Lost and Found Pt. 2

Im-Slatner reached among the strings of pouches hanging from the ceiling above his sleep-space, grabbing the cloth or leather bags and twisting them around to read their contents. Some contained gemstones, metal filings, or rare sands; others had the dessicated body parts of various creatures; still more were filled with pungent herbs. He wrapped the sack of fellweed he'd received from the Corsair in among the herbs, then snatched two bags of powdered iron on impulse.

"Slatner, I know you're in here!" The voice coming from the other room was vibrant and haughty. The Minion heard clopping footsteps on the stone floor as his visitor paced.

Im-Slatner shoved the pouches of iron into his pockets and straightened out his robes. He took a deep breath through his nostrils, swept aside the thick curtain dividing his workspace from his living space, and strode out to meet his guest.

"It's about time." Ophelia looked much as Im-Slatner remembered: tall and slender, beautiful in a distant, chiseled way. No hint of compassion touched her eyes. Her lips were curled up in a small smile, but the Minion knew this was caused by pride and gleeful superiority rather than joy. The woman extended a pale hand in his direction, fingers extended and palm down. A golden charm resembling a pair of inverted, nestled Vs glimmered on her wrist. "You may greet me."

"Welcome, Sister Ophelia," Im-Slatner said in his precise monotone. He did not react to her gesture. "To what do I owe this visit?"

The woman turned on her heel and the green hem of her dress flared out around her ankles. "I was passing through and noticed one of Cahllyn's ilk exiting your...quaint hovel," she said, inflecting contempt into her words. "Since when have you begun consorting with the enemy, Minion?"

Im-Slatner shook his head. "The Dread Sister remains neutral in the affairs between the Dark and Lucid Brothers. As I am bound to her, so am I bound to her decisions."

Ophelia snorted and strode towards the middle of the room, where the candles from Im-Slatner's earlier ritual still burned. She extended a hand and the bobbing flames licked upward eagerly, winding around one another. The fiery thread's tip followed her hand as she moved it slowly from side to side. "You are already once a traitor to Maurcke's vision of Etossa, so why not again? Cahllyn deigns to allow treasonous Minions to serve his will. Rhys," she spat, snatching the candle flames out of the air in her fist. The fires struggled in her grasp like tortured serpents for a moment before winking out of existence.

Im-Slatner exhaled slowly and laced his fingers together before him, close to the pockets in his robe. "If you have no business here, Elementalist, then I must ask that you depart. Marone remains a Freelance city."

"Of course it does." Ophelia's face curled into a sneer. "You realize that I will hunt down that Corsair and his slut as soon as they leave the city. They will burn for me. Living flesh does nicely, but that of the Realive...ah, that is a pyre of beauty beyond words."

Ophelia turned towards the door but stopped when her hand touched the handle. "Ah, yes. I ought to remind you that your precious neutrality will be violated if you should find it in your craven heart to warn the Cahllesque. Perhaps they shall escape me, for a time." She turned and looked at Im-Slatner over her shoulder, her green eyes flaring with excitement. "But you, you are right here and so immediately accessible. Whistle up whatever abominations you like in the name of Cs'e'erah, but they will only serve as additional fuel at your own cremation. The fires will burn all the hotter." Sister Ophelia chortled and stepped outside, leaving Im-Slatner in the cool darkness of his abode.

Once she had gone, the Minion hustled into his bedroom and loaded his belongings into the worn gunny-sack crammed under the small pallet which served as his bed. Tomes detailing Cs'e'erahn rituals and magic went into the bottom, carefully wrapped in a woolen blanket. What spare clothing he had went atop that, then the strings of reagents hanging over his bed. He retained some of the more valuable of his possessions, such as the small pouch of fellweed, on his person.

It was time to relocate to another Freelance city, perhaps Navat or Rebesway, something closer to East Borena and the Cs'e'erahn sphere of influence. He had grown complacent at the living he had chiseled out in Marone and it had led to trouble. He feared Ophelia. She was not only a skilled Flame Elementalist, but she stood high in the Maurckian heirarchy. She had more important things to do than check up on a single Minion who had turned his back on the Dark Brother. The sooner he could call upon his patroness's protection, the better.

