A black duster hung dripping on a clothesline out in the yard, an ominous silhouette limned by a full yellow moon.
Three men sat in rocking chairs on the porch, polishing off the dregs of bourbon and Sake. Moths flittered around the lantern hanging from a porch beam.
“This sorcel-con you describe, it does seem like incongruous magics,” Dur said. “It sounds like a golem, but the features are native American. My hunch is it was created by a powerful wizard versed in the magic arts of diverse cultures.”
“Perhaps Torfuck has been spanning the globe incorporating various and sundry magics into his bag?” Dyb asked.
“Torfuck is not that studious,” Oz said, upending the whiskey bottle into his mouth to catch the last drops. “Too impatient. My guess is he has someone in consort with him.”
“Why a sorcerer of such power would ally himself to Torfuck I cannot fathom,” Dur said, “unless he—or she—has his or her own secret agenda.”
A mangy dog bound up onto the porch and nuzzled Dur. “Hiya, boy. You and your brother will have to get along without me for a few days.”
“Eh?” Dyb asked. “Are you going somewhere?”
“Perhaps,” Dur replied. “But now, I think I’ll turn in. I’m supposed to play trombone in church service in a few hours. If I’m gone when you get up, feel free to help yourself to breakfast. There are eggs and sausage in the fridge.”
“Aye, we’d best grab some z’s, Dyb, so we can set out bright and early.” Oz staggered when he stood up. He steadied himself on the porch railing.
“I knew the fifth lowball was going to get me,” he muttered.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Oz shuffled into the kitchen, lured awake by the smell of frying eggs and sausage. He made a beeline for the coffee pot and poured himself some black gold.
Dyb slapped a couple eggs and pieces of sausage on a plate and handed it to a grateful Oz.
“Thanks,” he mumbled, and dropped onto a chair at the table.
When they had finished eating and done the dishes, they emerged into late-morning sunlight. A horse whinnied. Dur sat astride a white Arabian. He had a wide-brimmed straw hat on his head and was chewing on a wheat stalk.
“You boys ready?” he asked.
“You’re going with us?” Dyb exclaimed. “Awesome!”
Oz grinned. “Just like old times. What about your obligations here?”
“There is only me at the Homestead now. My cousin will take care of the dogs. Volleyball season just ended. And you will have need of me on this quest. All for one…”
“I couldn’t get into Alexander Dumas,” Dyb admitted. “But what the hell: One for all!”
Oz pulled his duster off the line and clothed himself in heavy shadow. He and Dyb got their horses out of the stall, and three rode into a sudden mist in a birch grove, leaving the Homestead behind.
“I consulted the maps of the Planes some more this morning,” Dur said as they rode through a dense forest in Between Planes. “It looks like we have a twisting, torturous path to travel. The sorcel-con you had a run-in with, it’s likely just the first foretaste of what we will face.”
“What about the route between the borders of the Kirby Panels?” Oz asked.
“They’re still in flux. Aftershocks of the Devil’s Rift War.”
“The Steranko Gates?” Dyb suggested.
“I wouldn’t advise that path either. Mephisto’s taken over that realm.”
“Hallowe’entown?” Dyb asked, the enthusiasm in his voice undisguised.
Dur shot him a quizzical look. “That would take us well out of our way.”
“Damn,” Dyb shrugged. “I just like visiting that place.”
“We may have to make some time along the outskirts of Wunderland and Uz,” Dur said, “much as you don’t care for those places, Dyb.”
“And Nurnia?” Oz asked.
“That I won’t be able to say until we see what state Umber is in.”
“Aye, lots of upheaval and political intrigue on that plane, last I heard,” Oz said.
“But first we’ll be crossing the White Tanks and the Purple Sage—your old haunts, Oz,” Dur said.
Oz began singing...
“Hear the wind moan
in the bright diamond sky
These mountains are waiting
brown, green, and dry
I’m too old for the term
but I’ll use it anyway
I’ll be a child of the wind
till the end of my days.”*
*from "Child of the Wind" by Bruce Cockburn
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Installment 5: "...created for a time such as this."
Trees were down all over the property. Riders Oz and Dyb picked their way through the intersecting limbs, up the muddy path to the front porch of the Homestead.
