 'er until released, and if he's recognized, then ye have the right of execution," Gale said coldly.

"That's foul play, but I have no choice," Lord Henry conceded.

"'A peasant killed here or there will not be missed, and no one of nobility travels at night in the woods.'" Gale finished reading.

*****

Mistress Browning recalled: As predicted, when Heath sought the orphanage, he was quickly collected by guardsmen and bound. Shortly, thereafter, I answered a rapping on the door, on the other side, stood _Auguste_ and Royal Guards.

"Ye!?! Ye and yer horde of heathens shall not step one foot into this house!" I recognized _Auguste_ , Kitty, and the rest.

"Good Mistress," Gale spoke, "I beseech forgiveness and yer guidance."

"And what of the others?"

"He's mute," Kitty announced, pointing to _Auguste_.

"God punished 'im for thieving a baby!" I harshly and justly scolded.

"That was a witches' baby!" Oh, what a cold sort, Kitty became.

"I've read the Maleficarum and its vile dribble. Did ye kill it?" In my reply, the acknowledgment that I was no fool.

"We serve our god and Lord Henry," Kitty replied.

"Then whom do ye seek?" The guard's presence did intimidate my obedience.

"We've been watching the house. Don't cover for 'er! Fetch the nameless mother and the baby." Kitty asserted.

"Very well, but ye will discover disappointment on yer own." I whispered to the maiden who scuttled away down the hall. "Still, who are ye to judge? That's God's work!" I reminded that obedience to God mattered.

"Ye've no doubt heard the words of our dominion, requiring the faithful to eliminate the threat of witches...," When she didn't mention the infant's fate, I knew.

Down the hall and into the room, the nameless mother walked. In front of the fire she sat, looking at no one. I would help 'er where necessary.

"Where did she lead ye?" Kitty spoke absent of courtesy.

"I suppose in spending years alone and homeless, the darkness of the forest suited me," equally vacant, the nameless mother replied.

"...That is not what I-" Kitty rudely began.

"Is she of any relation to ye?" Rightly so, a clear tone of defiance followed. "I'm told ye killed her, and hung 'er like a carcass- believing 'er a witch? And because of yer selfish beliefs, ye did not see a woman of great courage!" The nameless mother continued staring into the fire.

"Ye honor a witch? A Pagan!?" Kitty appeared insulted.

"...though ye didn't threaten me directly, she said ye were all mad! -Heretics coming to ravage us. And she was right in leading me to safety, returning only to be hung."

"What must have motivated 'er?" I would regret being deceptive and where it led.

"Curious, why is yer child not with ye?" That girl, Gale, had little feeling.

"Do ye wish to hang 'er like _Adona!?_ " Rightly, the nameless mother spoke most unrestrained.

_Auguste_ scribbled quickly a note, and that girl, Gale read, '"Let me tell of yer experience- the baby grew rapidly, walked within months, and even spoke-'" Gale paused for our reaction.

Never had I heard such madness! But uncontrolled, the nameless mother reacted and faced the horde. Her face and eyes reflected recognition. Quickly, feeling exposed, the poor dear quickly turned away and faced the fire again.

"Aye! Ye see!" exalted Kitty. "She's witnessed the unexplainable! No mortal mind understands witchcraft! Hear me nameless mother, only witchcraft can explain how ye came in possession of that creature. And by yer silence, a witch walks freely among good Christians...," Kitty boasted triumphantly.

"Ye'r all seduced by the Devil. And I will speak no more," she retorted inhospitably.

"Enough! Ye have yer answer. She no longer knows the whereabouts of the baby nor where it's been taken!" I tried protecting 'er- the least of my efforts.

"She wishes that we believe a mortal baby merely walked off into the world, leaving its mother. Ha! Ha! Fools! Ye both-" Gale railed.

"Please, dismiss them, Mistress Browning," Gale irritated us supremely and warranted dismissal.

"Yes. Now go! Ye'r no longer welcome here." I pointed to the entrance.

When the intruders left us, I sat beside the nameless mother.

"Mistress Browning, I remember little of my mother, but I felt she would sacrifice herself for me, as did _Adona_. I believe she died protecting me and the baby that she and I thought mine. But is that true, Mistress Browning? Please tell me, when I laid unconscious, what madness happened here on the night we gave birth? That girl spoke a truth about the baby- it was no child of mine, and yet, I defended it like a mother. I beseech ye, what happened to my baby?" Trembling as she might, the horrors of childbirth spilled from her eyes, as firelight played upon my shameful face.