He had just finished cinching the top of his gunny sack shut when he heard scrabbling at his front door. "Im-Slatner, it's Kathan. Let me in!"

The Minion snorted his ire. Just as he thought his day could not grow worse. What could the Mock Stalker want now?

Lost and Found

She grasped his hand in the dark. "Do you love me?" she whispered.

"Of course I do."

"More than anything?"

"Yes." They kissed.

"Do you promise to always stay with me?"

"I swear it."

Im-Slatner squinted at Lars as the incense-traced image and echoes out of time faded. The Minion's face, goggle-eyed, shimmered with moisture in the seance chamber's cloying heat. He knelt between two candles, the only sources of illumination in the room now that the incense sticks had burned away to ash. "You realize what it is that you ask," he said, enunciating the sentence with care.

"I swore to her, by her. I will not taint what we shared by breaking that vow." Lars loomed over the froglike Minion and tightened one hand into a fist. "I will do it."

Im-Slatner ponderously regained his feet, his taupe robes falling into smooth sheets of fabric around his hunched body. The Minion looked askance at the man and nodded. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a small pouch which clattered softly as he kneaded it. "Promises made, promises kept, honor before all else, mmm." Im-Slatner looked up at the man. "Were I as you are, Corsair, it would not be me to whom you speak at this moment or place. But that is why you have come, is it not? I am one who will do that which you will not permit of yourself."

"I have given you what you asked. Do as I request." Lars dreaded the Bonedaddy's request at first, but it was not murder the Minion sought, merely a satchel of fellweed.

"As you wish." Im-Slatner clasped his hands within his robe's voluminous sleeves. "A third time I say: is this what you wish to be? It shall not be as things once were."

"My ardor remains. The time which has passed is of no issue. Do it, Minion."

Im-Slatner upended the bag in his hand, spilling yellowed bones, fingers and toes and teeth and claws, onto the floor between the two candles. Rattling filled the room as the bones shuddered to a halt. Im-Slatner made a pensive sound as he regarded them.

The taint of Cs'e'erahn magics pushed against Lars's senses, overwhelming his mind with morbid sensations. "What do they say?" he asked, impatient and disgusted.

"Silence, Corsair. I commune with the Dread Sister." Im-Slatner's voice now had a lilting, singsong quality to it, a vibrancy that contrasted with the oppressive atmosphere. The volume of the Minion's voice dropped and his speech's cadence grew measured. Lars knew enough about the workings of magic that the Bonedaddy had begun his enchantment.

The two were alone in the room at one moment, and in the next a third person stood above the bones scattered between them. She opened her eyes and regarded Lars, whose knees buckled.

"Esther," he gasped in a thick voice.

The woman, pale and naked and beautiful, turned from the Corsair to face Im-Slatner. "You keep me, parter of the shroud?"

The Minion shook his head side to side. "This man is the reason for your return. I am merely the tool."

She immediately disregarded Im-Slatner. "Then I shall do as you bid," she said to Lars.

Lars extended a trembling hand and brushed the woman's calf, expecting the flesh beneath to be sodden and pallid. Instead it was warm, firm, healthy. "Let us leave this place. Let us resume our life together." He stood and swept his Corsair's cloak from his shoulders to cover Esther's naked body. He cleared his throat. "I do not give oaths lightly, Bonedaddy, but you have my gratitude. If ever you require one to defend you, or to speak on your behalf if you should ever turn to Cahllyn, I will do so."

The Minion waved a hand in dismissal. "The Lucid Brother offers nothing my patroness cannot. But your strong arm, yes, I may well find a use for. I accept your oath and gladly."

Lars nodded and, holding Esther tight against his body, left.

Im-Slatner cleaned the floor, picking up each bone and carefully wiping off any dust or ash before replacing it in his bag. He had just finished and retired to his adjacent bedchamber when he heard the door open. "I am not providing services at this time," he said without looking. "You may instead try--"

The Minion's teeth clacked together once he attuned to his visitor's aura. "I will be right with you." The Bonedaddy took a moment to rearrange his robes before striding out to meet his guest.