Three raps on the door, followed after a short pause by one. The door swung open. El Dur stood there with a small jack-o-lantern in his hand, poised to toss. When he saw his visitors, he set the jack-o-lantern down on a shelf by the door and opened his arms in greeting.
“Dear gentlemen!” Dur enthused. “What a delightful surprise. I have not seen either of you since the UH book signing.”
“It is good to see you,” Oz said.
Dur was a man of slim build, like unto Dyb, his hair and thin beard brown with just the slightest touches of gray. He wore a flannel shirt and jeans and hiking boots, clothing that showed the wear of a man who liked to spend much time outdoors. There were laugh lines around his eyes, which shone with that peculiar childlike look possessed by all the Cross-Plane Riders. Though they all wore the weathering marks and scars of hard-fought battles and long journeys, there was a touch of Peter Pan about them, a part of them that would never grow up.
The three old friends exchanged hugs.
“Dyb, my friend, how are you holding up?”
“Well, to quote the old song, ‘Now she’s gone, and I don’t worry / ‘cuz I’m sittin’ on top of the world.’”
“The Cure?” Dur asked.
“No, some old blues song Dylan covered. I brought you a translation of Manic Runes.”
“Ah—a welcome gift indeed. Come inside; I’ll put some coffee on. Unless you’d prefer a glass of Sake? I don’t care for the stuff myself, but I have a couple bottles.”
“I have a bottle of Knob Creek” Oz said. “But I’ll try a glass of Sake, and I’ll have a cup of coffee…and a glass of iced tea, if you have some made up.”
“You’re the only person I know who drinks four different beverages at once.”
“Well, not strictly at once,” Oz replied. “They wouldn’t taste good at all mixed together.”
“He drinks like he reads,” Dyb said, sitting down at the kitchen table. “Four books going at once—polish off a chapter in one, set it aside, pick up another for a couple chapters...”
“Perhaps my taste buds also have ADHD,” Oz said. “Say, Dur, do you have a hose out back? I need to spray this duster down; the last gal I put my arms around complained it reeks of cigars.”
“Oh?” Dur asked. “I didn’t notice.”
“How could you, over the cigarette smell in the Homestead?” Dyb asked.
Dur put some coffee on the stove. “Are you two dropping by to catch up, or does business bring you to my door?”
“Business is a good excuse to catch up,” Dyb replied. “We don’t see enough of you, Dur.”
“No, these reunions are far too rare” Dur agreed, setting out glasses. “You’d think a couple fellows who can traverse the continent in a day cross-planing would get down more often.”
“Alas,” Oz said, setting down his gift, a bottle of bourbon, “the Code only allows us to cross-plane on business. And the business this time around is Torfuck.”
“Ahhh, yes,” Dur nodded. “Pleasant chap, except for his megalomanic drive to destroy all that is good and beautiful in the world.”
“That’d be the one,” Oz affirmed. “I should’ve taken him out in the Devil’s Rift War.”
“If I recall correctly, the Code also prevented you from doing that.”
“It can be inconvenient sometimes, that Code,” Dyb said.
Oz lifted his lowball of bourbon. “Here’s to the Cross-plane Riders, who manage to accomplish much, even burdened by the Code.”
They clinked glasses and drank.
“It looks like you had quite a storm out there,” Dyb said, peering out the window at a maple tree that looked like a mastodon had used it for a hairbrush.
“That ice storm last winter, the one that knocked out power for days.”
“When we were cut off from email contact with you,” Dyb asked, “and had to resort to old-fashioned Ritnalap communication?”
“Good thing the power came back when it did,” Dur said, “I was starting to get some kind of cross-channel bleed-over on the Ritnalap—kept seeing a single, great Eye.”
“I kept getting porn on mine,” Oz said. “Real fuzzy, though.”
Dyb and Dur fixed him wry looks, eyebrows raised.
“Not that I watched it! Real S&M, bondage stuff. Bleed-over from the shadow planet, I suspect.”
“Gor?” Dyb asked.
“Aye. The planet where they think women find their true fulfillment in being slaves to men. Real sick.”
“An entire planet stuck in a teenager’s masturbatory fantasy,” Dyb shook his head.