"I promise that before our souls turn from flesh into spirit, and we stand before God, the truth shall be revealed. So, help me, nameless mother. So, help me." While the fire blazed and crackled, my arm draped like a shawl across the shoulders of the mother.

*****

60 years on, repentant Headmistress Browning, formally, Loose Lora the whore, neared the end of living and entered confession.

"In the name of the Holy Father and Christianity, this sacrament of absolution from guilt and sin is yours in confession. Mistress Browning, yer vessel to God is before ye. What, if any, are yer confessions?" Father Edelman sat patiently.

"In the name of the Father and Son, I have not lived purely and saintly as was my duty. I've sinned in His name, and, thereby, confess- In my youth, I harbored a Pagan in God's Christian house. And Father, I was deceitful in the worst way to a nameless mother, and encouraged madness. Forgive me."

"In yer obedience, I nor God shall judge thee," Father Edelman assured.

"...Mind ye, Father, I did not recognize 'er...," in bed and covered in blankets, she laid, "because when taken, she was but a babe in the nameless mother's arms."

"For that we cannot be faulted, the Devil has many disguises," Father Edelman reminded.

"Still, we ignored our suspicious feelings," referring to Headmaster Jones and the maiden.

"Leave nothing out, banish these sins," Father Edelman coached routinely.

"Yes, well, for a Christian girl, we found it strange that the taverns were 'er refuge. The rumors questioned what sort of people we were accepting. A whore?! Indeed, that cannot be judged! We accept all Christians...," she paused thoughtfully.

"I praise yer commitment," Father Edelman acknowledged.

"Announced by Lord Henry, Count Oxton recovered 'is memory by that time. One night, while alone, she confessed, 'Mistress, ye've graciously opened yer heart to me, but, please, forgive me, for I've betrayed yer trust. I'm Pagan and will leave in the daylight if I'm permitted a last night of rest,' "Which I allowed 'er" She continued, 'I will sound evil and blasphemous to ye. But for centuries, my people have been hunted, burned or hung in an evil cycle of Christian retribution! Perhaps ye believe I came from demons, not from a mother as sweet as yours. It's mad, this thing called 'belief!' I've done no wrong unto another in the name of faith.

Mistress, I have faint memory of who I was- memories of family died long, long ago [...] But he knew I was born a Pagan, and we happily married. That I recall. [...] Mistress, I would die horribly at 'is hand, over and over. Now, it is but a great sadness, but I know not why he did so. And now, I imagine, to his pleasure, I remember ever dark burning, hanging, and rebirth [...] I am whorishly cursed by eternal thirst for royal men, as well. Now, I am soulless and desire an end to it. I am like a vampire isolated in darkness- without the love of light, living has no meaning, allure nor purpose. And where will my soul rest...?'

While she spoke, I felt used and manipulated and seriously contemplated 'er removal. But my horror tempered by the sheer desperation in the retelling. Why I did not cast 'er out that instant, I know not." The Mistress paused and stared at Father Edelman.

"In yer heart, God laid forgiveness, a virtue not meant to be contained, Mistress," he said proverbially.

"But I indulged 'er, Father, 'Are ye being hunted by _Auguste?'_ I asked, and she acknowledged as much, 'Mine and my people's tormentor' she said. I prayed for 'er. What else was I to do?"

"And were they 'er nemesis?" Father Edelman fell to curiosity.

"Yes, indeed, I witnessed it in this very house. In my angst, the next day, I sent the maiden with word of the girl to the Royal Guards, but they arrived too late. She had gone. Surprisingly, the following night, the nameless mother came to me- pale, hungry, bleeding from cuts, and shaking terribly! Apparently, _Auguste_ and Kitty discovered the whereabouts of 'er home, where they first, and strangely, checked her arms for scares before sparing 'er life. She said. But they spared no sympathy and hung _Adona_ in front of 'er. And as promised, I revealed the sinful and shameless truth- I was instrumental in replacing 'er still-born with the twin from _Adona_ as reprieve from the death. Oh, father how I beseeched her forgiveness on bended knees. But she 'heard me not- for she was full of despair, hated me and spoke not a word; rather, we cried endlessly, it seemed. When she departed alone and set to wondering, I wondered what would become of 'er."