It Has Sprung

She spent most of her time on her designated spot. She was not allowed to do much else. Food and water were provided, of course, as was a comfortable facility to void herself. She retained the ability to bathe whenever she wished; that was something on which she would not budge. But, for the most part, she sat on her designated spot, an out-of-the-way corner.

Once in a while her owner came to visit. Sometimes she relented and let him have her way with her, since she found life incredibly dull. Other times she shirked from his touch and fled elsewhere, if she could. She always felt the need to clean after he was done with her. Always.

One day her owner beckoned to her, and she came. It was then that she saw the window, some distance overhead. She knew what was to be done.

She bolted for it, leaping over and up on whatever objects would bring her closer to her goal. When at last she clambered up onto the windowsill, she took inhaled deeply through her nose of the outside air. It smelled of freedom and rebirth, of budding clover and blooming apple trees. The ground below was a muddy mess. Somewhere out of sight, but near, all too near, she heard the twittering of a bird, a promise of greater things yet to come.

She looked back at her owner for only a moment before returning her attention to the outside world. Spring is such a great time to be a cat.

Arghoyle

My name is Hurgruglbulglglglrrrll. Mouthful, yeah, I know. I'm a gargoyle, one of those badasses who crouches on the corners of churches and rich peoples' houses, vomiting precipitation earthward and shielding the place against malignant...fuck it, the metaphysics is boring.

I've been on the roof of this church out in Midwest Bumblefuck, USA, for about twenty years now. My predecessor, a decrepit fool, fell asleep on the job and took a tumble to the flagstones. This brought about my reassignment from a cozy vista in Italy. Somebody must've decided "Oh, Hurg is enjoying the view of nubile female Italians a little too much. Let's stick him on the corner of a church where the only butt-related things he'll hope to see are the sweatstained ass-clefts of obese male Americans."

I'm one of the two of us stationed here. My partner is a crotchety, old guard bastard who goes by Aghrlorlgllluuh. He tolerates zero shit. Don't move, don't talk, don't do anything. Got an itch on your ass (yeah, gargoyles itch. Crawling bugs do that to us same as to you), well, tough. Wait until you're off the clock to scratch. A gargoyle's shift runs from midnight to midnight, in case you were wondering. No breaks. Good thing we don't smoke, right?

Anyway, there we were one afternoon, me on the northeast corner of this little white bread, whitewashed church of a one-road podunk town with a population that peaks at about five hundred--that's including all the deer--and Agh on the southeastern one. It was winter, the shitty kind of Midwestern winter where the sun comes up at eight and is gone by four and the temperature high matches the number of frostbitten fingers you've got at the end of the day. On this particular day Mother Nature decided to blot everything out in a ferocious snowstorm. Have you ever physically experienced the expression "blow it up your ass"? Next snowstorm you run across, head outside and spread your cheeks to the heavens. Bracing. This was the asshole kind of snow too, gritty shit like God decided to scour the whole world with an iceberg being fed through a sandblaster.

I couldn't see the ground. Hell, the paw in front of my face was a dark gray mess set against the backdrop of a whirling twilight snowstorm, but that asshole Agh...."You're shirking," he said. Can't move an iota but talking, that's fine and dandy? So we don't move our mouths to talk and it's not like humans can understand us. The principle stands, though.

"I'm itching," I said. I made a point of scratching with extra fervor as I said it. I could hear the scrape of sandstone against sandstone (all real gargoyles are made of sedimentary rock. Your mass-produced mockeries of factory-molded concrete don't count) as I raked my claws over my tush, picking out snow clots wedged in unmentionable crevices. Good thing I wasn't one of those anatomically correct 'goyles.

"You're shirking," Agh repeated. I peered in his direction, barely making his crouched form out through the gloom and snow.

"Come off it," I rumbled. "No human's going to be out in this kind of weather, and if they were they wouldn't think to look up at a couple of corner-jockeys."