“Speaking of patriarchal wet dreams,” Dur interjected, “just what is Torfuck up to?”
“He’s up to the River of Potentialities.”
“I was trying to think of a worst-case scenario,” Dur said, frowning. “That’s worse than the scenario I came up with.”
“Obviously, we need to get to him right away, before he can totally f*** with our present to line up with his envisioned cesspool of a future,” Dyb said.
“Just getting to the River will be a great challenge,” Dur informed them, “beset by dangers and obstacles. I can provide some aid in that regard. Let me show you something.”
Dur stood and they followed him into a back room. The wood-paneled walls were lined with shelves full of models—intricately detailed ships, siege weapons, unidentifiable contraptions, and scale figures of men and beasts.
“These are fancies. I have about half-a-dozen prepared and ready for service. Speak the words of empowerment and they will manifest as full-scale, solid constructs, and will sustain their ‘reality’ two to five hours.”
“What happens when their force wears off?” Dyb asked.
“They revert to passing fancies, and disintegrate in a shower of glitter and fairy dust.”
Dur took one, a strange ship-like structure, down from a shelf. “This is a grimwind. Full size, it is big enough to transport a dozen people across the sky. I reinforced it with extra suspension of disbelief spells, so it’s certain to sustain its solidity the full five-hour duration. You wouldn’t want it to lose its verisimilitude when you were riding a thousand feet above the ground in it.”
He set it on his workbench, then picked up a winged lion.
“This one’s Rankin, Protector of Misfits…and here’s Fini, a Samoan giant. Let’s see…”
He rifled through the clutter, picking out three more.
“Stage-Roach, a living beast that can carry up to six passengers inside and another couple on top…Nortlov, a twenty-foot tall manga-bot...”
The last one he held up was of a warrior woman in black chainmail armor, a katana in her hand, black paint around her eyes—a Goth Joan of Arc.
Dyb reached out, almost instinctively, and plucked her from Dur’s hand. He peered strangely at the fine features of the three-inch tall model.
“This is Malia,” Dur said. “I’m rather fond of her, but she was created for a time such as this. Use them wisely, friends. Once their role is played out, they’re gone forever.”
Three raps on the door, followed after a short pause by one. The door swung open. El Dur stood there with a small jack-o-lantern in his hand, poised to toss. When he saw his visitors, he set the jack-o-lantern down on a shelf by the door and opened his arms in greeting.
“Dear gentlemen!” Dur enthused. “What a delightful surprise. I have not seen either of you since the UH book signing.”
“It is good to see you,” Oz said.
Dur was a man of slim build, like unto Dyb, his hair and thin beard brown with just the slightest touches of gray. He wore a flannel shirt and jeans and hiking boots, clothing that showed the wear of a man who liked to spend much time outdoors. There were laugh lines around his eyes, which shone with that peculiar childlike look possessed by all the Cross-Plane Riders. Though they all wore the weathering marks and scars of hard-fought battles and long journeys, there was a touch of Peter Pan about them, a part of them that would never grow up.
The three old friends exchanged hugs.
“Dyb, my friend, how are you holding up?”
“Well, to quote the old song, ‘Now she’s gone, and I don’t worry / ‘cuz I’m sittin’ on top of the world.’”
“The Cure?” Dur asked.
“No, some old blues song Dylan covered. I brought you a translation of Manic Runes.”
“Ah—a welcome gift indeed. Come inside; I’ll put some coffee on. Unless you’d prefer a glass of Sake? I don’t care for the stuff myself, but I have a couple bottles.”
“I have a bottle of Knob Creek” Oz said. “But I’ll try a glass of Sake, and I’ll have a cup of coffee…and a glass of iced tea, if you have some made up.”
“You’re the only person I know who drinks four different beverages at once.”
“Well, not strictly at once,” Oz replied. “They wouldn’t taste good at all mixed together.”
“He drinks like he reads,” Dyb said, sitting down at the kitchen table. “Four books going at once—polish off a chapter in one, set it aside, pick up another for a couple chapters...”
“Perhaps my taste buds also have ADHD,” Oz said. “Say, Dur, do you have a hose out back? I need to spray this duster down; the last gal I put my arms around complained it reeks of cigars.”
“Oh?” Dur asked. “I didn’t notice.”