"I have something for ye," he retrieved and unfolded a letter from his pocket, "from yer bartender friend, Nash Pendle. I'll read, _'Lora, a lag like me-self isn't long for the world. Ye'll carry on long after me. It's been a good life, and ye've been a good woman and friend in it. But in the end, so that I be purified, I will confess before God that the Devil's ghosts I did witness. And though we've been judge harshly for it, ye best do the same, lass. I'm writin' this so y'er not alone when the time comes. It's also proof that y'er not daft! Ha! Ha! If 'es still alive, this letter will be in the hands of Father Edelman or someone in 'is clergy. Father, a good friend she is, and we witnessed them together. I swear on me grave. See ye soon lass, and we'll hoist a pint. Nash.'_ In yer former profession, ye both closed the tavern together?" Father Edelman noted.

"Yes. It became unbearable, and we didn't see much of the other after the closing. Can ye imagine, Father, every night at the same hour, just as ye fancy, the ghostly spirits of _Auguste_ and Kitty materializing before ye? Both in their favorite stools, sitting and plotting over and again the burning of Juliana Krass and others. And this came as a shock that after disowning _Adona,_ 'is wife! -a day after she birthed a girl, _Auguste_ disowned it, thinking 'is very child hexed. Oh, the things 'es done. Horrible! And becoming mute was God's punishment. I told them that. Like vile hemlock, the Maleficarum turned 'im and 'is granddaughter away from the guidance and sanctity of Christianity, killing who they were."

"Belief in the Malleus Maleficarum, Mistress Browning, put forth by local dominion, hath disillusioned many of the faithful in the community. Exchanging one belief for another is as deceptive as the former. _Auguste_ , by unflinching belief in purification, created the self-illusion of transformation- Pagans into witches. A powerful and consuming belief such that a good soul turned devilish and murdered his wife. I've witnessed over and again that belief without sound reasoning or God's grace and preservation supports misunderstanding, hate, and vengeance between mankind.

True belief rises from the discovery of division in our hearts, minds, and souls, such that we observe the processes of separation between Christian and Pagan. In our call to Christianity, the true meaning of scripture seeks unity, not division between Christian and Pagan or believers or non-believers. If not that, what then is our call and purpose to Christianity?

Priest Edelman then soothed his chin, "...Disowned the infant, did he?"

"Sorry?"

"Curious- _Auguste_ and _Adona_ never named their baby?"

"...Bollocks! Ye don't mean?"

###

### THE HYPNOTIST

First resistance: In 1940, _Witold Piłecki_ (1901-1948), an officer of courage from the _Polish_ Underground, penetrated _Auschwitz I_ and la

bored for two years organizing secret 'resistance cells' inside the camp before escaping with catastrophic news and information for the world...

11-24-1945, _Nuremberg_ , Germany: Week three of the _WWII_ Tribunals. World Allies versus the German Third _Reich_. (Third Empire)

Investigation topic: Wartime Experimentation.

Egregiously, sympathetic governments had harbored and protected top-ranking German officials, while allied forces had concerns the Tribunals moral and humane responsibilities carried faint influence of quelling the tumult in the _European_ and International Communities.

In response, outraged local and national _Polish Jewish_ citizens and sympathizers merged and formed the _Nazi_ Hunters that passed sentence over the politically enigmatic and ineffective Tribunals; their actions, some illegal, spoke for the victim's social and cultural rights, sovereignty, and human dignity.

_Dr_. _Erik Wagner_ had returned home to _Berlin_ , Germany after the war and resumed his studies in Hypnotic Therapy. During his three-year enlistment, stationed at _Auschwitz I,_ he and other colleagues experimented, although forbidden by the Geneva Convention, on the fragility of the human psyche. _Nazi_ Therapists believed trenchant 'suggestions' into the subconscious or 'will' of the patient, theoretically, allowed external control.

Inferior _Jewish_ minds, they agreed, qualified for experimentation for suicide missions, thus, their theories had been tested:

On the early morn of 1943, in the _Otwock_ village, German Reserve Police Battalion 101 had been deployed without a directive. Upon arrival, their SS officer had ordered, "Kill everyone that isn't an able-bodied _Jewish_ male or female." Thus, fifteen hundred villagers had been executed by dusk.

Months later, a young _Jewish_ patient followed his instructions to the _Otwock_ Zegota Organization where _Rabbi Ziegfeld_ , leader of the Polish Resistance, had been tracked.