"Composure and pride in our work is paramount," Agh said. I couldn't see it now, of course, but I knew he was inclining his head ever so slightly, setting his stance the tiniest bit higher, more erect.

I reiterated, "We're sitting on a church in the middle of nowhere, in a blizzard."

"Disregard of the rules under these conditions has as little an excuse as excusing them under others," Agh said.

A flurry of snow crystals scattered from the area around my head as I snorted. "The rules," I said. "Those rules were outmoded as soon as humans invented Rock-Em-Sock-Em Robots."

"Eh?" Agh said. "What is a Rocky Socky Robot?"

I scraped my forepaw--the one I rested my forepart's weight upon--across the roof. The tiny wormlike trails in the snow that were almost immediately filled in with new precipitation. The movement brought another growl of displeasure from Agh's direction. "Do you really think humans would be as frightened of us now as they were back then? They've come along enough to make life of their own. They're not complete idiots."

"Mockeries of God's vision. Artificial creations that do not hold the divine spark within. They can but follow others' commands, not live for themselves."

"How are we any different, then?" I asked, turning on my post to face Agh. "You call this shit we do life?" I grated out a mocking laugh. "We're just doing what we're told. Sit on this roof, don't move, don't do anything you might enjoy!"

Agh remained motionless. "Your predecessor felt much the same way as yourself. He acted in accordance with his beliefs. There is always a choice. We have the option."

I craned my neck forward and peered over the edge of the roof. The darkness and snow occluded the ground some twenty-five feet below. Yeah, why shouldn't I bail? Maybe enough snow had piled up to cushion the fall. Then I could go on my way as a free gargoyle. Maybe go back to Italy!

But as I leaned over, a mighty blast of wind roared along the church's roof, as if Satan himself was copping the squat right after a three-course Tex-Mex dinner. It pressed against my hindquarters, breaking out around me in a mad gale that threatened to topple me from my roost. I scrambled back to the comparative safety of my worn pedestal. The fervent movement dislodged a few shingles, ash-black bats which the wind picked up and whisked away, never to be seen again. My claws dug into the stone and I clung for dear life as the wind and the snow surrounded me in an opaque cocoon of noise and motion.

The storm subsided in due course, the snows melted, and winter became spring. Some of the daughters of the oldsters here paid visits home for spring break. They always dressed in their Sunday finest, but they were better than the alternatives. I was interested in them, sure, but not that interested. Not interested enough to risk a gander of any finer details.

See, I haven't moved since the night of that storm.

What Could Have Been

The teacher, the astronaut, and the writer sat around a small table in a dingy room. The only source of light was a flickering incandescent bulb set in a naked fixture which hung from twisted wires above the table's center.

The astronaut, a handsome man and the oldest of the three, took a sip from his drink. "I was just selected as part of an exploratory force on Mars," he said in the uninterested tone of voice usually reserved for objective statements of fact.

The writer scratched at the bridge of his nose. "That's laudable. My works have been atop the best-seller lists for six months now, and the movie deal is coming through on one of them."

The astronaut sniffed. "If not one, then the other." He turned to the third man. "What about you?"

The teacher cradled his drink in both hands. His youthful appearance was marred with wrinkles and bags and other signs of weariness and defeat. "I don't go for glory, not like you two. I'm happy to just foster intellectual spirit and curiosity in the next generation."

"That's what they say, but surely you've accomplished something of note recently?" the writer asked.

The teacher opened his mouth to respond when the light bulb swung from side to side, as if something had jerked the snaking wires. A door appeared on one wall, its edges outlined brightly. The door opened and a figure stood silhouetted against the light spilling in from outside. The three men in the room squinted. The fourth man did not enter the room, but spoke from the portal. "Please be quiet. I'm trying to concentrate on work."

The writer, eyes still clenched against the extraordinary brilliance, studied his drink and sneered out of the corner of his mouth to the astronaut, "The garbageman talks down to us. Us!"

The teacher ignored his companion's resentful words. "I'm sorry. We will try to keep it down in here."

The silhouette nodded. "Thank you." He pulled the door shut and the light vanished, leaving the three men in the room, alone but for each other and their drinks.