“How could you, over the cigarette smell in the Homestead?” Dyb asked.
Dur put some coffee on the stove. “Are you two dropping by to catch up, or does business bring you to my door?”
“Business is a good excuse to catch up,” Dyb replied. “We don’t see enough of you, Dur.”
“No, these reunions are far too rare” Dur agreed, setting out glasses. “You’d think a couple fellows who can traverse the continent in a day cross-planing would get down more often.”
“Alas,” Oz said, setting down his gift, a bottle of bourbon, “the Code only allows us to cross-plane on business. And the business this time around is Torfuck.”
“Ahhh, yes,” Dur nodded. “Pleasant chap, except for his megalomanic drive to destroy all that is good and beautiful in the world.”
“That’d be the one,” Oz affirmed. “I should’ve taken him out in the Devil’s Rift War.”
“If I recall correctly, the Code also prevented you from doing that.”
“It can be inconvenient sometimes, that Code,” Dyb said.
Oz lifted his lowball of bourbon. “Here’s to the Cross-plane Riders, who manage to accomplish much, even burdened by the Code.”
They clinked glasses and drank.
“It looks like you had quite a storm out there,” Dyb said, peering out the window at a maple tree that looked like a mastodon had used it for a hairbrush.
“That ice storm last winter, the one that knocked out power for days.”
“When we were cut off from email contact with you,” Dyb asked, “and had to resort to old-fashioned Ritnalap communication?”
“Good thing the power came back when it did,” Dur said, “I was starting to get some kind of cross-channel bleed-over on the Ritnalap—kept seeing a single, great Eye.”
“I kept getting porn on mine,” Oz said. “Real fuzzy, though.”
Dyb and Dur fixed him wry looks, eyebrows raised.
“Not that I watched it! Real S&M, bondage stuff. Bleed-over from the shadow planet, I suspect.”
“Gor?” Dyb asked.
“Aye. The planet where they think women find their true fulfillment in being slaves to men. Real sick.”
“An entire planet stuck in a teenager’s masturbatory fantasy,” Dyb shook his head.
“Speaking of patriarchal wet dreams,” Dur interjected, “just what is Torfuck up to?”
“He’s up to the River of Potentialities.”
“I was trying to think of a worst-case scenario,” Dur said, frowning. “That’s worse than the scenario I came up with.”
“Obviously, we need to get to him right away, before he can totally f*** with our present to line up with his envisioned cesspool of a future,” Dyb said.
“Just getting to the River will be a great challenge,” Dur informed them, “beset by dangers and obstacles. I can provide some aid in that regard. Let me show you something.”
Dur stood and they followed him into a back room. The wood-paneled walls were lined with shelves full of models—intricately detailed ships, siege weapons, unidentifiable contraptions, and scale figures of men and beasts.
“These are fancies. I have about half-a-dozen prepared and ready for service. Speak the words of empowerment and they will manifest as full-scale, solid constructs, and will sustain their ‘reality’ two to five hours.”
“What happens when their force wears off?” Dyb asked.
“They revert to passing fancies, and disintegrate in a shower of glitter and fairy dust.”
Dur took one, a strange ship-like structure, down from a shelf. “This is a grimwind. Full size, it is big enough to transport a dozen people across the sky. I reinforced it with extra suspension of disbelief spells, so it’s certain to sustain its solidity the full five-hour duration. You wouldn’t want it to lose its verisimilitude when you were riding a thousand feet above the ground in it.”
He set it on his workbench, then picked up a winged lion.
“This one’s Rankin, Protector of Misfits…and here’s Fini, a Samoan giant. Let’s see…”
He rifled through the clutter, picking out three more.
“Stage-Roach, a living beast that can carry up to six passengers inside and another couple on top…Nortlov, a twenty-foot tall manga-bot...”
The last one he held up was of a warrior woman in black chainmail armor, a katana in her hand, black paint around her eyes—a Goth Joan of Arc.
Dyb reached out, almost instinctively, and plucked her from Dur’s hand. He peered strangely at the fine features of the three-inch tall model.
“This is Malia,” Dur said. “I’m rather fond of her, but she was created for a time such as this. Use them wisely, friends. Once their role is played out, they’re gone forever.”
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