At fifteen years of age, the youthful schlepp walked solemnly in front of his equally young German escort. Approaching the Zegota- silhouetted behind the dewy fog- they hid in the doorway of an abandoned home. When the hour struck, in a final gesture, the young German soldier handed the youth a loaded 9mm German _Luger_ which he thrust into his waistband- prior to the mission, he had learned its cruel mechanics. As final instructions, the German soldier 'suggested,' "Shoot _Rabbi Ziegfeld_ five times and then shoot yourself in the head...blödmann." At the word, the features of the _Jewish_ youth slacked, as the eyes vacated of life while nodding slowly, numbly, and obediently before stepping from the doorway into the yielding, dense fog. Behind him, the young German soldier grinned defiantly of his given orders, and, thereby, in fearing snipers, declined following the ' _Jewish_ _Schwein_ '. (Stupid man)

Fifteen years thereafter, in the lobby of his practice, _Dr. Schroeder_ stomped his feet upon the mat, shook his umbrella free of drops, removed his mantel and hung both items on the coat stand. While engaged, _Fräulein Sontag_ , his secretary, greeted him and routinely announced the stocked 'letters of importance' placed on his desk, _Der Berliner_ newspaper, and hot water for tea.

From the kitchen desk, next to his work desk, he flipped his cup topside up then filled it with hot water, the tea infuser with tea, and dropped it into the cup. While the tea steeped, he opened the dark curtains which allowed a natural sheen of light into the room.

Before his first patient arrived, _Dr. Schroeder_ tore open the envelope bearing the medical seal indicating professional correspondence. He read:

April 9, 1960

Dr.Psy. K. Gröhl,

42 Körnig Straß

Bellhausen, DDR

Genehmigung#3369810-7

_Dr. Schroeder_ ,

I'm _Dr.Psy. K._ _Gröhl_ from the _Bellhausen_ Mental Health Clinic. Currently, my patient, _Yadon_ _Kaufman_ , suffers from an Aggressive Behavioral Disorder.

After reviewing your credentials, I'm authorizing his transfer, as I'm unable to help his condition, the origin of which he refuses to divulge.

I've enclosed a copy of the patient's records and session profile. I feel it's a matter of life and death.

Thank you,

_Dr.Psy._ _K._ _Gröhl_

In the lobby, the following week, chatting voices aroused _Dr. Schroeder_ , by which he replied to the knock on the door; _Fräulein Sontag_ entered and introduced _Yadon_ _Kaufman_. As their eyes met, _Dr. Schroeder_ , in a glimpse, assessed and justified the analysis of _Dr. Gröhl_ ; _Yadon_ , at length, eyed him ignobly, searching beyond the façade, it appeared. Further, the handshake, the doctor perceived, felt hesitant and quick in its execution, as if the doctor's hand carried a pestilence. And _Yadon_ spoke peculiarly, as though he began speaking internally yet expressed outwardly the end-thought in 'question form'.

"...and you're a proud veteran?" Emotionless in tone, his foreboding eyes searched the doctor's aging face, spotted complexion, and thinning light brown hair.

Observing and taking no offense, _Dr. Schroeder_ , in helping the patient, will remain detached while respecting the aggressive, mental condition as analyzed by _Dr. Gröhl_.

Though surprisingly, as _Dr. Schroeder_ offered tea, he delighted in the orderly manner in which _Yadon_ prepared. On the coffee table in front of the couch, the man of thirty, from his coat pocket, gathered two bags; one of tobacco, the other containing loose tea leaves. On either side of the cup, he laid each bag (tobacco on the right); from it, he retrieved papers and meticulously rolled a cigarette, secured it between his lips and lit the end. From the tea bag, he filled the infuser with an approximate amount and silently waited for a mature mixture. Without comment, the doctor has discovered the stubbornness of _Yadon_ , who answered no questions until after his first calming sip.

Thereafter, as requested, _Yadon_ laid on the couch; his eyes closed, while the doctor sat perpendicular to him and questioned about past trauma.

"...of my past trauma?" Ashtray on his chest, _Yadon_ smiled meekly in contradiction of noxious images of cold, rank laboratories, faces of unfamiliar white men dressed in lab coats, long needles, used, sweaty, leather straps, curious electronic boxes, wires, and stinging cultural ridicule. "But you're indifferent. Hmm? Doctor?" _Yadon_ assumed, "about the _Jew'_? When I was a boy, my families blessed lives were taken and imprisoned in _Auschwitz..._ only my sister survived." Impetuously, uncivilized upheaval and confinement separated him from family- the trauma unraveled his life; thus, the corners of his eyes bled tears of which drained down his neck. "...interesting...such cruel methods printed in your...best-selling book?" he said sarcastically then paused thoughtfully, "...and you laughed- I remember- you all did at us white, shivering boys in our underwear- boys strapped in chairs and drugged to quiet our screams and crying...," _Yadon_ paused and peered obtrusively at the doctor, who appeared vacant and unmoved, "...and your publications, Mein Führer Ruft and _The Will and the Hypnotic Mind?_ " His tone suggested a caged man spoke to a libertine man. "Tell me," his aversion evident, "do the books teach of healing, God, and love for the children?" He steered his eyes from the doctor to the ceiling then tapped the cigarette free of ashes. (My Leader Calls)

"I'm here to help _you_ , _Yadon_." Rude beneath his façade, _Dr. Schroeder_ reflected on the unique odor of alcohol and the numbing warmth of Jägermeister, a liquor which tempered the cold laboratory atmosphere. Drink and 'willing' women, hidden from ranking officials, often accompanied the hours of experimentation. In contrast to the present circumstances, he and his comrades proudly celebrated medical achievements of the patient's physical and mental tolerances. Concealing a grin, proud memories swelled within him- 'I believe I act in accordance with the will of the Almighty Creator- by defending myself against the _Jew_ , I am fighting for the work of the Lord.' He mindfully quoted _Hitler_. Thus, he dismissed _Yadon_ , the _Jew's_ ramblings.

_Yadon_ placed the ashtray on the coffee table; then quickly repositioned himself in a sitting posture and stood up. _Dr. Schroeder_ , slightly alarmed, acted mindful of arousing confrontation and did not commit to staring _Yadon_ in the eyes. Still dressed in his long winter coat, _Yadon_ stared down at the doctor, momentarily, before removing it; he watched the doctor's eyes quickly avert from his right arm, whereupon the bicep, imprinted horizontally, one-quarter inch vertically positioned markings underlined by numbers: a barcode. _Yadon's_ reminder of the exodus from civility and culture into imprisonment and unjust, inhumane cruelty.

"...but this!" _Yadon_ patted the markings with his left index finger, "wasn't in your books or celebrated at your underground propaganda meetings, not a word." Often during 'book signings', _Dr. Schroeder_ encountered railing protesters scorning his heartless profiteering and possession of no remorse for contributing to the deaths and suffrage of millions of _Jewish_ people. It appeared, _Yadon_ has been one such stalking and studying protester.

_Yadon_ , while indexing his forthcoming words, again, threw himself on the couch, sighed, and visually studied the doctor.

"...and what did you discover after injecting and shocking us? How quickly a human can overdose on medication? How electricity rolled our eyes back into our skulls? How your psycho manipulation turned farm boys into suicide weapons against their own people!?!" his wounded soul frowned. "Do you remember _Otwock_!?!" His voice burst angrily. Appearing uneasy, should the patient become violent, _Dr. Schroeder_ stood and walked across the room to the window. "I've read of it. Please, continue."

"Well, our snipers didn't shoot- they recognized a _Jewish_ brother," he paused fondly and thoughtfully before glancing at his coat then continuing, "I was to kill my own _Rabbi Ziegfeld_." _Yadon_ grinned, as the doctor turned his head and eyes in his direction, recognition in his features- the 'subjects' knew their target's name. "You wrote... _Rabbi Ziegfeld_ was killed by ' _Hitler's_ soldiers' after 'resisting the occupying power'...how untrue!" he projected most triumphantly.

Momentarily, _Yadon_ daydreamed, hearing his sister's sweet voice, 'I beg you, let him help you, first. He's the one person who can erase the devil put in your mind.' Upon her knees, facing him, her hands propped his face, as he wept. 'Have faith, we can still live together.' Her head lowered into his lap; he stroked her hair. After they stood facing each other, he kissed her impassioned on both cheeks and forehead as if saying, 'Goodbye, my beloved sister and may God be with you,' then comfortingly said, 'See you later.'

_Yadon_ spoke at last, "No matter your deceit, you've succeeded. I've lived a paranoid life. I have never kept a woman- to bathe in her beauty and tenderness- so no children! As you can guess, my nieces and nephews naturally fear me. Can you imagine my isolation from family? Because, you see doctor, all my sorrowful life, since I was a fifteen-year-old farm boy, I've been haunted...every minute haunted, doctor, by the constant impulse and maddening voice," while shedding tears, he gathered his coat, stood up, slid his arms through the sleeves, thought of his family, and reached inside the inner pocket, "...your devilish voice! ordering me always to complete the mission... _blödmann Wagner_." _Dr. Schroeder_ aghast then wielded uncontrollably about; he recognized his 'suggested' trigger-word utilized on the patients, and his family name.

_Fräulein Sontag_ flinched, affected by the dying snippet of the doctor's voice followed by a succession of five unfamiliar 'popping' noises, a pause and then another. At the door, she called and twisted the knob after the long silence.

Within the hour, investigators questioned: _Fräulein Sontag_ hesitated, inconclusively, at the query, casting doubt if _Dr. Schroeder_ , had once or presently, possessed the 9mm German Luger loosely arranged in _Yadon's_ hand; faintly, she recalled, he had mentioned, 'owning a weapon'. Though she had been unaware the doctor kept it in the office. She reported.

Hours later, in the apartment of Psychologist, _Dr.Gröhl_ , and wife, _Kateline Kaufman_ _Gröhl_ , homicide investigators questioned the familiar couple; additionally, _Yadon_ and _Kateline Kaufman_ had been known Holocaust 'survivors'. The couple has confessed: _Yadon_ often 'disappeared' for months without disclosure (following leads to _Nazi_ officials in and out of the country) and hadn't been seen until two weeks ago. He lived with them.

As for _Kateline's_ letter found at the murder/suicide scene, a week prior, _Yadon_ had informed her of 'another' hypnotist with credentials for helping his condition, and without knowledge of the doctor's true identity, somehow tricked her into writing the letter. However, forty-eight hours later, after receiving an 'acceptance' letter from _Dr. Schroeder_ , _Yadon_ abruptly canceled the appointment. Though he apparently stole and sent the official letter, himself. They reported.

Curiously, based on the letter's addressee, _Yadon_ had neglected identifying the Hypnotist, _Dr. Schroeder_ , as _Dr. Wagner_ to his sister and psychiatrist. Uncharacteristic of _Nazi_ Hunters withholding high valued information from agents and volunteers.

Under investigation: (a) a clear motive, other than undocumented assumptions connecting _Yadon_ as a patient of _Dr. Wagner_ in _Auschwitz_ ; (b) a passport (missing) connecting _Yadon's_ travels with _Dr. Wagner's_ movements; (c) the suspicious fact that _Yadon_ , a patient of limited faculty, and obsessive mental condition, manipulated a professional psychologist and his psychiatrist; (d) the suspicion that _Yadon's_ sister, and, perhaps her husband, contrived the story and alibi in avoiding 'accomplice to murder' charges; and perhaps, having exhausted their medical and psychological resources, had accepted _Yadon's_ plea of desiring death.

Thereby, a mission could have been reluctantly justified and arranged, unselfishly, within a sister's heart by which she acted faithfully, respectfully, and lovingly; the inspectors had been reminded: _Jewish_ Law requires the faithful to break a commandment to ease the suffering of another. Hence, the murder (mission), it appeared, had been completed under well-conceived psychological and psychiatric forethought, unofficially.

###

Thank you for the support. If you did, indeed, enjoy this story experience, please, take a moment and leave a review at your favorite retailer.

Thanks!

Maynard Fuggent/Author
About Author: Bio

Maynard Fuggent has been self-taught in basic Psychology and Spiritual Mindfulness whereby his literary short stories inspire awareness. Uniquely, he combines psychology, awareness, wisdom, and fantasy in conveying methods and observations of sociology that initiate healing.

On his self-publishing journey, Maynard has published the articles/contributed _Living with Two Voices_ and _You Are Not Alone_ to Spotlight on Recovery (youth therapy/ online/print magazine). From his author blog, he continues posting short story literary fiction and Self-help articles from his Meditation Blog.

Recently, he didn't even receive an honorable mention from the Glimmer Train writing contest. Oh, how encouraging!

Discover upcoming Projects by Maynard Fuggent

### Henrietta Murray: Classic fiction novelette

### Witches Seed (full version in this volume): Fantasy classic

Connect with Me:

### Follow me on

### Google: https: //http://masterfulideasfiction.blogspot.com

### Follow on me Wattpad: <https://www.wattpad.com/user/MaynardFuggent>

### Follow me on

### Facebook: facebook.classic/fiction/homepage

### Twitter: //<https://twitter.com/MaynardFuggent>

### Subscribe to my blog: http://http://masterfulideasfiction.blogspot.com

### Favorite me at Smashwords:

Back to top

112
